Meditation for Good Friday

I woke up early, in that half-light, struggling to orientate myself, trying to figure out where I was, for a moment not feeling the fear and anxiety and then it hit me again in another almighty wave. This cold stone cell, these chains, and that hollow empty feeling, like hunger, but filling my whole soul, seeping into my bones. Will today be the day I die?

Tensions have been rising around the jail. A new convict was brought in through the night. What a stir.

Dead man walking.

People jeering, soldiers mocking, high priest questioning. And as the cock crowed the sentence was passed – criminal charged, crucify him.

I do not know the man, but some were shouting King.

Some shouted King, but the louder cry was crucify.

His fate, the same as mine.

But is today the Passover? Someone is released at Passover – maybe today is my day after all. Maybe today will be a Good Friday. Maybe today I will live?

Convicts are assembled, dragged together into line, paraded before the crowd, baying for blood. How should I stand, what will best appeal to those who hold my fate right there in their mouths? Should I look them in the eye, or look down in regret? Can I show an apology? Am I sorry? And what is that current running through my bloodstream? Hope?

Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews??

Not this man.

Not this new convict, this silent, whipped, beaten and bruised criminal.

I don’t get a look in – nobody is considering me for parole.

Release Barabbas!

Barabbas?! He’s a terrorist – a violent murderer.

I’m not like that guy. I’m a rebel, not a killer. And they are releasing him?! He gets his freedom?? They didn’t even see me standing there, condemned.

So our fate is sealed. We will die, today. And I will be alongside this one they mock as king.

I chance a look at him. He is just staring, but there is something in that broken face, something behind those swollen eyes. No, I can’t place it. Peace? Surely not. Must be pain, acceptance, maybe he’s able to dissociate. Maybe he’s not here at all.

But then the whip is cracked and we are present. The crowd screams in unison and we are forced into line.

Bones exposed, skin raw, muscles wasted, hunger won, battle lost and we are presented with a cross. A crude, splintered, heavy wooden cross. Our weapon of torture. Our place of death. This king’s throne.

‘Carry it’ they shout, and we stumble under the weight.

Walk, trip, fall, whip, snap, weep, walk – all the way to the place of the skull.

The walk is interminable but arriving feels worse.

It feels like it will take forever to get there, but unfortunately it wont. We’ll be there soon enough. We will be gone soon enough.

With every step I think of those I love and those I have hurt. One list long, one pitifully short. I deserve to be here. These steps, this cross, this hill, this death – it’s the way the road goes for people like me.

The crowds line the streets – they said they would.

People spit, others cry.

The king falls and falls again. Someone else carries his cross. And his mum is there too. It looks like her own heart is pierced, just as our hands and feet will soon be.

My head spins, blood gurgles in my throat and blurs my eyes.

My ears are muffled to the sound of the crowd and all they hear is the thud of my heart. How many more times will it beat, before it stops, for good?

And then we arrive. The cross hits the ground, we are thrown on top and the guards pin us down, tie us down and then drive the nails into our wrists and feet.

I’m sure I black out. I feel it. I can’t feel it. My mouth is dry and my limbs are burning.

I feel a rush of air as the cross is raised, and pain like I’ve never felt before excrutiates through me as it, as I am dropped into the stand. The place I will die.

Again, I black out, I come round.

The crowd blurred below, the soldiers gambling and laughing – fighting over something, spitting and drinking.

I try to move my head and I see the man beside me, and the one beside him.

I thought he was pleading – get us down from here – but he’s mocking – get us down if you can, King.

He calls him Jesus.

This is Jesus?

The prophet? Messiah? The son of God? I’m dying beside the Christ?!

And I don’t know what happens, but I find a voice. I tell him to shut up – we deserve this and he’s making things worse. We are in the presence of royalty, in the presence of divinity and holiness. He must know what I have done and yet all he says is ‘father forgive’ and ‘I thirst’.

What do I have to lose? These are my last breaths, my last minutes. What can I lose? What can I gain?

I manage to swallow – a mix of blood, sweat and saliva – and in one breath I force out ‘Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom’

My mind is cloudy but my thought is crystal clear. In that moment I knew it.

That forgiveness was for me. 

That thirst is for righteousness, holiness, freedom.

He will drink in another kingdom, and I want to be there.

He looks at me and there is something like a smile, something like love, and he says, through split, dry, lips ‘today, you will be with me in paradise’.

Today? This day, that began with the promise of sure and certain death?

This day of torture, shame, mockery and pain.

Today, paradise.

What dawned in the depths of darkness is setting into a truly Good Friday.