Hello World! - Easter Post

A Series of Easter Events

Don’t read this. Stop right now. It’s too horrible for your eyes.

Creative Nonfiction By Marianne Hering

If you’re wanting a story about cute fuzzy bunny rabbits with baskets of cream-filled chocolate eggs and bright colored candies, you’ve come to the wrong place. There’s not a single jelly bean in this entire piece. This isn’t a pleasant story. It’s a horror story.

And by horror I don’t mean when you wake up to a bad hair day coupled with a zit on your nose. I mean an atrocity: a ghastly, grisly travesty.

And while there is a distinct lack of confectionaries in this discourse, there is blood. Lots of it. But that comes later, after the kidnapping.

Imagine it’s a warm spring evening, approaching midnight. A full moon hovers over a garden thick with olive trees, their silvery green leaves blending into the soft light. Twelve men are scattered among the trees and outcroppings of rocks. Some are praying; others have dosed off mid-supplication.

These aren’t just any guys having a men’s night out. They’re an odd assortment of first-century Jews: fishermen and zealots and even a tax collector. Their 33-year-old leader is called Rabbi, Lord, Master, Teacher, or most often, Jesus. His enemies call Him blasphemer. And by blasphemer I don’t mean someone who desecrates your favorite song by reciting the chorus wrong and singing off-key. I don’t even mean people who, upon experiencing hardship shout God’s name in vain. By blasphemer, I mean someone who claims to be God.

That’s why they falsely arrested Him, because Jesus says such incendiary truths as “I am the Son of God” and “I and the Father are one.” You may ask. “Who are ’they,’ the arrestors?” “They” being the temple guard and the real muscle: a band of Roman soldiers. And by band I mean a horde, a bunch, a mob-this has nothing to do with rock music or guitars.

“They” come to the garden with torches and weapons, having been sent by some muckety-mucks called high priests. The intruders are led by a dastardly deed-doer named Judas. A Christ follower turned traitor, who literally kisses off Jesus, identifying Him as the one the soldiers should capture.

After being bound and delivering some verbal banter, Jesus goes peacefully. His followers vanish into the shadows. There’s one however, who has a different vibe. He pulls out a sword and smites the ear of an enemy. That’s first blood. But it won’t be the last. Fast forward to two quasi-legal inquiries at a high priest’s house where this “blasphemer” plays verbal cat and mouse with His religious accusers who want Him to blaspheme. But Jesus wins by asking this question: “What evil have I done?” rendering the high priest speechless. (And by speechless I mean unable to speak.) It’s now dawn. The religious officials get so frustrated that they take their prisoner to the governor of Judea, a man named Pontius Pilate. And the word Pontius in this case means. . . nothing. It’s just a first name.

But it’s a name that reverberates through history.

Here’s how it went down that Friday. The Jewish leaders go to the governor's mansion to bring their prisoner and return the band of Roman soldiers. But the leaders won’t go inside because they don’t want to be defiled. And defiled in this instance means, “I can’t possibly enter a building that has some bread with yeast found therein, but it’s perfectly OK for me to murder an innocent man.”

So Jesus is taken inside to talk with the governor, where He claims to be King of another world and a witness to the truth and that “everyone who is of the truth listens to my voice.” This dialogue ends with Pontius Pilate taking a philosophical cop-out, asking the question, “What is truth?”

After Pilate says this, he goes back outside his headquarters to the Jewish leaders. “I find no guilt in Jesus,” Pilate says.

The Jews still want Jesus dead, and they shout this to Pilate. After an interview by a Roman ruler named Herod in which Jesus is speechless (and by speechless I mean He is silent, not that He’s unable to speak), the great Teacher is sent back to Pilate. Now Pilate has a chance to be a hero, but he literally washes his hands of Jesus’ fate and turns Him over to his soldiers to be publicly killed.

Now, the Jews are quite capable of exacting the capital punishment on their own. Their method of choice is typically rocks, which are quick, cheap, and handy. Accusers could surround their victims and hurl stones at them till their skull and bones are crushed or they bleed to death. But the Romans want all the killings to themselves. And they are experts.

There’s still time for you to look away. To forget about this man Jesus and to ignore His fate. This story doesn’t concern you. Unless the truth is whispering to you. . . .

The word mock means “to treat others with contempt or ridicule,” and in this instance, the Roman soldiers mock Jesus by dressing Himin gorgeous royal purple apparel. They braid the stems of a thorn plant into a faux crown and put it on His head. Beneath the green leaves and tiny flowers, spiny thorns gauge His skin, blood dripping down His brow, the poisonous sap from the plant inflaming the cuts.

And now the horror begins. After carrying His cross up a steep hill- Golgotha, meaning “The Place of the Skull” -Jesus is stripped of His robes and hung on the Cross by the Roman soldiers, and by hung I mean they put a long, thick nail through each hand and one through His feet. Imagine the blood spilling from those holes. The tears in His sinews as they strain to hold His weight. Each breath labored; the sun beating on His naked flesh. A sign inscribed “King of the Jews” is placed above His head. The soldiers taunt Him, telling Him to get himself off the Cross. Hours pass. A crowd watches.

Jesus speaks a few words about paradise and forgiveness. And by forgiveness I mean letting His blood-thirsty killers off the hook even though He was wrongfully murdered. His last words are, “It is finished.” It meaning the way of forgiveness, not only for His murderers, but also for you and me.

Finally, Jesus dies. And just to make sure, a soldier thrusts a spear into His side, releasing more blood and water.

One soldier says, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

Imagine it’s dawn on Sunday, and there’s another garden. The sunbeams alight on fresh greenery, and the spring flowers unfold their blossoms toward the rising sun. Three women bringing herbs to Jesus’ tomb see an angel.

And by angel I don’t mean your kind Aunt Lucy who sends you hand-crocheted striped afghans, which you’ll never use, and fresh peach jam, which you will. I mean an angel, white with light emanating from it’s being. The kind that strikes fear to the deepest core of your being.

The angel whispers the truth, “He is risen.” And in this case risen means a miracle: Jesus is alive. The Roman soldier was right: He is God.

This story can have a happy ending, happier than chocolate cream-filled eggs and jelly beans. But that depends on you. Is the truth about Jesus whispering to you? Can you hear it?

Thank you everyone for reading this long post. I did not write this story, I simply wanted to share it with you all. Credit goes to Brio the magazine and author Marianne Hering.

I wrote an Easter poem and it should be out on Monday if you want to check it out.

Thank you again for reading and have a blessed Easter!

Luke 24:6-7: "He is not here; he has risen!"

He is risen; He is risen, indeed!