Holy Week was a time for some pretty serious reflection on my part. As I meditated on the story of the Passion, I found myself more and more identifying with the crowds in Jerusalem. Often, in my church at least, we are subtly encouraged to identify with the disciples because of course, we're Christians, so it is only fitting that we should identify with such as Peter or Mary. This year however, I couldn't do that, my role in the story is one of anonymity, but yet, is every bit as important to the flow of the narrative.
The crowd (and by extension myself) serve two functions in the Passion narrative, providing blessing and condemnation.
On Palm Sunday I am there, singing praises of "Hosanna!" to the Messiah that has finally arrived. Finally a Saviour has arrived to make all of my problems disappear. The one the prophets spoke about long ago had finally arrived to fulfill all of my dreams. The resolution of all my life problems was at hand, God had not abandoned me, he was finally answering my prayers.
So I cheered and danced and laid offerings of praise at his feet, confident that now, I would get what I had long waited for.
Days went by, but nothing changed. Everything carried on as it had for hundreds of years. This Jesus was a fraud, he must be, a clever fraud - for he had used the words of the prophets to elicit a powerful response - but a fraud nonetheless. I began to be annoyed as the prayers that I had prayed for so long remained unanswered. In fact the only answer Jesus gave me at all was by entering our Temple and overturning things; who did this charlatan think he was?
When I heard the news, I felt disappointment, which was quickly replaced by vindictive rage. It turns out that this Jesus wasn't the Messiah after all, perhaps my prayers would yet be answered by the real Messiah. I rushed out into the street to join the growing mob of people that were rushing to see condemned, the man who had betrayed all of our hopes.
"CRUCIFY HIM!!" I screamed until I was hoarse, and with perverse pleasure, watched as Pilate handed that god-forsaken traitor over to the will of the people (about time the Romans listened to us...). I jeered and mocked and spat on him as he walked by me. Laughing with cruel pleasure, I even tossed some debris on his ravaged back just to watch him wince, vindictively inflicting the pain his false promises had caused me, back onto him.
I was pushed along with the crowd out of the city up onto the mountain of Golgotha. I was drunk with hate, giddy with cruel thoughts of revenge. Grinning from ear to ear, my friends and I chortled as the soldiers forced him onto that cross and hoisted him high above the ground. I yelled in protest when I saw that those imbecile Roman guards had named him "King of the Jews", but was ignored. I would never accept him as my king, but not matter, he was only hours away from death.
I thought about leaving a few times, but I was too captivated by the sight of that bloody body hanging there. I determined to see this thing through to the end. Mid-afternoon, the sky darkened and from the lips of that beleaguered victim hanging on the cross rose a cry, "Eli, eli, lema sabachthani!" I thought to myself, "Why has God forsaken you? You forsook us!!" A while later he yelled, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing!" This caught my attention a little bit, but I quickly shrugged it off, believing him to be playing up the part of Messiah, even to his death. Finally he sighed one last time saying loudly enough for all in attendance to hear, "It is finished."
What happened next, I can't explain. At the moment Jesus said these words, he died, and thunder and lightning shook the heavens while earthquakes shattered the land. I was thrown to my hands and knees, and above the din I heard the centurion cry, "Surely this man was the Son of God!" I looked upon that broken body, and I too came to that horrible realization. We had just crucified an innocent man, the innocent man, our one chance for redemption, and I had a hand in his death.
Suddenly, all of my prayers were shown to me for what they were, selfish wishes wrapped in the pious language of "thy will be done". Thinking that I could deceive God into having my will be done by cleverly requesting things as though they were His will.
There, at the foot of the cross, just as the saviour I had missed was broken, I was broken.
I went home that night knowing not what to do. I thought about trying to find Jesus' disciples, but rumour had it that they had all been scattered, or were in hiding after their rabbi was killed. Life went on, every day an agony, knowing that because of me, my one hope of a Messiah was gone. At Pentecost I was wandering the streets aimlessly when I heard a man powerfully proclaiming a message that at first seemed absurd, but then filled me with hope. Jesus, the man whom I had crucified, was somehow, miraculously alive. I jumped for joy and ran towards this man eager to know more...
"...and about three thousand were added to their number that day." Acts 2:41
