Cowering and hiding behind the hysterical yelling crowd of men and fewer women, some sobbing with tear-streaked cheeks and hands held over their chests, I watched in fear and horror as I caught only glimpses of the bloodstained man with swollen features who kept crashing heavily to the ground, unable to sustain the weight of that bound tree upon which he was destined to die. The rabid guards grabbed a member of the crowd and shoved him into position to carry the load, dragging the scourged and beaten man to Golgotha where the crucifixion would be done.
I held back the tears of my own. A male, young or old, cannot cry under these circumstances. Especially in this murderous group. But I remembered him. He was the one who took my lunch and somehow blessed it to serve the biggest crowd of people I’d ever seen assembled out in the open air. It was some time ago, but he was unmistakable. I knew it was him.
I was grieved beyond measure, watching the ravings of these people, some who’d been there that very day he’d served us lunch while he continued to speak of God as if he knew Him and then demonstrated the love of this God by healing those who weren’t expected to ever see good health—such as cripples, and the very infirm who would never get well—that is, until he put his hands on them and asked who he called his Father to touch them. Then they would straighten up and become whole! And I can testify they stayed that way. The other amazing things he did were unexplainable. My great aunt had brought her young son, a distant cousin of mine, for this man’s touch. We all knew he had a demon. Sometimes he would fly into a rage and inflict pain on himself, crying and screaming foul words.
Before she could approach the man, Jesus called out to her and my cousin, addressing a spirit by name and silencing it just as it began to howl. He touched my cousin and the transformation was instant. I’d never known the boy to be any other way but afflicted, insane, I thought. I marveled at his new countenance, no longer contorted and raging. He was a fine looking boy after all. He bowed down with his face to the ground and touched the feet of the man who’d freed him somehow, weeping in gratitude. I remember I sneaked away amidst some growth and convulsed with tears.
That was only one experience. I heard of many more. I saw many more. And once, briefly, he saw me in the crowd of listeners. His eyes connected with mine. I don’t know how I knew he was looking at me, but there was no mistaking it. A hint of a smile crossed his lips as he held my gaze. It was indescribable, a penetrating, warming notice which sent my skin into prickly bumps and my heart pulsed frantic with joy. He knew me. I mattered to him.
Then here he was about to die at the hands of a crazed mob of both religious and heathen men anxious for this cruel death. It made no sense to me! There was nothing I could do to stop this execution. The helplessness was overwhelming. I’d seen the miracles, I’d heard the words he spoke, felt them ignite me with an understanding of truth I’d never known. Maybe this was part of what he spoke about. It was impossible to imagine it, but surely with the power he’d shown, he could’ve stopped this, right? I tried to recall some of those words, to put them together in my mind—see if I could make sense of this. But I could not. I couldn’t think straight. Seeing him so brutalized and knowing the worst was yet to come. What could I do?!
Then I realized if he had asked his Father to help others, perhaps I could ask this Father to help the son. And, surely, he would. Maybe this was the plan, but I couldn’t fathom it. It was then I caught the brief look before he closed his battered eyes. Recognition! He knew me! The barest hint of a smile—how could it be? I was imagining it, I’m sure. But it felt the same as before and produced the same results. Somehow it gave me hope that this wasn’t the end! No, somehow it had to be a beginning. Foolish as it was, stupid as I felt for thinking it, I couldn’t let go of it. I couldn’t.
When they raised him up, I had to leave. My stomach ached from holding back my grief. I ran away then and found solitude. Then I wept as I’d never wept before. And I asked the Father to spare the son. To do some miracle I couldn’t imagine or describe. And then I wept some more.
. . .
Lord God Almighty, thank you for the sacrifice. Thank you for my rescue, Jesus. Holy Spirit, thank you for drawing me near to the Savior so many years ago. Thank you, in the Name of Jesus, Amen.
*Remember to pray for Kristy Dykes as we approach the Resurrection Day.*