In Pursuit

 I watched the murder.

They called it a justified punishment. A guilty man sentenced to the penalty of death for challenging the leadership. But this was no ordinary death. It was brutality saturated with torture, humiliation and mockery until the man suffocated. I watched it from the corner of the city. I kept myself half hidden, head and face wrapped. I look unshaven and unclean. The crowd sees me as homeless. A beggar. A penurious remnant of lower class society. So I am easily overlooked as people rush by me refusing to make eye contact. They see my bare feet, my torn clothes. But if they looked closer with their spirit they would see something different. Perhaps they would see the straps of sturdy sandals that wrap up my strong calves. Perhaps they would see the gold braids that are inlaid into fine leather. If I unwrapped my covering, they might even see my glowing belt, my scabbard, and a radiance that gives away my vast size and Identity. For now, I stay carefully wrapped, head down, face shielded, eyes up. I am a watcher. My identity will be revealed soon enough.

The body hangs mercilessly as I watch the crowds grieve, grow weary, and disperse. The sudden darkness that has descended has rattled even the most stoic of them all. Their insides shake with the uncertainty of the darkness. And they all sense the enormity of this symbolic moment. The emotion that carried through the masses has subsided to a point. Many of them feeling the adrenaline leave their body as the culmination of some hate, some remorse, much regret passes over like a cloud. A few of them still talking, whispering, wishing they could unsee the brutal death they waited for. Their insatiable nature consuming their souls as the reality of a true death before them cannot leave their conscious mind. This has changed them. And God willing, they will one day become prophets of truth in their quest for forgiveness.

I watch them all. My own grieving paused for the moment as people brush past the homeless man who smells like juniper and mint. The body hangs, physically dead. Torn, bloodied, shredded in places. The results of the torture draining the life of his body now runs down the face of the rock. I feel the power of it from where I stand and I lift my voice is praise during this moment of raw grief. My song to my God speaking life into the blood as it speaks life into me.

My voice quiets to a hum as I watch the man from Arimathea approach Pilate. It is a bold move. Scandalous almost. He is carrying the linen cloth I watched him purchase earlier. I saw the plan form in his mind. And as he walked into the merchant where I slept I reached out to touch his sandal. He felt it in his spirit, although he didn’t know it at the time. But I watched him buy the cloth. I watched him circle the street with it. Second guessing. He keeps a secret, and I see it inside of him. I whisper to him from afar and urge him forward. And he goes.

Pilate begins to argue. I cloak myself with the color of the sky and move toward him slowly. He feels my hand brush against his shoulder gently. And I hear him agree against his own judgement. The man from Arimathea rushes on his way, eager to begin the task he has been assigned. I go with him, walking behind so unnoticed that he believes only his grief and regret accompany him. He rushes up the rock ahead of me, forcing himself not to run. I have sent Cassius only moments ago and he meets us there with another man. One rushes the crude ladder up and throws it hastily against the wood. He is shaking with tears and sorrow and the understanding of a man who hates this task as much as he is honored to obey it. One climbs the ladder and they begin the process of prying one spike from the broken wrist that is buried in the heavy wood. The bones collapse as the spike comes loose. He grasps it, feeling its weight heavy in his hand and the congealed blood coats his fingers plastering it against his own flesh. His body heaves and I see him struggle to keep the contents of his stomach in place. Tears stream down his face quietly and I watch his shoulders shudder with an emotion that seems to have no words.

Regret hangs in the air like smoke as the spike rolls forward on the rock and against the foot of the man from Arimathea. Blood stains his expensive sandal. His riches and status serving him nothing at this moment. He reaches forward and grasps the bleeding and broken feet of the dead man they called Criminal. The man from Arimathea uses a hammer to loosen the final spike that has been driven into the feet. As he works the spike loose, the flesh rips more and exposed bone protrudes out from the limp body now being held by the men. The spike gives away, and the body of Jesus falls heavily upon them. The man from Arimathea, a member of the Sanhedrin, carries the cloth to wrap him in.

The worst is now over. But now comes the cleansing and the burial, although the law prohibits it.

 The heaviness of the moment drains me but only briefly. I gather my resolve and pray for strength to continue. As we leave the mountain, the men do not see me follow close behind.

