...they clothed him with purple, and platted a crown of thorns, and put it upon his head ...

 

The senseless Roman Soldiers. Taking orders with no thought of the consequences. No sorrow nor remorse for whom might suffer, all because of their mindless obedience to higher authority.  And, of course, the Jewish leaders. No wonder John called them "a generation of vipers." God had entrusted to them the law and the prophets, yet when the messiah comes before them in the form of a simple man, out of their fear, greed and lust, they condemned him to the cross.

 

I closed my Bible, set it on the end table, eased into a more comfortable position in my recliner, stretched, yawned . . . , and

 

... clicked the remote to the evening news. "Angry Mob Gathering Outside Pilot's Courtyard is our lead story tonight," announced an on-the-spot reporter. That seemed a bit bizarre. My TV screen was filled with a scene right out of a Cecil de Mille's Hollywood set, and a cast of thousands was all dressed for the take.

 

"Late last night," the reporter continued, "a man, claiming to be the Messiah prophesied by Isaiah, was arrested for treason and tried by the Jewish Leaders." This was too incredible. I decided I would drive down to the newsstand and pick up a paper to see what was really happening.

 

I opened the front door to total shock. Whatever was happening was not confining itself to my TV. The panorama outside my house was that of Biblical Jerusalem. The car in my driveway was drawing inquisitive stares from the dusty passersby on the narrow dirt pathway that had just moments before been an asphalt avenue. Or maybe it was my Levis, hooded sweatshirt, and tennis shoes that captured their curiosity.

 

"Good day," I shouted.

 

Well, at least they understood me because they responded with a 'Good day' in return.

 

"Where is everyone rushing?” I inquired as the street was increasingly becoming jammed with an unruly mob.

 

"To Pilot's Courtyard," was the unison reply. "we're going to free Barabbas! Join us!"

 

There was no use trying to figure out how I had entered this fantasyland, so I decided to join the crowd and see where fate would take me.

 

"Free Barabbas?" I enquired of a twentyish looking young man who was sprinting beside me.

 

"Yes, Yes!" He sounded almost out of breath. "The leaders have promised that if enough of us show up Pilot will release Barabbas."

 

"But isn't there also a man named Jesus being held by Pilot?" I queried in hope of hearing something good about him from this determined youth.

 

"Oh, yes. But it is he that will be punished instead of Barabbas if we can get there in time. We must be in large numbers and threatening enough to intimidate Pilot and the Roman authorities."

 

"But this Jesus; he's an innocent man," I pleaded feebly.

 

"He's also of no consequence to us. At first we thought he and his cousin, John, were with us, desiring to see the overthrow of the Romans. But his cousin was beheaded, and it's become obvious that this man Jesus is some kind of romantic dreamer. He espouses peace. We want war. Barabbas is our leader. Leave Jesus to the women, children, and weary old men."

 

I was about to protest his remarks, but I noticed several of his zealous friends had joined us in our hurried march and a few of them brandished knives. Anyway, any one of them was in better physical condition than me, so I decided to continue on keeping my opinions to myself.

 

I decided we must be approaching the courtyard. The noise was getting deafening now like that of a modern sporting event; but with a bitter, angry edge. I was being pushed and shoved forward by the mob. Everyone was trying to work their way to the front. Standing still was impossible, so I determined to get a good view and did some elbowing and impolite nudging of my own.

 

"We already missed the excitement," I overheard a man in front of me telling the woman he was with.

 

"But what happened?” she asked.

 

"Barabbas is free liked we hoped. Jesus will be crucified." The woman buried her face in her hands. Her sobs bore genuine grief. The man didn't seem to notice.

 

The crowd, thus, was now beginning to disperse; no longer a mob, but smaller enclaves forming here and there. Many preparing to journey together to their next destination. Some to line the Via Dolorosa, some already on their way to Golgotha, others just milling around in quiet conversation waiting to see what would transpire.

