Surely

It was a Friday unlike any other.

I had begun my duties for the morning, and as I toiled in the brutal heat, my ear caught the triumphant jeers of a crowd nearby.  Dusting my knees, I dirtied my clumsy two left feet as I ventured to explore the commotion.

Elbows were flying in my face.  Their taunts deafening my ears.  Pushing and prodding my way through the relieved sweat of a multitude feeling justified, I finally caught sight of the crowd's genesis.

A crucifixion, I muttered.

It had been a while since our quiet streets had had one, and the throng shouted with a vengeance to make up for lost time.

I had never seen one, and my eyes perked with curiosity.

I watched as a group of armored guards stood mockingly over the criminal, who lay draped and handcuffed to a post in the center of their circle.  He was dripping with perspiration and bloodied from a good beating.  He hung his head low, letting his chestnut locks fall freely across his brow.

The guards smiled cruelly at their cat-o-nine tails, waiting for the fun to commence.   As the criminal took quick, anticipatory breaths, the first guard slashed his whip across the man's bare back.  The man gave an unearthly wail as his fresh wounds began to seep.  Before he could catch another breath, the second guard followed suit to the first.  Their whipping accelerated with each turn.  It became a game of sorts.

I began to count the lashes.

Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...

They knew they had to stop at thirty-nine.  By the time they had reached thirty, I choked with empathy.

I don't know if he's going to make it to thirty-nine.

As the last lash scraped fervently across his back, he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.  I gasped at the sight.

There's no skin left on his back, I thought.  How can he stand that?

Nonetheless, as my mother had always taught me, I reminded myself that these people are criminals.  They get what they deserve.  He must have done something terrible to deserve this.

As the man arched his back to let out a desperate cry, I finally caught a glimpse of his face.  He almost didn't look human.  His cheeks were bruised, his eyes bloodshot.  Dirt speckled his forehead.  Inadvertant wounds from the flogging had stained his face.  And as he wept, I caught his eye.

He looks familiar, I thought.  Yes, he's the one.  The one they call this "Messiah."  But this didn't make any sense.  Just days earlier, I was here for the parade that welcomed him to town.  I had waved a palm branch to celebrate his arrival.  I looked around me.  So had these other people.

My eyes welled.

I nudged the woman next to me who was screaming obscenities at this poor man.

"Isn't he the one they call 'Messiah?'  Isn't his name Jesus?" I asked her pensively.

She pushed me out of her way and further back into the crowd.  Suddenly afraid of the scene around me, I watched as those who had stood singing his praises just a week earlier spat vulgarities in his blood-tinged face.

As I looked hopelessly at him, the guards drew near with a thorny bush cradled horribly in their hands.

It looks like a crown, I thought.  Please don't put that on his head.

But it was too late.  The guards adorned his bloodied brow with their crass creation.  They shoved it harder, harder onto his head, as if to make some petty point.  The man opened his mouth and screamed at the pain that was inflicted anew.

Before a tear could fall from my wide eyes, they began to push him, urging him toward the hill where he would be crucified.  They paused briefly to saddle his scarred shoulders with an enormous wooden beam.

That must be it.  That must be the cross.

He trudged achingly along the stony path, all while insults and spit stung his saddened frame.  I moved quickly to keep up with the crowd as we followed the procession.

His steps became heavy and burdened until he fell flat on his face.  This stole the breath from my body, and I felt my heart telling my feet to move near to his side.  Before my feet could get the message to run to him, a young gentleman had helped the man back to his feet and lovingly carried the beam the rest of the way.

We reached the top of the hill they call Calvary, and the guards shoved the man angrily to the ground, roping his arms to the rough wooden beam.  A nearby guard brought over a handful of rusty spikes.

What is he going to do with those nails?  I thought.  He's had enough.  Please don't hurt him anymore.

But my wistful thoughts were in vain.  My eyes couldn't tear themselves away as the guard centered the spike on the man's palm.  Raising a mallet to the sky, he cracked forcefully upon the nail, sending it shooting into his hand.

I turned and looked away while he finished.  But the sound of the mallet hitting the metal is forever engraved in my memory.

Once he had been sufficiently fastened to the beam, they began to raise the cross until he hung high above the crowds that continued to hurl hatred at him.

And as he bore insult after insult, I finally heard his voice, sweet like honey, emerge from his raw and bloodied lips.

"Father, forgive them.  They don't know what they're doing."

I erupted into sobs.  I looked incredulously at the seemingly clueless onlookers who surrounded me.

But he couldn't have done anything!  He's innocent!  I know he is!  He doesn't deserve this!

His breathing became labored and uneven.  I prayed, hoping for a miracle that somehow he would come down, free himself and save us all.

Exhausted, he spoke once more.

"It is finished."

His head dropped.  His body lifeless, save for his dirtied locks that rustled in the breeze.

I fell to my face wondering why it had to be him.  Why him.  Thunderous clouds began to ominously loom overhead, and as the first raindrop landed painfully against my cheek, I knew.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

**********

I wish this was a made-up story; a fictional tale that was limited only to the imagination.

But it isn't.

That guard didn't nail Jesus to the cross.  I did.

The thorns didn't pierce his brow.  I did.

The whips didn't tear across his back.  I did.

No, he didn't deserve it.  I did.

But because He loved me and because He loved you, He did.

Every lie, every bit of hate, every obscenity, every sin was taken to the cross that day.  And it was settled.  It was forgiven.  It was finished.

But praise Jesus, because He didn't remain in the grave, neither do we.  Neither do we.

Believe, friends.  Believe He wasn't a criminal.  Believe He wasn't just a prophet.  Believe He wasn't just a good man.

Believe.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."  ~Isaiah 53:5