Once the three victims had been nailed up –
and I can’t face describing that gruesome process – the soldiers relaxed and divided up their clothes. Apparently that’s what they always do. After all, the victims won’t need them anymore.
Two criminals were hung, one on either side of Jesus – a deliberate choice, I’m sure, to suggest that he was a criminal like them. And as all three hung in agony, the criminals abused Jesus, sneering at him and mocking him. Where
do jealousy, envy and evil end?
I read the sign over Jesus’ head: “King of the Jews”. I’m not sure why Pilate put it there, but it was the simple truth. And poor Mary knew it was the truth – a truth announced to her by the angel Gabriel before Jesus was even conceived. I’ve spent many hours talking to her about her experiences, hearing what it was like to bear a child with no human father. A child for whom great
plans had been announced, yet who never seemed to follow the path anyone expected. And now she was watching her son being murdered beneath a public declaration that he was the king of the Jews.
We watched; we wept; we prayed; we questioned. What we couldn’t do was understand. The only sinless man the world has ever seen was being killed by sinners even as he begged his father to forgive them.
Naturally, Mary wanted to be near him, so gradually she inched her way closer to the crosses. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the crosses, the criminals or the soldiers, but I couldn’t let her go alone, and nor could her sister Salome, or Mary, Clopas’ wife. The four of us made our way closer, silent, sorrowful, cautious. We were concerned about the soldiers, but they didn’t seem to care about us – I don’t think they considered us a
threat.
It was a relief when John came. Brave John – he was the only one of the twelve who came to Golgotha. Him the soldiers did eye with suspicion, and they held their weapons ready the whole time he stayed.
Time passed so very slowly as we stood in silence, waiting and watching. I still hadn’t given up hoping that Jesus would come down from the cross, perhaps with
scores of angels driving his enemies before him. What a clear statement of his power that would have been – not to mention being a richly-deserved judgement of those hypocrites! Yet none of it happened, and the longer we stood there, the more obviously upset Mary grew. I tried to convince her to come further away, but she refused. She heard every shuddering breath Jesus drew, saw every heave of his shoulders, saw the agony on his face. And she couldn’t stop weeping.
I expect I would have been the same if I hadn’t been so worried about her.
I don’t know how he did it, but Jesus was keeping an eye on us despite his pain, and after a while he looked at his mother and said, “Here is your son,” then looked at John and said to him, “Here is your mother.”
John acknowledged Jesus’ command immediately, going to Mary and putting his arm around her
shoulder – doing his best to console her. Of course, she is his aunt, and they are very close, but her emotions were clearly running away with her and his attempts to calm her did nothing. Presently he began to lead her, stumbling, away from the cross while she wept, almost beside herself. The rest of us followed, rejoining the larger group of women further away from the cross.
When Mary still showed no sign of gaining
control, John said he would take her to his house to rest for a while. I was torn between going with her and staying with Jesus, but in the end I stayed while John’s mother, Salome, went with him and her sister.
Mary was only away for about an hour, but during that time, an unnatural darkness fell. As we waited, the light gradually faded from a clear sky and stars began to shine. It was another unmistakable proof of Jesus’
importance in the world, but it was an eerie scene. Thankfully, it drove away the chief priests and their followers, freeing us from their cruel sneering. The darkness continued for about three hours, while Jesus suffered and it seemed obvious that he was rapidly weakening. Suddenly he cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
I couldn’t believe my ears: such a question coming from Jesus, my ultimate example
of closeness to God!
With lots of Romans, Greeks and visiting Jews from other lands always in Jerusalem, there are several languages spoken, and some of the bystanders misunderstood his words and thought he was asking for help from Elijah the prophet. One kind soul even thought he was asking for a drink and asked him if he wanted one. When he said he was thirsty, they gave him a sponge to suck.
