My work. How can I describe it? I suppose I'd have to start at the beginning for you to understand. I was born in Lebanon--yes, Lebanon of the great forests--but I am a Roman citizen. My father worked all his life to buy that citizenship, and I inherited just like I did his trade. I was a carpenter--skilled with wood and nails. I suppose that's why they chose me. I took pride in my citizenship. I left my home and my work to enlist in the army, to taste the power of a Roman soldier, to see the world, to learn the sword. And I did. I served four years before we came here. All they asked for was a man who could drive nails. I volunteered. The first time, I hated it. I had killed with the sword and spear, but this was different. I was a soldier, not a torturer. But they had me do more and more until I no longer cared. It was my job. My ears grew deaf to the screams. I no longer looked at the faces. They were criminals, not men. They deserved it.
I suppose you are disgusted. You think I must be a beast to drive a nail through human flesh without shuddering. But I was no different from any other man. I laughed and drank with my friends. I even had a Samaritan mistress, Hadassa. I had simply learned to disconnect from myself--to let my hands do what they are trained to do without involving my mind or emotions. Years passed and it became routine.
Life went on. Hadassa left me because of the teachings of some man from Nazareth who was supposed to their Messiah. You've probably heard that term before. The first time I heard it, I thought it meant trouble and reported it, but now I know it's common. Messiahs come and go. Maybe someday a real one would come, but none of us Romans believed it, and the Jews were far too eager to believe it every time an agitator arose. I didn't really miss Hadassa. There's no shortage of beautiful women in my current post, Jerusalem.
The army was exciting. Being an executioner was simply monotony. Until they killed Him. Until I killed Him.
It seemed an ordinary Passover. I'd learned the names of their holy days and what to expect. Passover meant unrest. It celebrated being freed from past oppressors. Hardly a celebration Rome approved of, but if it were outlawed, every Jew from Cyrene to Macedonia would rebel. So the festival went on. Crowds teemed the street, people from all over Judea and all over the empire swarmed Jerusalem. For what? To eat lamb, unleavened bread, and bitter herbs? Jews did not define "feast" the way we Romans do. But the larger the crowds, the more troublemakers. We had already arrested several, including one of their ring leaders, Barabbas.
I was at the Judgement Hall when they brought Him in. He'd been taken in by the Sanhedrin for violating their religion or some such thing. Perhaps it was because of the Passover that they didn't kill Him themselves. They weren't supposed to take the law into their own hands, but mobs stoning people was such a common sight that the soldiers rarely bothered to intervene. Pilate sent Him to us to flog. If you think me cruel, what would you think of the men who wield the scourge? The first time I saw it, as a new soldier, I was sick. They are masters of their art. They bruise at first, then shred the skin; soon chunks of flesh fly with the whips. They seldom stop before they can see white bone through the gore.
When they stripped Him, I saw this was not His first beating. Bruises and swelling were already visible on his back and chest, and He showed no sign of fight. I am not proud to say I put in a bet that He would not survive the lash. I lost anyways. I knew I had misjudged Him the moment the first blow fell. He made no sound, though his hands clenched with pain. He was strong, and His torturers saw it as a challenge. I could see the triumph on their faces when they finally illicited a cry of pain. But the cries were few, so they were not satisfied when He hung limp, ribs exposed, blood pooling at His feet. They loosed the chains and began a new form of torture--mockery. Shame. It was my cloak they borrowed. I am looking at it now. Why did I let them do that?
He had claimed to be a king, apparently, and they thought it a wonderful joke. They. I need to stop saying that. We. I thought it was a great joke. We spread my cloak on Him like a royal robe and put a long reed in His hand, but we weren't content with that. There had to be pain in it--we Romans are masters of pain. One of us went and found a thorn bush and twisted a crown--a crown of four-inch thorns--and forced it on to His head. He had fully regained consciousness, so we made Him stand and bowed down, saying "Hail, King of the Jews!" Then we took the reed and sent Him sprawling with a few blows to the head. I make no excuses for what we did there. It was cruel. Merciless.
