Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

April 7, 2007

 He Died In My Place

Chris Hansen

Author: “Revelation Revisited,”

Saint John’s wild visions of the end of our world dramatically explained.

“Secret of the Psalms,”

Amazingly accurate prophesies of Jesus written down hundreds of years in advance.

“Grandfather’s Journal,”

A touching illustrated children’s book about Easter.  A young boy loses his fear of death because Jesus rose from death on Easter morning.

1-888-795-4274 or local bookstores:

What if Barabbas told his story?  Here is how he might have told it.

Yeah, I remember that day all right.  I’ll never forget it as long as I live.  I’ve seen many crucified before, but there was something different, really different about this one.  I will always live with the knowledge that I should have been on that awful cross, but I wasn’t.  I watched him die on my cross.  He died in my place!

     Let me tell you how it all started.  My name is Barabbas, which means, son of the fathers.  Some son I turned out to be!  Some people thought of me as a folk hero.  Some thought of me as a political opportunist.  The Romans thought of me as a common bandit.  It doesn’t much matter now.  I watched two of my friends die on crosses.  I’ll never forget the looks in their eyes, when they saw me watching them die instead of dying with them.  Anyway, my comrades and I had been fighting the Romans for years.  I hated them!  They were cruel, and they ruled us like iron!  I vowed life for life, foot for foot, and wound for wound against those hated tyrants!  I can’t tell you how many times I would be in a crowd, and I would see one of those hated Romans, and I would see my chance to kill him.  I hated crucifixion, especially mine, but I hated the Romans even more.  I was bold, but I wasn’t stupid.  We concocted a plan that usually worked.  One of us would step quietly behind a Roman, then the assassin would pull out his dagger and drive it in.  Here is where the assassin would show his cleverness.  He would wipe the blood off his dagger, and then cry out, “Assassin!  Assassin!  There he is!  There he is!”  Everyone would start running, including the assassin himself, trying to catch this murderer in the crowd which turned out to be the very one who cried out in alarm!  Well, as I said, it worked, most of the time.  Well, one day, during one of our notorious riots, I was rounded up with some of my companions.  They were rounding up anyone and everyone because crowds were surging in for the Passover feast, and the Romans were really nervous about the crowds.  I found myself in Fort Antonius where I waited for the inevitable torment which I knew would come.

     I was tried quickly with other defendants, and, of course, I was found guilty.  I must give the Romans some credit.  I was offered a chance to defend myself.  My trial was quick, not because of a lack of justice, but because I really didn’t have much of a defense.  I was guilty.  The sun was hot, and they had a lot of defendants; but even though they felt a need to get on with it, everyone was allowed the decency of speaking up for himself.  Some were released, and some were condemned.

     Pontius Pilate was my judge.  There was a kind of nervous impatience about him.  Rumor had it that Tiberius didn’t like him much.  Tiberius had a way of getting rid of his enemies, if you know what I mean, and Pilate was scared.  I don’t like cowards, and I don’t like Romans, and Pilate was both!  Yet, there was a coolness about him that I found interesting.

     The morning after the Passover feast came, and I was sitting in the fortress Antonius, as I said, some distance from the skull where they nailed their victims.  The crowds were really in an uproar this morning.  We could all hear them as we waited.  We were too far away to hear whoever it was that was speaking to the crowd, but we could hear thousands of people responding back.  If I had been able to hear what was really being said, I would have been amazed.  As it was, I could only hear the crowd, and what I heard sent chills through me!  I heard the crowd chanting, Barabbas!  Barabbas!”  Then I heard a moment of silence.  Then I heard, “Crucify him!  Crucify him!”  I found out later that Pilate had actually said, “Whom shall I release unto you?”  The crowd had chanted, “Barabbas!  Barabbas!”  Then, Pilate had said, “And what shall I do with Jesus?”  They had responded, “Crucify him!  Crucify him!”  All I could hear was the crowd, and what they said made my blood run cold!  “Barabbas!  Barabbas!  Crucify!  Crucify!” 