Two men take the task of cleansing this so-called criminal. As the crown of thorns is pulled from the scalp, pieces of flesh and hair come with it.  The man from Arimathea begins the process of cleansing the body, gentle hands slowly removing the dried blood away from ripped flesh. As the blood is washed away, its absence reveals the deep wounds. Tendons ripped, bones broken, skin torn away as open wounds expose muscle. The men cleanse each one, applying spice and oil to the body. As they gently wrap Jesus in cloth, blood slowly begins to seep through the linen.  I know, but they do not- that thousands of years later it will still serve as witness for this attack, and murder, upon the Savior.

Their service before them brings closure and healing to their own hearts. But even they do not know what is to come.

True night falls. And the close of this day is welcome as homes are filled with whispers of the day’s events. The air brings questions to them. But only the silence answers for now.

The village is shrouded in a quiet fog of despair that lingers along the low places and rises and spreads with the grief of darkness and yet the anticipation of dawn.

It isn’t just reality. It is frailty of failure.

It is death. It is God in a tomb.

It is the silence of disbelief. The paralysis of fear. The moment of truth.

The silence - when God is not saying a word.

And even as Christ’s broken body lies in darkness behind a rock face those that Believe still fear that maybe their God is beyond reach now. And the grief grows.

Day and night come and go.

Once. Twice. All the same. All quiet. All somber. All empty with the knowledge that Jesus is dead, and the people killed him.

I spend the third day praying. I visit the mother, the brother, the lady in the shadows. I visit the guard, Pilate and the man from Arimathea. They don’t know it. But I stand as a warm, soft wind behind them and ease their grief. I whisper comfort. I breathe the messages I have been sent to deliver. They are received, although no one knows quite yet. The village exhales and we all taste the loss and the grief on our tongues. Night falls again as the moon shows its face and the people begin their silent retreat of grief in their homes. I sit invisible beside the blood stains on the rock, and I listen to the tears fall. I steady myself. I pray. I sing. Because I know, this silence ends at dawn.

And so I wait during the long night, as no one truly sleeps.

Dawn breaks, and the breeze shifts. The smell of mint fills the air. It smells clean, like beginnings and it awakens the senses of the broken people. I hurry down the path. I walk with long strides, my strong legs stretching out as my covering falls to the wayside and my unclean appearance suddenly disappears. I will remain unseen for a moment more, but the camouflage is no longer necessary and if one were to look they would see the full height and display of the design God himself created.

Today is the day. And I will appear as God intended, no longer hidden. I see the woman, and I cover the distance between in a dozen strides. She moves quickly even with the burden of the spices and oil she carries. As I come upon her I do my best to assure her in the short walk we have this morning. I pray over her and comfort her anxious heart. And as we turn the curve to the rock, light explodes in front of us. We are stopped in our tracks and the light envelopes us. The shock, the wonder, the brilliance of heat and light and purity has arrived in a thousand radiant beams that come from the burial place.

The moment has come.

Silence has broken with the morning choir of angels unseen. It is a harmony of every frequency and tone and reverberates into the hardest hearts. And now I am a witness with them all. 

The light flashes brighter and is a brilliant display that feels alive. But suddenly I feel what the people feel as well. The emotion overwhelms my senses. The light and choir have penetrated our spirits. Tears fall as the light covers the landscape. It is white as though lightning itself has taken residence upon the hilltop where we stand. I feel my knees hit the damp earth as I lift my hands to my Father. He is all I know, and all I see in this moment.

And finally, the light gently dims, settles and our eyes adjust through the tears.

Before us, the stone is moved.

 

And our broken Jesus is gone.

 

The angel speaks, and the resounding light releases the news that our Blessed Jesus is gone, but not missing.

Risen, but not dead.

His torn flesh is healed, His broken body is whole, His wounds are closed. And the blood stains are washed clean as the man they called Criminal is now called Savior and the earth bows its knee to His glory. 

The woman runs back down the road.  I watch her run, in pursuit of the Miracle, to share the Truth and the Light and to spread the Good News.

She knows not what the path ahead of her holds, but I know – her Savior meets her there.