warning

Warning! While this is a Christian oriented site, sometimes it isn't necessarily a family-friendly one. The following story contains some elements, including some violent imagery, that may not be appropriate for everyone. Please exercise discretion when reading it. Thanks.

THE MEETING Part one: Pictures of Jessica

She was beautiful. She had such life in her big blue eyes and her perfect smile (a smile she was proudly displaying, her braces having come off a few weeks earlier) and it seemed that God had let a gorgeous blond haired angel out of Heaven. She wore a yellow dress, the sort of thing she used to romp around in as a little girl playing in the yard, and the dress, along with her youthful smile, created the illusion that she was still just a six year old girl running off to play with her friends and not the fifteen year old young woman she had become. She sat on a large rock under a tree posing for the camera as the wind blew through her long blond hair, forever frozen in the snap shot.
Alex flipped the little picture flap in his wallet over to the next photo. It was the yearbook picture from her sophomore year. It had been taken earlier that year, back when she still wore her braces. Though they didn't look too bad, she had been self-conscious and smiled with her lips tightly closed. She was still beautiful. She had picked the farmhouse background, which Alex always thought looked so fake. Why couldn't she just pick plain old blue like when he was a kid? he'd asked. Nowadays there were all sorts of different backgrounds. Her little brother Charlie had chosen a criss cross of red and green lasers and eight year old Chrissy had opted to be surrounded by pastel balloons. But those pictures weren't in Alex's wallet.
Opposite this shot was one taken about three weeks later which they had used for the Christmas card that year. Alex and his wife Aimee stood proudly behind their three children with a wintery background. Jessica stood between her younger siblings. All three of the kids had their mother's features, blond hair, blue eyes, high cheek bones. The only thing they'd inherited from Alex was their fair complexion. Like him, they wouldn't tan. They would burn and freckle. Chrissy was a younger version of Jessica, who was in turn a younger version of their mother. Even Charlie, who at twelve was just beginning to look more like a man than a boy, still very much resembled Aimee.
It was Charlie who had taken the next photo in the wallet. It was taken the morning after the one of Jessica at the park. The first picture was taken on a Sunday afternoon at a church picnic, and the roll of film had only two exposures left on it after the event. Aimee was planning on taking the film to be developed that Monday afternoon so she needed to fill up the roll. Charlie asked if he could take the last two pictures and Aimee let him. One picture was of Charlie's pet hamster Rex and other was a shot of Jessica as she groggily made her way to the bathroom from her bedroom that morning.
Jessica had been so mad at him. She chased him around the house for five minutes until Alex broke it up. He assured her that the picture would never be seen by anyone, that she could destroy it. The only reason Alex kept it now was because it was the last picture ever taken of his oldest daughter.
While she was alive, that is. There had been other pictures- People's exhibits B through G, and he remembered them all... all too clearly. He closed his eyes and tried to clear those images from his mind. As usual, he only succeeded in repressing them until they would come back again to haunt him.
He looked back at the photo in his wallet.
Even with her hair a mess and her unmade-up face a mask of surprised rage at her brother, Alex could see the life and joy that Jessica had been known for.
It was the life that was so brutally snuffed out by the man in the next picture. Alex wasn't quite sure he kept that other photograph. He told himself that it was to remind him to forgive. He was, after all, a pastor and he'd preached on the need for forgiveness many times. But that wasn't the reason. He kept the picture sometimes to have a focal point for his hate, sometimes to torture himself for somehow failing his precious little girl and allowing this monster to do what he did to her, and sometimes he just stared at it and pondered the words "Love your enemies" for hours.
It was an old newspaper clipping, faded with age and barely discernable anymore, but he didn't need to be able to see the picture to envision the man in it. He'd memorized the face years ago. It had been burned into his memory by a million nightmares. It was a black and white mug hot, barely an inch high, and the name below it ignited a rage in Alex's very soul that threatened to burst someday, proving to everybody that he had not actually done what he said. He hadn't really forgiven the man.
Vincent J. Hynes. Convicted in 1995 of raping and killing six women ranging in age from fourteen to twenty-seven. The youngest had been Kaitlin Jones, a girl from his church who used to sing like an angel and was scheduled to do a solo that Christmas that would never be sung. The oldest was a woman named Jenna Howard, mother of three and a preschool teacher. The last known victim was Jessica Woods. Hynes glared at the camera as they took his mugs hot. His left eye was swollen shut and he'd been dressed in a ratty old county jail uniform that was most likely orange.
