There He was…
He was there for His Father. He had willingly obeyed and came to this cruel, sinful place. His Father had given Him a group of men to train and disciple. They weren’t the brightest bunch, but they had grown. He had had some good times with them, and they had stayed with Him for the last three years. They had done miracles together, had ate together, slept together, rode out storms together. But none of that mattered now—they were gone; had fled for their lives. Some disciples. When they had been together last, at the Passover meal, He had tried to show them how much He loved them. He had symbolized His sacrifice with the bread and wine, He had washed their feet. But they really hadn’t gotten it. Did they really even know who He was, and who His Father was? He had poured Himself into their lives, teaching and patiently instructing them, but there had been no great visible results. That’s why they had fled. “Strike the shepherd and the sheep will be scattered.” Of course, they had tried to defend Him. But they really hadn’t thought that this would happen. They had seen Him in disagreement with those who wanted to kill Him. He had always seemed to escape. Why would this time be any different? But then the unthinkable had happened. He had been captured. Betrayed by one of His own. One of the ones He had just poured so much of His life into. One of the ones at the sermon on the mount, one of the ones who had fed the five thousand, one of the ones who had witnessed the storm calmed, ones of the ones who had gone out preaching and doing miracles, one of the ones who, just a few days before had been waving a palm branch and praising his Lord. And yet, he had betrayed the Uncontainable God. The God who held the universe in the palm of His hand had been captured by a small band of mortal, ruthless men. Oh, how it had hurt Him to see it. To feel it on His cheek. To hear the greeting. The voice He had been familiar with the last three years. To look into his eyes and see only hatred and greed. After all He had done for His disciples and now one of them had done this. The others had been shocked. How could this happen? Why didn’t He just walk through them like He did in Nazareth? No, instead, He had confirmed the betrayal sign—a greeting kiss—by saying that He was indeed the man they were looking for. It was as if He had wanted to be arrested, wanted to be captured. They had tried to use force to save Him, but He had even stopped that. He hadn’t wanted to be saved from this mob. Why? He was supposed to rescue Israel. And now He had been captured? They had run for their lives. If this could happen to Him it could surely happen to them. They had been bewildered. Confused. Scared. But some had been curious. They had tried to follow the mob and find out what was going on. What did the high priest want with Him? He had taught them about God. What was wrong with that? Didn’t the high priest teach about God? They had to find out. He had been dragged into the city, to the house of the high priest. So this was it. He had prayed in the garden. He had prayed hard, for three hours. He had known what lay ahead: the pain, the suffering. He didn’t want to do it. It would literally kill him. He had asked His Father if there was any other way out. But He had remembered that this was why He came. Ever since His birth in the stable. This was why He was here. So He had submitted. He had known that His Father knew best. He knew His Father. He had trusted. And then He had been strengthened. An angel had come and strengthened Him. For even He had known that He couldn’t do this on His own. So at the point of obedience, He had obeyed. But things had gotten ugly. The religious leaders—who should have been His counterparts and allies in His ministry—were now His enemies. They didn’t really know Him or His Father. And now they had been intent on His death. God’s trusted overseers had been intent on killing His Son. Just like that parable He had taught. They had not been able find any substantial evidence, so they had to bring in false witnesses. Finally they had found something that they could condemn Him on: His claim to be the Son of God. When questioned about it He had affirmed the truth. He had been convicted by stating the truth about His nature. The righteous God had been drug before an illegal midnight trial and convicted because of the truth. The God of justice had experienced injustice. It had hurt Him to feel their anger, their intent upon His demise. He was going to die for them. He had wanted to reach out to them, but they were concerned only with their position and pride. And so just like Herod thirty-some years before, they had tried to kill Him. And then they had come at Him, venting their anger. They had slapped Him, mocked Him, beat Him. They had made fun of His deity. The Untouchable God had his beard ripped off of His cheeks. The same cheeks that His mother had kissed in the manger so long ago. But the brutal onslaught had continued. It had gone on and on until He could barely stand. And all the while He had known what was going on outside the building. The bravest of His followers, the one who had gotten out of the boat with Him, had followed Him to the courtyard. He had said that he would never fall away, but when faced with the matter, he had denied his Teacher three times. He was supposed to be the rock of the church, and now he had denied the Head of the church. He had said he “didn’t even know the man.” And then they had caught each other’s gaze. There had been pain, sorrow, and grief. The disciple had broken down and wept. He had realized what he had done to his Lord. He hadn’t even been willing to associate himself with Him. It had hurt Him deeply, to hear the denial, to see the face of the disciple. He had spent so much time with these