It was a very long, cold night after that last Passover with Jesus.  First there was the time in the garden, when Jesus begged us to watch with him, yet we let him down by sleeping.  Then came the mob sent from the high priests and led by Judas Iscariot.  Peter’s courage was never in doubt, but it was undoubtedly best that his wild sword-slash went astray or Malchus would have lost more than his ear.  I knew Malchus and quite a few others of the servants of Caiaphas, and Jesus’ miracle in healing him there in the garden certainly put a hole in their casual dismissal of his powers.

After that, we all ran away and Jesus was led back towards Jerusalem.  Whether wise or otherwise, Peter and I followed the crowd and watched them take Jesus into the grand house of Annas, the former high priest, while everything was being made ready for this special night trial at Caiaphas’ house.

The night dragged on, full of brutality and lies as they conspired together to kill an innocent man.  In the cold of early morning, Jesus was taken to Pilate, and the Jews did their best to present him as a rebel who must be killed – unless Pilate was part of the rebellion.

Pilate gave in and handed Jesus over to them to be crucified.  Of course, this was all a bit symbolic, because only the Roman soldiers had the authority, expertise and equipment to carry out a crucifixion, and they led the party out to Golgotha.  I watched Jesus take up his cross and couldn’t really believe just how badly he had been beaten.

I still had no idea what was going to happen.  Surely Jesus, the Messiah, could not be crucified?  But he had spoken about suffering, and I had learned that Jesus’ words could be plain and simple or they could have layers of complexity that only became obvious later.  As the crowd moved off into the crowded lanes, I was too upset to follow immediately.  It was some time before I arrived at that horrible place, Golgotha – the place of a skull – in time to see the Roman soldiers take off Jesus’ clothes and crucify him.  For them it was simply business, and once Jesus was on the cross, they thought of their perks.  His outer clothes were no problem: being of little value, they were divided into four parts and each soldier received his share.  But the tunic was different; it was seamless and made in such a way that tearing it would be difficult and guaranteed to make it come apart.  One of the soldiers suggested a game of chance and produced some dice for the purpose.  It seemed so callous at the time, dividing the clothing while its owner was still alive and watching, yet it became a powerful proof of the power of God as we came to recognise the connections with David’s psalm of suffering[1].

Shortly after this, a messenger from Pilate arrived bringing the signs to fasten on the three crosses.  These signs are used to describe the crimes that have earned each criminal a place on a cross.  They also act as warnings, so they are often written in several languages to make sure that everyone gets the message that crime doesn’t pay.

The criminals on either side of Jesus were easy: “For robbery,” and everyone who read the signs felt a little safer as they walked home, and perhaps even a little grateful to the Romans for providing greater safety on the roads of Israel.

But what could they put for Jesus?  The Jews hadn’t even been able to get two witnesses to agree on anything, as you might expect when false witnesses are collected in a hurry.  Pilate had his own ideas though, and the Roman administrator who brought the newly painted sign directed his servants to nail it above Jesus’ head.  As the board was nailed on the cross, I was standing near the high priests and their associates who had come to gloat.  The charge read, “This is Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.”  It was probably fortunate that Pilate wasn’t there to hear their reactions, as they weren’t complimentary, and he is not known for his patience with opposition.  In no uncertain terms, they told Pilate’s representative that the sign was wrong and should be taken down at once.  The Roman replied calmly that if they had any objections, they would need to take them up with Pilate, but that until he received any further instructions from Pilate, the sign would stay.

By this time, all of the people gathered around had read the sign, and many started mocking Jesus because of it.  I couldn’t stand it.  The master I loved was being laughed at by people who were not fit to tie his sandals, and that familiar fury was building up in me again.  I had to get away or I might do something Jesus would not like, so when the high priest and his retinue left to see Pilate and voice their complaints, I followed.  Pilate was not willing to give them a private audience, so I was able to hear the entire exchange, which didn’t take long anyway.  The high priest complained and Pilate responded with those now-famous words, “What I have written, I have written.”

When I returned to Golgotha, my anger had completely gone.  All that was left was a fear of the present, a fear of the future, and a despair that seemed to keep growing deeper.  If only there was something I could do – but the one we always relied on to do the right thing was there on a cross.  As I approached, there were few spectators left near the crosses except the Roman soldiers on guard.  There were some women there, and I recognised all of them as followers of Jesus, women who had provided loving care, not only for him, but for all of us.  One of them was my aunt, Mary, Jesus’ mother[2], and I couldn’t help feeling very sorry for her.  As her nephew, I knew enough of her courage and faith to see that she could never have been anywhere else, but what a terrible, heart-wrenching circumstance it was.  Her sister, my own mother Salome, was standing next to her with an arm around her, and I stood nearby in silence.  I gazed at the soldiers lounging around at the foot of Jesus’ cross, looked at the shadows cast by the sun, watched some birds flying in the morning sunshine – anything, in fact, to avoid looking at Jesus.  But then Jesus called out to his mother, his voice strained, but controlled: “Dear woman, here is your son.”  Then he looked directly at me and said, “Here is your mother.”

They were simple words, but Jesus had given me something to do.  My own mother was there listening as Jesus gave me another mother to care for.  It was a responsibility he could no longer undertake.  But then it occurred to me: What about his brothers?  They were there, somewhere in the city, present for the Passover feast as all Jewish males must be.  But none of them was there at the cross of the real lamb of God.

Jesus’ request made me think deeply.  He obviously thought it better to entrust his mother to a nephew who believed in him, rather than leaving her with one of her sons who did not believe.  It reminded me of his words that his family were those who did the will of God[3], and now he was asking me – as a brother – to look after his mother in preference to James, Joseph, Simon and Judas, who were still waiting somewhere else for him to finish his work.

More than anything else that happened, this request showed me just how serious Jesus was when he talked about us as a family of believers.  Unbelievers were not part of the family, and the family should look after its own.  What a responsibility!  And what a way of showing just how close our relationships within the fellowship of Jesus are meant to be.

Later, Jesus’ brothers came to believe in him and became his servants[4], joining Jesus’ true family – the ones who, like him, serve his father in heaven.

[1] Psalm 22:16-18
[2] Various verses suggest the conclusion that Mary the mother of Jesus was the sister of Salome who was the wife of Zebedee and mother of John.  Some are: Matthew 27:55-56, Mark 15:40-41 and John19:25.
[3] Matthew 12: 46-50; Mark 3:31-34; Luke 8:19-21
[4] James 1:1; Jude 1:1.  The letters of James and Jude are believed to be written by Jesus’ brothers James and Judas.