The man, the murderous monster who had robbed at least six families of the daughters, sisters, and mothers, and was suspected in as many as ten more killings, had been convicted and sentenced to die for his crimes by lethal injection. After ten long years, that day was finally approaching, and now Alex sat outside the prison in the front seat of his car debating whether he would actually go in and see the man. This wasn't Hynes' execution day, that was still a week off. This was a visit that Alex himself had asked for ten years earlier.
Alex was pulled out of his thoughts by a choked sob from his wife, who sat in the passenger seat holding another photograph of Jessica. This was a baby photo. Nine month old Jessica was waving her chubby little arms at the camera and grinning as if she knew that moment would be forever frozen in time by the little black box with the flashing light on it. In a way, that was how he would always remember his daughter, as the little cherub with the big grin and curly blond locks.
Something else transposed itself on this picture and Alex tried to block it out, as he had tried to do unsuccessfully countless times over the past decade. It was another image of Jessica, one that plagued his nightmares even more often that Hynes' face. Alex saw her lying on that cold metal shelf in the morgue the day he and Aimee had been asked to come and identify her body. She was a sickly pale blue, the only other color being the red welts on her neck where Vincent Hynes had strangled the life out of her with his bare hands, and, of course, the blood. Her eyes were wide open and kind of bugged out of her head, her once beautiful blond hair was matted with mud and blood, and a look of sheer terror was forever frozen, like the baby picture, on her face.
He repressed the image as quickly as it came to him.
He placed a hand on his wife's knee and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"You okay?" he asked.
Aimee forced a smile. "No." She looked towards the prison. Barricaded behind razor wire and high cinderblock walls, her baby's killer awaited his punishment. "Are you sure about this?"
"I have to do this," he replied. "I don't blame you for not coming with me."
"I just can't see HIM again," she sobbed. "I can't go through that again!"
Aimee had only seen Hynes in person one time, at his sentencing. She couldn't bring herself to go to the trial, to hear the prosecutors describe what he had done to Jessica, or to any other the others, or to even look the man in the face. But she was at the sentencing, and she forced herself to get up and speak. She didn't get three words out before she completely broke down, crying there until Alex escorted her back to her seat. She had a whole speech prepared, but her tears said much more than her words ever could. She was a mother whose child had been stolen from her in the worst way, and her loss echoed through the silent courtroom and broke every heart there.
Every heart but one.
Vincent J. Hynes sat there like a cold stone statue, never moving, never speaking, never showing any sign of emotion. For over an hour, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, and friends told him how he had not only killed those women and girls, he had ruined the lives of all those who knew and loved them, but he didn't seem to care at all. Then Alex got up. He said only three words, but these three words finally brought a tear to the killer's eyes.
"I forgive you."
After he said this, he turned around, went back to his seat, and sat down next to his weeping wife. Forgiving Hynes was the Christian thing to do, and he was convinced it was the right thing to do. He had set an example for the other families and for his church. He did what Christ had said and offered forgiveness. He was reminded of the bracelet his daughter had worn on her left wrist. She was even buried with it. It was four little letters: W.W.J.D? "What would Jesus Do?" Well, he'd done just that. If Christ could forgive the men nailing Him to the cross, and if the Father could do the same, then surely Reverend Alex Woods could live up to His example.
Except that even as he said it, he knew he didn't mean it. He hadn't forgiven Hynes. He didn't think he could. Every time he tried, he would see the man raping and killing his little girl and the hate would rise up within him again. He tried to hide it. He tried to put on the good-little-Christian face with joy and love and peace when inside he was really just a steaming, hate-filled hypocrite.
Not even his wife knew that. Not until six months ago when they'd received that letter in the mail from Hynes taking him up on an offer he'd made just after the sentencing. Alex had written a letter to him saying that he would like to see him. Alex had meant to sit down with the murderer and tell him about the love of Jesus and about the forgiveness that he could receive. Alex truly did want to forgive the man, and he thought that if he sat down with him with an open Bible between them and saw Hynes come to the Lord; it would somehow help him to do so. But Hynes never replied. There was no indication that he had even received the letter and Alex didn't try to contact him again.
