These Hands by Susan Barclay

Pilate Washing His Hands by Thomas Hawk

His gaze met mine without a trace of rancour. And yet I held the power of life and death in my hands. The ability to order or deny his execution. 

There was peace in his eyes, and my hands felt cold and sweaty. What to do with this man who seemed to hold no fear of death. Didn't he understand the cruel punishment of crucifixion? And it seemed to me, from the little I could get out of him, that he had done no wrong, that the Jews were afraid of him, despised him for some reason, perhaps envied him. They accused him of treason, but from all I could discern, he was no political threat to Rome, and if he were, the Jewish people would surely be on board if they thought he could overthrow us. 

"Are you the king of the Jews?" I asked, clasping my hands at my waist.

"So you say," he replied.

I could see how he might aggravate, this enigma of a man, how he would rile the Pharisees, they who were all about law and order and giving the right answers. I decided to send him to Herod, to let him deal with him. The Jewish leaders weren't happy about it, but I wasn't happy about the position they were putting me in. It felt like entrapment, like no matter which course of action I took, I'd lose.

And then Herod sent Jesus back to me. Neither of us could find any fault in him. Then I remembered the practice of releasing a prisoner to the Jews at the Passover season and decided to let them choose between Jesus and Barabbas, a notorious and violent criminal. Surely they would choose Jesus, I thought.

My wife, Procula, hearing the chants and cries of the crowd, tried to intervene on Jesus' behalf and sent me a message. She'd had a nightmare involving him, and felt that no good could come of my participation. 

Through it all, Jesus stood by, his hands at his sides, those peaceful eyes looking over the people, sometimes closing as if in prayer. I rubbed my wet palms on my robe as the crowd chanted for the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Jesus. I called for a basin of water, washed my hands ceremonially, and told them, "I am innocent of this man's blood. The responsibility is yours!" They called back, "We will take responsibility for his death - we and our children!"

I gave the order for Jesus to be flogged and to be turned over to the Roman soldiers for crucifixion. Then I took to my quarters and told my servants that I was not to be disturbed for any reason. But after Jesus died (so quickly I thought!), Joseph of Arimathea bulldozed his way in and asked permission to take Jesus' body and bury it in his own tomb. I granted it without even looking at him, and waved him away.

For three days I could not eat, I could not sleep. I avoided Procula, her comfort and companionship. I knew I couldn't look her in the eye.

And then I heard astonishing reports - that Joseph's tomb was empty, the stone had been rolled away and Jesus disappeared! More reports came, that Jesus had been spotted alive, walking around, spending time with his disciples. How could it be? I wanted to see for myself, but was afraid and more than a little ashamed for my role in the killing of an innocent man. And if he was the King of the Jews, what might he do to me?

I look at my hands now and no matter how many times I wash them, they are never clean. His blood is on them. And for this I will be remembered. 

I long for clean hands and a clean heart. I long for the peace that I saw in the eyes of Jesus.
___________________
Susan Barclay maintains a website at www.susan-barclay.blogspot.com and has recently returned to blogging there on a semi-regular basis.

Summer Goals, Summer Guilt, or Summer? by Joylene M. Bailey

I’m really good at making goals.

But I’m not that great at keeping them.

I can't seem to figure that out. I’m not a lazy person; my life is full and busy. Maybe that’s part of the problem – I’m too busy.

I’m also a bit of a perfectionist, and that comes with its own procrastination issues… Add to that the fact that I don’t like people telling me what to do.

Not even myself.

I find I can get a LOT of work done when I don’t have any set goals.

But I sometimes get NO work done when I don’t have any set goals.

I could come up with any number of excuses why my summer writing goals don’t seem to pan out.

Last summer the list I set to accomplish was so long that I decided to follow the example of a friend in my writers group, and see if I could get 3 – any 3 – items on that list completed.

I did, but I recall it being a scramble towards the end of the summer.

At the beginning of this summer I made only one goal: to write a little bit on my novel every day. 

No time limit, no word count goal. Just write on it every day.

I’m failing miserably.

What?! You mean I can’t set aside 17 minutes a day to write something – anything - on my novel? What is up with that?

And then the guilt sets in.

Frankly, goals stress me out.

Deadlines are a good thing. And one of the things I LOVE about my writing group is the accountability aspect of it. But the goals themselves … they scare me.

I've come up with some new summer writing goals that are not quite so scary and maybe they will help in finding that balance between goals and guilt that I seem to need.

Here they are:

1 - Remember that what I can do is what I can do, and what I can do is enough.

2 - Remember that I will feel God’s pleasure even when I don’t write. (Thank you Marnie)

3 - Take time to enjoy the summer!

