I Was There - A Reflection for Good Friday

I was there at the crucifixion that day.

There were only three men hung on crosses that day, not many for a public crucifixion, sometimes there were a hundred or more when the Romans had decided to clamp down on crime. The men on the right and the left were common criminals, robbers both of them, familiar but not exactly liked, rough men, desperate men, getting their just desserts all the same. They had known full well the regulation punishment for their misdemeanours and the implication of being caught in the act.

But the one in the middle, now he was different, he was unusual you might say, even unique. You see he had no criminal charge against him. The charge strung above his head read, ‘The King of the Jews’. That was some claim! The watching soldiers were hurling abuse at him, tormenting him in a terrible way. And by the look of him, they had already had plenty of opportunity for more physical abuse. There were great strips of flesh hanging off his back where he’d been beaten. Congealed blood stuck to his legs and even his forehead was marked with scratches and spots of dried blood.

There was no more humiliating a death than crucifixion. Hanging practically naked, stripped of all covering, stripped of all human dignity, strung high up against the skyline just outside the city walls, exposed for all to see.

The robbers crucified on either side of him were heaping insults on ‘The King of the Jews’. Some king on a cross! Where was his crown? Where was his throne? Golgotha? Passers by scorned him too, many were aware of his teaching in the temple and his healing of the sick, yet where had all this got him - strung up on a cross between two common criminals? The taunts carried on the hot still air. Even the religious leaders were challenging him to heal himself, to save himself, to prove his true identity. If he came down off that cross, then people might believe in him.

Some, like myself, stayed around to watch, curious to see if anything unusual would happen that day. He was definitely a different man. Would his death be different from that of any other man who was crucified?

Crucifixion was a terrible death, excruciatingly painful and long drawn out, men hung on crosses for days in absolute agony before slowly suffocating. Sometimes the soldiers got impatient with the wait and broke a few bones to speed up the process. It was a barbaric torture, dreamt up and used ruthlessly by the Romans to dissuade any who might consider rebellion against their rule.

That day, after they’d been hanging there about three hours, it went dark, and I mean dark, so dark that you could feel it, you couldn’t see a thing, it was darker than the darkest night. That was different. It was unnatural, it was eerie. It was as if when the light left, when the sun’s rays were blocked, the goodness went with it too, leaving room only for dark deeds, for evil to reign. It made me shiver.

The darkness lasted about three hours. Then, he cried out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” I’d never heard a cry like it. It was utterly desolate, utterly alone, completely heartbreaking. It was worse than an abandoned child screaming in terror for his mother to return. It revealed an indescribable agony.

The words came from Psalm 22, I recognised that immediately. In case you don’t know, they mean, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” That Psalm is heard in the temple quite often. But it wasn’t the words, it was the way they were wrought from the very depths of his being, as if he were being slowly torn to shreds. It went right through you like a searing pain. It never leaves you. Once heard, never forgotten. If you’ve been there then you know what I mean.

Some amongst the crowd thought that he was calling for Elijah. Traditionally, he was supposed to come to the aid of the righteous in time of trouble. But I could only respond to the agony, I had to do something to relieve that man’s pain. I ran and filled a sponge with wine vinegar, I put it on a stick and lifted it to his lips for him to drink. That would ease his pain, dull it a little at any rate. But he ignored it, it seemed as if he was willing to go through this awful experience with no tranquilliser, with nothing to ease his passage, he wanted to experience the full horror of death in all its desolation.

There was a loud cry as he exhaled his last breath.

Immediately, there came excited shouts from the temple, the veil had been rent in two from top to bottom. The religious leaders dashed off to see what had happened. It was pandemonium. The Holy of Holies was exposed for all to see, the way was open for all to enter the inner sanctuary, to encounter the very presence of God. It was sacrilegious. But how had it happened? What had happened as that man breathed his last? Nothing like that had ever happened before.

Even the centurion was touched, “Surely this man was the Son of God!” he exclaimed.

I have to agree with him. Do you?

Stations of the Cross