The huge Bartholomew stands at the back of the room like a whipped small boy, perspiring face yellowish, wide nostrils flaring, fists clenched, voice a strangled whisper: ‘They have beaten Him, Peter! How haggard He looks, and frightened! Mother of G�d, how can we save Him?’ Peter, breathing shallowly, too ashamed to look at anyone directly, tearing at the scab on his chin: ‘What can we do? Cause a disturbance and spirit him away? – Perhaps, because He has been beaten ... Let us pray ...!’
John, tears in the child-like eyes, too numbed to speak. Luke, a muscle of conflict working in his jaw – love/hate, fury, confusion, desperation – the need to strike out at somebody, anybody ...! Mark vowing to Matthew that everything – each ugly detail – would be recorded: the hideous mockery – Jesus in a magenta robe, the color of freshly spilled arterial blood, with a crown of thorns piercing His scalp; this, and much more! The disciples crowd the back of the room, hearts thudding, whispering their agony, their helplessness – not fully believing the nightmare scenario ... O Master! Master!
Reb Caiphas staring at Yeshua with disdain from the first row facing the podium. Traitor! False Messiah! – thought-waves tremulous ... To massacre your own? Who cares about your ultimate salvation?
‘You and he are equally guilty’ – this whispered outburst from a furious Reb Yekutiel. ‘You should have condemned him at once when he was a minor figure! Look into the eyes of his followers and you will see ... hate! He is our enemy! He has turned the world upside down. Worse! He has tampered with the Roman Empire. Woe unto us and our seed – woe!’
‘Why do you fight amongst yourselves?’ – this from a troubled Reb Nicodemus. ‘It is only in times of crisis that we unite!’
‘You! You have the right to criticize us?’ Reb Caiphas whispered angrily. ‘Go! Kneel before him as Yona has done. You sympathize with the desecrator, do you not?’
‘Yes!’ said Reb Nicodemus. ’He is a holy man! His mission is idealistic, his crucifixion spiritual, but I am a Jew, chosen to inherit the legacy of YHWA’s miraculous Revelation! That does not mean I must shun other people. I respect all the peoples of this earth and expect to be respected in return ...’ I shall place balm on his wounds... – this pledge not vocalized but taken as a commitment. For generations, they will remember this – my empathy, my understanding of his agony and their anguish. Some day, the misconceptions, violence, and injustice will be refocused by their descendants who shall cross the bridge to the hidden essence ...
Pontius Pilate, the ‘Judge’, sitting on the Podium of Destiny, biting his lips to control the bubbling mirth: Fools! You shall turn your king into an idol of bloodshed ... whilst our idols will endure as innocent adventurers in the Land of Mythology! Pontius Pilate, the Procurator puppeteer, pulling the strings of hate and fear – causing the characters of his make-believe trial to sway to his pied-piper charisma!
Who, amongst you, would have dared question the integrity of the mighty Roman Empire? One Man dared – and was crucified ...! Yeshua in His royal robe of symbolic bloodstain and crown of thorns, feeling the physical pain of the welts on His flesh and the pricking of the sharp thorns penetrating his scalp! There would be more, a crescendo of convulsive torture, before the coma of deliverance when the physical pain would subside ... but not His spiritual anguish as He watched His Mission mocked; His gentle face and that of the Devil fused! O heavenly Father, Creator of us all, am I but a worm to be trodden underfoot? How can I reach them? How can I salvage a brutalized world?
Yeshua of Nazareth, the sorrowful doe eyes filled with pity for them all ... Suffer Your little children and their inability to handle free choice, the rebellious children created in Your image, HaShem, for we are all on trial ... Yeshua of Nazareth, the pale lips and parched tongue of communicating thirsting for the clarity of comprehension ...
... for if the lamp in one’s eye darkens, how dark is Darkness itself ...