It is Easter. I am a Christian.
Contrary to what most people believe, I wasn’t born into Christianity. I became a Christian because I made a decision one night 24 years ago, all alone, in my living room, kneeling before my husband’s old bachelor-pad couch.
It was then, when I poured out my hurts and sorrows to a God that I couldn’t not see, that I was suddenly filled with a Love like no other. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet I knew without a single doubt that I’d been heard. I knew that I was accepted, loved, and that everything in my life would never to be the same.
It was so dramatic a moment for me that I was sure my husband wouldn’t stick around once he knew what a nutcase he’d married. We are celebrating our 25th anniversary next month and he’s the one who drags me to the early service every Sunday when I want to sleep just a little bit longer. We do this, not because we follow a strict adherence to some rules about how we should live, but because it feeds our hearts with comfort and wisdom which we need in dealing with Life.
Why am I telling you this very intimate detail about myself? Because I believe that I need to be transparent. And it is Easter and I am a Christian, so this day is a big deal.
I’ve been reading the Bible in the Book of Mark, Chapter 15. It is one of the four accounts of the crucifixion. As I read it the people come alive. There are three people in this drama who have grabbed my heart for the past few weeks. I think about them constantly:
- Simon, a father from out of town
- the Centurian, a hated Roman soldier
- Joseph of Arimathea, a wealthy council member
So how does Janene celebrate on Easter the resurrection of Jesus from the grave 2,000 years ago?
[She is a bit nuts as my husband would say. I would call it Creative.]
So this is what I did – I wrote a fictional account of each of these individuals and how they were handling the Morning After. The Bible doesn’t say, so I am taking creative liberties. If you want to know what happened three days later, you need to read Mark Chapter 16. I really adore that Mary Magdalene. My Crazy….I mean my Creative... Energy will probably have to do something with her too. But I probably couldn’t do better than Francine Rivers [the bestest Christian fiction writer EVER]. You need to check out her historical Christian fiction.
Joseph of Arimethea
The Evening Before
Now when evening had come, because it was the Preparation Day, that is, the day before the Sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea, a prominent council member, who was himself waiting for the kingdom of God, coming and taking courage, went in to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Pilate marveled that He was already dead; and summoning the Centurion, he asked him if He had been dead for some time. So when he found out form the centurian, he granted the body to Joseph. Then he brought fine linen, took Him down, and wrapped Him in the linen. And he laid Him in a tomb which had been hewn out of the rock, and rolled a stone against the door of the tomb. (Mark 15:42-47)
The Morning After (my fictionalized account)
He sat watching the thin rays of the morning light touch the night sky and realized that the sobs of his wife had quieted down some time ago. Today, his servants would not be assisting him out of his blood-stained robes. They couldn’t risk being unclean on a Jewish high holy day. He’d done what was in his heart and the entire house would suffer the consequences. His long-time friends and neighbors would ignore him, his business acquaintances avoid him and his council seat would be given to another. At his age, his life was over. There would be no moving and starting over in a place where last night’s events were not known.
He’d done what was right; what couldn’t be denied. His people had destroyed their chance to change the world in his lifetime and he’d been helpless to stop it.
He reached for the parchment where he’d written the words of Jesus he’d collected over the past year; words that even now gave him comfort. Even now, that the man was dead. Slowly, he trailed his stained finger along them, reading aloud, “I am the light of the world, He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life. “ He heard his wife turn on the bed, muffling the sobs of grief over all that was lost. He’d buried Jesus of Nazareth, a man condemned to death for blasphemy, in his family’s tomb. And for that he would never be forgiven.
The Centurian
The Day Before
Now when the sixth hour (noon) had come there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour (3 p.m.). (Mark 15:33)
And Jesus cried out with a loud voice and breathed His last. Then the veil of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. So when the centurion, who stood opposite Him, saw that He cried out like this and breathed His last, he said, “Truly this Man was the Son of God!”