But, less than a week after they had seen on TV that an execution date had finally been set, a letter arrived in the mail. The return address read "Vincent J. Hynes," followed by the man's prisoner I.D. number and the address of the prison. Alex almost didn't open it. His hands were trembling as he held the small white envelope with his address in the middle and his baby's killer's address in the top left hand corner, but in the end, after a lot of prayer and discussion with his wife, he opened the letter. It didn't occur to him until later that he used the letter opener that Jessica had bought for him on her last Christmas.
The letter slipped out of the envelope and onto the desk in his home office. He and Aimee just stood there staring at it as if picking it up would give them some strange disease.
After a very long couple of minutes, Alex picked up the single sheet of paper and read the handwritten message:
Dear Pastor Woods,
I don't know why I'm writing this and I wouldn't be surprised if you just threw it out and went on with your life. I wouldn't blame you. I deserve it.
10 years is a long time. I've spent all of that time in solitary and I've had a lot of time to think.
You wrote me 10 years ago. Do you remember? Of course you do. You don't forget a thing like writing to the man who... you know. Anyway, you said you wanted to meet me. You said you had something to tell me that might help me. I crumpled the letter and almost threw it away, but then I remembered what you said at my sentencing. "I forgive you" you said. I kept the letter and I read it every day.
Something you told me- God still loves you- I can't believe it. I'd like to, but I can't. How can God love a man like me? How can anyone? I'm a rapist and a killer. I murdered young girls. My own mother hasn't contacted me in over 8 years.
I want forgiveness. I really do. But I don't deserve it. I know I'm going to spend forever in Hell, burning for my sins. I don't want to, but I can't change it. I know that.
You said you could help me. Of all the mail I've gotten over the years, yours is the only one I kept. It's the only one that doesn't tell me I'm evil or describe how I should be executed (I'd tell you how they say, but you're a pastor and I might offend you.) You said you cared about me and could help me. I think I'm beyond help. But I don't want to be.
I want help. If there's any chance for me, I need to know. I know it's been a long time, but if you still want to see me, I would appreciate it. You don't have to. You can tear up my letter and in six months rest easy that I'm dead. Again, I wouldn't blame you.
I unclouded the paper you need to fill out if you want to be on my visiting list. There's no one on it right now. I've never had a visitor. I don't know if they'll even let me see you.
Whatever you decide, I'll understand.
And I am truly, very sorry for what I did.
V.J. Hynes.
The visitation form sat on the desk another week while Alex and Aimee argued about what to do. Alex knew when he read the letter that he needed to go. He didn't want to, but he had to. Aimee didn't understand. As far as she was concerned, Hynes could just go to hell and never hurt anybody again. It was during those arguments that they both realized that they had been living a lie for ten years. They had plastered smiles on their faces like the man in those commercials for "natural male enhancement" but underneath, they were both festering cesspools of bitterness. How could Alex get up and preach every Sunday if he was still holding onto unforgiveness?
"Jesus said that if we don't forgive," he had told Aimee, "then He won't forgive us of our sins. Well, I haven't forgiven Hynes, and that scares me!"
"I haven't either," she'd replied. "Does that mean I'm living in sin too?"
He didn't answer her question. No matter what he said, it would have sounded like an accusation. "Look, we need to forgive him. That's why I need to see him. Plus, God does still love him. He wants to forgive him too."
Aimee had kept up the argument for another hour after that, but she knew that Alex had made up his mind. He was going, not only to try and save Vincent Hynes, but also to save himself. And she realized that she too had to find a way to forgive the man. She would go with Alex, but not inside the prison. She would stay in the car and pray; for her husband, for Hynes, for all of the other families hurting the same way, and for herself.
After about three months of going back and forth with prison officials, Alex was finally added to Hynes' visiting list. It helped that he was a pastor and had been involved in local politics, but Alex mostly thought that it was the hand of the Lord which actually pushed him through. They had intended to keep the meeting a secret, not even telling Charlie and Chrissy, both grown and away at college, but somehow the media got wind of it and Alex woke up one morning to find an old file photo of himself on the front page of the local paper with the headline: KILLER SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM PREACHER WHOSE DAUGHTER HE KILLED.
Things went crazy from there. Alex actually had to turn away reporters from CNN looking for an interview. He spent the next two months dodging the media and had uttered, "No comment," or some variation of it more times than he could count. There were angry phone calls from other victims' families and even half of his church urged him not to go. But he ignored it all. God have given him a charge and he would go, no matter what anyone, including himself, thought.
