A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?
Date: Eight fifteen in the morning, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
Jesus endures the whipping post.
His body quivered with the shock of each blow. But he was silent. Silent and gasping. “Thirteen.
“Fourteen.”
I moved to one side, trying to get a look at his face. His thorn-crowned brow was pressed to the post.
“Fifteen.
“Sixteen.”
He was mouthing a word with each blow. What was it?
“Seventeen.
“Eighteen.”
It came with a gasp. Barely audible.
“Father.
“Father.”
At twenty I called a halt. They had traversed the whole of his body, from shoulders to feet. It was a bloody path. I examined the wounds—more damage than I expected.
His breath came in huge gulps. His eyelids flickered. He remained conscious. At least he remained conscious.
I stepped over to Gaius. I cut another three studs from his whip. Then I did the same for Lucius.
“Harder! Harder!” came a shout from above and behind me. It was Cestas—Cestas going wild on the balcony of the guest chamber. He couldn’t wait for the lashing to resume. Like a giddy child, he bounced up and down and hollered for more.
I gave an upward nod to Lucius and then began calling out the stroke count again. “Twenty-one.
“Twenty-two.”
They started over at the shoulders.
“Twenty-three.
“Twenty-four.”
Once more the frenzied cheers went up.
“Twenty-five.
“Twenty-six.”
Each man aimed to outdo the other; each blow was more savage than the last.
“Twenty- seven.
“Twenty-eight.”
He did not cry out, unlike many men I have seen. He was silent beneath the cracking whip, uncommonly silent.
“Twenty-nine.
“Thirty.”
Stroke by flailing stroke they moved once more across his bloodied frame. A quivering, rutted mess. That’s what was left by the time we reached forty. I stood near him—watched his breathing. It was fast but shallow, very shallow by the time we finished.
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brought by—”
Then he turned to Jesus in the center of the room. He looked him over, walked fully around him. Pilate sighed and nervously ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He made a smacking sound with his lips and asked, “Are you the king of the Jews?”
some higher plane—a dimension I had witnessed him operate from during the healings at the temple. He was inviting Pilate to join him in discovering this higher ground of truth.
He was a mess, almost unrecognizable. His hair was matted. He had been spat upon. The spittle was drying in his beard. There were red welts on his face and neck, a blood- oozing gash above his left eye, a discernable limp to his gait.
judge and executioner in religious matters and had been granted full authority to do so. Death by stoning was commonplace. I had witnessed Annas himself cast the first stone at some hapless adulteress within the first week of my arrival here ten years ago. No, the temple had the right to execute, and these crafty fellows could surely find grounds to execute this man. They just didn’t want the blood on their hands. They did not want to be blamed for the death of this rabbi. For many he had become the hope of the nation. No, they wanted us to do the job, to act as their executioners. They wanted him judged and executed under Roman law. What Caiaphas said next made this abundantly clear.
I love the Psalms 