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Six Months

It has been six months since I went in for a stress test which led to coronary by-pass surgery. During the first month and a half of recuperation I spend time writing about the traumatic experience of being cut open and getting used to a scar on my chest. It was hard to write because my ability to concentrate and write was compromised by the drugs I was taking. One of the drugs was a Beta Blocker, which suppresses adrenaline. People need adrenaline to help them react to daily events. While the drug helped keep my blood pressure low so my heart could heal, some of the side effects were confusion, lack of focus and depression. I’m a Librarian and have to be able to focus. I have to be able to think and concentrate. I stopped taking the drug after about 7 weeks, with my doctors understanding.  My concentration and memory are still affected by the trauma of the surgery.

After a month and a half, I started exercising more, building up to walking several miles a day and riding my bicycle. They were easy rides. The biggest concern was falling off a bicycle, which could do some major damage to my chest which was already healing from surgery. I did not feel dizzy, another possible side effect of the drugs. Every drug they prescribed was designed to either lower my blood-pressure or my cholesterol. I discovered the best way to lower blood pressure was through exercise, combined with a different, less fatty and sugary diet. Where my blood pressure was 140+ over 90+ it is now averaging 110 over 65. In the evening, after a full day at work or riding, my blood pressure is averaging about 95 over 75.

January 2018 began the second half of my convalescence, a three-month period before returning to work. During that time, I worked on regaining my focus and concentration and started writing on the Psalms. Writing was hard but I built a consistent time every morning and was able to record my meditations on Psalms 1 through 3. These are the Meditation on the Psalmsstudies I’ve been posting for the last few months. I had spent a year trying to memorize the Psalms before the surgery and was fairly successful. After the surgery, my memory of the Psalms all but evaporated. It was a struggle to recall what I had committed to memory. It is still a struggle and a frustration.

My intent with the meditation posts was to help me understand Jesus Christ and to point those who read them to Him. One of the conclusions I’ve drawn from the study is that the Psalms, at least the ones I have studied and thought about, point to Christ and express His innermost self. We do not get much of His emotion and thinking about His mission in the Gospels. Nor does He reveal many of His reactions and understandings about why He came as a Man to redeem those who are His. Since all Scripture is written by Him, about Him and His relationship with those created in His image, the Psalms naturally express His heart.

It is not my intent to make these writings about me. Even though the blog is given my name, at least in theory, it is not about me. These writings are the discoveries I am finding and thinking through about my relationship with the One who redeemed me.

A couple of questions arise which I have been trying to ignore for a long time. Why should anyone read what I have written if they do not know me? Should not my thoughts and writing stand-alone without the extra arrogant baggage of my selfishness and self-centeredness? If I am expressing truth about God and His Word, led by the Holy Spirit, then it should not be about me but about Him. If the integrity of my life is not known, how should the integrity of my words and thinking stand? My thinking has been philosophically altruistic. I want people to read what I write because I believe God has given me something to say about Him and His Son. I also want readers to challenge my thinking. But thinking is only part of the whole person. Another part is the emotional side of humanity. People need to know what I am feeling and how I am acting, not just what I think.

I am changing the structure and delivery of this blog starting with this post. At least I am going to try. Hopefully, I will post three times a week. I will continue to post my meditations on the Psalms, but not every post. I am also going to start a study on 1 Peter. I have an M. A. in Theology. I wrote two major papers in graduate school on 1 Peter. The first was a long paper on the terms alienand strangerfound in Peter’s letter. The second was a thesis entitled Suffering for Righteousness’ Sake: A Formal Theological Concept in the First Epistle on Peter. I am not going to bore you with academic writing. First Peter left a deep impression on my heart and my thinking and I need to express those thoughts and feelings. Finally, I am going to write brief posts about me and my life growing up, my current occupation and some of the events which God used to shape me for Him. I am a Librarian and I hope to shatter any stereotypes held by whomever wants to read. The struggle is going to be keeping the attention off of me and on Christ while talking about me. Every experience I have had and will have, whether I was aware or not, has drawn me closer to God.

Thanks for listening and reading my ramble.



