BY ROLAND R. HEGSTAD
DON'T KNOW WHAT impelled me to approach Golgatha by the back route, from behind the crosses. Curiosity, I suppose; I could hear the tumult, catch snatches of ribald laughter and jeers. One of the thieves-the one on the right-was well known in the city. No question, he deserved his fate. I knew little of the other thief.
The man in the middle was another matter. Who hadn't heard of him! Personally, I didn't buy that walking on water nonsense. And feeding 5,000 people with five loaves and two fish, and winding up with 12 baskets left over for dessert? No wonder the credulous poor wanted him for their king! If his followers had been content with stories of healing-well, there might be a kernel of truth there. But raising people from the dead-including one in Bethany who had been dead four days! Most so-called faith healers I'd heard of had a rather unsavory background. So did this one. Illegitimate, it was said. And certainly at odds with the religious establishment. But I had no use for them myself, so no mark against him on that issue.
wenty steps from them. I pause to catch my breath. What a way to die! Naked. Scorned. Every moment an eternity of agony. The agony of little things-the flies crawling on lips and eyelids. Biting. Laying eggs. The agony of big things-the cramped muscles, the torn flesh, the tortuous posture making it a struggle even to breathe. And death coming so slowly. Usually it took a week or more. And if you were alive as Sabbath neared, they took you down and broke your legs so you couldn't crawl away, then put you up again after the Sabbath was over. Sometimes I'd found myself wondering about a day that was so sanitized the priests wouldn't even want someone healed during its hours. And a God who would give a day like that . . .
"King of the Jews." That's what they called the one in the middle. But let's face it: Kings don't die on crosses. Kings put people on crosses. It's even said the crucified one had claimed to be God. Ah, well, so had others. And perhaps gods did walk the earth now and then-the Greeks thought so. But gods don't hang on crosses.
can see the spectators now. There-to the left, probably his followers. Distraught. Their meal ticket gone. The woman in the middle-his mother? Likely. The others? One woman looks familiar-though her face is distorted by sobs. Yes! The neighborhood harlot! Every leader attracts them. This one no different.
In the middle-Roman soldiers. Gambling over something.
On the right-the religious establishment. Strange how like vultures they look. I've got no use for any of them with their haughty mein and arrogant posturing. No healers there! The best thing I can say for the so-called Messiah is that he didn't seem to like them either. But does it really matter what kind of religious nut you are?
Someone is mocking him. "You claimed to save others; let's see you save yourself! Come down if you're the Son of God!"
He can't be. If he were, he'd do what I would about now if I were hanging there. I'd call a legion or two of angels and tell them to get with it! Put on a fireworks display! Turn up the thunder! And turn the mocking mob into a barrelful of matzo balls!
I must see his face. I edge around toward his weeping followers. At least I'm away from the pious hypocrites on the right. You can tell a lot about a person by his face. What will it show? Fury? Shame? Agony, for sure.
turn to look and--how can I tell you! I sometimes doubt what I saw. For days I tried to convince myself it was all a dream. It's easier to believe that I wasn't there at all! His eyes. His eyes. He was looking at me! And suddenly I seemed to be holding a hammer. And I was driving spikes through his hands! And jamming a thorn-crown onto his head!
Dear God! The conviction that overwhelmed me! It was I who had denied him! It was I who crucified him!
I ground my fists into my eyes, trying to blot out the vision-for a vision it must have been. Shaken as never before in my life, I fought for breath. For calm. I would not be intimidated. I would look again. Into his eyes. Again . . .
I shall never forget the shock of what I saw! The horror of it! The numbness. The denial. For I was looking into my own face! How had he done this! The crown of thorns was on my head. The spikes were driven through my hands. I could feel the pain seeping through me. But something more, something deeper even than pain. A darkness worse than death. A terrible loneliness, as if there were no one who had ever loved me. As if I were alone-alone in all the universe. Alone in all eternity. Alone. Dear God! Everything that was me seemed to be dissolving. I clutched for the retreating light. For what remained of my reality. My being. I dimly remember crying out-such a cry of horror as I had never known or heard: "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me!"
omeone was holding my head and wiping my face with a damp cloth. The sky-I was on the ground. I must have fainted. The woman-the woman wiping my face-his mother?
It seemed an eternity before I could stand. Two men-his disciples, I learned-helped me away. I was weeping uncontrollably, for what I saw when I looked at him haunts me still. In those moments-strange elongated moments that seemed to stretch into forever-I knew it was I who crucified him. It was I who should have hung there, would have hung there, had it not been for him.
As the days passed, all Jerusalem filled with stories of people who had seen him, risen from the tomb. It was said that he had promised to come back. As I listened, the conviction grew: Had there been no other on earth but I, he would have taken the punishment I deserved, so that I might sit someday on the throne that is his. A king. A coming king! A God! My Lord and my God!
went one day to Mary's house, and I sat with her, and she told me about her son. It seemed that she was holding him in her arms and singing softly to him. I heard Mary's song, and it was mine:
"My heart is overflowing with praise of my Lord, my soul is full of joy in God my Saviour.
For he has deigned to notice me, his humble servant and all generations to come will call me the happiest of women!
The One who can do all things has done great things for me-oh, holy is his Name!
Truly, his mercy rests on those who fear him in every generation.
He has shown the strength of his arm, He has swept away the high and mighty.
He has set kings down from their thrones and lifted up the humble.
He has satisfied the hungry with good things and sent the rich away with empty hands.
Yes, he has helped Israel, his child: He has remembered the mercy that He promised to our fore fathers, to Abraham and his sons forevermore!"
--Luke 1:46-55, Phillips
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Roland R. Hegstad, a former editor of Liberty magazine, now edits and writes for Perspective Digest.
