No Distance - by Gloria Guest

Jerusalem was teaming with people on my first ever Passover in the Holy city. Although a solemn occasion commemorating the deliverance of our people, I couldn’t help but feel caught up in the excitement and fervor, which many said was amplified by the presence of Jesus of Nazareth in the city.

I had only followed Jesus from afar, as a part of the crowds that surged around him, wherever He went. There was an unknown quantity about Him that fascinated me and although a simple carpenters son He spoke as one in authority. The talk amongst the people was that even the Scribes and Pharisees were in awe of His understanding of the Scriptures, if not also frustrated to distraction in trying to trick Him in to answer in ways that would condemn Him and turn Him over to their hands. But Jesus never fell for their sinister games and would turn it back on them. I respected Him for that. We the common people were always under the hawk like eyes of the Pharisees and other religious leaders. It could be daunting. They had it coming.

Yet I still did not really know what to think of this man called Rabbi by his own disciples and had not put my full faith in Him. Besides, there was starting to be whisperings and rumours that it was becoming dangerous to associate with this man. I had a family to think about. Yet I continued to follow him, from a distance.

And now I had found myself in Jerusalem with this same man. Everywhere he went during the week crowds amassed around him, always fringed by the muttering Pharisees, overseeing the scene like vultures ready for a choice piece of dead meat. Yet Jesus popularity was evident and it held them at bay for fear of causing a riot, should they try to apprehend Him.

Until….there was a betrayal. By one of his own disciples! The news spread throughout the city like wildfire, from house to house, late into the night and early morning hours. Jesus had been arrested!

It turned into the longest day of my life as I followed the crowds to see what would happen. I kept my distance of course but I saw and heard so much; the shouts of the people, now stirred into a frenzy against Jesus, by the religious leaders who whispered from ear to ear that Jesus had claimed to be the Son of God, yelling, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” Was this what they really wanted? My confusion smothered my thoughts and I simply allowed myself to meld into the crowd as we moved to line the pathway to Golgotha. I saw Him pass by staggering under the load of his own cross, beaten beyond recognition and wondered again if this man could truly be the Messiah. Yet when He turned his bruised and bloody face towards a group of women who were weeping not far from where I stood and then for a second seemed to rest on me, I felt my body go weak. I was certain that what I had seen in His eyes and countenance was the purest of love and compassion and something else…forgiveness? My confusion grew. Who is this man who could make me feel forgiven? Had I not brought my own Passover Lamb into the city to be a covering for my sins?

I fell into a stupor, almost as a drunk man, allowing myself to be pulled along, a reluctant witness to the crucifixion of an innocent man. It's too ghastly to express. The gospel of Luke vividly describes His crucifixion and then what came next.

Luke 23:44-49 By this time it was about midday, and there was darkness over the whole land until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and the light of the sun failed. And the veil of the Temple was rent in the midst. When Jesus had cried with a great voice, he said, "Father, into your hands I commend my spirit." When he had said this he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what had happened, he glorified God. "Truly," he said, "this was a good man." All the crowds, who had come together to see the spectacle, when they saw the things that had happened, went home beating their breasts. And all his acquaintances, and the women who had accompanied him from Galilee, stood far off and saw these things.”

The centurion's words were eventually passed back to us. Even the centurion had felt something! My heart, previously hardened to what I thought that I knew about this man, what I could understand, felt broken, humbled and strangely changed.

What had Jesus said one time? That “I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to myself." (John 12:32) I was stunned. He was dead. Yet His words were as life within me. In that moment I felt more stirred to follow him, not from a distance, but as a true disciple, than I ever had before. Yet how could I now? The questions burned within me as I too beat my breast and mourned and wept. Yet still I felt it; this wellspring of hope.

I wondered about tomorrow and the next days to come. I knew even less than before. I was filled with grief that He was gone. But a glimmer of hope had befallen me from the shadow of His Cross and as the ominous sky and rumbling earth chased me back down the way I had come, with each shaking step I took away from His Cross, I felt no distance.

Gloria writes and blogs from Caron, Sk. and  has published many newspaper articles and columns along with a few personal pieces in various publications. She particularly crafts her writing to reflect Hope and is currently working on a memoir to speak hope and healing.