     The guard came as I expected.  He threw the door open and we were dragged out.  I felt like I would be sick.  Then, something very strange happened.  Suddenly, I was untied and set free!  I looked at the guard like some bewildered animal.  I nearly fell as the guard pushed me away from my comrades.  “Go on!” the guard said roughly, “They don’t want you!  They want Jesus, king of the Jews!”  And with that, he laughed heartily.  My companions didn’t find the joke very funny!  I was free, and they were not.  I saw real terror and disbelief in their eyes.  I felt like some kind of traitor to my friends.  I followed my friends to see what would happen to them; as if I didn’t already know! 

     We got closer to the skull.  The guards picked up a couple of heavy cross beams and dropped them roughly across the shoulders of my friends.  We were close enough now to see Jesus, the one who was to die in my place.  He didn’t look much like a king; but, of course, that’s the way these Romans would have done it.  He was hanging by his wrists when I got there.  His toes were almost touching the ground, and the skin of his back was stretched tight.  His face was badly swollen from beating.  His hair was full of blood.  Somebody had made a crown of thorns for this king of the Jews to wear, and the thorns were jammed into his head. 

     I heard Pilate say, “Why What evil has he done?  He has done nothing deserving death?  Look!  I will beat him and let him go!”  He was hoping, I suppose, that a little blood would satisfy the rabble.  I wasn’t so sure it would.  All I know is that it could have been me up there instead!  A couple of soldiers came out with their whips.  I had seen this little game many times.  They wanted to have some fun with the prisoners before their executions.  These whips were cruel instruments of torture.  They were long straps with heavy jagged       pieces of metal or bone in them.  I knew what would happen next.  The cruel strap would whistle through the air.  Then a thud would be heard.  The prisoner would cry out.  Blood would fly in all directions.  Raw muscle would dangle through huge gashes in the skin, and the whip would whistle again and again and again! It was Horrible!  Part of me wanted to look, and part of me wanted to turn away. 

     Next, they cut him down and threw a heavy cross beam across his bloody shoulders.  Some of the crowd surged around the prisoner as he headed for the place of crucifixion.  Some stayed behind to watch the fun with the other prisoners.  For some reason, I decided to go with this man, who was to die in my place.  I couldn’t stand the thought of watching my comrades go through what I had just witnessed.  I tried to imagine myself in that other man’s place.  I would have been walking under that heavy cross beam. 

     I watched Jesus fall several times under the heavy cross beam.  Blood flowed from his knees.  His face scraped the ground.  His hands were bound, so he couldn’t stop himself from falling.  The soldiers became impatient.  Jesus was holding things up, so they grabbed somebody named Simon and threw the beam across his shoulders.  Somebody in the crowd laughed and said, “Simon of Syreen is now one of his disciples.  Didn’t Jesus say, “Take up your cross, and follow me?”,” Others began to laugh.  I didn’t think it was funny. 

     I saw women come to him crying.  They wiped his face, and offered him drink, to ease the pain, I suppose.  He refused.  Then I heard him say, “Do not weep for me.  Weep for yourselves. If these things can be done when the wood is green, what will happen when the wood is dry!” 

     I had a sick feeling in my stomach.  I had seen this part of the fun before.  They threw him on his back with a thud.  Two soldiers held him down.  One soldier knelt at his right hand, the other at his left.  His arms were stretched out above his head.  I heard the clink of iron spikes.  With amazing speed we all heard the spikes driven through the wrists.  I never could get used to the screams of the freshly crucified!  The cross beam was lifted by the four men as the poor victim hung by his wrists.  The cross beam was dropped into place on the upright beam which waited for it.  I saw the poor man’s body quiver in pain.  One soldier was at his feet now.  His knees were bent by strong quick hands.  Spikes were quickly driven through his heels.  After a terrible scream, the man lay still for a moment.  I suppose that he fainted from the agonizing pain.  Then I saw his eyes clear again as though he were waking up.  Then horror crossed his face as if he suddenly realized that the agony was on him again.  As I watched his terrified face I heard him say something I will never forget.  It was the last thing I expected of a man crucified unjustly.  He said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!”  I turned away.  Somehow I felt as though I had put him on that cross.  Somehow, I felt the need for forgiveness. 

     I watched his blood trickle down slowly.  I saw his eyes change repeatedly from glassy shock to terrified wakefulness!  I saw him gasping for breath again and again against his outstretched arms and chest.  I watched the buzzards circling overhead.  I watched the dogs running around the hill.  I watched the insects dig their way into his wounds.  I watched the soldiers placidly sitting by.  I watched the mocking crowd. 

