by Brian Godawa
They arrived at the top of the hill, Golgotha, Place of the Skull. There was a figure ahead of them, being hoisted upon his cross, his hands already nailed to the crossbar. The Nazarene.
The wood was taken from the criminals. They were slammed down on the ground, their hands held tightly, as a soldier pounded vicious Roman nails into their wrists and into the crossbar. They screamed in pain.
Longinus had presided over thousands of crucifixions. He had even performed some of them as a young legionary. He had become hardened to the pounding, to the cries for mercy. Why then was he troubled so? He saw the naked humiliation of the Nazarene, moaning in agony above him, and he suddenly felt a betrayer of the law and justice he had sought to uphold.
What happened next to Demas was all a blur. He faded in and out of consciousness as they hoisted him up on his crossbar. Another explosion of stinging pain in his heels as they were nailed on each side of the vertical post.
He looked over and saw his brother, hanging yards away to his left, and in between them was Jesus. They were all three naked and beaten bloody. Jesus had a crown of thorns on his head, an obvious mockery of the sign nailed above him. It had several languages on it, but Demas strained his neck to see it. He could read the Aramaic that said, “King of the Jews.”
Below him, Demas saw soldiers rolling dice for ownership of the royal robe they must have taken off the poor soul. The centurion stood apart, not partaking.
They stare and gloat over me;
they divide my garments among them,
and for my clothing they cast lots.
But you, O Yahweh, do not be far off!
Demas looked down at the crowd standing around. They all seemed to be here for Jesus. Hundreds of them. Morbid onlookers, crying women, mocking scribes and Pharisees.
O you my help, come quickly to my aid!
Deliver my soul from the sword,
my precious life from the power of the dog!
Save me from the mouth of the lion!
Demas barely made out Jesus’s words, mumbled through pain. “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”
Forgive them? Who could possibly forgive them?
Then Demas caught Barabbas in the crowd. He was staring up at Jesus with eyes of horror. He wiped tears from his face and pushed his way through the crowd to escape.
Demas knew at that moment what Barabbas had seen. Because he had seen it too. This innocent man who was hanging next to him, was the very incarnation of forgiveness and mercy. The opposite of everything that Barabbas, the revolution and his Zealots, were—what Demas and his brother were. They cried for justice but produced chaos. They proclaimed “No king but God,” but worshipped Belial. Demas had sought revenge on Rome, the Beast that murdered his love, and he had become the Beast.
This was one single, solitary, righteous man, and all the world was evil.
He had no form or majesty that we should look at him,
and no beauty that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by men;
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.
Gestas’s attention was caught by Jesus saying through his own pain, something about taking care of his mother. Gestas looked down and saw Mary Magdalene standing with Simon the Zealot, Jesus’s mother and the disciple John. Gestas noticed that they were the only male disciples with the liver to show up. All the others had run away from the trouble like scattered sheep. They had betrayed their rabbi after three years of following him.
Pathetic cowards, he thought to himself. For a pathetic leader. I should have killed Simon after all.
Hecklers in the crowd hurled curses at Jesus. Scribes mocked him. “He saved others, he cannot save himself!”
“If you are Messiah, king of Israel, come down from the cross and we will believe!”
“You said you would destroy the Temple and rebuild it in three days. Ha!”
They were right, thought Gestas. He remembered the time he had spent around Jesus. All the teachings about the Kingdom of God, the rule and judgment of the Messiah. Jesus had made them believe that he would launch the War of the Sons of Light against the Sons of Darkness. He made them believe that he was going to call down an army of Yahweh’s heavenly host, to destroy the enemies of God and put all things right. How did it all come to this? The false hope. The lies. How did he ever for a moment believe that this weak worm of a man beside him was a deliverer? How did he allow himself to be fooled? There were no heavenly armies coming to rescue them.
He spit out at Jesus, “Are you not the Messiah?! Then prove it! Save yourself and us!”
Demas shouted back through his own physical and psychic pain, “Do you not fear God, brother? We are receiving the justice we deserve for our deeds. But this man has done nothing wrong!”
Gestas sought to spare his energy. He chose not to respond, only to mumble to himself, “You are no brother of mine.”
Demas cried out, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom!” He cried as he had never cried since he lost his beloved wife so long ago. He felt the stinging salt of his tears flowing down his opened flesh—a baptism of suffering.
Jesus raised his head and glanced at Demas. “Truly, this day I say to you, you will be with me in Paradise.”
Gestas heard the exchange. He burned with a rage as strong as his wounds. There is no Paradise. There is no Messiah. There is only death.
