The Four Tales of the Christ: Fictional Tales of the Crucifixtion
The One Jesus Loved
I watched in muted horror as Jesus stood before Pilate; his head was held high, but my heart was shattering. Pilate had decided to have him beaten in an attempt to free him from the people’s rage. I knew it would be futile. Following numbly after the guards, I swallowed down hard. Mary of Magdala and Mary, the Rabbi’s mother, both walked beside me. Tears flowed freely down their cheeks. I wished I could cry, but the fear was too near; there was no relief.
We entered into a chamber that had an open roof. Torture weapons lined the walls and a block of stone stood in the center. Chains dangling from it. My Rabbi was bound to it; his head resting on the stone block. One of Pilate’s men took a whip in hand, and as it flew down I saw again my Rabbi’s smiling face as he told me I was to be a fisher of men. He’d been so happy as he strode along the beach with me, my brother James, and my good friends, Peter and Andrew.
The memories vanished as Jesus screamed in pain as the whip fell again. His back oozed blood, and, as the torturer hit his cheeks with the whip, rivers of blood flowed from it, dribbling off his chin. Mary, mother of my Savior, dropped to her knees, her face buried in her hands. I knelt down, trying to comfort her. The people cheered as his body was broken. Snapping whips and agonized screams sounded throughout the open chamber.
After what seemed like hours, they finally stopped, and when I worked up the courage to look at my Rabbi I found I could hardly recognize him. He was covered in blood, and one of his eyes was very near to swelling shut.
As they took him away, I could just hardly see one of the guards step up to him, a sneer on his face; he released Jesus from the chains.
“Oh great king,” he mocked, “here we have made you a crown.” He pulled out a crown of thorns, shoving it down on my Rabbi’s brow.
“Hail, King of the Jews!” the guards chanted. Blood squirted from Jesus’ brow as the guards draped a purple robe over his shoulder. One guard set a staff in Jesus' hand, then struck my Rabbi with it. Jesus groaned in pain as he was forced to his feet. One guard slapped him across the face, before they pulled him out of sight.
I followed the crowd back to Pilate.
“Look, I am bringing him out to you to let you know that I find no basis for a charge against him.”
They dragged him to Pilate, clothed in rags and gushing blood in rivers across the floor. Pilate took one look at him and gaped.
“Here is the man!” He declared. The chief priests spotted him and began to shout.
“Crucify! Crucify!” He shrieked, rallying up the people to join them in their cry for blood. Pilate shook his head.
“You take him and you crucify him. As for me, I find no basis for a charge against him.” one of my leaders moved forward. I didn’t know him, but there were many Jewish leaders.
“We have a law, and according to that law he must die, because he claimed to be the Son of God.” Pilate’s face went white, and he directed Jesus inside the palace. The Jewish leaders screamed with rage, getting the people to join them further.
“If you let this man go, you are no friend of Caesar. Anyone who claims to be a king opposes Caesar,” they said. I felt my face go red with rage. I had thought that he would overthrow the Romans, but now…I didn’t know what to think. My pulse quickened as I remembered Judas, the traitor. It was his fault my Rabbi wasn’t laying waste to Rome right now! It was his greed! I hated him, with every ounce of my being I hated him. We had been friends; we had eaten together. We had been brothers to each other, yet he spat on all we had worked for and all we had given up.
Pilate soon returned and sat down on the judge’s seat. Jesus stood nearby, his chest shuddering as he choked in air.
“Here is your king.” Pilate said, his face lined with grief.
“Take him away! Take him away! Crucify him!” The Pharisees screamed.
“Shall I crucify your king?” Pilate asked, lowering his head.
“We have no king but Caesar,” The chief priest answered. Pilate sighed and handed Jesus over, letting Barabbas, a member of an attempted uprising, go free in honor of the coming Passover. I buried my head in my hands, forcing back the tears. Both Marys would need me to be strong, but the fear was mostly gone, replaced with grief, a horrible, deep grief.
Jesus carried a cross on his shoulders, a sign with the words JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS was nailed to it. Mother Mary clung to my arm, tears streaking down her cheeks; her grip like iron. My Rabbi fell on the road. The soldiers beat him, forcing him to his feet. When he rose his arm hung limp. Popped out of the joint, I figured. A man from among the crowd was dragged over to Jesus' side and forced to help him carry the cross.
