"King of the Jews -- Miriam E. Waters"

King of the Jews

by Miriam E. Waters
“Yes, Marie, sister dearest, I know Jesus.  He died on the cross to save us. … blah, blah, blah. I get it.  I read the bible, attended services, and prayed right beside you.  I’m comfortable in my faith.  We just don’t need another Jesus lovefest tonight.  You know the deal, politics and religion are off-limits during our dinner parties.”

Pauline lifted her wine glass to her lips and drained it.  She glared at Marie over the rim, delivering the promise of a torrent of hurt if she were to utter another word.

***

Pauline settled into her feather bed and immediately slipped into a wine-induced dreamscape. She was annoyed when she was jostled by the mob as she tried to catch sight of the man from Nazareth, the “King of the Jews.”

 “You,” the Roman soldier pointed at her.  “Take up the beam.  The ‘King’ appears unable to carry it for himself.  You’ll bear it for him.  Make haste or you’ll taste the sting of the lash.”

Pauline glanced down at herself.  She wore a simple tunic with a sash wound around her waist.  She was shocked to realize she was in a man’s body.  She was a young, strong, vibrant man who had been merely a spectator a moment before being singled out by the Roman soldier.

She lifted the crushing beam from the Nazarean’s back and began the long, slow trek to Golgotha, the place of the skull, just outside of Jerusalem’s city walls.  She stumbled and fell to one knee.  The soldier’s whip licked the backs of her legs.  She continued on until she reached the place reserved for the crucifixion of murderers and thieves.  She dropped the crosspiece upon the ground and stepped back to rejoin the crowd of jeering onlookers.

Pauline watched as the soldiers assembled a cross from the beam and a post.  A moan slipped past her lips as the soldiers impaled Jesus on this cross by hammering six-inch spikes through his wrists and ankles. Bloodied, beaten, and rivened, He was hoisted up and set in place among the criminals sharing his fate that day. 

She bore witness to the agony endured by Jesus for several hours.  Pauline watched as He forgave his murderers.  She saw the day turn to night and Jesus take his last breath.  She fought for her own bit of air and felt the bite of the lance used by the soldiers to pierce Jesus’ bruised and tortured body to confirm his death.  She felt her heart constrict in her chest as the soldiers gathered the garments they had divided by lots and left a single sentry to stand watch over the mangled body.  The Nazarean, her Saviour, had fulfilled ancient prophecies to pay a debt He didn’t owe in exchange for his followers’ salvation.

Pauline woke in her own bed within a heartbeat of witnessing Jesus die upon the rough-hewn cross.  “My Lord,” she sobbed as she came awake, the words tumbling from her lips.  Tears without number soaked the pillow beneath her head.  Her entire body was wracked with the violence of her sorrow.

I didn’t know.  I didn’t understand.  I never imagined the mob’s bloodlust, the soldiers’ callousness, or the horror.  The horror.  I didn’t grasp your single-minded purpose, the depth of your agony and your sacrifice for us.  Forgive my ignorance in closing my heart to Marie’s words.  Forgive me, Lord, for I knew not what I did.