WERE YOU THERE WHEN THEY CRUCIFIED MY LORD?
Isaiah 52: 13 – 53: 12; Hebrews 4: 14-16, 5: 1-9; John 18: 1 – 19: 42
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Did you see the narrow streets already crowded with pilgrims and visitors mingling with the merchants from the villages and the shepherds coming down from the hills? There were men and women carrying burdens – baskets of vegetables, casks of wine, jugs of water – tradesmen with their tools, the aged - stooped with years, the children playing – calling to each other in shrill voices. Here a donkey stood sleepily beneath his burden in the sunlight. There, under a narrow canopy, a merchant shouted his wares in a street-side stall.
Did you see the procession of Roman Legionnaires as they forced their way through the throng, pushing pilgrim and merchant, the aged and the child aside to the fringes of the street with curses and careless blows? And between them staggered three condemned men, each carrying a heavy wooden cross on which he was to be executed.
The crosses were heavy, and the first of the victims, the man called Jesus of Nazareth, was at the point of collapse, having been scourged, lashed with a leather whip in the thongs of which had been inserted rough pieces of lead. Blood trickled down from wounds in His brow from the twig of long-thorned briar twisted around in the shape of a crown that had been pushed down on His forehead. Slowly, they all moved forward from the courtyard of Pilate's palace and made for one of the gates leading out of the city.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Did you hear the whispers in the crowd? A group of women went with the procession sobbing aloud, others moaning in that deep grief that knows not what to say or do. There were men too. Their lips were moving in prayers and their hearts were heavy - they wanted to help but there was nothing they could do. The deaf he had cured covered their ears to the to the shouts and insults directed at Jesus. Those to whom he had restored sight were blind once again, but this time blinded by tears. And the crippled that he had healed, limped along to accompany Jesus as the procession inched slowly forward.
Did you hear the shouts that grew louder and louder, to a beat, a rhythm, a chant: “crucify, crucify, crucify!” Simon of Cyrene did, as he entered the city gates and found himself jostled and shoved along by the unrelenting crowd. Suddenly, the Man with the cross stumbled and the soldiers, moved more by impatience than by pity, seeing that the Nazarene was almost too exhausted to go any farther, laid hands on Simon and forced him to take the cross. Just a few minutes before, he was a lonely pilgrim quietly approaching the Holy City. Now he is a beast of burden, his shoulders stooped under the weight of a cross on which this Man was soon to die.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there at the place called Golgotha? It was where two great highways converged upon the city, and the valley below was a place of stench, a place of horror, a place of ugliness where garbage always burned and the evil smelling smoke curled up and was wafted over the brow of the scull-shaped hill. This was the place of public execution - Calvary - and here the procession stopped. And there on that hilltop, did you hear as the sounds of shouting were interrupted by the sound of shrieks of pain as nails were driven through human flesh . . . a sound that echoed across the Kidron valley with each hammer blow.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Did you see the faces of those who witnessed the spectacle? There were some who had followed Him once, who had been attracted by the charm of the wonder-worker. Some had accepted loaves and fishes at His hands. Now they shouted taunts at Him. They remembered what He had said and now they hurled His words back at Him - barbed arrows of hate and malice, promises He had made, predictions and eternal truth that had come from His lips. They shouted until they went hoarse. The noise was so great that only a few of them standing near the cross heard what Jesus said when His lips moved in prayer: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Where you there when the crucified my Lord?
Did it seem like time oozed out like the blood that dripped from the cross when a thunderstorm was blowing up from the mountains and it was becoming strangely dark? People looked at the ominous sky and became frightened. Women took little children by the hand and hurried back to the city before the storm would break. Yet His mother stayed . . . did you see the grief that pierced her heart?
And were you there when suddenly Jesus opened His eyes and gave a loud cry. The gladness in his voice startled all who heard it for it sounded like a shout of victory. "It is finished. Father into your hands I commend My spirit." And with that cry, He died.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
No . . . you weren’t there . . . and neither was I.
But . . . is it not I who dips my hand in the dish with him? Is it not I who leaves the table and goes out into the night and betrays him with every lie I tell, with the gossip I spread, with the cruel and hurtful things I say? Do I not also sell him out for thirty pieces of silver every time I seek vainglory or sell my soul to achieve the riches of this world? Do I not betray Him with a kiss each time I use my affections to satisfy my own selfish and sinful desires rather than for it to express love?
Do I not run away from Him every time I turn away my face and abandon the need of one of His “least ones?” Do I not desert Him when sometimes He is too slow to answer my prayer, or even, perhaps, when everything in my life is going well and I no longer have need of Him? Is it not my voice that boasts, "Lord, even though I should have to die with you, I will not deny you!” while my actions and example scream, “I do not know Him?”
Is it not my lips that cry out, “Crucify Him!” each time I sit in judgement of another? Do I not shout out the name “Barabbas” each and every time I choose condemnation instead of mercy, revenge instead of justice, violence in place of peace, selfishness over service, retribution instead of turning the other cheek?
Do I not scourge His back when I abuse, or even tolerate, the physical, sexual or emotional abuse of another, or abuse my own body with drugs and alcohol? Do I not press a crown of thorns on His head when I play mind games with another and use my intelligence, my wit or my sarcasm to harm someone’s self-esteem? Is it not me who pounds hammer upon nail into His hands and feet every time I sin and thrust a spear into His side through my cold heartedness and indifference to the plight of the poor, the aged, the lonely, the homebound, the outcast, those deprived of the right to life?
Yet, O my Jesus, I hear the words you say from the pulpit of your cross: “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.” Me, Lord? Forgive me? Even after I have done all this to you . . . you whose only crime is that you love such a one as me for all eternity?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Yes . . . yes . . . I WAS THERE when they crucified my Lord.