Though it was midday, about the sixth hour, the sky suddenly rolled up like a scroll and all around went dark. Women screamed. Some people fled in fear of impending doom.
• • • • •
Barabbas stumbled through the desert just above Gehenna, the Valley of Hinnom. He had wandered out past some stationed Roman troops and now tread along the precipice of the valley. He couldn’t think straight. He was haunted by the sight of the Nazarene on the cross. Barabbas knew it was he who deserved to be up on that instrument of torture, not the innocent Nazarene. Barabbas had fancied himself a deliverer, trying to act like King David. He had come to believe his own lies.
The voice in his head was not his own. You fraud. You phony. You are no hero. Look what you’ve done. You are guilty as hell, and yet you walk free, while the innocent Nazarene suffers. You should be up on that cross, but instead you took the easy way out. You coward.
Barabbas looked around. He saw a figure standing at a distance from him. It looked taller than human. It wore a hood. But he knew it was staring at him. Sending him its thoughts. Or was he going mad?
The sky above him suddenly went dark. It became like night, while it was actually mid-day. Was this a sign? He could barely see where he was walking.
Yes, this is a sign, you fool. It’s a sign that you should be in darkness. You should end it all. Be a man and take upon yourself the just punishment you wormed your way out of.
Barabbas shook his head, trying to get the voice out. He heard a ringing start in his ears, ever so low. It increased. It became intense. Painful.
The voice continued. Just do it. Stop waiting around for some kind of atonement. There is none for you. There is only darkness. You have lived a lie and there is no redemption for what you’ve done. Just end it all. Just step off that ledge.
He looked down into the valley. He could not see much because of the darkness. But it was high, maybe a hundred feet or more with jagged rocks below.
The ringing stopped. The voice turned soft and gentle. One step and the pain will stop. Forever.
The thought of Azazel came to Barabbas. What the Nazarene had said.
He turned to see the shadowy cloaked figure closer now.
Azazel.
It raised its hand and pointed at him.
Azazel.
Was this the angel of death?
Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump. Jump.
Barabbas jumped into Gehenna.
• • • • •
>
On his way back to Golgotha, Belial stopped by the body of Iscariot, hanging from a tree in a deserted field outside the city. It had been there for hours already, still undiscovered. He could smell the rot like perfume in his nostrils. There were no maggots yet. That would take another day or so. The eggs were only now gestating. But what had happened with delicious irony was that the branch that held the rope around the betrayer’s neck had eventually broken under the weight of the body. It fell to the ground and Iscariot’s bowels split open.
Belial bent down and licked up some of the blood and excrement that had leaked out. The rancid decay was the bread of life to him, the blood like wine, his own sacrament, a sacrificial offering. The betrayer had become so overwhelmed with guilt that he returned the blood money to the Sanhedrin for handing them Jesus. But rather than repenting, as that pond scum Peter did for his betrayal, Judas took upon himself the price of his own actions. Ah, to pay for one’s sins. The ultimate delusion. There is only one price for such pride: perdition.
• • • • •
The darkness had been over the land for almost three hours. Mary Magdalene huddled with Simon, Jesus’s mother, Joanna, Susanna, Mary, the mother of James, and others, praying to Yahweh. Most of the gawkers, mockers and scoffers had given up interest. The centurion had remained to maintain order with a group of soldiers, and ensure the penalty was fully carried out.
The onlookers had felt an evil presence arrive with the clouds and grow with intensity over the hours. Mary knew this presence well from her past life. She whispered to a knowing Simon, “Demons.”
He nodded. Hordes of demons. They were the bulls of Bashan, from the Place of the Serpent, spoken of by the Scriptures, and expounded to her by Simon. It was as if every evil spirit from every corner of the land gathered together for their final offensive. Because of her spiritual sensitivity to this realm, she could see them.
Simon knew of them from the Scriptures.
Many bulls encompass me;
strong bulls of Bashan surround me;
they open wide their mouths at me,
like a ravening and roaring lion.
I am poured out like water,
and all my bones are out of joint;
my heart is like wax;
it is melted within my breast;
my strength is dried up like a potsherd,
and my tongue sticks to my jaws;
you lay me in the dust of death.
For dogs encompass me;
a company of evildoers encircles me;
they have pierced my hands and feet—
I can count all my bones—
But where are the heavenly host? thought Simon. Jesus had said in the Garden of Gethsemane that he had twelve legions of angels at his beck and call. Surely, Jesus was holding back until the most significant moment to call them down and bring in his glorious kingdom. But that moment was becoming later and later, and now it looked dangerously late for such a rescue. Where are the angels of God?
