Sharing a Son’s Suffering by Nina Faye Morey

“Which of the two do you want me to release for you?” Pilate asked the raucous crowd.

A spark of hope filled my heart, but it was instantly snuffed out by the throng’s wild shouts of “Barabbas!”

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate demanded.

“Crucify him!” they shouted.

I gasped, clutching my breast. My heart felt as though it had been cruelly wrenched from my chest. I’d always known this day was coming, but I’d buried that knowledge in the dark recesses of my mind. Now there was no escape. Tears brimmed in my eyes, blurring my vision.

“Why? What crime has he committed?” Pilate responded, trying to restore some reason to this unruly mob. Pilate was no fool. He knew why the chief priests and elders had brought Jesus before him. They’d whipped up the masses into this frenzied state, convincing them to demand Jesus’s crucifixion.

The seething horde simply shouted even louder: “Crucify him!”

Blinded by my tears, I tried desperately to force my way through the crush of the crowd. If only I could reach my precious son. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I made no effort to wipe them away. I needed to get to Jesus, to wrap my arms around Him and protect Him, as I’d always done.

Pilate now realized there was no hope of reasoning with this rabble. Amidst the roar of the crowd, he rose from his judge’s seat and poured water over his hands, symbolically washing away any culpability for what was to come. “I am innocent of this man’s blood. It is your responsibility!”

Afterwards, Pilate released Barabbas and ordered Jesus flogged before handing Him over to be crucified. My hands flew to my mouth to stifle my anguished cries. As the governor’s guards scourged my son’s flesh, I heard a scream in the crowd. Then I realized it had been my own.

I followed the Roman soldiers as they led Jesus to the governor’s palace. There they stripped my son of His clothes, dressed Him in a scarlet robe, and fashioned a crown of thorns they placed upon His head. I wrung my hands helplessly as blood began trickling down His forehead. Then the soldiers put a staff in Jesus’s right hand and knelt before Him, mocking Him with “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Him, took the staff, and began striking His head repeatedly. My heart ached to cup my son’s disfigured face in my hands, kiss His swollen lips, and tell Him once more how dearly I loved Him.

Finally, the soldiers put Jesus’s clothes back on Him. Then they forced Him to carry His own cross as they led Him away to be crucified. Weak from the flogging, Jesus collapsed and was unable to continue up the hill to Calvary. My heart broke at the sight of my once strong carpenter son brought to His knees by the weight of that heavy timber. The soldiers pulled a man from the crowd, Simon of Cyrene, forcing him to carry Jesus’s cross. When they reached Golgotha, “the place of the skulls,” they began nailing my son’s hands to the cross.

Every time a soldier pounded a nail through Jesus’s hands and feet, I felt as though it were piercing my heart. Those hands I’d held so tightly; those feet I’d washed so tenderly. When the soldiers hoisted that heavy cross and let it fall into its moorings, sobs suddenly wracked my body. I huddled close to the foot of the cross; determined to keep vigil over my dying son despite the vitriol flung by belligerent bystanders.

I remained by my son’s side throughout the growing darkness; silently pleading with God to quickly end His suffering. How much more could Jesus endure? At last, I heard Him cry out, “It is finished.” No more pain; no more suffering. “Thank you, God!” Despite my deep sorrow at the loss of my precious son, I finally felt at peace, knowing He was now in the loving hands of His Heavenly Father.

Joseph's Obession With a Tomb by Bob Jones

My wife never could quite understand my obsession or urgency with the tomb. 

Our garden was an oasis of sanctity and cessation from a city that feeds on frenzied pilgrims. We traded the noise and dirty streets for flowers, butterflies, gravel pathways, and stone steps. Many a late afternoon Seudah Shlishit on Shabbat had been eaten under the shelter of our olive tree. 

Where my preoccupation from I didn’t know. But carving out a tomb long before it would be needed became my passion. The obsession confused and irked my wife no end. And to be honest, my own rush to finish also confounded me.

But now I knew why.

Pharisees

Growing up in one of Jerusalem’s wealthiest families, I lacked nothing. When I was seventeen years old, I felt Jehovah’s hand on my life to search and gain insight into the laws and customs of the three sects of our nation - the Pharisees, Sadducees, and the Essenes. I adhered to the former – “one who is separated” - addicting myself to great austerities. Hearing of Malachi, a holy man, who dwelt in the desert, and lived an austere life, I went and sat at his feet, and imitated his course of life for four years.

Returning to Jerusalem I met and married my wife settling into life as a Pharisee and became a member of the Sanhedrin. We received the backing and goodwill of the common people, in contrast to those aristocratic monarchists, the Sadducees. We were eclectic and more democratic. I might even say, popular. We preserved the oral tradition of the Talmud against the ridiculous literal interpretation of the Sadducees, even though they were among the high priests.

Rabbi Jesus

When Jesus of Nazareth began to take upon him the great work of public teaching, I was enamoured with his holy life, pure doctrine, and supernatural miracles. Many Jews embraced what he taught them, and I too became a great admirer of his preaching. I became a sincere convert and followed rabbi Jesus in all the journeys, which he took throughout the land of Judea, and Galilee. At first my association was without concern.

When Jesus ran afoul of the Sadducees I aligned myself even stronger with him. But when my brothers took offense at his declension of certain Levitical ritual laws, my standing was put at risk. As a respected member of the Sanhedrin it would not be taken lightly to be seen consorting with him. And so I followed from afar.

The late night summons aroused me from a deep sleep. The Council was meeting. Some urgent judicial decision needed to be rendered. Arriving at the gathering I was shocked to see Jesus, under arrest, chained and bleeding. “Blasphemy.” The charge was unfounded and the witnesses unreliable. But my brothers were devoted to seeing him guilty. I was silent. I could not consent to their decision and action. They led him away.

The Decision

The next day was agony. The Romans scourged Jesus, and now the crowds had turned against him and called for him to be crucified. Chaos reigned. The city had gone mad. At three in the afternoon the sky went black, an earthquake shook the city. The world was coming to an end. My world was coming to an end. Golgotha was frenzied. With Sabbath approaching, the Roman soldiers had broken the legs of the criminals to expedite their deaths. Jesus was already dead - his pierced side with no reaction was evidence of his mortality. What now? The sun was setting.

“Why would you, a Pharisee, want the body of a blasphemer?” My petition to Pilate brought about confusion with the authorities and consternation with my peers. The time for secrecy was over. And now my obsession with a tomb made sense. The linen shroud, the burial spices, a quick anointing and an unexpected friend – Nicodemus – another Pharisee, and silent follower. How many more were there?

We rolled the stone across the face of the now occupied tomb. The sun disappeared. The garden was silent. 

My heart was as cold as the stone. 

I am a recovering perfectionist who collects Coca-Cola memorabilia and drinks iced tea. My walls are adorned with our sons’ framed football jerseys, and my bookshelves, with soul food. I write to grow hope, inspire people to be real, forge an authentic faith in Jesus, and discover their life purpose.

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