The Crucifixion

The Centurion at the Crucifixion – Mark 15:39

The Son of God became man that men might become sons of God.

Hatred flows through the mob. Their blood-shot eyes fill with malice as their spiteful voices flow through the air demanding bloodshed. Bystanders quickly become participants as the violent atmosphere consumes them and pulls them into the mob. Rage fills the air, a tangible presence felt by all.

From the podium He looks down on us. The man called Jesus. His mangy beard is coarse with dry blood. His bruised chest heaves painfully with every breath as he kneels in a puddle of his own blood. Some claim he is a god, but his open wounds reveal his humanity as his pale bones shine in the sunlight for all to see. He is in visible pain. Awful pain, and yet far more visable than the pain is the peace. His peaceful eyes meet the violent gaze of the mob with a calm boldness. At times it seems his eyes reveal sorrow, but never hatred.

Quickly the scene grows chaotic. The mob swoons and surges with rage until it boils over into a violent frenzy.

“Crucify him!” cries the mob.

“Forgive them…” He whispers.

“Enough,” yells Pilate to silence the crowd, “You shall have your crucifixion. But his blood shall be on your hands, not mine.”

And so the end began. They drag him through the rocky streets. His palms ache to sweat but there is nothing left in him. Dust cakes over his eyes until a muddy crust covers his vision. The mob follows, reveling in his sorrow. A father gives his son a stone to throw at Jesus as he struggles through the streets, and young boys mock him as he trudges to his death. One of my soldiers stands behind him whipping him, tearing flesh from his back. A stream of blood falls to the dusty street floor as he goes, and the mob follows this trail of blood with haunted ecstasy.

We take him to the hillside. We crucify him. As the nails pierce his bloody hands, he hardly cries out, for there is little life left in his body. The soldiers stretch his arms wide, pulling the shoulders from their joints. He hangs on the cross, fighting for every breath. Suddenly, his pale face fills with life for just a moment and he screams in a booming voice:

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do! I commit my life into your hands. It is finished.”

He dies. He breaths no more.

Suddenly, I am filled with the revelation that this man was innocent. No liar would have endured such pain for a lie. No lunatic would have suffered with such peace and purpose. This man was innocent. This man was not only innocent, this man was God.

Here hangs the dead creator, hanging on a tree He created so that His creatures might know life through His death. He took on man’s flesh, so that men might take on his righteousness. His death is our life, His resurrection our grace, His return is our hope, and His command is our purpose. In His breathless state he breathed life into the dead hearts of the living.

The Son of God became man that men might become sons of God.

“God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

2 Corinthians 5:21