The last two days have been narratives of people and events surrounding holy week as we approach the celebration of Christ's death and resurrection this weekend. Though these are fictional pieces, they are based on imagining what could have happened given what we know about the people and events as reported in the New Testament. The purpose of this imagining is to bring these events closer to home by making them more human. If these conversations and feelings didn't happen, certainly what did happen was something like this, leaving much the same effect on us. Sometimes we exempt biblical characters from being human. That won't do at all. These are people like us—made up of the same hopes, dreams and fears we all have. So use your imagination, it will bring everything closer to home.
For instance, use your imagination to imagine what must have transpired on the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples. In fact, you might want to celebrate the Lord's Supper around your own table tonight. You don't have to have credentials to do this. Jesus used what was common to all meals in that culture, and he said to do this as often as we eat the bread and drink the cup, which would have been every day.
And in the spirit of imagining, we will return to the cross and look at Christ through the eyes of Nicodemus, the Pharisee whom Jesus spoke with about being born again, and who most likely did come to believe in the end that Jesus was the Messiah.
Nicodemus brought himself up to the edge of the circle of torchlight. It flickered in his eyes. Like a cautious cat, he moved in and out of the circle of light, wanting to get closer, but afraid.
Suddenly a tear-stained face filled his vision as if out of nowhere.
"Aren't you…?"
"Nicodemus." He finished it for the man. "I have followed from afar. I wanted to come closer, but I've been foolish and afraid. Now I am too late."
"No, you aren't. You are here," said John, newly named son of Mary. "Come."
John gently took Nicodemus's arm and guided him closer to the women who were still huddled near the cross. They were in shock, out of touch with everything, even grief. They sat quietly, stunned from staring too long at the impossible. Nicodemus had resisted John, but once he was in the light and in the company of the others, he broke into a thousand pieces inside and started to cry uncontrollably. Suddenly he was touched and held and surrounded by people he did not even know, and they all seemed thankful for a fresh supply of tears.
Nicodemus looked into the faces of people he would have judged hours earlier and wondered at what he saw in their eyes. These were unlearned peasants, but they seemed to know and understand this grief better than he.
Then he looked at the body of Jesus, and in the lifeless form on the cross he saw himself—a tired old self-righteous man, weary of justifications and the foolish arrogance that kept him from people. He saw the ugliness of his pride and the lies by which he tried to maintain his superiority. He saw it all and hated himself in that moment, and he wept bitterly, alternately abhorring and longing for the touch he was receiving from those around him.
"He spoke of you often," said John with his arm on Nicodemus's shoulder. "He said you were one of the few in your position who could see."
"He did?" Nicodemus raised his wet eyes and wiped them with the sleeve of his robe. "I didn't know myself… until now."
"What will you do?" Nicodemus asked after a long pause.
"Breathe in and breathe out," said John mechanically, his eyes fixed on the body of Jesus. Then he turned to Nicodemus and added, "If I can."
"I will help bury him," said Nicodemus. "Joseph of Arimathea is coming."
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