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Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The World Will Never be the Same


The sky darkened into a black abyss. I shook my head and commanded my body to slow it's breathing down to it's normal rythmic pattern as I urged my heart to return to it's usual speed. "Besides," I reasoned with myself, "It's not like this is abnormal for this part of the region. I mean after all Jerusalem's spring nights were known to be so black and so dark that you couldn't even see your hand within inches of your face."
"That's correct," my heart was quick to reason back, "But would you consider it night?" The answer to that would be a negative. No, make that an even more than negative, it wasn't even the sixth hour yet and still it was black as night. With one determined shudder I shook all fear from my being, and warmed my ice crusted heart. After all I was a Centurion responsible for one hundred men, I should be able to handle this. I tried time and time again to convince myself of this fact, yet to no avail. My heart would simply not concur with my mind. It might have had something to do with the fact that an icy hand of fear had stretched out it's palm and wrapped it's fingers around my heart. I had been a nervous wreck all day... No make that all week. Basically ever since I had been temporarily stationed in Jerusalem on patrol. I was there to make sure that no uprisings of riots occured during the week's festivities. The feast of the Passover of the Jews was taking place this week, and with it came every Jew in Israel. They were all destined to it's capitol city of Jerusalem... Hence here I was. By some strange turn of events I ended up as overseer of crucifixions, decidingly my least favorite part of being a Roman officer.
In all the crucifixions I had assisted and conducted, I had found that all victoms had a common ground. A hatred in their eyes and a curse on their lips. Whether at their families, their parents, themselves, or at God- it was a curse, and the soldier driving the nine-inch long spike through their wrists and ankles usually got the brunt of it.
Victim? Where had that come from? Being a victim meant that you were innocent. Roman rule stated that crucifixion was used for the worst criminals, the ones who deserved death and had asked for such agony. It was set apart for those who had to be made an example out of. They were definitely NOT innocent.
No matter how much I tried to convince myself of this, the only word that I could think of- the only word that leapt into my mind as I saw the last man, whose features could not be distinguished from his bloody skin, dirt crusted face, and pain inflicted eyes, was innocent. INNOCENT! The word screamed in my ears and contradicted everything that I had ever known or believed.
As is custom I was to be the one to drive the spikes into the man in the middle's wrists and ankles attaching him to the crude cross, and forever sealing his fate. I forced my arms and legs to work as I handled the spikes and wooden hammer, and prodded my dead weight legs to carry me up the slope toward the crudely shaped cross. Two others who were assisting in the crucifixion dropped the man on the cross, which rubbed against his already raw beaten back, yet the man was silent.  As I aligned his arm with the coarse crossbeam and positioned the spike in place, the point on his wrists, I wished and willed that this wasn't happening. That this was a bad dream, that I was not here, and that I was not about to do this.
Unfortunately my mind could not argue with reality, no matter how cruel reality was, and I was forced to desparingly carry out my duty. With one swift motion I brought the hammer down onto the head of the spike and waited for the stream of profanities to escape his lips, but none came. He maintained silence. I continued to drive the stakes into his wrists and ankles into the wood below. As the two foot soldiers stood the cross up, a plaque nailed to the top caught my eye. It read, "This Is The King Of The Jews." My knees weakened as my entire body trembled with guilt. This was no common man, I had just pinned to a tree, this was royalty.
"Who is this man?" I asked through gritted teeth as I attempted to control my body's contortions.
"He claimed to be the Messiah, the promised Son of God. He was convicted of the crime of blasphemy and sentanced to death." The voice came from a man whose garb I recognized. A Pharisee, one of the temple's elders. I turned to him and said,
"Crucifiction is not a Jewish punishment." I had hoped to recieve an answer to my statement, and as I had hoped, the Pharisee could not refuse.
"Because it is Passover we could not stone him, and we did not wish to wait until after the Passover to deal with Him, so we handed him over to your Pilot."
Your Pilot. the words mulled over in my brain. As a Roman officer I was supposed to respect him, but as I looked at the man on the cross, my confidence wavered. For the first time I looked at Him, really looked at Him. Through the crowds that jeered, the mockers that mocked, the theif on one side who cursed Him, and my own men who gambled for His cloak and tunic below him, my eyes locked onto His, and for once my heart and mind agreed that He was the Son of God.
Wow. What was I thinking? What happened to my common sense? The sense that told me it was just an ordinary crucifixion, the sense that told me everything was going to be fine? It turned on me, and that same sense that every good Roman soldier should have told me that the world would never be the same again.
 I made quick work of dumping a sponge into a bucket, (a mix of vinager and wine to help ease extreme cases of  agony,) and offering it to Him on a stick. I knew that I could now do nothing to save Him, but I was determined to make his death a little less painful. Yet He refused it. I lowered the sponge in shock, but the determination in his eyes made me decide against pursuing the subject.
After hours of dealing with an animal called guilt gnawing away at my stomach, the Messiah, or Rabbi, or whatever it was that people were calling Him spoke. He cried out,
"My God My God Why have you forsaken me?" Then the earth began to tremble and shake, and lightening left a jagged scar across the sky. I fell to my knees in a Holy fear and a cry ripped through my chest, bellowed from my lips, and echoed in my heart... "He truly was the Son of God!"
As it turns out my sense was right, The world will never be the same.

                                                                                                                     Written by Riley Henderson