How might some of the people involved in the original Good Friday have felt that evening...
Though a posting in northern Britannia might have been colder and more dangerous, there couldn’t be many worse places to be a Roman soldier than here in Judea. As the sun sank down, Antonius wandered round the barracks catching up with the complaints and the banter from the day. A few of the men were still talking about the executions, particularly the lad who’d won the game of dice for the robe that one of the dead Jews had worn. If he talked much more about it he might end up losing it.
Antonius was still thinking about it. Not the robe, the man. You thought you knew where you were when you put someone on a cross, and two of the three they’d done today had been bog standard, all the usual stuff you got used to and learnt to ignore. But the other one... The lads who were there agreed they’d never seen anyone go like him.
It was supposed to be Barabbas who got it. He’d attacked a patrol last week so the news that Pilate had let him go because of some stupid local tradition had not gone down well at all. Instead it was this guy no-one had ever heard of, who a few of them had had to stay up all night with, marching him from one part of the city to another whilst Herod and the Jews tried to decide what to do with him. No surprise there were a few in the legion that morning who weren’t happy with the hassle he’d caused. That had put an extra bit of spite in their whips - and when that didn’t got a response from him, they’d really gone to work, so bad he nearly didn’t make it to the actual crucifixion. But he still didn’t say anything. No spitting, cursing, promises of revenge; no crying for his mummy either. He’d just taken it.
He had said a few things eventually, they always do – last words and that. Most of the men didn’t understand because they were new here and hadn’t learnt the language, but those who did said he’d asked his God to forgive them! Could you believe it? Antonius was a soldier man and boy, he would swear he’d never heard anyone on a cross say anything like that, and who would? The captain even said he reckoned the guy was innocent. But what did that matter now? It was over.
~
Simon had got back to the guesthouse as quickly as he could, but not before the sharp-eyed wife of the owner had seen the blood on his clothing. He answered her questions with the only explanation he could think of: the truth that the Romans had grabbed him when one of the poor souls they were executing had collapsed. The memory of it turned his stomach again, there had been so much blood. The cross-beam they’d made him carry was coated in it.
And no wonder, the condemned man had been ravaged by whips. Simon could see he’d been strong once but there was barely a shred of skin left on his back – flies were already feasting on him and the exposed muscles were quivering with shock. His face had been beaten and his beard pulled out; He seemed barely human. Once, he had looked Simon in the eyes, though his were so bruised they were barely half-open. Strangely, Simon felt it was the moment of the whole ordeal he would remember most clearly, though when he tried to describe it to his inquisitive host he couldn’t find the words.
Her satisfaction that there was one less trouble-maker in the city annoyed him but he kept his counsel whilst she gave him water to rinse his cloak. At last it was clean enough, and he could go to his room and try to sleep. It had been a terrible day but it was over.
~
Caiaphas sat down with a sigh, still wearing his High Priest’s robes. It hadn’t really turned out how he’d hoped, this day he’d been planning for so long. He should have been feeling triumphant, exultant: the fool was dead and he, Caiaphas, had made it happen. All that so-called wisdom, all those rumours of miracles... they would die with him. But even now, even when they had got him nailed to a cross, it still felt like they had never really been able to lay a finger on him. He hadn’t broken like the other pretenders before him. He had even – curse his blasphemy – still called God his father while he hung there. Well, God had cursed him.
On top of the frustration of finding that the fulfilment of your ambitions has not fulfilled you, there was strange news from the Temple. Something had happened to the great curtain that separated the presence of God from the rest of the world. The men on duty had heard a tearing sound within the sanctuary. They had, they said, crept in to see if there had been any damage and there it was, the glorious 60-foot high curtain torn down the middle, thrust open. There were worried faces and fearful mutterings but Caiaphas soon put a stop to them. That was his job. He gave orders for repairs to be made as soon as Passover was finished, swiftly and silently. The people mustn’t hear about it: he wanted no more trouble, there would be no more after today. It was over.