The Passion Through John's Eyes by Lynn Dove

John looked out at the crowds of shouting people who had gathered along both sides of the road.  Jerusalem was more crowded than usual at this time of year, with people amassed to celebrate the Passover.  He was hidden in a doorway, shading his face in the folds of his prayer shawl.  There in the shadows he kept silent watch as the Roman procession came closer into view.  The last twenty-four hours had been spent following his beloved friend from trial to trial, always watching from a safe vantage point.  Fear overwhelmed him, not only for himself, but for his friend. 

He had been there the night they arrested Jesus.[1]  He had been aroused forcefully from a dreamless sleep, initially uncertain what the noise and commotion around him was all about.  Now fully awake and under the glow of torchlights, he saw Judas kiss Jesus on the cheek in greeting and then step aside to allow a Roman guard to grab hold of Jesus’ arm.  Before John could react, another of his closest friends intervened by pulling out the knife he always carried to cut fishing line and netting, and cut the ear off of the guard trying to arrest Jesus.  John recoiled in horror just remembering the blood and the brutality of the act that night.  It had happened so quickly!  In the aftermath, he had fixed his eyes angrily on Judas, furious by his betrayal of Jesus.  Judas had jumped back just in time to avoid the knife attack.  It would have served him right, he thought, and instantly regretted thinking it.  “Forgive me, Lord,” John silently prayed as he now huddled in the shadows on the crowded street.  “You warned us this would happen.  I didn’t understand.  Even when you touched the guard and healed his ear, you showed compassion, when all I thought about was revenge.  Forgive me.”

As sweat beaded on his forehead, he peeked out just far enough to see the Roman soldiers, some on horseback, several others following behind on foot, whipping and cursing the three prisoners in their charge.  John took note of two of the men, thieves he surmised, by the derogatory taunting and stone-throwing aimed at the two.  A small wagon, pulled by a donkey carried the cross braces while the men walked dejectedly beside the wagon and ducked and railed against the crowd with uncommon bravado in the face of their inevitable death sentence.  Following much more slowly behind them, John saw his friend.

Jesus was almost unrecognizable.  They had beaten, scourged and brutalized him with unimaginable cruelty.  Tattered, flayed skin, criss-crossed his slender frame, revealing muscle and tendon.  Blood oozed and ran down his body in rivulets.  The crowd suddenly grew silent, revolted by the misery and anguish they now saw in human form in front of them.  The soldiers had spared him no quarter.  Unlike the two men ahead, his heavy cross was not in the back of the donkey-pulled wagon.  He dragged his cross upon his own shoulders despite the horrible wounds that the praetorian guards had inflicted on him. 

He stumbled and dropped to his knees right in front of where John was hiding.  John winced in empathy as a crown of thorns cut jagged grooves into Jesus’ temple.  The crown, along with the seamless purple robe they had draped over him, had been yet another cruel attempt by his captors to mock the claim of Jesus being a “king”.  The guards, now impatient with this delay, lashed him with leather whips.  Some in the crowd, horrified by this, were now shouting, “Mercy!  Have mercy on him!”  Ignoring the yells, the guards continued their assault.   With super human effort, Jesus adjusted the cross on his back and slowly rose to his full height, but could not seem to make his feet move forward.  John, without thought now for his own safety, moved from his hiding place towards his friend to help him, but was held back by a soft tug on his robe from behind.  Turning, he saw her face.

Mary, Jesus’ mother, pleaded with her eyes for John not to interfere.  She held out her hands to him and with great compassion, John enfolded her in a soft embrace.  She clung to him, his arms tightly wrapped around her slender form, and then she collapsed onto him weak-kneed and weeping with despair.  John cradled her face to his chest, but she forced herself to look past him towards her son, who trudged past them now with grim determination.  When Jesus stumbled and fell again, the cross landing heavily on top of him this time, John felt Mary’s body jolt forward but he wouldn’t release his grip on her.

Exasperated now, one of the guards caught sight of a giant of a man and pulled him forcibly out from the crowd and ordered him to carry the cross for Jesus the rest of the way up the hill to Golgotha.  John, hugging Mary to his side, followed the sombre procession with the rest of the crowd, as they slowly made their way up the hill.

The sound of metal striking bone and wood resonated loudly as the guards drove the long spikes through the wrists and feet of the prisoners, securing their bodies to the crosses.  John was numb, watching the crosses being raised, one on each side with Jesus in the middle.  He watched in disgust as the guards took Jesus’ clothes and divided them into four shares, one for each of them, and cast lots for  the seamless robe.  John remembered one of David’s psalms, “They divided my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment.”[2]  Scripture was being fulfilled right in front of him!