And then, that was it: Jesus was dead. Suddenly, the ground shook beneath our feet, another sign that Jesus’ death really was important. Yet the ground also shook figuratively. How could this possibly happen? How could Jesus die? Yet there was no doubt that he was dead. He hung motionless on the cross, no spark of life animating that beloved figure. It was about that time that I began to sense that it was getting lighter, and
soon I was certain – the uncanny darkness was ending, the stars fading.
The sun was shining again, as on any ordinary day, but I was in shock. Everything seemed unreal and it took some time for the terrible truth to force its way through the fog that clouded my brain. When it did, I wept. Jesus, the saviour of the world, was dead. What could we do? In one thing I was absolutely determined: his body would not be
left hanging there, nor would it be thrown into the fire of Gehenna. If anyone deserved a decent burial, it was Jesus. Yet what could I do about it? I couldn’t imagine the soldiers allowing us to take away their charge, even if we could work out some way to remove the nails without letting him fall. I spent a lot of time in prayer over it, and God answered my prayer in a way I could never have imagined.
Most of our
religious leaders hate Jesus, but there are a few honest ones who value his teaching. They haven’t been willing to admit it publicly, but they’ve done as much as they could short of that. While I was praying, the chief priests were badgering Pilate to make sure the crucified men were all dead before the special Sabbath began at sunset. Pilate agreed to their demands and sent orders to break the men’s legs.
We watched as
the soldiers followed their orders. A single club’s-blow on each leg left the two criminals unable to lift themselves anymore to take another breath. When they went to Jesus, however, they were surprised to see that he seemed to be already dead, so they cruelly thrust a spear into his side to make sure. Perhaps that was better than their brutal club.
Soon, there were three lifeless corpses hanging there. Jesus was
the only one that mattered to me. The other two had deserved their punishment, although one had shown some remorse and acknowledged that Jesus did not deserve what he was suffering. He seemed to know something of Jesus, so perhaps he had heard his teaching. Jesus forgave him – and forgiveness from the master is all any of us needs, even crucified criminals.
But while most of the religious leaders were celebrating their
victory over Jesus, two of them were doing something incredibly brave. We didn’t know it at the time, but Joseph of Arimathaea actually went to Pilate and asked permission to take custody of Jesus’ body. He could not have chosen a more open way of announcing that he, as one of the council, did not approve of Jesus’ execution. If I had been less distraught, I might have found it ironic that Jesus’ disciples – those who had given up everything during life to follow Jesus – were
not willing to acknowledge him in death, yet this man who had avoided public acknowledgement of Jesus during his life was willing to acknowledge him in death.
Anyway, Pilate gave Joseph permission, so he came with Nicodemus, another member of the council, and some servants to claim the body. At first, I was terrified that they were coming to mock Jesus in death, to take his body and throw it into the fire. When they explained
the situation, however, I was amazed and touched. The servants gently took Jesus’ body down, Joseph and Nicodemus both insisting that it be treated with great care, love and respect. It was an extraordinary commitment from them, since touching a dead body made them unclean, preventing them from joining in the Passover feast that was about to begin.
Nevertheless, sunset was near and they were in a hurry to place the body in a
tomb before the special Sabbath began.
Jesus’ mother and I followed them, with a few other women, determined to see where they laid the body. It was a beautiful thing that Joseph and Nicodemus were doing for Jesus, but we women were determined to look after his body properly later, when we could. We would have to wait for the Sabbaths to finish, but then we would ensure that the proper spices were provided for Jesus’
burial.
We watched as Joseph had the body placed in his own unused tomb and saw where it was laid, wrapped in a linen cloth. There was no time to waste, which was probably best, since we were all weeping more with every minute we spent there. Quickly, the servants rolled the stone in front of the doorway and left with Joseph and Nicodemus.
It was over and our heartbreak was
complete. Mary had seen her son brutally killed, a stark fulfilment of the warning she had been given that a sword would pierce her heart because of this son.
What would happen now?
We didn’t know and we couldn’t guess. All we had left was a multitude of disappointments and unanswered questions.
Darkness fell and still
we sat there, alternating between a distressed silence and quiet weeping. Eventually, we left.