They took Him away again. When I was summoned, by name, I knew what it was for. He'd been condemned, so I had a job to do. I still didn't know the exact charges, but I figured that title, "King of the Jews" had something to do with it. They gave me back my cloak, but I did not put it on as it was wet with blood. I was near the back of the procession, so I didn't see everything. I saw them lay the cross beams on the prisoners' shoulders. There were two others besides Him, but He was in a far worse condition than them. He did not make it far carrying the cross before He fell forward, landing hard on his battered chest and face. We hauled Him to his feet, only to see Him fall to one side as the beam over balanced. I went on ahead, so I did not see what happened next, but when the procession arrived at The Place of the Skull, our standard execution site, another man was carrying the cross as the Man stumbled along behind him. Then began my part.
I barely remember the other two--I recall they were thieves or some such ordinary offenders, and I daresay they put up a fight like most do, but He was different. They already had Him laid out on the cross when I came there. He didn't fight. We held His arms as we always did, but we didn't need to. His muscles spasmed as I drove the nails, but He never pulled away. He was fighting his reflexes, letting us crucify Him. We didn't even hold His legs. As I drove the nail through His feet, I did what I had sworn to never do: I looked at Him. Our eyes met. My hammer stopped in midair. His eyes, so full of pain and tears, held no anger, no blame. I saw a sort of pity--deep grief and, what else can I call it--Love. But then the moment passed. I shook myself and swung again, driving the nail its full depth. Then the cross was erect and I was nailing the next man. I was wiping my hands, putting away my tools, when that "King" spoke. People don't say much when hanging from a cross, so when they speak, you listen.
The words cut right through me. They turned my world upside down. I am an old and hardened soldier, but I cannot hold back tears to think of it. "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." He said it from the cross. He dragged Himself up on the nails I had driven but moments before, scraping the flesh we had shredded with the scourge against the cross that we had made Him carry, and spent His hard-won breath to cry those words. Forgiveness. What could motivate a man to forgive us from such a place?
Usually, I leave after I've done my job, but this time, I couldn't. I had to watch. I had to understand what kind of man this was--this Jesus of Nazareth. The crowds who had condemned Him had plenty to say. They mocked Him cruelly, but much of what they said raised questions in my mind. "He saved others, Himself He cannot save!" How had He saved others? What did He save them from? They said He could rebuild the temple in three days, but before I could even try to figure that out what that could mean, the most stunning accusation came. They called Him the Son of God. You probably don't see the significance--if you are Roman or Greek or Egyptian, you are accustomed to gods having children, but it's different in Judea. They hold to one God here, and their God doesn't beget children. To say "Son of God" here mean that He is equal with God--same in nature, same in essence--essentially, that He is their God. Some laughed over that claim, but I trembled. Truly, whatever else He might be, this was a righteous man.
He spoke five more times from that cross. I remember them all. The first did not mean so very much to me--though it showed much of the kind of man He was; He told one of His followers to care for His mother, who was crying at the foot of the cross.
The mocking continued, and the other two on the crosses joined in. It was ridiculous--who mocks someone else when they themselves are dying the same death? Finally, one of them seemed to see how foolish it was and rebuked the other, saying something about them deserving this and Him being innocent. Then the thief asked Him to remember him when He came into His kingdom, and He said "Today, you will be with Me in paradise." It was an audacious claim--not only was He certain of paradise, but the assertion was that paradise was His kingdom.
Then the sky became dark--I had no doubt the sun hid its face for Him. It was like a great cloud came over Jerusalem, but it came on faster and darker than any cloud. Some people panicked and began screaming and running away, but I just stayed there. I couldn't move. It was like there was no one and nothing else there but me and the Man on the center cross. I couldn't take my eyes off Him.
It was three or four hours before He spoke again, and when He did, it was terrible. He cried out in agony--not pain, agony. Torment. I have never heard such a tortured cry, not when I drive the nails, not under the scourge--never. "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?" It wasn't despair like you would expect--like I said, it was agony, like this forsaken state brought on a torture of its own. He, who had borne the lash and nails with barely a sound, was in a state of torment like I have never seen. It made your blood run cold.
He hung there, gasping for breath, tortured, and exhausted for ten to fifteen minutes, but it felt like an age, watching His tattered muscles spasm and His face contort with pain. Then, barely audible, He whispered, "I thirst." We had wine--cheap wine, soured from long time in the sun, in a jug, so I took a sponge and soaked it in it and put it up, on my spear, to His mouth. I suppose I had some foolish notion that that small mercy might in some way make up for the evil I had done him.. He sucked up a little bit, then leaned His head back against the cross. I lowered the spear, thinking He might be dead, but then He took a deep breath, pulling Himself up with all His flagging strength, back arching, muscles trembling with effort, and cried out, loud and clear, "It is Finished!"