I am not a hard-core bicycle rider. When I ride I am not all hunched over, with the racing outfit, moving as fast as I can along the trail. My intent is not to conquer distance with speed. I started riding a bicycle several years ago because my Doctor told me I needed some sort of exercise to lower my weight and get my body in better shape. When I first started with the Library 28 years ago, I had a gym membership, going several times a week using the elliptical trainer and other stuff. For over twenty years I did this, but the gym and my motivation was doing nothing to help. A gym membership is too expensive so I finally quit. I did nothing for a long time. I was over-weight and out of shape. In 2011, I started riding a bicycle.

We live about a quarter mile from the American River Parkway and Bicycle Trail. I remember my first ride. I went about a mile. That is not far. It took over a year for me to go 2-3 miles. On one of those first rides I remember seeing some of the wildlife. Blue Heron. Kestrel. Red-shouldered Hawk. Lots of deer. A Coyote. I would see something, whip out my cell-phone and take a picture, a teeny-tiny speck of pixels lost in a slightly larger blurred image on a flip-phone screen. I knew what it was. Nobody else seemed impressed. “Oh, yeah. A Bird.” So, I started carrying a bigger camera with me. I would begin looking forward to riding. I would spend more time out on the trail, not necessarily riding, but finding and discovering. By two months ago I would ride anywhere from 6-7 miles to 15-20 miles. I have ridden every mile from the J Street-Fair Oaks Blvd bridge near Sac State to Beals Point at Folsom Lake.

I have also lost weight and kept it off. I am not thin, like most hard-core riders. I have never had a six-pack. I have a single pack surrounded by a life-preserver. I do not look like someone who rides a bicycle, let alone a great distance rider. But I do ride.

My father died from complications from triple-bypass surgery.  His heart surgery was not an emergency but came after 20+ years of heart problems.  He was told he had a 98% chance for a full recovery after this surgery but he didn’t make it out of Recovery.  He had 11 heart-attacks in nine days. They opened him three times. By the end of the ninth day I had watched his body take a battering I doubted anyone could survive. My mother died from complications of chemo treatment for leukemia. My brother died from a massive heart attack. All of the family evidence points to me having heart problems. Only a reckless person would suggest I was not a candidate for the same kind of coronary problems. I wanted the problems to happen much later, closer to the end of a long, full life. I’m 63 which, in my mind, is too young.

I will be out riding as soon as I can.

Thanksgiving 2017

I am thankful to be alive!

Last Thursday, November 16, I took some time off work and drove myself to a hospital for a stress test, on the recommendation of my nephew. Days earlier my doctor and I had ruled out heart problems because an EKG and blood tests showed no evidence of heart problems.  My cholesterol levels were great. So, we began to look for other causes of my month-long chest pains.  After this stress test, I thought they would give me an inhaler and send me on my way. Instead, because I still had chest pain, they put me in a wheelchair and rolled me over to the ER. After donating lots of blood into those little vials they attach to your arm, letting them x-ray my chest, and many more EKGs, the ER doc told me I had heart damage. They wanted to do an angiogram the next morning. I have not yet had the stress test.

I have not been afraid. This is important. Many people I count as friends do not believe in God. I do. My faith in Him is based on strict intellectual questioning and discovery. There is also a credible, emotional part and a precise act of my will integral to my faith. Faith in God is not stupid, where the intellect shuts down. Faith is an act of the whole person, not just a hidden little personal, unexplainable, foible unique to me. For years, God has been teaching me to listen, believe, trust and obey. Last Thursday the faith He gave me was tested.

My family, on the other hand, was in agony. I know this agony after watching my dad, mom and brother die. My having no fear did not help them. I will not minimize the fear and distress caused by watching someone they love hover over the possibility of dying suddenly, and of having no control.

Friday morning the 17th a cardiologist did an angiogram that revealed at least one aorta 100% blocked.  He could not get the wire in it to look in it. Absolutely no blood was getting through. Had they been able, the doc would have inserted a couple of stents and I could have been on my way, after a few days in the hospital. Instead, they put in a heart balloon because my heart was not working as well as they wanted. I awoke enough for them to tell me I was being moved to Mercy General for “immediate heart surgery”, bypass surgery. Lots of other fun stuff happened that day, too. Disneyland was a better option for a family vacation, hands-down.