The crowd dispersed quickly once the gruesome spectacle of the execution sentences had been carried out.  From previous experience, most people soon got bored of how long it took for prisoners to die on a cross.  It was not long before John realized that he and Mary were amongst only a handful of others who remained at the foot of the cross.  He glanced around and saw Jesus’ aunt, Mary the wife of Clopas and Mary Magdalene, all weeping mournfully together, with their eyes upturned towards the face of Jesus.  John raised his own eyes and re-read the sign that was nailed to Jesus’s cross.  Written in Aramaic, Latin and Greek, all three languages familiar to John, he remembered the heated exchange only hours before between Pilate, the Roman Governor, and the chief priests during Jesus’ trial.  Pilate had finally succumbed to public pressure to execute Jesus but as a parting shot at the Jewish leadership had been adamant that a sign be nailed to the cross saying, ‘The King of the Jews’.   The Jewish leaders had complained vehemently about the wording, but Pilate answered, “What I have written, I have written.”

John looked up into his friend’s face and Jesus looked directly at him.  John shuddered involuntarily.  Even in his dismal state, Jesus was still fully aware of his surroundings and of those who had gathered around him.  Jesus painfully raised his head up so he could speak boldly.  “Woman,” he called to his mother, “here is your son.”  His eyes looked from Mary to John and then leveling a piercing gaze upon John said, “Here is your mother.”  The intent was clear.  John was now fully responsible for Jesus’ mother, Mary.  As she leaned into him, he lightly put his arm around her shoulder.  John nodded to indicate he would willingly carry out this last request for his friend.  Mary would always have an honoured place in his home.

John barely noticed the passage of time there on the hill.   Jesus conversed with the two men hanging on their crosses beside him, but John did not take note of the words they exchanged.  The hours passed.  There was little movement now from the three men.  John leaned forward to hear laboured breathing from one of the thieves, and then was startled when Jesus suddenly cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”  Someone murmured, “God has turned his back on him.”  John knew better.  Jesus was quoting that same psalm of David that had been brought to John’s mind when the guards were casting lots for Jesus’ clothing.  Weak from his torture on the cross, Jesus only had the strength to speak the first line but John had memorized the entire psalm too.  He had sung it as a child in synagogue.  It was so familiar to him and yet he never quite understood what the words meant until that very moment.  He softly whispered the last line, “They will proclaim his righteousness, declaring to a people yet unborn: He has done it!”[3]

Finally, as the afternoon wore on, Jesus muttered, “I am thirsty.”  So a Roman guard soaked a sponge on a stalk of hyssop plant with wine vinegar and lifted it to Jesus’ lips.  When he had received the drink, and knowing that everything had now been accomplished so that Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “It is finished.”  With that, Jesus bowed his head and gave up his spirit. 

John took hold of Mary then, clutching her to himself as they wept together in anguish.  The sky grew dark and the earth trembled.  They held each other, oblivious to the world around them.  Still grief stricken, John reluctantly let go of her.  Mary, unhindered now, boldly approached the cross and reached up to touch the calloused feet of her beloved son.  John followed and warily laid his fingers upon the blood encrusted toes of his dear friend.  With an impact he had never felt before, John felt a jolt go through his entire body.  The sensation nearly brought him to his knees.  Unmistakable, distinctive words formulated themselves in his mind, so clearly he thought he could hear Jesus’ voice speak them!  He didn’t understand their meaning at first, but he somehow knew that their explanation and intent would be revealed to him in time.  John gazed up into the peaceful face of Jesus, and the words continued to manifest themselves in his heart and mind.  He would never forget them. 

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  He was with God in the beginning.  Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.  In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind.”[4]

Lynn Dove is the award-winning author, of the YA “Wounded Trilogy”- a contemporary Christian fiction series with coming-of-age themes.  A wife, mom, grandmother, and free-lance writer with articles published in several magazines and anthologies including Chicken Soup for the Soul books, her blog, “Journey Thoughts” is a Canadian Christian Writing Award winner.  Readers may connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, and at lynndove.com 

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[1] This narrative is primarily based on the Biblical text from the Gospel of John 19:1-30. 

[2] Psalm 22: 18.

[3] Psalm 22: 31

[4] John 1: 1-4

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.

My Friend, My Saviour: Mary of Bethany - Ruth L. Snyder

My name is Mary. You may know me as the sister of Lazarus and Martha.