It was about the ninth hour of the day, as best as Mary could determine without the sun visible behind the curtain of darkness.
The men on the crosses were labored in their breathing now. Their lungs were being suffocated as their legs grew too weak to hold themselves up.
The sound of Jesus crying out drew everyone’s attention. He yelled in Aramaic, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
The name for God in that language was “Eloi.” Some had misheard him and said, “He is calling Elijah!”
In you our fathers trusted;
they trusted, and you delivered them.
To you they cried and were rescued;
in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
But I am a worm and not a man,
scorned by mankind and despised by the people.
All who see me mock me;
they make mouths at me; they wag their heads;
“He trusts in the Lord; let him deliver him;
let him rescue him, for he delights in him!”
A scraggly looking dwarf brought a long hyssop branch up to the foot of the cross of Jesus. It had a sponge dipped in sour wine at its end. No one could tell if the dwarf was a male or female. It was only a few feet high. Mary was unnerved, because she saw its true nature hidden behind a cloak of enchantment that others could not. The creature looked at her and grinned a toothy smile. It felt like a lion baring its teeth. She prayed harder.
The scraggly dwarf held the wine up to Jesus’s mouth. Jesus looked down at him and saw him for what he really was, the eight foot tall serpentine Belial, almost eye level with him. His breathing was like a snake’s hiss. His eyes were reptilian pupils of cold-blooded malevolence. He spoke in a voice that everyone else heard as the dwarf’s almost childish pitch. “Let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.”
He grinned, looking up at Jesus and for his ears only, whispered, “Lick up, Messssiah. You have losssst.”
The dwarf walked away and left the crowd, laughing.
All we like sheep have gone astray;
we have turned—every one—to his own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.
He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,
yet he opened not his mouth;
like a lamb that is led to the slaughter,
and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,
so he opened not his mouth.
Demas tried desperately to draw breath. He wheezed and moaned. He was losing consciousness again. He knew his end was near. He felt himself in a haze, not sure of where he was.
He was brought out of his stupor by the sound of Jesus’s voice crying out again, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”
Demas jerked his head over to see Jesus mouth the words weakly, “It is finished.” He bowed his head and breathed his last.
Surely he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.
At that same moment, Mary Magdalene saw a spiritual rush of wind around them like a tornado, sucking the evil spirits around them down into the earth, through the rocks and into the Abyss. She looked around her. Simon had not seen it. Nor the other women.
No one else had seen it.
Longinus saw the women at the cross begin to wail. They knew their beloved rabbi was dead. Longinus felt a chill go through his body like a shock of lightning.
The earth began to quake.
Longinus widened his stance to keep sure footing. The ground shook around them. The crosses swayed. Everyone heard the sound of the earth shifting and grinding below them. Some screamed for Yahweh’s help.
Longinus had never experienced such a confluence of signs over a single person in his entire life. He had heard of the legend of the comet, that shone for seven days over the Victory Games in honor of Julius Caesar’s death. Octavian claimed to have seen a rainbow halo around the sun in a clear sky after the death of Julius. Those signs verified the deification of Julius, his apotheosis. Augustus, who called himself “the Son of God,” was allegedly witnessed by an ex-praetor as being received into heaven as divinity at his death. But what had disturbed Longinus most, was the legend of the prophecy that Augustus himself had been given by the Pythian Oracle at Delphi. She had foretold,
“In token of judgment, the earth shall drip with sweat.
A king destined to rule forever will arrive from heaven,
present in mortal flesh, in order to judge the world.”
That king, Augustus was told, was not him, but someone else to come. Augustus had claimed to be the Son of God. The line of Caesars was to be the continuation of that divine identity. Long
inus had misplaced his faith in a delusion of grandeur. Caesar was not the Son of God and savior. He was not divine. He played divine to secure his power upon the prejudices of the people. Longinus had been a fool. He had followed a demonic delusion.
When the rumbling had finally stopped, Longinus looked up at the body of Jesus and said, “Truly, this man was the Son of God.”
Then the words of the Baptizer returned to him, from that cold, dark cell in the dungeon of Herod miles away. You will never find what you are looking for. I pray it finds you. Longinus had been found.
• • • • •
Deep underground, a half mile away from Golgotha, the earth had shifted and a crevice opened up that led to the surface a thousand feet above. With that titanic movement, an opening broke and the archangel Uriel could breathe fresh air again. He crawled out from within the trapping rock, and made his way up the precipitous climb, out of his earthly prison.
“Thank you, my lord, Yahweh,” he prayed. “I certainly don’t deserve such kindness. I vow to be nicer to Gabriel when I see him.”