Saturday Morning the 18th was open-heart surgery. Apparently, I bumped someone in line. For those of you who know me, I don’t bump people in any line. What was happening was not by my design. At this time, I have zero control over anything happening to me. There is a difference between relinquishing control and keeping responsibility. Even laying on a gurney ready to go into surgery I am responsible for my attitude, how I treat others and for my family. Relinquishing control gives another the responsibility to care for me because I realize I cannot care for myself. They must do that which I cannot do. Having a relationship with God is like this. (Ask me and I will gladly explain more.)

Wearing a little, flimsy hospital gown is normal for hospital stays. My garments violated no hospital stereotype. When they took me into surgery, I was basically naked and shaved. What was the temperature in Surgery? 38F!  Okay, another thrilling ride. The anesthesiologist (everybody working on me had already come by to meet the body they would be cutting up and putting back together) told me to take a deep breath. I woke up a moment later with two thoughts: “I’m alive.” Remember, I have had no fear so I will explain later what being alive meant to me (but not today). My second thought was “rub some dirt in it.” This is a new phrase to me, given by my son, who just completed a Spartan Race without doing any penalty burpees. I’m not getting out of the work of living so easily. I am still dependent on my family to care for me but those responsibilities that are mine are still mine.

Monday morning the doc released me from ICU so I walked from there up one floor to a regular room. The day of surgery I had already gotten out of bed several times, standing and sitting in the room. Sunday, I spent more time in a chair than in bed.  Some of you will know the trauma that a body has before and during open heart surgery. Double bypass. Every appendage has something sticking out of it. And then there is my chest. I have a picture if you want to see it.  If I was supposed to do something, I concentrated to make it happen.

Death is a game changer. Facing death demands facing life first. I have a belief that has everything to do with looking at facts. I believe the evidence that a man was raised from the dead. I believe Jesus Christ died at the hands of the Romans at the prompting of the religious leaders. I believe the trauma He suffered far exceeded the little bit of pain I have been in. People wanted to torture Him to death. Almost no one wanted to help Him. Everyone who saw Him die knew He was dead. Then they saw Him alive.

No one wanted me to die. People worked hard to keep me alive. But no one can will me to live. Had God wanted me to die, I would have died. God did not want me to die. (Did they have to use a catheter, though?) I am emotionally touched at the compassion and patience of just about everyone who did something for me over the seven days and six nights I was in the hospital. I pushed the help button (I know that’s why it is there) more than I think I should have. No one who responded frowned or made me feel that I should have been doing what I was asking them to do. I can never express enough admiration or appreciation for the Staff at both Kaiser in Roseville and Mercy General in Sacramento.

My family was there. My wife was my advocate. I cannot imagine the agony and stress she was under. My children talked and listened, slept and were there. It is hard watching someone you love suffer. My sister drove in from over the mountains. Friends came. Wow.

My immediate family exchanges gifts on Thanksgiving instead of Christmas. I came home the day before Thanksgiving. Thank you, Lord for my life. We enjoyed ourselves on Thanksgiving.


Accurate Answer

Studies in Genesis 3

And the woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the midst of the garden, neither shall you touch it, lest you die.’” Genesis 3:2-3 ESV

We do not know how long Adam and Eve lived in the garden. Let us not make the assumption it is either a long or short period of time. But there was enough time for both to think through the prohibition of God.

When whatever squatted in the serpent asked the question “Did God actually say, ‘You   shall not eat of any tree in the garden’?” Eve initially responded correctly. Of course they could eat from the trees. There is only one tree’s fruit which they are prohibited from eating. There are several things wrong with her answer, though. Had her response been the actual words of God it would have stopped the lie completely. Although, most of her answer is true, part of it is not true and none of it is accurate.

God did say every fruit from every tree was good for food and could be eaten. “Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food” (Genesis 1:29 ESV). This statement includes the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and the tree of life. There was nothing wrong with the fruit. It was not poisonous. Eating the fruit would not kill the body. Nothing God created was dangerous to Adam and Eve.

It is the act of disobedience that will bring the condemnation of God. They were designed for relationship and disobedience would break that relationship. They were given the image of God and disobedience would corrupt the vessel containing the image but could not corrupt the image itself. His image cannot be corrupted any more than He can be corrupted. However, the person with the image can become bent and broken, twisting their view of His image into something not true.

