Thursday Post-Mark 15

It was just like any other story. They have seen it countless times, a criminal hung on a tree to be put to death. This type of execution is not all that uncommon in the Roman World. The thought of it is repulsive, but that is what they are going for: people would be so repulsed that they would dare not commit a similar crime, ever. But what is His crime, exactly? The two around him are clear: crooks, thieves, even rumors of murders. We put up with the often bizarre Jewish customs, but why hang this man? I have asked around and nobody can give me quite the same answer. And of all the Centurions, I have been assigned the task of standing here, watching Him die, making sure nobody comes and tries to stop it. And I oblige them, but his breathing is not like other men.
Why do they hate Him so? I have asked around and nobody can give me a straight answer beyond some remark about religious doctrine and conflicting reports of blasphemy. Everyone around reacts with some emotion toward this man, some with sheer hate, some with jealousy-driven suspicion, some with weeping and deep sorrow. I see His mother, at least I have been told that it is His mother. I have never seen someone weep the way that she does now. But anybody who thinks that this is some ordinary criminal is overlooking the facts, the darkness, the emotions, the touch of radiance in a face bruised beyond recognition.
My fellow soldiers sneer, the religious leaders sneer, the common folk sneer, all because He claimed He was God. And yet I have the best view, of death. It is clear as he breaths His last, speaks words I understand, yet do not. It is clear this is no ordinary story, this is no ordinary execution. He claimed to be a Son of God, they say. I see the Glory literally fade from His eyes as His Spirit leaves. I do not fully know where His Spirit is going, but one thing is clear from the debacle of a death: this man, whomever He was, was a Son of God. That cannot be denied.
He claimed to be a Son of God. He was not wrong. He could not have been wrong, and yet, as this darkness claims the land, despite the earthquake, He must have been a Son of God. I see the blood and water pour out, I see His death. Why? Why would a God kill his Son? What would compel a God to torment His Son so viciously, so completely obliterating Him?
I must seek Him out. He is dead, but perhaps His witnesses remember His words, remember more fully that glory that I only saw a mere fading glimpse of. I will seek these people out, to remember this man, this Son of God. Come, let us inquire of Him.