     I was so busy watching Jesus, that I was suddenly surprised to see two more wretched prisoners being led to their crosses.  They were badly beaten, so I didn’t know them at first.  Then, with a sickening horror I did know them!  They were my revolutionary comrades.  I had led them to this horrible end.  Tears filled my eyes as I heard their screams, as they too were crucified.  I didn’t want them to see me.  I should have died with my comrades.  They would never forgive me for bringing them to this end, while I went free.

     Then I heard one of the men in the crowd shouting, “If you really are the messiah, come down from that cross, and we’ll believe in you!”  How I wished he would!  But, somehow, I knew he wouldn’t.  One of my comrades gasped, “Yes, save yourself, and us too!”  Then my other friend began to speak; and as he did, I knew I was hearing the confession of a dying man.  I saw a part of him that I didn’t see too often.  He had done some things he wasn’t too proud of, and this bloody business of killing and revolution bothered him more than I knew.  My friend said, “Have you no fear of God?  We knew what we were doing and we’re getting what we deserve.  But what has he done wrong?  Does he deserve to die like us?  Is it wrong for him to want to save his people?”  Then he said, “Jesus, when you come to this kingdom of yours, could you remember me?”  The carpenter turned his swollen face toward my friend and said to him, “I tell you the truth.  Today you will be with me in paradise!”

     The hours dragged by.  The soldiers made sure that crucified victims died slowly.  They nailed them so that they did not bleed too fast.  They nailed them so that they could breathe just enough to stay alive, but not enough to go on living.  As the hours dragged on and on, their breathing got heavier and heavier.  I noticed too, that a shadow of darkness was creeping over the sky.  Was it an eclipse?  I didn’t think so.  After all, the moon had been full the night before, since it was Passover.  It grew so dark that we could see the stars in the middle of the day!  Was it a volcano?  I wasn’t sure.  There were strong movements in the earth on that day.  The sky really looked as though God himself had turned his face away from the world.  What was it that Jesus had said?  “If they can do these things when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry!”  What if this man really was God’s messiah?  The sky looked like the angry face of God who had turned his back on a race of men who could crucify his own son.  And yet, Jesus had said, “Oh Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” I wondered if his Father really could forgive such as sin as this!

     Suddenly, out of the blackness, I heard Jesus cry out.  I suppose the agonies of the cross had become too much for him.  He cried out, “My God!  My God!  Why have you forsaken me!”  I certainly had no answer!  Why would God abandon his own son-for that is who some said he was-why would God abandon his own son into the hands of cruel men?  Why wasn’t it me up there? 

     The bystanders began to talk excitedly:  “He’s dying!  Get him a drink.  Let’s see what else he has to say.  No!  No!  Let him alone!  Let’s see if Elijah really does come to save him after all!”  When Jesus cried out that he was thirsty, one of the soldiers took a sponge and filled it with cheap wine and placed it against his cracked lips.  The cheap wine ran down his rasping throat.  One small kindness extended to a man dying in agony!  It was a kindness far too small and far too late!  I hated these soldiers.  Barbarians! 

     I heard Jesus gasp several times.  Then he said, “It is finished!  Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”  He cried out, so that I could not tell if it was his last agony, or his great relief that it was finally over.  Just then, the very earth shook with his cry, sending boulders down the hills.  Everyone was terrified thinking that the end of the world had come.  Even the Roman centurion, not given to wild outbursts, exclaimed, “Surely this was a righteous man!” 

     A silence fell over the scene.  The body of Jesus just slumped forward on the nails.  He looked dead.  My comrades were still clinging to life, barely!  They heaved up and down on the nails rasping for breath and slowly suffocating.  The creeping shadow of darkness began to give way to faltering sunlight. 

     The calmness was broken by a Jewish leader who said, “We must hurry and take these bodies down!  It is almost sunset.  It is unholy to hang a body on a Sabbath.”  I almost laughed, but kept my peace.  This hypocrite who was so concerned about defiling the Sabbath certainly had no trouble killing on the Passover!  One of the Roman officers sneered.  He said in Latin, not in Hebrew, “These Jews who can’t defile themselves by stepping inside Pilates palace, don’t mind at all if Pilate does their dirty work!”