Yet, Eve twisted her view of God’s words when she didn’t identify the tree as the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and then added they were not even supposed to touch the fruit of the tree. Adding the prohibition to not touch adds a false boundary to what God actually said. He did not say do not touch the fruit of the tree. He said do not eat it. They could place catch with the fruit if they wanted. Did Adam give her this extra boundary or did she come up with it herself. I’m not supposed to eat the fruit so I better not touch it to make sure I don’t eat it. We do not know who added the boundary. We do know it was either Adam ore Eve.

Yet, I think it more damaging that she did not identify the tree as that of the knowledge of good and evil. God was teaching them that there was good and there was evil and that they needed to know the difference. They needed to know what was good, obeying God, and what was evil, disobeying God. Had she identified the tree as that of the knowledge of good and evil she would have used that knowledge to counter the lie of the serpent. Removing the self-imposed boundary and identifying the actual tree would have placed her squarely within God’s known will.

The First and Last Passover

A short story, fiction, told in the first-person.

By Gerald F. Ward (© 2005)

The First and Last Passover

Every year for Passover I invited many of the priests serving at the temple into my home. They were far from their homes and it was pleasing for me to have them come and celebrate Passover. I was a priest. I know the heart of the priest.

That year was no different than any other. There were always thousands of priests in Jerusalem for the Feast. The city swelled as people came from all places to celebrate the Lord’s greatness in the City of David. Many of the people would stay for Pentecost. From every country and place where the Lord had scattered His people, His people would come and worship Him.

I know the Lord is pleased when His people remember. We remember when He brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand against Pharaoh. Yet many question why the Lord did not do the same with the Romans. They were everywhere. Even during our great celebrations they could be seen on their patrols. Our Lord destroyed Pharaoh’s army in a moment and a flood. Caesar’s army was no different. We prayed. He answered “no.”

That Passover the discussion amongst the priests was not about the Romans, nor the Diaspora, nor the Lord’s kingdom and our place in it and how He would bring it about. No, the discussions, the arguments, were about one man, Jesus by name, from Galilee.

I was already old when I first saw and heard Jesus. He taught at the temple and people came to him like ants to honey. He drew to himself the poorest of the poor, those covered with sin and those proud of their sin. Beggars, lame and blind and deaf and mute, covered with sores, bent from disease. The Lord’s wrath was upon them we thought. All came to this one man. Prostitutes and tax collectors came to him. Even many Romans came to him. They all came to him because they thought he affected a sort of healing of their bodies. He even forgave them their sins. Who would not go to someone who pretended to have authority to forgive sins?

Not many priests went to him nor did many of the leaders and teachers among us. The Lord had shown us how sin could be forgiven. Sins are forgiven only through the sacrifices at the temple. Almighty God appointed priests to mediate for the people, to bring to them the peace of the Lord, through the sacrifices of blood. Jesus was telling the people the priests were not needed. He was driving the people away from the Lord, so we thought. He was demon possessed and worked miracles for the adversary, so we thought. He was leading the people astray, so we thought.

He was all we talked about during Passover. For good or for evil he demanded our attention and the whole attention of the people who came to Jerusalem. The whole city was stirred up by his presence.

On the first day of the week I went to the temple. I had already selected several lambs for the meal. I had gathered all the food we would need for the feast. My wife had cleared the house of all leaven. She sent our grandchildren throughout the house looking for more. We always left little piles of bread in several places so they could find it and bring to us what they found with smiles and pride. I loved watching them in their search and encouraged them to look here or look there. So, our home was prepared for the Passover. All we needed was to invite a large group of priests to come to the celebration. Many felt honored to come to my home each year for Passover.

We believed the Lord used Herod and his sons to build the temple. They were evil men who thought they could buy their way into the Lord’s presence. The temple was not yet finished, taking over forty years to build. I remember when Herod began construction on the old temple mount. He built his own palace on a hill above the temple and finished his palace long before the temple. He poured gold and silver stolen from the people into his projects. He poured the blood of many Israelites into the very stones of all he built. But the temple was magnificent and we were proud.

Yes, the priests who were there were proud. We were proud of our lofty place in Israel. All came to us at some time, many times during their lives. They were required by law to come at least once a year. They came to us. And they had to come to us in the magnificent temple the Lord built for us. The temple was the center of life in Israel. We worked for the Lord offering for the people the sacrifices required by the Lord’s holy law. We were proud of what we did. Proud of our place. Proud of our position. Proud.