Even now there were reporters camped outside the prison awaiting his arrival. He planned on hurrying past them and through the front door without so much as a glance in their direction. He wasn't visiting Hynes for publicity or to make a point to anyone.
While he was thinking this, his watche beeped twice. He didn't have to look at it to know what time it was. It was one o'clock The visit was scheduled for 1:30 and he had been told to arrive half an hour early so as to be ready in case of any complications and to be briefed by prison officials and Chaplain Joseph O'Brien, with whom he'd become fairly well acquainted through phone calls, e-mails, and written correspondence over the last six months. He had visited people in prison before, but never one as "dangerous", and never one a week away from his scheduled death.
He looked at his watch anyway. 1:00 in a black digital display against a green background, the seconds ticking soundlessly away (5, 6, 7, 8) and he knew that he had to get moving.
He saw his car keys still in the ignition, dangling there, tempting him just to start the car and drive away. It would be easy, much easier than getting out of the car and walking that long sidewalk lined with a gauntlet of reporters from every major news market waiting for a sound bite, and then stepping into the prison and actually sitting down with Vincent J. Hynes. Yes, leaving would be so easy, and there wasn't a soul on earth who would blame him. Hynes had said he would understand, and he probably would. His own mother had deemed him unworthy of forgiveness; couldn't the father of his victim get away with doing the same?
In the world's eyes, yes. But it wasn't the world Alex was doing this for. It seemed the only person in the world who understood why Alex Woods had to go into that visitation room was Alex Woods, and even he had a lot of doubts.
The clock read 1:01.
With a sigh and a deep breath to calm his nerves (which helped until he had to take another one), he closed his wallet, put it on the dashboard, since he couldn't take it into the prison, grabbed his Bible, and reached for the door handle.
"I guess it's time," he told his wife."
"I guess so."
"Will you be okay out here?"
"I'll be waiting for you," she replied. Her response gave nothing away. Had he not been pressed for time, he would have talked further to her. They had ridden the hour and a half to the prison in relative silence and had spent the last fifteen minutes parked outside of it in much the same way. Instead, he opened the door.
"I love you, Aimee," he said. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was only after Alex had closed the car door and was a good ten feet away before she mumbled quietly that she loved him too.
To Be Continued...

author's note

During one of Wanderer and my's back and forths, this one on another blog, about forgiveness, I said that I should probably write a story dealing with the subject. Forgiveness is one of the basic tenants of the Christian faith, and it is also one of the hardest to both understand and practice. I wanted to explain this in story form, which is easier than argument form, though not by much. In my brainstorming to figure out exactly how to do this, it occurred to me that I already had a story about forgiveness sitting abandoned and half finished in a composition book. Instead of trying to write a new story, I would simply pull out the old one, revise it, finish it, and type it up so I could post it here on Dawn. Well, I've revised it and typed it, but haven't quite finished it yet. Although, I do have thirty five pages done, so it will be weeks before I get stuck like I did with "Johnny". (Log on May 20th for my excuses as to why this one isn't done yet!)
This was/is a hard story to write, and I expect it will also be a hard one to read. Wanting to tackle forgiveness head on, I picked a sin that most people, even those within the Church who agree in principle with Christ's teachings on forgiveness (Matthew 18:21-35, Matthew 6:14,15, Luke 6:37, 38, Luke 15, Luke 17:3,4, John 6:37, among others), would find simply unforgivable. How could a loving God forgive one such as Vincent J. Hynes? Isn't there an exception to even this rule? If there was, a man such as Hynes would be it. But God makes it clear that He accepts and forgives ANYONE who truly repents, and that He wants us to do the same, NO MATTER WHAT! Sorry if that bothers you, but it's Scripture, not just the ramblings of Arthur B Roberts.
In the coming weeks the meeting between Alex Woods and Vincent J. Hynes will be played out here on this blog and hopefully everyone reading this (hi, Steve!) will learn something new, if not the hows and whys and whos of forgiveness, at least the Biblical principles of it. I know that writing this story is teaching me new things.