men, but even the strongest of them had crumbled. He was alone now. He could not depend upon any man to help Him, to be there for Him, to take a hit for Him. He was alone. All He had was His Father. Then dawn had broken. He had known what would take place that day. The so called “temple guards” had taken Him to the Gentile governor. If the chief priests had wanted Him dead, how much so more a pagan Roman. And then He had been trucked off like a trick animal or exhibit to another ruler, who only had been interested in His miracles. After being mocked again, He had been sent back to the governor. This governor was a weak man, and like everyone else was only concerned with his position and making everyone happy. The accusations had flooded down, but He gave no answer. He had known what was to come. And then the Holy One had been traded for a notorious murderer. The same people who had been praising His Father only a few days ago, were now demanding His death. Instead of “Hosanna,” it was now “Crucify Him, Crucify Him.” The noise had drowned out everything else. That these the lost sheep of Israel, had been demanding the death of their Shepherd, the sick had wanted their Healer dead, the lost had been convicting their Savior. He had fallen victim to a weak ruler and mob rule. But, He had made no protest. And then had come the flogging. They had stripped Him and stretched Him out. They had whipped Him again and again. He had been tortured with a method used on the disobedient and deserters. When one had grown tired of flogging, another had taken his place. Lash upon lash had been laid into the back of the Spotless Lamb. The pain had been unbearable. He had been tortured for the pleasure of His captors. But it had only gotten worse. Then they had mocked Him. The soldiers, those whose job had been to protect prisoners from the crowd of accusers, had mocked Him. The had dressed Him as He was—the King of the Jews. With a scarlet robe and a crown of thorns. But they had not wanted to give Him glory, but to make fun of Him. They had taken a staff and with all their strength, smacked blow upon blow onto the crown on His head. The head on which the crown of all glory in heaven had been placed, now had thorns imbedded in it, blood streaming down. It had torn at His heart more than at His brow that they didn’t understand who He really was. Then they had led Him out to His death. They had forced Him to carry His own cross, on His shredded back. As they had gone out from the city, He had struggled under the immense weight of this instrument of His death. They had met a man, and forced him to carry the cross, because their Prisoner could not go on. He had been weak from His torment and loss of blood, but He still had much to endure. When they had arrived at the place of the skull, they had crucified him. They had driven rusty nails through His hands, the Hands that had formed the universe, the Hands that had healed countless, the Hands that had broke the bread, the Hands that had held the little children, the Hands that had reached up from the manger. Those hands had been fastened to the cross, in order to ensure His death. In the same way, they had nailed His feet to the cross. Then they had raised the cross. He was to die. His sentence hung above His head: the truth. He shared His death with criminals. The innocent One had been assigned to death with the guilty. The mocking had been ceaseless. As if had been enough to die this way, He had been mocked relentlessly. They were not only mocking Him, but also His Father. He had the ability, the power to strike them all down, to come off the cross, to save Himself, but He chose love. Not love of Himself as everyone else had, but love for His Father. Love for His killers. Love for the mockers. It had wounded His heart to see His mother standing there. She was the one who had brought Him to this world. She had trusted His Father, even as He did now. He had committed her to the hands of His beloved disciple. And now there He was. He had endured so much, felt so much pain, suffered so much. But it was not over. The physical and emotional pain He had experienced was small compared to what He felt now. Just being the perfect omnipotent God, coming to a sinful limiting world, beat Him down. Everything on earth was contrary to His nature. So many didn’t understand, and now He was dying. As He died, He suffered all the suffering from the creation of the world, until its end. He took every disease, every wound, every sickness, every injury, from skinned knees, broken bones, battle wounds, everything. Likewise, He took every emotion: anger, guilt, loneliness, sorrow, distress, anxiety, frustration, fear, every thought and feeling. He felt every loss. He bore in His body every bad and wrong thing since the beginning of time. Everything. He took everything, from every person for all the years, past and future at this moment. He took the punishment and consequences of every sin. He had lived a perfect life for this reason. He laid down His life. He was torn in two. His body was broken. It seemed as if His Father had forsaken Him. All of heaven and earth was in turmoil as it Maker was dying. The sun didn’t shine. All that He suffered would have killed a man in an instant. The suffering was so severe. And then, He surrendered His spirit to His Father. It was finished. He died. The everlasting God died. The Author of life gave up His life. Emmanuel was dead. The rocks split open, the earth shook. The curtain in the temple was rent from top to bottom. Just as He hung and was torn in two, so was it. Those who had killed Him finally recognized who He was. But it was too late. There He was…dead. Why? Why did He sacrifice Himself? What did He die for? One thing is for certain: He considered His sacrifice a small price to pay…for you…
