The night is cold. Overcast. Breezy. Not a pleasant night. The thugs lead Jesus into the High Priest's courtyard, hollering that they've got Him. He is exhausted, having endured the night in the garden and been roughly run through the streets with His hands tied. But He is firm in His purpose.
The High Priest comes out and rebukes his ruffians: "Quiet! Do you want to rouse the city? Hold him here until the council assembles. Feel free to have some fun. But keep him conscious."
The thugs start shoving Jesus around.
Peter and I slip into the courtyard, staying in the shadows. A group of the High Priest's household, roused by the commotion, is waiting to see what will happen.
I can hear the occasional vicious thud as Jesus is beaten. I want to cry, but the shock and the danger sting my eyes dry.
Eventually the household, tired of standing around in the cold, kindles a fire. Cats skulk in the shadows. Hands numb with cold, Peter and I sidle in to the fire. As we approach, a servant girl looks at Peter. "Hey! This is one of his followers!"
Peter opens his mouth, shuts it, and then mutters: "No I'm not. You must have mistaken me for someone else." I can sense his fear, relief, and shame. I'm just glad they haven't asked me.
A little later someone else looks over at Peter: "Certainly I've seen you with Him."
Peter responds curtly: "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen Him before. Only heard tell."
The questioner catches my eye as he shrugs and turns away. Peter refuses to look at me. I want to tell him that I understand. I don't know if I'm courageous enough, either. I can't process what's happening.
Nearby, the thugs have blindfolded Jesus, laughing as they strike Him and ask Him who did it. It makes me sick and angry - and there's nothing I can do. He may not even know we're there, trying to stay close. His lip is swollen.
The thugs get tired of their game and sit around, forcing Jesus to stand. It begins to get incrementally lighter. I hear birds waking up.
This whole time members of the council have been trickling in, some with attendants.
Suddenly everything happens at once.
Caiaphas announces that the Council is complete and the trial can begin.
An attendant comes over to the fire, takes one look at Peter, and says: "You. Galilean. Weren't you with him?"
I sense Peter close to the breaking point. He snaps: "Good God! What is with you people? I swear by all that's holy that I am not with him!"
I know the man is about to ask the same thing of me, but before he does, two things happen: the thugs release Jesus' blindfold, and He turns to look at Peter as the rooster crows.
His face is black and blue, with one eye nearly swollen shut. His gaze as He looks at Peter is not condemning. It is sorrowful, exhausted, and compassionate. Beside me, Peter breaks. He turns and stumbles out of the courtyard. I can hear him choking back sobs. He is finally assured of his own weakness. In the moment he wanted most to be there for Jesus, he failed HIm.
Jesus looks at me next. I try to communicate how confused and scared and upset we all are. How desperately we want to be there for Him, but how with Him under arrest we are panicking like sheep without a shepherd. How every bruise on His face is a punch in my gut.
As He looks at me, I see something beneath His sorrow and exhaustion and loneliness and pain. I see His courage. I see that He is active, not passive in this nightmare. I see resolve and purpose. I barely understand what's happening, but as surely as I know that He is suffering horrifically, I know that He has already counted the cost.
All of this takes mere moments. I'm ripped from Jesus when the man addresses me: "And you? Are you with Him?"
I speak quickly and quietly, before I lose my nerve. "Yes. I am."
In the beat following my response, the commencement of the trial is announced and all attention turns to the leading figures.
***
Torches illuminate the walls of the courtyard, flickering over the faces of the sleepy, bored, impatient, and (in the case of Joseph and Nicodemus) numb Jewish leaders.
Jesus is seated. Silent. His face battered and bruised. Disfigured, a man of sorrows. Yet somehow He is the most calm of everyone in the room. He knows what is going to happen. He has chosen it. All that remains is to endure.
Caiaphas fumes as yet another witness stumbles over his words and contradicts himself. This was supposed to be an open and shut case - verdict predetermined. It should not be taking this long. He slams the palm of his hand down on the table.
"Enough! I will question the man myself."
He rises, bypasses the witness, and stands before Jesus. Jesus stands, flinching a bit at the pain.
"Do you hear what these men say? What do you have to say for yourself?"
Jesus remains silent. Resolute.
The High Priest puts his face inches from Jesus' own. He can smell blood and sweat and tears. His voice is low.
"Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?"
Jesus does not move. Does not falter.
