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| The date is 33AD. Its late afternoon. A solemn figure stands before Pilate in the heart of Jerusalem. The crowd is buzzing; but He doesn’t speak. He knows what has to happen and he knows that it has to happen today. So he doesn’t defend himself. He just listens. He listens to the crowd jeer and to the soldiers mock. He listens as the world He created begs for his death. He listens as his closest friend turns to all who ask and denies that he ever loved Him. Denies that he ever knew him. As he looks around he sees so many people he has loved. He sees their hearts, full of scorn and betrayal. He sees their hatred as a sentence is laid on his head; for crimes which belong to them, not to him. Its so unfair, so unjust. There must be something else. This can’t be the way. Surely not him. Not like this. Not the Son of God. He turns. His robe falls to the ground. The crowd draw back and for a moment there is silence as the cruel whip is raised high in the soldier’s hand. He closes his eyes. This is the only way. Three days ago I walked into school. As I walked along the corridor I said a quick, silent prayer, half-heartedly asking that I would have an opportunity to share my faith. I didn’t close my eyes – someone might notice and ask what I was doing. I opened the classroom door and took my place at the back. For a couple of minutes I busied myself with conversation about the weekend and about boys and about the movie I had seen on Saturday. Eventually the teacher arrived and with his opening remarks he stated that the lesson was to be based on the theory of evolution. Then, to my terror he asked if there was anyone in the room who disagreed with the idea. For a brief moment my hand flickered by my side until I realised no one else in the room was stirring. He asked if there were any “religious types” in the room. My heart started to pound and my hand went to my pocket. With one last check he asked, “Are there any Christians in this classroom?” I remembered my prayer in the corridor. I felt sick. I had to do something. I buried my hand deeper in my pocket. The sharp whip tears through his skin. Again and again it echoes around the city. Every crack ripping flesh from his back. The open wounds pour deep, red blood on the rough stones beneath his feet. The people scream for more. He feels their desire to watch him suffer. Why do they hate him so much? They beg the soldiers to continue but, finally the lashings cease. He collapses to his knees and gazes around. Through blurred eyes he searches. Through perfect eyes he searches for anyone who will stand with him and share his pain. He sees no tears but those which fall from his own, perfect, battered cheek. Now the mockery continues – they press a crown of long, sharp thorns deep into his head. They spit on him and jeer. Time begins to blur as those he loves so dearly press a rough, wooden cross against his aching back. How can he continue? How can he bear this pain? This humiliation. Betrayal. Rejection. He begins to walk. His love for them is great. This is the only way. Two days ago, I woke with tear filled eyes. On my knees, I didn’t even feel worthy to say sorry. I simply prayed that if yesterday could not be changed, I could at least make it up today. I made it to the bus and sat beside my friends. None of them were Christians but, eventually, the conversation turned to a girl we know who is. Two weeks ago the girl had asked them to stop swearing. They had laughed at her and were now in the process of getting the whole thing well and truly out of their system. As far as they were concerned, the girl was a freak and it didn’t matter what they called her. I was angry and hurt. They didn’t understand what a Christian was. What it meant. All I had to do was explain. Just speak out and defend the girl and tell them what my faith was about. So simple. At that moment I thought about my tearful prayer that morning and, for the second time in two days, I felt sick. How could I be so afraid? How could I be so ungrateful for what Jesus has done for me? I couldn’t allow myself to deny him again, could I? I smiled weakly and turned to gaze through the window, trying not to hear the vicious words around me. The journey was long and hard. He stumbled through the uneven streets under the weight of the wooden cross. The streets were lined with people. The shouts were deafening and now his head is spinning with pain and insults. As he reaches the foot of that dreaded hill he knows the pain has only begun. He is kicked to the ground. The remainder of his clothes are taken and the soldiers roll him onto the rough cross. Again his back burns. Again time begins to blur. Again the people shout as the nails are laid in place and the hammer lifted high. Another moment of silence and then; thud. The people cheer and again the hammer is raised. Screams of pain are drowned by ridicule and laughter. Stroke after stroke and the long, cruel nails are hidden now by great streams of blood. The cross is hoisted up and he hangs, high above them, surrounded by criminals. Through a curtain of pain, terror and loneliness he looks at them. Those who have turned their backs on him. Those who have betrayed him. For one last moment he looks at them. His love for them is great. Soon they will be forgiven. He bows his head. This is the only way. Yesterday, I did nothing. Yesterday I wept. Yesterday I wondered why he did it. He gave so much. He gave himself. But why? Why should I deserve it? He gave me life. He gave me everything there is to give and yet all I do is deny him, spit on him and mock. I allow myself to be ruled by fear when all he wants is one small step. To step off the edge and just trust him. Just to show how much I love him. Yesterday, I wondered why he did it. His love for them is great. They are forgiven. It’s done. He lived. He suffered. He died. He rose again. We are forgiven. His love for us is great. He is the only way. |
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