It was almost triumphant--a stunning contrast from His last tortured cry. There was no despair or defeat here. It was relief, like a man return from a long war, finally victorious. Like when a man finally pays off a debt. Then, wearily, but still clearly, He said, "Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit." And His head fell forward, and His body sagged and I knew it was over. No, not over. Finished. There is a difference. Over is loss. Finished is gain.
I don't know how or when I sank to my knees, but I was kneeling when He said that. Then I was on my side as the ground rippled and heaved beneath me. There was thunder and lightning, and the ground was tossing and churning like sea waves. It began the moment He bowed His head. No one can tell me that there was no connection between the earthquake and His death. My commander saw it too, and I heard him say it--a cry of fear and awe amid the crashing and crumbling--"This truly was the Son of God!"
There is little to say of the rest of the day--We made sure they were all dead. One of my fellow soldier stabbed a spear through the King's side and into His heart. Blood and water streamed out, confirming his death. Some wealthier Jews took His body to bury. But here's the crazy part: the Jewish rulers asked Pilate to set a guard on the tomb. To guard a dead man. How afraid were they of Him?
I soon learned they had good reason to fear. He came back. He rose from the dead, I'll swear it on my honor as a Roman. You say it's impossible? After that crucifixion day, I will never again believe in anything being impossible.
Fifty days later, His followers were preaching His resurrection in the streets of Jerusalem. They had nothing to gain by making such a claim, and so much to lose, but they stood by it. They said they had touched the nail-prints. And I am not speaking of a handful of people. There were hundreds making these claims. Some even died for preaching that He had risen, and that He was the Son of God.
I didn't want it to be true. Every day, every hour since His death, I had battled the guilt of it. I had almost convinced myself that He was no one special when word of the resurrection reached me. I had never know fear like this before--fear of the supernatural, fear that He whom I killed might truly have returned. I knew His death had been unjust, and, worse, I knew that if He truly was the Son of God, I had damned myself that day. I left Jerusalem the first chance I had. I returned to Rome, where the name of "Jesus" was not yet known. I suppose I was fleeing--trying to escape my conscience. No amount of pleasure or wine could drown my guilt.
Then these "Christians", as they were called, reached Rome with these teaching of Jesus Christ and His resurrection. Almost overnight, it became the talk of the city. Most laughed at it or regarded it as a threat. I kept my own council. "Father, forgive them"--those words haunted me day and night. I wanted to escape--I wanted to return to my old life, but the cross pursued me like a curse. Finally, I could endure it no longer. I had to seek out the Christians.
They were not hard to find. I had but to go to the cells below the Colusieum, where they were kept for the games. Games! How was it sport to see a man torn apart by a lion? And the calm courage they showed in the face of death reflected so clearly what I had seen on the cross that I could not bear it.
They had one of the Christian leaders in a cell alone. They let me in to see him, no questions asked. He was younger than I expected, not past forty--just like Jesus. I could not look him in the eyes. I told him everything of my part in his Messiah's death, and of my crippling guilt. He took my hand through the bars and told me the whole story, putting together all the parts that confused me, explaining why Jesus had died.
I killed the Creator of life. Can there be a greater crime? But the Creator gave His life in exchange for mine. He died for His murderer. The guilt I had fought, the memory of His words, were all His mercy, drawing me to Himself. There, kneeling with a condemned man, under the bloody sands of the arena, I finally repented and believed in the gospel of Him whom I had slain.
The next day, I saw the man who had taught me the way of life die a bloody death for the amusement of our sophisticated Roman nobles. It grieved me, but I saw the joy of paradise in his face as he waited for the beasts to descend, and I know death was but the door to his Redeemer's presence.
My time is coming. I sit alone in my home. Two hours ago, I made my faith public. I spoke of my Lord before my men and before Caesar himself. I am under house arrest. A Roman citizen cannot die a public death. They are coming. Any moment now, that door will unlatch and they will lead me away quietly. I am not afraid. As my Savior did not fear the cross, how can I fear the sword? The Father has forgiven my sins. Today, I will be with my Lord in paradise.
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