~
The silence in the room made every sound from outside louder. Every footstep could be soldiers coming to arrest them, every shout was an echo of the murderous crowds. All that remained in the room from the night before was the table where the Twelve had eaten with Him; it was enough to haunt those who had been there. Usually when Jesus spent time with just a select few, the rest would interrogate them at the earliest opportunity: what had He said, what had He done, what did it mean? Though some longed to do so now they knew they couldn’t. John’s tears, Peter’s empty stare forbade it.
Grief and despair held them.
It still didn’t feel real, though there was nothing on earth as real as crucifixion. It was like the horrible opposite of when He’d done a miracle – those wonderful moments of astonished excitement that couldn’t be true except that the lame man was leaping around or the parents were crying tears of joy over their once-sick child. They were like glimpses of your dreams, when you could dare to believe what your heart most desired. What did all that mean now?
They had always been a strange group, nothing really in common except Him, when you thought about it. No wonder those with Him last night had scattered so quickly. They were together again now, in the house because nowhere else seemed safe. Peter had been the last to arrive, who knew where he had been? He still hadn’t said a word.
That morning, some of them had gone to Pilate’s palace in the hope that Jesus would be freed, or at least let off after a violent warning, but the tide of mob rule had swept over them, and Him. It had happened so fast but lasted so long. His mother had insisted that she go to be with Him. Of all of them, she seemed the most prepared. But how must it feel to see the son you brought naked and crying into the world go out of it in the same way? To see the body you cared for when it was seemingly at its most fragile, desperately breathing its last? The sound of nails being hammered into wood had once meant Joseph, and later Jesus Himself learning His trade. Now she would never be able to hear it without being taken back to that horrible hill.
Most of His followers had watched what happened from as far away as possible; it was outside the city walls and happened on a peak, so they could see from a safe distance. John was the only one of the men who had dared to stay close; against his better judgement Mary had taken them right up to where Jesus was being killed. She had dug her nails into John’s hand as they hammered theirs into Him. She almost fell faint when they lifted Him up into place and He screamed before the breath was forced out of Him. The crowd around them laughed and swore, and left. The priests looked coldly on. Somehow, He still thought of others. He was still making offers of life to those around Him, even one of the men being crucified with Him. Then He told John to look after Mary as he would his own mother. Then everything went dark.
Jesus had suddenly seemed unaware of anything around Him, and the physical agony in His face was transformed into something far worse. If you’d ever seen Him pray to God you would have never have expected this look from Him, of one who had been abandoned, hated by their closest love. Now even Mary couldn’t bear to watch as He hung between heaven and earth, held in a place no-one could comprehend.
The knock on the door shook them out of their memories and present fear filled them once more but it was just some of the women. They said they couldn’t bear to leave Him but His dead body had been taken down and carried to a tomb. "Where?" Joseph of Arimathea had a tomb in a garden nearby and had let Him be put there, Mary Magdalene explained. "He’s one of the council who killed Him!" someone cried out. "But he told me he hadn’t wanted this to happen," she said. "Then why didn’t he say something last night? Why not...?" The anger trailed off in exhaustion: what difference did it make now? They returned to their own thoughts, each thinking the same thing: it was over.
~
But in the darkest depths of Hell, Satan saw, and heard, and knew that defeat terrible and total had come. The fear of death, the power of sin, the accusation of guilt – in an instant his weapons had been taken from him. Nothing now could stop the Creator rescuing billions and billions of His creatures, there was nothing that he could do to prevent that, or his own destruction. It was over!
~
Had Heaven ever heard a greater roar? Not when He’d made stars, not when He’d gone to earth, not even when person after person after person had put their trust in Him. The cry went up again, and again, of joy and awe as He stood before them: scarred man, mighty God, victorious.
As they bowed down to worship, one of the angels dared to ask, ‘So, is it over then?’ ‘No,’ Jesus replied, ‘It has only just begun.’