We kept on, the minutes ticking by and lengthening into hours. My heart wrenched as my Rabbi walked the path, blood soaking the ground beneath him.
The world wanted dead a man who had done no sin, who had walked in truth and in love every day of his life. A man who had pulled me out of my own wretchedness and given me a new life, and a new purpose. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, they fell down my cheeks as my heart hammered in my chest. There was nothing I could do, yet I longed to throw myself over my Rabbi and shield him from the beatings that reigned down.
We reached the zenith of the hill. Golgotha. The Skull. My insides twisted and I felt as though I might vomit. Two men were being hoisted up on crosses, blood running from their feet and wrists and down their bodies. They looked nearly like corpses.
They stripped my Rabbi of his clothes, and divided it into four parts, then cast lots of what remained. My fury mounted as, in the heat of their debate, they seized my Savior and laid him down on the splintery surface of the cross. He moaned in pain as nails were driven into his wrists and feet, locking him in place. The woman clung to each other weeping. I rested a hand on Mother Mary’s shoulder, watching with a heavy heart as Jesus’ cross was affixed to the hill. My heart hammered against my ribs and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me.
The hours passed by in haze as the people mocked him. The thief on Jesus' left spat insults at him. The thief to his right hung his head; when he looked up, it was with eyes like iron.
“Don’t you fear God,” he declared, his voice hoarse yet still filled with strength, “since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” He paused for a moment, as if collecting himself. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
My mouth dropped. Here, at the place of death, I knew life would be given.
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise,” Jesus said, tears filling his eyes, which were full of love. Here at what seemed like the end was a new beginning. Jesus raised his head as clouds rolled over the sky, casting all in shadow.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” My Rabbi cried up to the sky, his voice croaking with pain and sorrow, yet I heard the hope and for a second I wondered if this might not be the end. Yet how could it be anything else?
“Listen, he’s calling for Elijah.” A group of people behind me whispered. I knew who Jesus was speaking to, and it was no man. I closed my eyes, head pointed up. I muttered a soft prayer as the hours dripped by.
Wheezing with pain, Jesus looked over at us; I felt his eyes on me. I forced my eyelids to rise; sobs pushing from my throat and tears drenching my cheeks.
“Woman,” he said to his mother, “here is your son.” Then he looked into my eyes and said, “Here is your mother.” I gaped. He was the first born and obligated to look after his mother as his father had died many years prior. And he had just given that responsibility to me. Even at his own death he was caring for his mother. Since that day I’ve looked after and taken care of the woman.
“I am thirsty.” Jesus said, and a guard offered him a sponge stabbed on a staff. It hovered by his lips, and Jesus drank from it.
“Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to take him down,” muttered one of the guards. I watched, not for Elijah, but for an angel or God the Father himself. Jesus was the Messiah; this couldn’t be the end.
“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” Jesus took a final breath and fell limp. I dropped to my knees. He was gone. The hope of Israel was gone. My eyes pooled with tears and, grabbing my shirt in clenched fists, I tore it. My Rabbi hung limp as thunder boomed across the sky. I racked my brain, trying to understand, trying to fathom how this could’ve happened.
“Surely this man was the Son of God.” The centurion whispered, dropping his weapons and falling to his knees. This was it, the end of all I had sacrificed for and loved.
I lay in the dirt, numb and so sick that vomit threatened to force its way out. The guards broke the legs of the two thieves, and, although Jeus was clearly dead, stabbed his side. Blood and water poured from the wound, and I looked away. Hours flowed by, and I didn’t move. Both Marys left to go to rest at my parent’s home.
“John,” came a small whisper from beside me.
I looked over and saw Joseph of Arimathea, he was a good friend and had encouraged us in Christ’s ministry, a ministry that now had no meaning.
“I have a tomb that I had laid aside for myself for the day when I should die. Let’s bury him in it. Pilate has given me his permission. Nicodemus, you remember him, is bringing myrrh and aloes.”
I nodded numbly, my stomach forming knots. Joseph took Jesus' body and wrapped it in linen with the help of Nicodemus. I was too sick and didn’t help, only watched. As the stone was rolled to seal the entrance, I knelt in the grass. What now? Guards, both Roman and Jewish, stood before the tomb. Joseph took me by the arm, pulling me to my feet.
As we walked my pain gave way to fear. We’d all have to hide. The Jewish leaders surely wouldn’t wait long after the mourning period to strike at us. How long till we all were dead?
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