if you and i were there

And the soldiers led him away inside the palace (that is, the governor’s headquarters), and they called together the whole battalion. And they clothed him in a purple cloak, and twisting together a crown of thorns, they put it on him. And they began to salute him, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they were striking his head with a reed and spitting on him and kneeling down in homage to him. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him off the purple cloak and put his own clothes on him. And they led him out to crucify him. (Mark 15:16-20)

 

*some things I write about in this blog are extremely graphic, continue scrolling at your own discretion*

 

On a Saturday, just like today, somewhere around 2,000 years ago Jesus of Nazareth was dead. 

 

Whether or not you have a relationship with Jesus, believe in the Bible or consider yourself a religious person, that is historical.

It happened. 

 

You can easily read the story of his crucifixion on the internet, on your Bible apps or on physical pages of the Holy Bible. It is told in all four of the gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John). Each written from a unique perspective by those who lived it out. 

 

I have grown up in the church. This means I know the story of the horrific murder of Jesus like the back of my hand. I have since I was a young girl. 

 

That sounds kind of morbid if you ask me. But nevertheless, it is true. I can tell about the days and hours that led up to the death of this man. I can tell what this man ate and drank as last meal with his friends. I can recite from memory many of the words he said and the conversations he had before death. 

 

I’ve heard the story a thousand times and I am sure I’ll hear it a few thousand more. This caused me to become desensitized to those words typed on the thin pages of my Bible. 

 

It was not until I was in a cabin in the woods with my youth group a few years ago on a winter retreat, did the reality of this event hit me. And it hit me hard. This REALLY happened. Not just to some fictional character in a storybook. A man with friends and family, who had flesh and bone, a capacity to feel pain and bleed just like me. 

 

Details tend to get lost as you become familiar with a story. Details help paint a better picture. I sat on January 6th, 2018 in that cabin on the hardwood floor and considered the details I often overlook when thinking about the timeline of this Good Friday. I wept and allowed myself to come to the realization of what it might have been like if you and I were there.

 

Could you imagine it?

 

To hear the sound of the shackles on Jesus’ hands and feet as he was brought before the angry mob. Seeing his already bruised and beaten body stand silently on trial once again. Feeling the pushing and shoving of the crowd as they relentlessly roar their demand of the release of criminal Barabbas during the Passover celebration. What man would I be demanding the release of? A foul smell rises as body heat mixes with the hot sun overhead as Pilate attempts again and again to free the guiltless man without starting a riot. Seeing Pilate’s hands dripping as he washes himself innocent of the blood that would be spilled, as he yields to the sentence to death on a cross. 

 

Jesus then taken away to endure scourging (if you do not know what scourging is, pause to look it up on your own, then come back to continue reading). 

 

Imagine hearing the spine chilling crack of the whip as each swing rips chunks of flesh from his body. To even be close enough that some of the blood is splatters on your body or clothes. Maybe the whip got stuck deep in his muscles a few times and the persecutor has to really pull to rip the sharp spikes or jagged bone out. I can only imagine the agonizing cries and shouts of pain as he endures lash after lash. His body laying limp, lined with oozing deep and wide wounds. 

 

I can almost see him now. They push that crown made of thorns into his already bloodied face. Maybe hitting it a few extra times into the tender flesh on his skull, just to make sure it is really in there. They hand him the reed he has just been beaten with as they lay on the scarlet robe and mockingly bow at his feet. They laugh and shout “All hail King of the Jews!”. They take turns spitting and hurling insults at him. Each probably attempting to outdo the one before. 

 

Dust was mixed into the air as the cross was drug to Golgotha. The ground stained a dark red color as blood dripped from every open wound with each agonizing step. He stumbled and trips, the sweat, tears and blood running into his eyes had to make it hard to see.

 

Can you hear it? 

