John 19

The pounding in my chest seems as loud as the noise coming from outside these walls. Which do I listen to? He’s not helping me help him. He won’t answer my questions, I’m not even sure what he means by half of what he’s saying. He seems to be speaking in riddles, which is absolutely ridiculous in a time like this. 

Does he not understand that his life is on the line? That he is being put to death by his very own? What kind of person doesn’t defend himself? What kind of person doesn’t try to save his own life?

I’ve told the Jews I find no guilt in him. But they do not seem to care. They chose Barabas, the criminal to live, over a man who has done nothing harmful to anyone as far as I can tell.

I can’t believe he’s put me in this situation. I can’t believe I am in this situation. What if he is in fact their God? And I must choose if he lives or dies? What suffering could this bring upon me and my family.  These people are despicable, this post hateful. This is not what I signed up for. 

I grab the whip, swing it backwards, and then flog him with rage - I can feel my frustration, my fear, vibrate through the rod as I make contact - it feels good, with each hit I regain a bit more of my power. With each drop of blood, I find hope - hope that he will make the decision for me. That he will say something, anything, to get me out of this mess. 

I can hear the soldiers giggling like little boys in the next room. How can they think this is funny - what enjoyment can they possibly be finding in the midst of this chaos? 

What’s that in the soldier’s hand, a crown of thorns? Do they not feel the power threatening from the shouting crowds, do they not understand this moment has the capacity to make a mark in history? To affect my trajectory. To cause uprising and mayhem if I do not give in, and choose to sentence to death an innocent man. 

They place the crown on his head, Jesus groans, flinching as the thorns pierce his scalp, blood pouring down his face like tears onto the purple robe haphazardly strewn around his shoulders. 

Just as they mock, “All hail the King of the Jews,” I catch his eye. I’m struck, unable to move - unbearable pain is reflected back to me. It’s as if I have been given access to the depths of despair and the love of eternity in a single glance. His suffering is not the truest thing. He knows it, and now I know it too. He’s magnificent in his weakness. I am struck by his silent faith, and yet I have no choice. 

I turn quickly, my robes rippling as I walk - it’s as if I am out of step with reality. Shook to my core by the truth Jesus holds inside, by the power in his one glance. And yet I cannot stand for it, I cannot stand against the religious leaders, against the power of the crowd. I am undone, and yet I must give the people what they want, what they are chanting for. How can one’s power make one so powerless?

As I stand in front of the seemingly unending crowd, I plant my feet, though the horizon seems to continue to tilt one way and then the other. It seems I am on a boat, sitting out a storm, yet I’m on dry land. “See, I am bringing him out to you that you may know that I find no guilt in him.” 

Jesus stumbled onto stage, pushed by one of the guards. As he falls to his knees, his blood splashes across my feet. I am marked by him now. I must continue. “Behold the man!” 

“CRUCIFY HIM, CRUCIFY HIM.” The ground beneath me is vibrating, I can feel their hatred, and yet something in me cannot condemn him. 

“Take him yourselves and crucify him, for I find no guilt in him.”

A Familiar  man, from the front, dressed in robes, one I’ve seen walking near the temples, yells, “ We have a law, and according to that law he ought to die because he has made himself the Son of God.” 

I cannot take this. I do not know what to do. My chest is tightening, I can barely breathe. Why are the walls the color of the sun? And this stabbing feeling in my head - I must be sick, is this what death feels like? It seems it may be his death or my own. 

There he is the man causing my misery, thrown to the floor as the guards bring him back inside. “Jesus, where are you from?” It takes everything in me not to scream it at the top of my lungs, not to force him to make a claim, to decide, to tell me what to do. 

Silence. What is this silence? Does he not understand? I do not understand. He confounds me, is this why they want to sentence him to death, because he does not bend to their rigid laws? Because he refuses to act like a normal man. 

I practically spit out the words, “You will not speak to me? Do you not know that I have authority to release you and authority to crucify you?”

He answers, at last. His mouth opens, he pauses. His tone gentle, his voice unhurried. “You would have no authority over me at all unless it had been given you from above. Therefore he who delivered me over to you has the greater sin.”

I breathe out, and it’s as if my whole body exhaled. His words, his answer. It does not align with what I am asking, and yet it brings me relief, might I even say forgiveness. His words pierce my soul. It’s as if he knows the deepest part of me. He spoke and all that entangled, all that entrapped me, it was released. 

Even amongst the chaos of this world, when he speaks there is peace present. I know he knows I am doing the best that I can and somehow the weight of the outcome of this situation has been lifted from me. I simply feel at peace. He has given me permission to feel at peace. The world is not in my hands, but his. 

He is in fact the king he claims to be - and I will not be at fault for his demise. 

His blood will not be on my hands. Not truly. He is being rejected by his own people. But in a single glance he told me everything I needed to know - a single sentence brought truth to light. 

Jesus is not a man. Not like the others. His words deliver freedom I did not know I needed. His forgiveness, the truth that drips from each word he speaks. I feel seen and known - understood.