Eyewitness

The fragrance from Mary’s jar still clings to my clothes. Each time I wrap my cloak around my body I’m taken back to that night. Was it only days ago? Perhaps a year. Or a lifetime.

Jesus said she was preparing Him for burial. He had talked about his death before, but I kept thinking—hoping—that He didn’t really mean it. That He was telling us another of His parables, where death meant pain or separation or some other hard thing.

Then we entered Jerusalem, and the calls of “Hosanna!” from the crowd convinced me I was right. Not that Jesus was wrong, of course, but that I understood His hidden meaning.

But my denial was demolished, stone by stone, when I saw Jesus take on the scribes and the Pharisees. When He cleared the temple of all the buying and selling and cheating, my heart raced, and my stomach turned.

More parables, but more pointed now, so that even an idiot like me could understand. Stories about evil tenants in a vineyard and the agony of those exiled into outer darkness.

Then Jesus spoke plainly, His words sharp and sure, aimed like arrows at the powerful. When He called the Pharisees and scribes hypocrites and blind guides, I was torn between cheering and pulling Him away to safety. Didn’t He know He was poking a stick into the vipers’ den?

Then, we celebrated Passover together. Jesus washed our feet, His touch as tender as a mother’s, before the meal. My Master acting as my servant hit me like a sudden storm at sea. I was blindsided by His humility and the love shining from His eyes when He looked at me.

I could barely swallow the bread we shared after Jesus blessed and broke it. He said it was His body. When He took the cup of wine, He told us it was His blood, poured out for the forgiveness of sins. My mind is still straining to comprehend that, but my heart understands somehow.

When Jesus said one of us would betray Him, we looked around the room and wondered who it could be. And He said Peter, impulsive but loyal Peter, would deny Him before the night was over.

My world was tilting, the earth breaking up and the mountains falling into the sea. Perhaps if I slept, I’d wake to find things good again.

But I awoke to the sound of shouting. A mob armed with swords and clubs had descended upon us, led by Judas Iscariot. I’d never trusted him completely, but I was stunned, nevertheless. He had experienced Jesus’s power and grace just like the rest of us. Yet there he was, surrendering himself to Satan.

Peter—of course it was Peter—started slashing wildly with his sword and managed to cut off a man’s ear. Jesus healed the man—of course He did—and admonished Peter, reminding him that He could summon legions of angels to help him. But if He did, the Scriptures wouldn’t be fulfilled, and His mission wouldn’t be accomplished.

The following hours passed in a bloody blur, an orgy of hate. It was as if Hell had opened its mouth wide and released every foul demon into the world.

Coward that I am, I hung back and watched as they shuttled Jesus between His accusers, His body growing more disfigured with every visit. When I heard the people scream, “Crucify Him!” I wanted to shout, “But He’s Your King! You welcomed Him this very week!”

But I did not.

When Jesus emerged from Pilate’s headquarters, He didn’t look like my Master anymore. He scarcely looked human. I couldn’t watch as the nails were driven into His body, but each strike of the hammer vibrated through my bones.

I stood at the edge of the crowd as darkness fell in the middle of the day. Surely this was the darkness that tormented the Egyptians before they released our people, a darkness as thick and suffocating as wet wool.

Jesus spoke as He hung there, although I was too far away to make out all He said.

Then He died.

After Jesus’s body was taken down from the cross, I ran to a friend’s house to hide. I was suddenly overcome with the idea that all of His followers would be next, each of us hunted down and dragged to his own crucifixion.

My friend offered me a little bread and some fish, but I can’t keep anything down. I tried to drink a little wine, but I couldn’t hold the cup steady. My body aches with a pain that I can’t describe. I can’t imagine a dawn when I won’t feel hollowed out.

But as I sit here, huddled in the corner of the darkened room with my sweet-smelling cloak about me, I remember something Jesus said yesterday. The only words I heard clearly.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Every Jew gathered there recognized that question immediately. It opens one of David’s songs. It wasn’t one of my favorites as a boy, since the first half describes a man going through intense suffering. But suddenly my eyes are opened; David prophesied what Jesus would experience.

As grim as the beginning is, the song closes on a victorious note, as the singer expresses his certainty that God would vindicate him.

For he has not despised or abhorred
the affliction of the afflicted,
and he has not hidden his face from him,
but has heard, when he cried to him.

Were You teaching us one last lesson, Jesus? Were You reminding us that You had foretold not only Your death, but Your new life? Your resurrection?

“I will rise,” You said over and over again, but I was too focused on the darkness to see the light.

I sense something growing in my soul. A spark. A tiny flower.

Hope.

*The verse quoted is from Psalm 22:24 (ESV).