Death stinks–the smell of dried blood, perspiration and urine, scents that rattle the consciousness to a new awareness of mortality.
Fifty-seven minutes to complete the job. For after all, if we’re going to be good little Jewish boys and girls, we must get this body off the cross, wrap it up and place it in the tomb before six o’clock or somebody will be mad. It seems that the religious system is not satisfied to merely, try, convict, condemn and execute. They also want to make sure there’s not enough time for a decent burial.
A decent burial–what does that mean?
He’s dead. How? Why does the healer lose to the executioner?
It took us thirty minutes to get the nails out of his hands and feet. Even though he was stone cold, respect for his body made us do the labor gingerly, so as to not further tear the flesh. So broken. Nearly drained of blood, yet still his legs are purple and bruised. Wrapped in a cloth, to be thrown in a tomb for future consideration.
I just don’t understand. Why didn’t “love your neighbor” work? Why did it all come down to the masses, who benefited so much from his love, and the disciples, who were so enriched by his life, standing up for him instead of proclaiming openly that “they didn’t know him?”
Sitting here thinking about “blessed are the meek” when it is so obvious that the strong, willful and arrogant have won the day. He warned us not to judge others, yet he, himself, was judged and killed. He proclaimed that he was Lord of the Sabbath. Now he is “lorded over” by the approaching Sabbath, crowding out any moments for reflection and dignity.
Is it wrong of me to say I didn’t want to lose? Can I tell you that I’m disappointed? That I thought I had backed a winner? And now here I am, covered in his blood.
But I have no place to go. I have nothing to believe in. You see, what I have is a God who appears to be without love. I have a religion without mercy, a country without a leader and I am a follower … without a friend.
I try to remember better times in Galilee. I think about the conversations we had while fishing. It was so rich with humanity and tenderness, and now it’s relegated to a thirty-minute race to drop the body off in a cave and head back home–supposedly to honor Jehovah.
But I do remember he told us that a prophet “has no honor in his own country and amongst his own kindred.” Just last night he told us he was going “to prepare a place for us.” And even though our ears were not tuned to the message, on many occasions he warned that he would be delivered into the hands of evil men, but on the third day…
The third day. When would that be? Was he counting today? Or does it begin with the morning? What did he say would happen on the third day?
He would rise again. A quick glance down at the corpse removes any inkling of that possibility.
So who am I without him? Are we all losers? Is losing inevitable? Can I afford to give three more days to find out what his message might have meant?
Interesting. Maybe I could use the time wisely.
So what is this loser from Capernaum supposed to do when his best friend, Jesus, is brutally murdered and jeered at–as a loser?
I guess, on Day One, I should just sit and heal. What does that mean? Healing is always when we cease to consider our pain and we start to believe in our restitution.
Day Two. Maybe I could just take time to rediscover my vision. If Jesus is dead forever and I am still alive, what can I take of Jesus into my life? Do I just want to go back to fishing? Or am I curious enough to find out what he meant by me becoming a “fisher of men?”
And on Day Three, it will either be disappointment or perhaps … resurrection. Why do they spend so much time in life instructing us on how to win when most of the time we need to know what to do with a losing situation–to turn it around to better ends? Am I prepared to go to Day Three if it holds disappointment instead of resurrection?
Yes. Because even having the blessing of believing for two days that there might be more to come is well worth surviving the disappointment.
When did we become losers? For a brief time it seemed like we were going to rule the world. And now we don’t even have enough control to bury the dead.
Loser. I never associated that word with my friend. But maybe if he didn’t make himself vulnerable enough to be cast away from success, he would never have truly been one of us.
- I will heal.
- I will restore my vision.
- And I will prepare for resurrection.
My name is John. And I have decided–believing is always preferable to self-pity.
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