I was proud I could offer my home as a place for my fellow priests to come and fulfill the requirement of the Lord in celebrating the Passover.

Did I not tell you my sons were all priests? For one to become a priest one’s father must first be a priest. All of my sons were priests. They were priests and teachers. Priests and Pharisees. Priests and also members of the Sanhedrin. My sons followed the law and taught the law and lived the law. My brothers and I were priests. So, too, were my father and his brothers. I am a son of Aaron.

Passover was a joyous time in my home. Often, my sons and their families would come. Two of my sons and their families and twelve priests would come to my home.

Alas, it was not to be.

I was in the temple several days before Passover. Jesus and his disciples were there. Many of the priests in the temple wanted to argue with him. They felt they could best him. Make him slip. Catch him in something he would say. There was a group of us there. One man, a teacher as well as a priest, asked Jesus a question. “By what authority are you doing these things? Who gave you the authority to do them?” Jesus had healed some people. He taught using hard to understand parables and stories. Some thought they were nonsense stories. But the people thought he was an authority so the question was a good one. Or, so we thought.

Here was Jesus’ answer. “I will ask you one question: answer me, and I will tell you by what authority I do these things. Was the baptism of John from heaven or from man? Answer me.”

None of the priests liked John. But we respected him. He stood alone against Herod. None of us had the spine to do what he did. We were surrounded by people who adored John and hated Herod for killing John, an innocent man. In our eyes he was just a man. In the eyes of the people he was a prophet of the Lord like those from our history. We didn’t know how to answer Jesus. So he didn’t answer us.

Another priest asked Jesus if it was lawful to pay taxes to Caesar. But he didn’t just ask. He was trying to trap Jesus in his words. “We know you have integrity and you teach the truth of God. We see you are not swayed by the thoughts or actions of men.” Why would they say such things to Jesus when they thought he was evil? They spoke with two mouths, two minds, and two hearts. With one they sought to entrap him. With the other they praised him, setting out bait for their trap. I watched this and it hurt my heart.

“We want to know what you think and feel,” they continued. “Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar?” There is nothing in our law which says we should not pay taxes to the authority over us. There are many places where the Lord tells us if we disobey Him He will send an enemy to discipline us and subdue us and punish us. We were under the Roman shield because of disobedience to the Lord. We were waiting for our deliverer to come and throw off the shield and sword of Rome. But until then we were obliged to pay taxes to the Romans. In fact, it was not the Romans who overtaxed us. It was our own people. It was priests who were tax collectors!

“Why are you trying to trap me?” Jesus asked, rebuking them. “You hypocrites!” He saw through them. “Show me a coin. One used to pay your tax. Do you see an image on the coin? Whose image is it? Who’s writing? Whose words?”

“Caesar’s,” they answered.

“Give to Caesar that which belongs to him. Give to God that which belongs to Him.”

I heard myself gasp and gulp in air. I heard them mutter. But their duplicity had lost me to them. My whole life was spent serving the Lord. They, too, were dedicated servants of the Lord. But they were not acting like the Lord’s servants. They were acting shamefully. What belonged to the Lord? Did not everything belong to the Lord? Does He not give to whom He wishes, raising up one and cutting low another? Honoring one and humbling another? You cannot serve the Lord with lies. He demands honesty from those who are his servants. He separates obedient people who are His from those of the world who rebel against Him.

Jesus’ words hit me and clung to me and would not relinquish me to my own thoughts. I did not hear much of what transpired for the next few minutes. I could think of nothing but the words “give to God that which belongs to Him.” I have felt obligated to give to the Lord everything. Do not all priests and scribes and teachers of the law feel great joy in giving their lives to Him and receiving from Him such abundant love?

I had a question for Jesus. I determined to ask it and moved closer to the man, worming my way through the crowd so I might stand in front of him. Those who were seeking to trap him glared at me. Jesus’ eyes were fire and his countenance was stone.

“Teacher,” I said, “Which is the greatest commandment in the law?”

I heard murmurs of approval from behind me. Turning, I looked at them. Their eyes gleamed with a devious delight. They thought I also was trying to trap Jesus. My eyes were sad. I knew already the answer I sought. Their eyes showed me their deceit. They could not tell me the answer to my question. I turned back to Jesus. The fire had gone from his eyes. They were filled with tears. He looked into my eyes, never wavering.