Does this story fit my self ascribed genres? It's not Science Fiction or Fantasy, and though there are some elements of Horror in it, it doesn't really qualify there either. But even the great Stephen King (whom I have mentioned on my site more than once) write outside of the genres that everyone tries to pin him in. Anyone who has read "The Body" or "Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption" or the book Dolores Claiborne knows that stories sometimes defy genre. I am certainly not comparing myself to Stephen King, though if I did it would be similar to comparing an etch-a-sketch drawing to the works of Da Vinci. But, there is no other writer who has taught me more about the craft than King, and I hope that I can move as flawlessly from genre to genre as he does someday. Until then, please enjoy my ramblings, and leave comments letting me know what you think. I think that this story should spark some discussion, and I would like that discussion to be more than me and Wanderer.
God Bless, ABR
And, a side note to those of you faithful readers who are always looking for reasons to pray: Please pray for my friend Martha, who recently discovered that she has M.S. Please keep her in your thoughts, and even more so in your prayers. Thanks.

commentary?

Just a little note to everyone. I know that there are regular readers of this blog. I know this because Wanderer cannot have possibly been here 745 times. Well maybe, but he does have a life. But it seems that Wanderer is the only one who leaves comments (Besides the spammers). Either nobody cares about what I have to say here, or I write so well that you are all so awestruck by my talent, wit, and personal charm that you have nothing to say. Okay, it's probably somewhere in between. But I must note that some of the most interesting things said on this blog are said on the comment pages. Wanderer and I have been arguing on one of these for the last week. Not really an argument, but the things we have written there are actually longer than most of the posts on his blog and the last one on mine. I encourage all of you regular readers to check out the comment pages and join in. It's fun! While I honestly would like some support on the "Christian" side of the "argument", I also wouldn't mind a few dissenting remarks.
Commenting on blogs is the best part of visiting them. Plus, when I write a story, I'd like some input on it. Was it good? Was it lousy? What should I have said? What shouldn't I have said? Something more than someone who just happens to be my best-friend-in-law telling me they liked it. Not that I doubt his honesty. One look at the comment pages will tell you that he can be brutally honest. But having a good friend say, "hey, that was pretty good," is almost the same as having your mother say she liked it. By the way, my mother happens to be my biggest fan, but that's beside the point.
God Bless, Arthur B Roberts.

PS. If you check out the comments you may notice something mean that I said about Leonardo DiCaprio concerning a certain scene in Titanic involving an Axe. If nothing else, please comment on that.

It's Holy Week, so I'll complain about ALIENS!

Hey, everybody.
I'm sorry it's been a while since I have posted anything on the blog. I'd like to say I have been busy, but that's not true. I have been lazy. But I'm back. Hopefully I'll be a little more faithful from now on, but I know that if I were to promise to write more regularly, I would find excuses not to, so I guess I'll just start writing and see what happens. I have a story in mind that I plan on starting as soon as I am done with this thing, and (no promises) I'll try to get the first part of it up this weekend.
Anyway, now to the thing that inspired me to finally get back behind the keyboard:
This weekend I caught a showing of the movie Aliens, the second in the Alien series. Although the movie doesn't provide much in the way of spiritual edification (unless you’re one of those guys who likes to tear apart every frame looking for the tiniest hidden message that was hidden so well even the writers didn't know about it), but I recommend it as a good movie. The special effects are amazing for the late 80's, the acting and the writing are excellent and it is a thoroughly enjoyable picture. That is, unless you've seen Alien 3. Let me explain. I like that movie too, but there was something about it that had bothered me ever since I first saw it. If you've seen Aliens, you know that a major part of the story is Ripley's relationship with the little girl named Newt. The writers do a great job making you like Newt's character. She is tough, but cute, able to survive alone on the planet for weeks with the aliens, but still vulnerable and even though she likes to act like she can handle anything, she is still a very scared little girl. I read a MAD MAGAZINE spoof on Jurassic Park 2 once that explained why Dr. Malcom's daughter showed up on the island. It was said that audiences like to see children in danger. That's true, as long as they survive in the end, which, of course, Newt does. In the end, Ripley is faced with a choice: get off the planet safely, which she could easily do, or go and rescue Newt, who has been captured by the aliens. She goes to save Newt in one of those countdown moments where the audience is one the edge of their seats knowing that they all get away, but still unsure how. But the writer's aren't completely heartless. They have Ripley save the child, herself, the only other character you really like, and even the android who is in pieces and barely operating, but manages to reach out and save Newt from being sucked into space. In the end, they all go into their stasis chambers to sleep until they get home to safety. A very nice and satisfying ending.