I heard many rumours about Jesus, the carpenter's son from Galilee—the stories he told, how he stood up to the Pharisees, and how he healed people. But I didn't meet him in person until my brother invited him to our place for dinner.

I sat at Jesus' feet and listened. I wanted to find out who this Jesus really was. Martha didn't appreciate my choice. She thought I should help with the meal preparation. But that's another story.

After that first visit, Jesus visited many times. I loved to hear his stories. Jesus' love and patience amazed me. Jesus called me his friend!

One day Lazarus became sick. No matter what Martha and I did, his condition worsened. We sent an urgent message to Jesus, "Lord, the one you love is sick," (John 11:3). I thought he'd come right away. But he didn't.

Lazarus died.

I wept. For four long days.

Then Jesus came. And he wept.

I thought he was too late.

But he wasn't; Jesus raised my brother from the dead. What power! Many of my Jewish friends and I understood he was the Messiah, the Promised One. I couldn't wait for the day he took the throne and put the Romans in their place.

Then, I heard more rumours. The Sanhedrin was plotting to kill Jesus. How could this be? Didn't they understand who Jesus was?

Six days before Passover, Jesus came to visit. We honoured him with a dinner. I wanted everyone to know that Jesus was worthy of the highest honour, so I opened my precious bottle of nard perfume and poured it all over Jesus' feet. Then I wiped his feet. With my hair.

My actions outraged one of his disciples. Jesus told Judas to leave me alone. "It was intended that Mary should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me (John 12:7-8).

I pondered. What did Jesus mean? He would be King. Wouldn't he? Why was he talking about burial?

The next day, Lazarus, Martha, and I hiked to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. We were in the crowd that welcomed Jesus as he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. Palm branches waving. Cloaks on the road. Shouting. Celebrating our King! It was happening. Finally! We would be free.

The disciples invited us to share their evening meal with them. After the meal was over, Jesus stood and washed our feet. Then he became troubled. He told us one disciple would betray him. He said he would only be with us a little while longer. Jesus shared many things I didn't understand.

What did this all mean? If he was our Messiah, why would he go away without becoming King?

The next day, I heard the chief priests and Pharisees had arrested Jesus. Some said the leaders paid people to give false testimony. Surely everyone would see through the scam?

I asked where Jesus was. Jerusalem was in an uproar. Finally, someone said Pilate was rendering a verdict. I shoved my way through the crowds. Running. Frantic for information.

"Here is your king." It was Pilate. He understood!

"Take him away! Take him away! Crucify him!" I gasped. What were these people thinking? Were they going to crucify their king? My friend? The Messiah?

The crowd parted. Soldiers came, dragging Jesus. I hardly recognized him. Thorns. Wounds. Blood. He struggled to walk under the weight of a rugged cross. My heart broke. This couldn't be happening.

I followed the crowd. Where were they taking him?

We trudged step by step to Golgotha. Pounding. Nails. Blood. I watched in horror. Soldiers crucified my friend between two criminals.

Jesus was innocent. Didn't the crowd understand Jesus was our king? It seemed like Pilate was the only one who got it right. He prepared a sign reading, "Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews," which the soldiers fastened to the cross.

I wept. Jesus raised my brother. He was powerful. Why didn't he save himself? The tears wouldn't stop.

I heard Jesus say, "It is finished."

"With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit," (John 19:30).

Nothing made sense anymore. My hope died.

The first day of the week, Mary Magdalene invited me and some of her friends to go to the tomb early in the morning with spices. That was the least I could do to show respect for my friend.

We arrived at the tomb; it was open. Empty! We ran and told Simon Peter and the other disciples.

What could this mean? Where was his body?

Later that day, Mary Magdalene told me she had seen Jesus. He told her to tell us that he was returning to our God.

Could it be? Was he alive?

That evening, Lazarus, Martha, and I joined the disciples. We met in a room. Door locked. There were rumours. Soldiers said the disciples stole Jesus' body. We were afraid.

Suddenly, there was Jesus, standing among us. "Peace be with you!" (John 20:19-20).

He showed his hands and his feet. Then he instructed us to share his message with others.

It was really him. Jesus was alive!

I remembered what he taught us. He told us he was the Lamb of God. He said he came as the ultimate sacrifice for sins. My sins? Then I understood. I believed. Jesus forgave me.

He is more than my friend. He is my Saviour.