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/21606330@N08/10519774073">Checklist Chalkboard</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">(license)</a>

Joylene is enjoying summer from her home in Edmonton where she lives with the Cowboy, Babe, and a cat named Calvin. You can find her joy-infused perspective on her blog at joyousmi.blogspot.ca and maybe someday in that novel she is trying to work on every day.

PEACE ON EARTH? A short story by Bryan Norford

Sam met Joe where their front sidewalks met. Each man stick-handled his shovel to clear the last remnant of snow. Sam smiled as he won, and Joe threw his shovel into the snow bank in good-natured disgust.

“You guys ready for Christmas?” asked Joe.

“Nah. Never are. Always more work than time for it.”

Sam leaned on his shovel as Joe retrieved his.

“Well, got time for a coffee at least?” asked Joe. “Don’t we deserve a rest after all our hard work?”

“Best suggestion I’ve heard all day.”

“I’ve got the place to myself for an hour or so—”

“And mine are all out shopping, or skating, or something!” added Sam.

The men propped their shovels at the front door, and Joe brewed the coffee. The aroma of Jill’s Christmas baking that morning still warmed the atmosphere. Sam breathed it in.

“This place looks peaceful after all the cooking Jill must have done,” he remarked.

Joe looked around a surprisingly tidy kitchen. “Ah! Peace amid the storm. Gotta have some of that; after all, Christmas is a time when Christ came to bring peace.”

Joe poured coffee while Sam pondered a reply. Sam enjoyed Joe and his wife, Jill; they were great neighbours even if they were religious. Joe placed the coffees on the table, pushed cream and sugar towards Sam and sat across from him. Sam idly stirred sugar liberally into his drink.

“Huh! Peace?” Sam stared into his coffee. “If Christ came to bring peace, He’s not accomplished much in the last 2000 years.” He looked up at Joe. “Joe, I respect your faith an’ all that, but really, I have to consider the whole idea a pipe dream, a fanciful superstition that one day we’ll have a happy ending and all live happily ever after.”

“And why do you think conflict continues in the world?”

“Because nations can’t live together.”

“Like neighbours on the street?”

Sam grimaced. “Yeah. Guess so. In fact, my other neighbour and his wife fight all the time!”

Joe nodded and took a long sip of coffee.

“Sorry to hear that’s still going on,” he responded. “Those two don’t appear to be at peace with themselves.”

Sam recalled encounters with them. “You know, they’ve always got a gripe about something. Even alone, they don’t seem happy.”

“You know, for me, the problem of conflict—whether international or interpersonal—starts with us. We can’t be at peace with others unless we are at peace with ourselves.

“Conflict with ourselves?” That seemed like a contradiction to Sam.

“Yes. Conflict within us caused by unresolved guilt.”

Sam thought that a bit of a broadside. That may be true of my neighbours; they treat each other badly. But it hardly applies to me. “Joe, you can’t apply that to everyone. I’ve nothing to feel guilty about, and I’m sure you and Jill haven’t either.”

“Not true, Sam.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, but his eyes sparkled. “Okay, you’re going to confess all your secret sins to me?”

Joe grinned. “We all have skeletons in our closets; things we regret from our past. But even in everyday living, I’m conscious of failures and bad responses—even to Jill! Guilt is not necessarily what we feel, but a nagging subconscious that unknowingly infects our attitudes and

actions. As long as I’m fighting that, I’m not at peace with myself.”

“Hold it Joe. You’re going over my head. But I admit I don’t keep my own standards sometimes; we all don’t.”

“That’s where my faith comes in. I recognize my wrong thoughts and actions are primarily against God, and then against others. We must seek reconciliation with those we hurt, but our God-given conscience won’t rest until we seek God’s forgiveness and find peace with Him.”

“Are you saying we need peace with God before we can be at peace with ourselves?”

“Sam, have you been reading my Bible? It says that ‘since we have been justified by faith we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ That’s the peace the angels announced and it’s the key to peace within ourselves and with others.”

“Okay Joe. You’re going too fast for me again. You know I’m not religious, and all this God talk leaves me confused. I’ve always believed I’m better off without it.”

Joe drained his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Another cup?”

“Sure. Give me a simple, short explanation; you know, something I can put on a bumper sticker. Remember, I’m part of the sound-byte generation!”

Joe poured two more coffees and leaned across the table, his hands shaping his words.

“Jesus paid the penalty for our sin on the cross so God could forgive us. When we really believe that, we have peace with God, and we can be at peace with ourselves. That in turn changes the way we see others; we cannot harbour offence against others when God freely forgives us at such great cost.”

Sam finished his coffee, and placed the cup slowly on the table. He looked intently at Joe.

“Thanks Joe for that explanation. I see what motivates you, and I have something to think about.”

He rose from the table and Joe walked him to the door.

“Thanks for the coffee, Joe—and the sermon!”

They both grinned and shook hands.