 

Silence. Silence like I had never experienced immediately swept through the remaining crowd. Something was happening. Those left of me were quickly stepping back, clearing a path. Then the cadence of heavy footsteps shattered the silence like a clap of thunder on a still, thick, summer's night. Hissing, jeering, booing, and the disgusting sound made by the ejection of human spittle could be heard far to my left but moving steadily in my direction like the first drops of gentle rain preceding an oncoming storm.

 

And then I saw him!  At first the view was intermittently blocked by the legions in the lead. I could see that he was being shoved and jabbed by the legions immediately behind him. Angry bystanders were taunting and kicking at him. While others, grief stricken, were merely trying to touch him. The Roman soldiers were impatiently, but ineffectually, trying to push everyone back.

 

As the first guards reached my position, I could see the rivulets of blood streaming down Jesus' forehead and dripping from his brow. Blood also pulsed from his bruised back, sides, and legs where the cat-of-nine-tails had torn and gouged his flesh. He was stumbling under the heavy burden of the crucifix he was partly carrying, partly dragging. His progress made more difficult by the pressure of the crowd on either side and the impatient soldiers behind. Yet he made no sign of complaint.

 

The woman who had buried her face in her hands looked up, then gasped. "Shut up," her husband scorned, "he's getting just what he deserves. Claiming he's God's own Son. Well, let God save him now." She said nothing, but reached out her hand into the pathway in an attempt to get a touch of his garment as he passed directly in front of her.

 

"Jesus, I whispered mostly to myself, "it is really you!" I couldn't believe the sound of my own words. Jesus; not more than a few feet from me. I could hear his labored breathing. The sweat, blood, stale dirt and dust encrusted on his body and garment permeated the already rank air with its stench. Overcome, I too reached out. "Lord," I cried not caring who heard.

 

His eyes had been downcast, but now he looked up briefly. And for an instant, yet an eternity, our eyes met. In that moment, I was transfixed. He saw everything: every motive, every guilt, every doubt, every weakness that was my being. Yet there was no reproof in his countenance. Only love, compassion, acceptance.

 

‍ That one glance into his essence exploded all previous notions. Beaten, bloodied, rejected, and on the way to being nailed to the cross, The Lamb of God conveys his redemptive message in a glance. "I know you unlike anyone else knows you. Still I love you unlike anyone else loves you. These wounds hurt, and this cross is heavy, but my love for you goes beyond my pain or the burden of this cross; Beyond your sins; all the way to my Father who loves you as I do. He has chosen this hour and place so that you might truly understand his love.”

 

The man with the woman spat towards Jesus. It misses its mark and dribbles down the crosspiece of the crucifix onto the blood stained dirt pathway.  Angered even more by his poor aim, he clenched his fist and jeered, "some prophet! Look at you now. Better you'd never been born. At least we're finished with you." A Roman soldier slaps the man aside as the procession proceeds on down the pathway.

 

My throat thickens and my eyes begin to flood with tears as I watch the man's wife chase after the procession. She's yelling, "Forgive him, Jesus. He didn't mean to curse you. He doesn't know you like I do. Jesus! Jesus! You don't have to go with those soldiers. I've seen you perform miracles. Ask God. He will frighten the soldiers away." She continues her pursuit, crying hysterically now while other of his followers join her. The rear guard beats them back. The woman stumbles, falls to her knees, and begins to pound the ground in her sorrow. "You don't have to go! You don't have to go!" she cries to the unsympathetic ground.

 

I try to console the woman. The man she had been with, less angry now, takes her hand and leads her away from the crowd. Watching them slowly walk away, I realize that I know Jesus must go with the soldiers. He must go to the cross. 

 

... I rub my eyes. The TV remote is in my lap. My Bible is on the end table beside me. The newscaster is saying something about a mob action in Jerusalem last night. I look out the front door. The flashing traffic light hanging over the asphalt intersection gently sways with the wind and silently reflects its redness in the winter snow.

 

.