The Morning After (my fictionalized account)
Lying on his pallet, he held up his battle-scarred hands against the morning light. Both strong and calloused; one stained brown with the blood of the son of god. He lay there considering what to do next. What did a mere mortal do to appease the gods when one of their sons had been slain? He wasn’t afraid to die, but he wanted it to be on his terms and not the humiliation of disease or enslavement.
If it was a Roman god, he would have purchased the prescribed sacrifice to appease their wrath and his show of humility may have bought him more time. But this was a Jewish god. A god who appeared as a man, but didn’t die like any of the other hundreds of men’s tortuous deaths he’d witnessed. He’d seen courage, he’d seen hatred, he’d seen despair. But this man’s death was different. He was speaking of forgiveness; words of love in Hebrew and Latin. Words that didn’t matter much to a man like himself; a soldier who had no time for poetry.
And there was the earthquake; the darkness. He rubbed the brown stain on his darkened palm with his thumb until the dried particles peeled away. The palm that he’d instinctively reached out to touch the leg of his suspended convict when all went dark. With the other hand, he’d reached for his sword, ready to fight anyone who would attempt to thwart the will of Rome by releasing the prisoner. But there in the dark, touching the cooling flesh, he knew. Just as the dead man had said. It was finished.
Rising from his bed, he set his mind to the task on hand. He’d need to find someone who would tell him what sacrifice to give this Jewish god to appease his part in the death of his son. He would start with the old man who saw bravely faced Pilate to request the body. The one who appeared to be of wealth, yet without servants, as he struggled alone to take the man’s body away.
Simon, a father
The Day Before
And when they had mocked Him they took the purple robe off Him, put His own clothes on Him, and led Him out to crucify Him. Then they compelled a certain man, Simon a Cyrenian, the father of Alexander and Rufus, as he was coming out of the country and passing by, to bear His cross. And they brought Him to the place Golgotha, which is translated, Place of a Skull. (Mark 15:20-23)
The Morning After (my fictionalized account)
He cradled his sleeping sons in his muscled arms, now offering them the protection that he’d been helpless to provide yesterday. This year he’d brought Alexander and Rufus to the holy city from their farm to teach them of God and how to live a good life by working hard to satisfy the law. A life filled with traditions, rituals and requirements. A burden to be born with pride by God’s people.
Again, his mind flashed to that horrible moment when a wrong turn had brought them face to face with the horror of Rome’s tyranny on the Jewish people. The bloodied man whose face was unrecognizable. He would have fought off the soldiers if not for the danger it would bring to his sons. One look at their terror and he’d shouted for them to wait; promising to return for them.
That one thought filled his mind. His sons. He’d prayed harder than he’d ever prayed as he carried the cross of the condemned man through the streets; feeling the whip mercilessly lick at his back every so often. He vowed to give his sons to God if he would return to them to him.
And here he was, holding them close to his heart and watching as they shook off the night terrors. He’d made a vow to God and now these sons of his belonged to the Almighty. Instead of teaching his son’s to be proud of their heritage, they’d only seen first-hand the horrible suffering and cruelty the Jewish people had endured under their conquerors. He’d have to discover the story of this condemned man and see if there was a lesson to be learned that could be used to build them into the fine Jewish leaders he’d dreamed they could be.
But first they would need to bathe.
He didn’t notice the blood and bits of flesh that clung to his best robe when the soldiers had released him at Golgotha. But he noticed it now. All three of them smelled of the death that clung to the stagnant air of the rented room. They would not be able to go to the temple today. Not now that they were unclean; stained with the blood of a dead man.
FYI – It is a historical fact that Simon’s sons, Alexander and Rufus, became leaders in the Christian church.
I think on these three individuals and have come to the conclusion that God accepts us where we are and no matter what we have done. We need to reach out and call on him with a believing heart and our lives will be changed forever.
Here is a picture I took of an ex-gang member as we were on the way to take his family's portraits. I saw the cross and just knew this picture needed to be taken. Even today, Jesus is still changing lives.
Happy Easter, everyone – He is RISEN!!
