Reliving The Passion #30

Mark 15:24–28

And they crucified him.

They divided his garments among them, casting lots for them to decide what each should take. It was the third hour when they crucified him.

The inscription of the charge against him read, “The King of the Jews.”

With him they crucified two robbers, one on his right and one on his left.

I stand apart. I draw no one’s attention. I have covered my head. These are the things I see:

I see four soldiers upon a low hill, their greater labor done, their duty now to wait. They are hunching over the few benefits of the morning’s assignment. That is, by a grim tradition they can keep the final possessions of those they crucify; so now they’re casting lots for an undergarment, a robe, a belt, sandals. No money here. Not even a scrip. No matter: the soldiers are passing time. It’s nearly noon.

A centurion stands over them with his arms folded, gazing up at a coming thunderhead of cloud, squinting, figuring.

Above the soldiers, above the centurion, but yet bct.eath the sun and the lowering cloud, hang three men on crosses, each of them stripped to a loin cloth: a robber, a robber, and you.

The wind is picking up. Dust blows by. And this is what I see:

A wooden board is nailed roughly over your head, chalk-white and burned with the indictment: “The King of the Jews.” I say, Yes! In my soul I cry, Yes! Yes! I keep my face impassive for fear of the centurion and the chief priests, but Yes, I say, it is what we’ve called Messiah: King of the Jews! The loutish Romans are right. They mean to mock us, to mock all the Jews as a single people, but their scorn tells the truth, and I take a bitter satisfaction in it. Let the chief priests burst their bellies with indignation—I’ll just laugh! I hate this world.

But if you’re the Messiah, why are you crucified? How can this be? Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, forgive me. My mind rejects the things I see. Nothing fits! I call you King. I call you Master and Lord. You are the Lord! No one has loved as you do—no, not ever, Lord. But I never imagined Goodness to be so broken. Jesus, you grieve me! Jesus, you confuse me—

This is what I see:

Your knees keep buckling. You push yourself up with your legs—to breathe, I think—but the legs lose strength and pop at the knees, and your body drops, hah! The arms stretch. The hands clutch spikes. Your shoulder-joints separate. Your muscles draw out like ropes. Your rib-cage splays. I can count the bones! How do you breathe when your chest is stretched flat? Jesus, you’re not breathing! Your own body, when it drags on your arms like that—why, your own weight is suffocating you!

Breathe!

Sweet Jesus, please! Breathe!

Make fists on the spike-heads! Lift yourself up. Open your mouth, Lord Jesus, please! Don’t die. Don’t stop breathing! Breathe! Breathe! What? What are you—? Oh, no—

No, no, no, don’t do that, not now, not while you hang so low, not in surrender, no: Jesus, don’t look at me! Don’t look at me like that! I can’t stand it if you look at me. My whole body burns like fire. You make me too much here! You’re wasting yourself. You should fight for your life, Lord! You cannot die. Rise up! Rise up on your arms! Fight! Fight! Breathe—

But the eyes of Christ ask, “Do you take offense at this?”

There were times when I begged for your glance because I needed to know your love, that you loved me. But you did not so much as lift your eyes; I lacked the signs of your presence and your affection, and I felt abandoned. So then I was angry.

Now you look directly at me, and I feel sick with my own presence, immediate, real, astonishing over the ages: and my shame. O Jesus, does love from the cross have to hurt so much?—hurt you with dying?—hurt me when your dying draws me to yourself? Why is it now that you gaze at me?

“Do you take offense at this? Do you also wish to go away?”