                    The soldiers began to confer among themselves:  “Those two are still alive.  We’ll have to break their legs.  They don’t last long after that.  This one looks dead.  Better make sure.  We are sworn to finish what we start.  Hand me that spear.”  The soldiers shuffled over to my companions.  I looked into the face of each of my companions.  I was glad it was nearly over.  They hardly knew who I was.  They were half mad with pain.  The soldier struck each leg bone with a heavy mallet.  Each leg bone cracked.  The bodies dropped.  This was followed by a rasping scream and a look of sheer insanity in the eyes.  In a few minutes, it was over.  One of my comrades died with a look of anguish still frozen on his face.  The other comrade, the one who was promised paradise, he died with peace in his eyes, though his face was twisted with torment.  The crosses and the lifeless bodies were rudely thrown to the ground.  I supposed that the bodies would then be carried off to the refuse heap, there to be burned or eaten by some wild animals.  What an awful end for my friend who really expected to be in paradise!  I noticed that the followers of Jesus were wrapping his body in clean linen for burial.  Well, that was certainly better than the refuse pile, but in the end, it really didn’t matter.  They were kinder to him in his death than in his life. 

     I really thought that this would be the end of the story.  I slowly walked away into the city a free man, because he died in my place.  I fully expected to take advantage of my freedom.  But this was not the end of the story. 

     Post script. 

I write this several years after these things.  I have had time to consider what has happened.  As I said, I really thought the story of Jesus had come to its end.  And yet, I believe now, that it may well be only the beginning. 

     A group of us were talking about the old days.  We were talking about the Romans.  What else!  While we were talking, someone brought up Pontius Pilate.  How we hated him!  He had ruled Judea with an iron fist, a wooden cross, and an iron spike!  Naturally, the subject of Jesus of Nazareth came up.  I began to feel uncomfortable.  I said, “I thought the whole affair was over.  Why bring it up again?”  “That’s just it,” my friend replied, “It’s not over.  There are all kinds of rumors.  Some say his body was stolen.  Some say he rose from the dead.  Some say he was drugged.  Who knows?”  I was angry.  I didn’t want to bring all that up again.  I said, “Do you think it was easy for me to watch my friends die!”  “Use the mind God gave you!” my friend said.  “If this man really was the son of God, and if he really did rise from death, think of it!  Your friend, you know, the one who was promised paradise?  Jesus really might have been telling the truth!”  “What is truth!” someone broke in.  “Who knows?  He might have been drugged or stolen, or something.”  Everyone started looking at me.  Everyone knew that I had been there.  I would know what the truth was.  The men grew quiet and thoughtful.  Then I began to think out loud.  I began to embark on a new course in my life.  I felt just like the old days again when revolt was in the air.  There was something strange and exciting about the story of Jesus.  Finally, I said:

     “I have been a thief.  And I tell you, his body was not stolen.  His tomb was well guarded and closed by a stone of several thousand weight.  No, I do not think they stole him.  I have also seen men die.  I have been a killer.  And I know he was dead.  There was no sign of life in the body when they struck him with the spear.  The Romans are notoriously efficient about such things!  And now with these rumors about him being alive, I think they are true.  His followers are chased from town to town and beaten and killed.  Still they insist that he is alive.  I have seen men lie.  I have told lies myself!  Never have I seen a man die with a lie on his lips!  If it were a lie, they would be silent, or they would confess the fraud.  Or else, they would all be mad fools!  They were hard headed fishermen not easily given to folly.  No, they were not liars.  Deceived?  Maybe.  But not liars, and not crazy.  Still, I don’t see how hundreds could so easily be fooled about death and resurrection.” 

     A friend said, “Are you going to be one of his followers too?”  I replied, “I don’t know.  There are many things I do not know.  I will find out, if I can.  I must know what really happened to the man who died in my place!”

     And so, here is where the story of Jesus ends, or begins.  His memory is buried in my heart, but he lives in the hearts of thousands!  He died in my place, but I do not know where he has gone.  I do not know how I can follow him, but somehow I must try.   

Chris Hansen

chrishansen@sbcglobal.net

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