 

As the people stand and watch their preferred method of murder unfold before them, a soldier calls to the crowd and grabs a man from amongst the mix of faces to help carry the giant wooden cross. Together, step by step, they mark the road to calvary. The sound of the wooden cross dragging on rocks and through the ground. Weeping, mourning, crying, insults, mocks, and outcries from the mob are heard from all around. Echos of the sounds of death traveled down the hills and through the city streets. 

 

Jesus falls again and again. He is screamed at to return to his feet and keep going. His battered body hits the ground and he hits it hard. No physical strength left in him to continue on. Yet, his almost lifeless body continues on. Step by step. Eventually, after kicking and crawling and struggle, they reach the top of the hill. 

 

Jesus is roughly thrown against the wood of the cross. Gasping for air, exhausted from the climb and losing ample amounts of blood, he is laid onto the wooden frames. 

 

Then come the nails. The hammer whirls through the air and comes down on the large spike being driven through flesh, tissue, muscle and bone. The terrible clank when metal meets metal. The blood pours from Jesus’ arms and feet, some is absorbed into the wood but there’s so much it runs off and settles into the dirt. The pain is unbearable. 

 

They then hammer above his bloody crown a sign that reads “King of the Jews”. With the last thuds of the hammer, the cross is complete. They lift it to stand upright. It casts a shadow with a man shaped silhouette hanging from the middle. Daunting isn’t it? Seeing that torture device being used to its full potential. Designed only to kill. 

 

Two criminals join Jesus in their sentence of death. One man hanging on his right and one on his left. I wonder what they were thinking. Were they scared to die? What had they done? What do they think of Jesus? Have they heard him preaching and teaching? Do they think he deserves what was coming for him? They begin to converse and one even profess faith in Jesus. In his last hour, he finds Jesus on that cross beside him. That is no accident. 

 

They offer Jesus a wine to drink through a sponge lifted to his lips on a stake. The men below yell and argue as they cast lots over his tunic and clothing. Priests and elders walk by spewing insults denying his power and questioning his ability to save. He hung for hours. Struggling to pull his body up to allow his lungs room to expand and take in oxygen. His back scraping against the splintered wood and his arms being torn by the stakes driven into his stretched arms. Every ounce of energy used to simply take a breath. 

 

The sun disappears for hours. The wind sends chills through those who stand looking up at the men in agonizing pain. At last, Jesus speaks. He cries out, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani” (My God, my God, why have you forsaken me). 

 

And he releases his spirit. 

 

Suddenly the ground begins to violently shake and shift beneath all those surrounding. Rocks fall and the earth rattles. The thick fabric of the temple veil is suddenly torn in half at this moment. The dead are rising from their graves and visiting those in the city. Men sitting at the cross begin to question who this man truly was. Had they just murdered the true Son of the Living God? 

 

Since the next day was the Sabbath, the bodies have to be removed from the crosses. The guards hit the legs of the criminals, breaking their knees. The cracking and screams testify to the pain this inflects. When they reach Jesus they see he has already stopped breathing. The sound of water and blood hitting the ground as they pierce his side to insure that they had carried out their order to its finish. Fluids gush from his body as the blood is beginning to dry from the prior beatings. 

 

His lifeless body is lowered down from the heights to his mother and friends grieving below his feet. They wrap his body and prepare it for burial. The smell of the aloe, myrrh and spices fill the air as his loved ones attempt to cover the lingering smell of the body. He is carried away through a garden to Joseph’s tomb. His body is laid to rest. 

 

Imagine that feeling of loss. To not only see your son or best friend die. But die a death of that magnitude. That graphic. An innocent man. Beaten to death and hung on a cross to die. For what?

 

The land is mourning. Earth is suffering a loss. All creation feels the heaviness of this day. His friends are hiding. His family is grieving. Those who followed him fear for their safety. Rumors spread around the land of a resurrection or his disciples stealing the body to proclaim he has risen. There are guards standing in front of the giant stone placed in the opening of the tomb to prevent any chance of that happening. 

 

The devil believes he has won. 

The task is complete. 

Jesus is dead. 

 

But, take heart my friends, Sunday is coming.