“The greatest commandment is this,” he answered. His voice was strong. “‘Hear this, Israel. The Lord your God is one God. Love the Lord your God with all of your heart and all of your soul and with all of your mind and with all your strength.’ This is the first commandment and the greatest commandment. The second is like it. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Upon these two commandments rest all of the Law and all of the writings of the Prophets.”

“Well said, teacher,” I responded. Behind me men grumbled. “The Lord is one and you are right in saying so. To love Him with all your being and to love your neighbor is worth more than all the burnt offerings and all the sacrifices.” I knew Jesus truly loved the Lord. His answer showed this to me.

“You are not far,” he said to me in a low voice full of intimacy and love, “from the kingdom of God.” He placed his hand upon my shoulder and squeezed slightly. Behind me no one spoke. The truth silenced their lie.

Jesus continued to teach. He spoke in parables and riddles few present understood. I would say even most of his disciples did not understand what he was saying. I understood. He spoke about loving the Lord and how we showed our love for Him or how we didn’t show we loved Him. He spoke about the end of all things. He rebuked those who served the Lord but hated those the Lord created to serve Him. He revealed his heart. We thought him ungodly and devious. It was not true. He was a godly man.

I did not know it then, but I too, became a follower of this man from Galilee. I went home pondering all I had heard and seen, weighing the evidence against the agitated words of the priests. I told my wife what I heard and saw. I told my sons and daughters. I told my servants.

Over the few days before Passover they all came to me and told me they would not come to my home for the celebration. Two of the priests I invited caught my robes in the temple and excused themselves. They said their families had come to the City of David. I invited them and their families for there was much room in my home. They said “no” and left quickly. Other priests I invited came and offered differing excuses. “Where would you go?” I asked. None answered but just left my presence. They were lying to me. They did not want to come to my home. So I called my sons and asked them. My sons acted ashamed and aloof and told me it was because of my belief in Jesus. Then they told me they could not come. I was stung! How they hurt my heart. How I cried.

My home was now empty. All who would come, who would celebrate Passover with me were my wife and a few servants. I remembered crying out to the Lord in my sadness and grief.

“Have I not served You all my life?”

“Have I not trained up my family to serve You with their lives?”

“Were not families to remember and celebrate together the Passover?”  My wife comforted me. Those dearest and closest to me rejected me.

One of my servants had gone out for water. His wife was ill and he, out of love for her, consented to bring water to our home so she could rest. When he returned with the water two men followed him. They told me their names, I do not remember them, and then they said their teacher needed a place to celebrate the Passover with his followers.

“Who is your teacher?” I asked.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied.

I remember sitting there, gazing at these men for several minutes.

“Do you not know I am a priest?” I could see their discomfort at what I asked.

“Your servant told us what you thought of Jesus,” they answered. “Also, Jesus himself, told us to follow a man carrying a water jar and to ask the owner of the house he served for a place to celebrate the Passover.”

There is only one way Jesus could have known these things. I showed them the upper room and all I had gathered for the Passover.

That afternoon Jesus arrived with his disciples. It was not Passover but he came to me and thanked me for allowing them to use my home.

“It is two days before the Sabbath Passover,” I said. “Is it not early to celebrate the Passover?”

He looked at me with sadness and said the Passover lamb would indeed be sacrificed in time for all to celebrate Passover. I did not understand his words until later when the prophecies of the Lord were fulfilled.

He talked to me, just he and I. My wife sat and listened as we talked about the Passover and its meaning. We talked about the lamb of the Passover and how it was the blood of the lamb spread over the entrance to each home which the Lord saw. When the Angel of the Lord saw the blood He saw those who belonged to Him, ransomed from slavery. We talked about the death of the firstborn and how we were to redeem the firstborn. We talked about Pharaoh’s army and the army of the deceiver and how the Lord defeated his army and will defeat all who fight against Him. We talked about the exodus and the grumbling of the people yet the Lord remained faithful and brought His people out of slavery and bondage and into the land He gave them. We talked about loving the Lord and showing our love for Him. He taught me many things. He opened my eyes to many things.