"I am. And you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power, and coming with the clouds of heaven."
Time slows.
Suddenly every member is wide awake, nerves taught.
It is almost absurd to hear this broken and bruised man stand there claiming to be equal with God. Can He even understand what He's saying? Yet He seems to be perfectly sane.
Triumph flickers over the High Priest's face, quickly replaced by outraged incredulity. He steps back and tears his robes theatrically.
"You have heard it from his own lips! What shall we do with him?"
"Execute!"
Only Nicodemus and Joseph remain silent. Stunned.
Jesus does not seem remotely surprised. He gazes levelly at the High Priest until the guards take Him away.
***
I gasp when Jesus reappears after being questioned by Herod and Pilate. He looked awful before. Now He is nearly unrecognizable. He has been brutally scourged. Skin is peeling off His back in shreds. He is covered in blood - it's even dripping into His eyes from that brutal crown of thorns. His face is swollen and disfigured. I don't know how He can still be conscious, much less stand.
They shove Him down the stairs and none too gently hoist the cross onto His shoulders. For one awful moment I am in His skin, feel His pain. The rough wood on the tattered, burning back makes what was nearly unbearable literally excruciating. Blood fogs over His eyes, and He stumbles and blacks out.
I spring forward instinctively to help Him, but someone holds me from behind. Peter? No, Peter is gone. John. He will not let me go to Him. At first I struggle, then give up, sobbing onto his shoulder. John comforts me, watching Jesus all the while.
The soldiers consult. They look around for someone strong, and they grab a man trying to get through the crowd. He clearly wants nothing to do with this, but knows that in a situation like this it's best to do what's demanded. He shoulders the cross. The soldiers splash water over Jesus and pull Him up.
Jesus plods on, followed by a rabble of mockers and a group of lamenting women. He is painfully slow.
At one point He turns and addresses the weeping women. When He turns again to continue, He stumbles. I have had enough. I elude John, run to Jesus, and put His arm around my shoulder to support Him.
A soldier considers stopping me, but he decides not to, seeing that Jesus will never make it to the execution site on His own.
Jesus is focusing hard on each step. He has no energy to spare to thank me or comfort me. But it doesn't matter. I would rather be with Jesus, bearing the scorn and shame, than anywhere else in the world. My tears have dried up, and I help Him approach Golgotha.
***
I watch them crucify Him.
Nearly cry out with the pain of the nails that go through His hands and feet.
Flinch as nearly every person there mocks Him.
Marvel at His words.
Remember His miracles.
The world goes dark. At first I think it is my vision clouding from the pain, but then I realize it really is dark.
Mary crumples. I help support her - John takes the other side.
All we want, still, is to be with Jesus. If it is in His death, so be it.
He is suffering. Every moment He suffers. Breath ragged. Face disfigured. Blood everywhere. It hurts to look at Him, but turning away hurts more. His eyes are clouded with pain. He is conscious, but only with an effort. I wish He would allow Himself to pass out.
He assures the thief that today they will be together in Paradise.
He entrusts Mary to John. She weeps.
I begin softly singing Psalms for the dying. When I reach Psalm 22, He cries out the first line with me - "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Then I sing a bit of Psalm 31.
Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am in distress;
my eyes grow weak with sorrow,
my soul and body with grief.
But I trust in you, oh LORD.
I say, "You are my God." My times are in your hands;
Deliver me from the hands of my enemies,
from those who pursue me. Let your face shine on your servant;
save me in your unfailing love.
Before I can continue, He cries out: "It is finished."
The earth shakes. We are all thrown off balance. When we regain our feet, He is dead.
The centurion pierces His side - Mary cries out and leaps forward. Blood flows out. The man says under his breath, "Surely this man was the Son of God."
Joseph of Arimathea approaches. "I've gained custody of the body from Pilate. We can put Him in my family tomb. It's just around the corner, but we have to hurry - it's nearly Sabbath."
We take Him down from the cross, bloodstained and bruised. Dead weight. Mary embraces her Son, kissing Him as we remove the crown of thorns, sticky with blood. She holds her Son as we wash and cover Him.
The men carry Him to the tomb and we follow. Nicodemus is there with the embalming spices and oils. But the sun is nearly setting, and there is no time. We wrap Him in linen and step out side, running into a group of guards led by a Pharisee. As we leave, they roll a stone before the tomb.
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