Thursday had been a nightmare. The morning light brought nothing better. After a celebration and remembrance of Passover where Jesus spoke of his body and blood, it was discovered that Judas Iscariot, who had been pretty much a weasel throughout the three years, sold our Lord for thirty pieces of silver. After singing a hymn, and who could sing? Jesus was now talking about things that seemed not of God, or were they? We were led to the Mount of Olives where Jesus asked us to pray and we couldn't even keep our eyes open! Jesus chastised us for that, but what could we do? The week had been the hardest one in our three years and with our emotions on a rollercoaster ride, we were drained physically and emotionally. Then it happened, our rabbi was arrested and led us to stand trial in a night court. Guilty at every turn, all because of lies told about him. The last chance would be Pilate's, where he could possibly release him. That would prove to be a waste of time. The same crowd from Sunday is now crying, "Barrabas! Barrabas!" Pilate let Barrabas go, and Jesus would die. Pilate did a little no mea culpa by washing his hands. He had no power to wash anything away. The water might as well have been blood.
Peter tried to see Jesus, but ended up running away in shame for some little maiden said she recognized him and rather than risk arrest, he ran! Had he been arrested that would have been the last straw; what would we have done? The events of today would drag on yet rush by.
By three o'clock on the mount of trash known as Golgotha, Jesus would be executed along with three other criminals. Jesus was made to carry his own cross or at least for a way; as tired as we were, he was more tired and more drained. He couldn't make it the entire way. A man was drafted into service to carry the cross for him. Then the painful way of death began with spikes, huge nails, being driven into the tired body of our Lord. As the hammer rang throughout the countryside, we ached with pain of his suffering and our having caused it. Each blow on each nail was a conviction on how we had lived and all we had done to turn our backs on God. The pain would have caused others to cry out, but Jesus kept quiet. We remembered the prophet, "like a lamb led to the slaughter...he said nothing." The soldiers raised Jesus and the other two. Oh, if only death would come quickly, but it didn't. The pain of every minute alive was more than we could stand; we don't know how the women could stand there and watch. Each ring of the hammer was a piercing to Mary's heart and soul. Yet, like a loving mother she stood there and prayed for her son.
We knew that we should have been on that cross. We deserved it. The Roman government should have set up eleven more crosses. But we were hiding. We should have paid our own way, but He paid it for us. His death would mean our life; a fullness of life that He spoke about often. "The thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy." It seemed like the thief would win this round by killing our Lord. We heard no news of the Temple's holy curtain being torn. We did not see the sky turn black, for we were hiding in a room with windows closed. We didn't even know how to pray!
By three o'clock, Jesus was dead. We couldn't even claim the body. Joseph of Arimathea claimed the body and even provided a new tomb in which to lay it. We should have died. Instead, we hid.
PRAYER: God of mercy, have mercy on me, a sinner. In the Name of He who died today for me, while I still try and hide, amen.