After he had gone upstairs with his disciples my wife and I talked longer. There were tears on her cheeks and a great peace on her face. Though our sons had grieved us she was no longer feeling the grief. She was at peace and so was I. We saw the Lord’s mighty hand in all which had occurred. We went to bed and slept deeply.

Morning brought a day of horror. My friends, my fellow priests, had taken Jesus at night seeking to condemn him. When I awoke I knew nothing of these things. It was my custom to go to the temple early to worship the Lord with prayer and thanksgiving. That morning the temple was nearly deserted. There were some women in the outer court weeping. My heart felt compassion for them so I asked what was wrong. They told me the priests had taken Jesus to Pilate.

Then I wept with those women. Those who had taken Jesus knew he was an innocent man. Jesus broke none of our laws. There was only one reason they would take Jesus to Pilate. They wanted Pilate to hang him on a cross like a common criminal, like one feeling the wrath of the Romans. They were using Pilate as an instrument of murder.

I ran home and climbed to my roof. My house was on a hill near the inside wall of Jerusalem. Rarely did I go there. From the roof of my house I could see out over Jerusalem. I could also see the place of death, the Skull. It was morning and they had yet to crucify anyone.

As I hurried out on my way to the temple my wife asked, agony and fear in her voice, what I would do. I did not know what I was to do. I wanted to find my sons and scold them for being a part of this madness if they had participated. I wanted to find my friends and rail against them. I knew those responsible and I knew those who would follow along. I wanted to beat them with my fists and call down curses from the Lord against their heads. I wanted to go and convince them what they were doing was wrong and they should let this innocent man, a godly man, go. All of these things I thought on the way to the temple. But standing there, before my wife, the love of my years, I could not answer. I left and hurried back to the temple.

As I was entering the temple, covered with anguish as with a garment, I was asked by many, “where is he?” Common people asked. Women and men, tax collectors and beggars, Jews and foreigners, free men and slaves. “Where is he?”

“I do not know.”

“What will they do with him?”

“I do not know.”

“Will they let him go?”

“I do not know!” Then everyone left me and ran off down the streets and alleys of Jerusalem.

I prayed. There before the Lord in our magnificent temple, built by a tyrant with the blood of my people, I prayed. In my heart I felt the Lord close His eyes, withdraw His hand and turn His back. I knew He would not answer my prayer the way I wanted. I confessed my sin, the sin of the priesthood and rulers of Israel, the sin of the people. I wept and writhed and beat my breast. Finally, exhausted, I left.

Arriving home, I again climbed the stairs to the roof of my house. There on the hill stood three crosses. God answered my prayer. He had said “no.”

Silently, I walked back to the temple. I fell down on my face before God. I did not pray with words. Darkness fell over the temple, a darkness I felt on my skin. Others came in behind me. I did not stand. I heard them repeat many of the Psalms of David. I could hear them motion with their hands, it was so still in the world. In their voices I heard fear. How long I lay there I do not know. The stones were cold, the air was cold, and the temple was cold. I was cold.

I stood after a great length of time and then the whole temple began to tremble and shake. Those who were standing were thrown onto their faces. I fell forward, once again on my face. They cried out in fear, begging the Lord to spare their lives. I begged Him to take mine. Then we heard the sound of the curtain ripping, being torn asunder by the violent shaking. From the top it ripped to the very bottom exposing the Most Holy Place, revealing what we thought was the very presence of the Lord. Only then did those around me begin to beat their breasts. Our Lord exposed Himself. I knew Jesus had died.

I went home. It was preparation day and though it was no longer dark, darkness was coming and with the end of the day the beginning of Sabbath. My wife spent the day preparing for Passover. It was not a joyous time for her.  Tears streaked her face. No one would be coming to our home.

Passover. We sat alone. We remembered the stories and drank the cup alone. With bitter tears, for we did not need the bitter herbs, we remembered how the Lord brought out of slavery those who were His. He had slain the firstborn of all Egypt and redeemed the firstborn of all Israel. His command had been to spread the blood of the lamb on the door-posts. He would see the blood and pass over. We also poured blood on the altar once a year hiding from the Lord’s eyes the sin of the people. I began silently to think through what had happened, what the Lord had done and what He was doing. I was perplexed, yet strangely, the burden on my heart was lifted. I could see softness in the countenance of my wife. After we drank the last cup we slept.

