| |
It is with great expectation that I approach the city of Jerusalem Friday afternoon. I will welcome the Sabbath in the City of David where I am sure Jesus will soon be reigning as King. However, as I near the city I sense something is wrong. An ire darkness hangs over the city, not like storm clouds threatening rain, but dense and smothering. As I walk on I become enveloped in the darkness and can scarcely make out the road. Suddenly human forms appear. I feel their presence rather than see them. “What’s happening?” I question.
“A crucifixion on Mount Calvary,” a voice replies.
“But why this oppressive darkness?” I inquire further.
“We don’t know. Perhaps God’s wrath. The man nailed to the center cross claims to be Israel’s king, even states that God is his Father. God must be angry.”
My heart begins to race as a feeling of dread sweeps over me. My mouth goes dry and I feel faint. My thoughts race--NO! It can’t be Jesus! No man could overpower Him. All demons are subject to His commands. No one could crucify the Jesus I know. “Who is the man?” I had to ask.
“Jesus, the one people flock to hear. The miracle worker. That guy from Nazareth.”
“No! No! No!” I cry. A sob catches in my throat as I sink to the ground beside the road. Not my Friend Jesus! He’s done nothing wrong. Why God, why? The tears won’t stop. The dark atmosphere of the heaven invades my soul as well. My hope was centered in my King Jesus. Now I feel that hope ripped from my heart, replaced by despair and fear. Sorrow overwhelms me as I cry and cry.
How long I sit there I don’t know. When at last I raise my head and stagger to my feet the sun is again visible and slipping toward the western horizon. Part of me wants to turn back and go home, yet night will soon fall and wild beasts will be prowling about. No, I will go into Jerusalem. I have to pass the crucifixion site, and glancing toward the crosses I see that the middle one is empty. Numb with grief I turn away. As I proceed toward the entrance to Jerusalem I notice a group of people slowly approaching, and as I look closer I recognize several of Jesus’ disciples. My eyes fall on Mary, His mother. With a cry I stretch out my arms and stumble toward her, tears again forming in my eyes. We cling together sobbing. Ever since that afternoon over a year ago when Mary had shared with me about her Son I had felt in her a kindred spirit. The day I realized Jesus is my brother I also felt a belonging with His mother as family. The death of Jesus is causing me great sorrow and loss, what must Mary be feeling? “Where is Jesus now?” I choke out the question.
“In a tomb in Joseph of Arimathaea’s garden. He let us bury Jesus there. Come. We must rest.” I join the mourners, both for the walk into Jerusalem and for the Sabbath day. It is the saddest Sabbath I’ve ever endured.
|
