Readers: This is a two-part creative account of the Easter story. I thought you'd enjoy seeing this as a preview of what should be in your local papers the next two weekends. Feel free to forward or reprint in newsletter.
Norris Burkes
www.thechaplain.net
Betrayal Worse than Death
Jesus had already seen how skittish his students became when he asked them to confront their fears and declare their allegiance to a spiritual cause. So on this night, as he walked them toward his favorite garden retreat, he didn't expect things to be all that different.
Yet the moment needed to be different for him. He'd been followed lately by a suffocating sorrow and now he needed to realign himself with the light that had illuminated so much of his path. He needed time to talk to his father.
He also needed his students to focus. "Stay here," he said, pointing toward a cluster of rocks, "and pray for me." With that command, he stepped away from them and found his solitary place.
"Why isn't there another way?" he reasoned, like a child begging his father to take a less difficult path down a frightful mountain trail.
"I'll do this thing, but why must I do it alone?" The spiritual pain intensified as blood seeped through his skin pores. Clearly, it wasn't the physical pain that he feared, but the torture of betrayal.
In between his prayers, he rose to find his disciples sleeping. He awoke them, reminding them of their promise, yet twice he returned to find them in their slumber.
Jesus wondered if he'd asked too much of them.
"Why couldn't they get this private appeal right?" he asked his father. This wasn't a public place, Jesus reasoned. He knew that if he'd asked his followers to publicly reveal their allegiance to him, they'd likely be crucified – the countryside was littered with crosses.
He also knew that if his students hoped to escape persecution, there was but one hope of avoiding the cross –betrayal.
And that was exactly what one man chose as he led others through the dark, carrying his torch to the garden. When he arrived, he laid a kiss on Jesus' face. Jesus recoiled from the blow to his soul.
As the contingent of soldiers bound his hands, one of his disciples drew a sword and sliced into the face of a captor. Jesus healed the man's wound with just a touch. Then, Jesus turned to his students to tell them that his battle would be played out in a much different setting.
Over the next three days Jesus' captors beat him. But nothing in the sting of the whip could match the hurt of betrayal by the most passionate of his followers.
"I don't know this man!" Not even the rooster's morning crows could mask the volume of Peter's, violent swearing. "Look, damn it, I tell you I've never even seen this fool!"
Finally, they dragged Jesus to a skullish-looking place that stunk of the dying hopes of revolutionaries, missionaries and contraries. The soldiers lifted him on his cross, high above the curious crowd. He could see everything, but only one of the many students who'd sworn to follow him to his death.
The crowd waited for him to die, joined by demons and darkness.They cackled for his carcass, the scent of betrayal whetting their appetite..
The sky went black. Hope evaporated. The presence, "Abba," vanished.
"Jesus cried out to his heavenly father, whimpering at first, then building into a screaming crescendo. "You've betrayed me too!"
It was over. Betrayed. Betrayed to his dying breath.
Was this what death felt like? So alone. So nothing. So destitute of hope. Was this really the end?
(Story continues in next column.)
Contact Norris Burkes at comment@thechaplain.net. Ph. 843-608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.
Easter and the hope of the Knock
The tapping on the door was more a defeated plea than a knock. The sound focused inward so as not to draw the attention of curious ears.
Inside, Jesus' students had gathered, their emotions as erratic as their syncopated heartbeats. One follower stood and removed the locking bar, allowing a stealthy entrance to Peter, the denier.
Even though they hadn't bothered to see for themselves, those who were hiding knew Jesus was dead. Yet still unclear was what he had done to deserve death, and whether they would share in his fate.
Then came another knock.
An undefeated knock. It was bold and held no regard for the fear that imprisoned these men. This was the knock of someone who had engaged certainty.
The bolt was again thrown, and the door gave way to the radiant assurance of Mary Magdalene.
What had emboldened this former prostitute? Her survival had once depended upon her discretion. Now her dramatic entry seemed to say in ways previously unsaid, "I have no secrets!" Only joy to tell.
"I've seen the Teacher!" she announced. "He's alive! He's alive!"
One of the students stretched an open palm across her lips while another perched his chin on the window sill to peek out, certain this raving woman had been followed.
Another openly wept at what seemed like the pathetic illusions of a grieving woman.
"No!" she commanded them, "don't cry. The Teacher said we shouldn't be crying and even asked me why I wept."
Then someone else entered the room, not through the locked door or windows, but through a spiritual portal.
The followers froze, their faces warmed as their spines chilled. It was the Teacher!
"Don't be afraid," he said. "Peace. I bring peace." It was the same message the angels announced at Jesus' birth.
Now Jesus had returned to his erratic and terrified followers to add his own personal exclamation mark to the angelic message.
"Peace!" he said.
How could he ask them not to be afraid? They'd seen his face in those last hours -- the face of someone who knew that he'd been betrayed. The face of someone consumed by the most fearful consequence imaginable – death.
Yet, now his face was different. The face staring at this pathetic bunch of so-called believers was the face of someone who had overcome death.
Then, as if the scale wasn't tipped into the bizarre enough already, he spoke of forgiveness.
Forgiveness! Forgiveness for those who had robbed their teacher of his life by crucifying him between a couple of real robbers?
Jesus was asking them to become divine. Walking on water or feeding the masses with a few loaves seemed like child's play compared to asking them to forgive their enemies.
How could they possibly measure up?
As they stood wondering, he drew a deep breath from somewhere other than his corporeal lungs – someplace god-like – and breathed upon them a kind of holy wind or spirit.
Things were different. Possible. Now everything Jesus had said about moving mountains, everything he'd said about offering both cheeks to your enemy and everything he'd said about finding a heavenly kingdom all seemed possible.
For he who was dead was alive!
Contact Norris Burkes at comment@thechaplain.net. Ph. 843-608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.
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