I awoke early on the first day of the week. My wife was sitting up in our bed. I could see the sun was rising over the land. My wife arose and walked to the foot of our bed and knelt. I could see someone standing there but I could not see who. I arose and stood next to my wife and then I knelt, too. Before us stood the Lamb who had been slain.



Scourged and Mocked

Even though Pilate symbolically “washes his hands” of the matter he must still approve the penalty and enforce the sentence. Listening to the mob shouting their demands he agrees, releasing a man guilty of crimes against Rome and sentencing to death a man who has, by his own words, done nothing worthy of death. “Then he released for them Barabbas, and having scourged Jesus, delivered him to be crucified” [Matthew 27:26 ESV]. Part of the death sentence imposed by Rome was scourging, being beaten with a multi-tailed whip imbedded with rocks and metal. Doing this had, for those in authority, a number of advantages. First, it took all of the struggle and fight out of the man condemned. Second, it provided a visual example to those under Rome’s authority to not do anything against Roman law or the will of those in authority. It imposed the maximum amount of suffering on the condemned who would then hang from a cross unable to do anything but survive for a short while. Disfiguring the man through flogging began the process of taking away their humanity and made it easier to kill them in such a horrendous manner.

But there was another, more insidious advantage to scourging. It gave the Roman soldiers an outlet for their anger toward the people they had conquered. It entertained them. Their minds and hearts had been trained by Rome, and their experiences only reinforced their training designed to teach and ingrain unforgiving brutality. Controlled by Rome meant they were not free to hurt and harm and maim and oppress, until they were released and given permission. Once released the full extent of their brutal training surfaced and moved into full action.

Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the governor’s headquarters, and they gathered the whole battalion before him. And they stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and twisting together a vine of thorns they put it on his head as a crown and put a reed in his right hand as a scepter. And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” And they spit on him and took the reed and struck him on the head. And when they had mocked him, they stripped him of the robe and put his own clothes on him and led him away to crucify him. [Matthew 27:27-31 ESV; see also John 19:1-2 and Mark 15:16-19]

Notice the actions of the soldiers as described by these three documents. Obviously, there were soldiers present throughout the “trial” of Jesus, listening to Pilate ridicule the High Priest and goad them into hypocrisy. Perhaps, while Pilate was questioning Jesus alone the guard present had seen him roll his eyes at Jesus’ words, heard the sarcasm in his voice as he asked “what is truth?” and agreed to condemn an innocent man. Pilate may have glanced over at the guard, made eye contact, and given the impression he was talking to a lunatic. Maybe, I’m not sure without more evidence, the guard, always under control, forced himself to suppress his own laughter, seeing his authority make fun of everyone present, except the Roman guard. We do not know what went on between Pilate and those under his control. We do know he gave them permission, freed them from the constraints of discipline, and allowed them to fully vent their derision for the Jews on the person of Jesus.

Pilate had ridiculed Jesus for saying he was a king and mocked the mob for rejecting their king. So the soldiers mocked Jesus as a king. After flogging him, beating him to the point of mortal trauma, they, like Herod’s guards, heaped abuse on the man they viewed as non-human. Wanting to share the spectacle “they called together the whole battalion” [Mark 15:16 ESV] to participate. This was part of their training. Everyone learned the techniques of abuse and how to deliver maximum suffering and humility. With a stripped and bleeding back from the whip they clothed him in “purple” and placed on his head a “crown of thorns.” They gave him a scepter, a reed, then took it from him and beat him with it. They kneeled before him in mockery and cried out “Hail, King of the Jews!” while saluting him and giving him mock worship. They spit on him and struck him with their hands and the reed. As it is presented each soldier takes their turn. This was all done in the Governor’s quarters within hearing of all who lived there, including Pilate and his wife. We can only imagine the agony she endured having to listen to the abuse heaped upon a man she knew was innocent. We can only imagine the stone Pilate’s heart became as he watched and approved the slow torture and murder of a man he had determined innocent.

This is a savior? Jesus is a king? It will be hours before his murder is finished. Then he will be dead. Considering the methods used by Rome to kill people there was no possibility of Jesus escaping death or being resuscitated once the soldiers were done murdering him. All of the evidence points to his ultimate death. All of the evidence says he is alive.