A few years back, I decided I wanted to write some short stories based off of some people that were on the receiving end of one of Jesus’ miracles and then witnessing Him being killed on the cross. This is the first of those stories.
To be honest, this very short story took me about 3 years to get over writing. I had wrote it a long time ago and never really shared it with anyone except for a couple of friends and my wife. My wife was actually the one that encouraged me to share it.
I wrote this as a way for me to feel what it must have been like to watch Him die. Not only that, but also to stand by and do nothing about it. Even if I knew that there was no other way, would I have just stood back and watched?
As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.”
After saying this, he spit on the ground, made some mud with the saliva, and put it on the man’s eyes. “Go,” he told him, “wash in the Pool of Siloam” (this word means “Sent”). So the man went and washed, and came home seeing.
His neighbors and those who had formerly seen him begging asked, “oilpol;p[Isn’t this the same man who used to sit and beg?” Some claimed that he was.
Others said, “No, he only looks like him.”
But he himself insisted, “I am the man.”
“How then were your eyes opened?” they asked.
He replied, “The man they call Jesus made some mud and put it on my eyes. He told me to go to Siloam and wash. So I went and washed, and then I could see.”
“Where is this man?” they asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said.
John 9: 1-12
I see him lying there right before my very eyes. The blistering sun burning down on his naked body. The weight of the crossbeam he was hauling is beginning to take its effect on his shoulders as black and blue knots start to form. He squirms to try to relieve some of the pressure off of his back, revealing flesh that has been so mangled I’m unable to distinguish it from the beam he is laying on. Squirming around in pure agony like a worm that had just been crushed under the sole of a shoe. I can see the thorns tearing into the skin on his forehead. Bright, red blood running down the crown and forming a small puddle just to the left of the cross. I can’t bear to look anymore.
I glance over to my right where there is a group of soldiers fighting over his remaining clothes. What is wrong with these people? Over to my left is a group of people yelling at the guards because they were taking too long. “Hang him already,” they yelled in one form or another. “Get on with it”. I can’t help but to wonder what this man did or who this man was. In the distance I see a woman on her knees, weeping uncontrollably. And just in front of the cross, a couple of guards are digging a hole for it to stand.
My gaze is fixed back on this man on the cross. I can see the strain in his eyes as a soldier attempts to straighten out his left arm. Pulling as hard as he can as the man’s natural reflex fights to resist the soldier’s goal. The metal of the soldier’s armor clanking together. A guard begins to hammer in a sign on the pillar. I’m unable to read what it says so I push my way to the front of the small crowd.
“Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews”.
Immediately my heart begins to race, faster and faster, and I can hear it trying to pound its way out of my chest. My fingers begin to feel numb, my breathing picks up, everything around me begins to spin, I’m weak, I’m shaking, and I’m helpless. This was Him. The man lying before me was the man that changed my life, the man that turned the darkness into light.
Every single fiber of my being wants to try and save this man that convinced me He is truly the Son of God. But my body isn’t listening to what my mind is telling it to do. My eyes focus on the guard giving one final tug on the left arm of Jesus and holding it in place. I see the six inch spikes that the guard is about to impale into His hands and feet. I see them placing that cold metal rod against the palm of His hand. I see the mallet being lifted and I see Him looking directly into the eyes of the one about to hammer the nail, the guard giving a slight smirk as he throws his arm down. I see the spike break through the skin and pierce the bone with the first swing. I see the second hit puncture through His hand and grasp the wood of the cross. I hear pound after pound until the head of the spike is pressing His hand firmly against the wood. I see the blood forming a small puddle in His palm. I imagine what is going through His mind with all these people around and none of them doing anything to stop this. I smell the odor coming from the Roman soldiers. I see them sweating and sense their uncertainty about whether or not He is really the Messiah. The smirk the soldier gave previously is turning into a look of curiosity as dark clouds begin forming in the distance. But he continues and places the other nail on His right hand. I hear the scream and the pounding once again. I feel His pain as the cross is lifted and dropped in the hole, the weight of his body forcing the nails to rip through his muscle and bones and I can do nothing but drop to my knees. I sense His arms going numb and His shortness of breath. I see the small puddles of blood from His palms now beginning to drip off the sides of His hands. By this point the pain is unbearable and the nail being driven into His feet is just for added pressure on the body.
I sense the peace coming over Him as He nears those final moments. I see why He felt forsaken.
My head drops and my eyes begin to water. Tear after tear flowing over my cheekbones and off my chin. The dirt turning into mud under my knees. I close my eyes and begin thanking and praising God.