Then comes Alien 3 and in the first few minutes, a stowaway alien kills Newt! Remember how I said that the writer's weren't completely heartless? Well, it seems they were! They spend two hours making you fall in love with this helpless little character, and they make you hold your breath for the last half hour of the movie waiting to see if she survives, and then they make you sigh a huge sigh of relief when she does, only to kill her off in the first scene of the sequel! What is the point? I know there were certain plot points in part three that wouldn't have worked with a child running around the prison, and of course the actress would have been years older, but Newt's death seemed like a big let down. Why, you find yourself asking, would Ripley risk her own life and the lives of the others on the ship to save this little girl if she's just going to die anyway?
This reminds me of another movie series that did practically the same thing. This one has bothered me ever since I was a little boy. Anyone old enough to remember the Ewok movies that followed Return of the Jedi knows what I am talking about. It's been a while since I have seen these and the only character whose name I can remember is Wicket, but I'll tell you the jist of it. In the first movie, The Ewok Adventure, there are two human children whose family's star cruiser crashes on Endor and while the kids are taken in by the kind and gentle Ewoks (those teddy bear things from Jedi who help Han Solo and the others blow up the shield generator), the parents are taken by a gigantic monster who wants to eat them. So the Ewoks and the children spend the entire movie on a quest to save the parents, which they do in the end and everyone is happy. Until, of course, the second movie called The Battle for Endor or something like that. In the first scene of this movie, both of the parents and the older child are killed in a battle. I remember watching this movie as a child and getting very upset that the parents died. It made the whole first movie seem pointless.
Another example of pointless rescue is Titanic where Rose goes back down into the ship to save Jack and the two of them end up going down with the ship. Yeah, you can see how Jack saved Rose and saw her through the crisis, even finding something for her to float on while he freezes to death in the water, but if Rose hadn't gone back down in the ship, Jack would have died anyway (probably a much easier death too) and she would have been safe on a life boat. And don't tell me she would have ended up marrying that horrible other guy because she had learned so much from Jack during their two day relationship that she wouldn't have succumbed to the marriage. But, because I happen to despise Leonardo DiCaprio (okay, I know that's not Christian, and it's not the person I hate, but the concept behind the person. He's the Backstreet Boys of movie stars) I won't complain about this one.
My point is, why do writers do that? Why do they spend so much time in one movie making you care about a character and then kill them off in the first few minutes of the sequel, or even in the end of the movie itself? What if there was a sequel to Man on Fire where Pita gets hit by a bus in the first scene? It's like all of the hero's actions were for naught! It nullifies everything that the first movie accomplished! As a writer, I can't conceive of doing something like that unless I wanted to really tick off my readers.
But I have another point. For those of you who have sat and read this rant of mine waiting for whatever it is you know I'll eventually get to, here it is, and I'm going to warn you know, I know it's kind of tacky, predictable, and almost clichéd, but it was something that occurred to me while watching Aliens and I needed to write something to get back into the swing of things and to make sure that I could still produce a coherent thought after nearly six weeks of nothing.
What occurred to me was this: As Christians, we believe that Jesus came down to earth to die for our sins and to give us salvation. In essence, He came to rescue us. He not only risked His life, He gave it up for us. Yet, by our own actions, we nullify His heroic rescue. By recognizing what Jesus did for us and still going our own way, it's not much different then the pointless killing of Newt or the Parents in the Ewok movies. The real difference is that while those are just movies and those characters don't really matter in the long run, our lives, nay our souls, are infinitely more important.
This week, around the world, there are presentations of the Passion Play, which is the dramatic portrayal of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, mostly focusing on the death. I remember as a child growing up in Rochester, NY that it was a yearly tradition for our family to walk the Via Dolorosa, which a local church put on every year on the city streets. All I remember from that was watching a man dressed as Jesus walking down the street with a fake looking cross on his back while two other men dressed as Roman soldiers periodically hit the cross with short ropes that were meant to be whips. There were other people in costumes crying and hundreds of people turned up every year to watch. But, since I was so young and had yet to fully realize the significance of Christ's sacrifice, my main memories are walking around with my friends and looking for "treasures" on the street.
But later, especially after participating in a local production of a Passion Play for four years, it became more real, more personal, and more important. I realized that I couldn't just go on living in sin when that kind of sacrifice had been made for me. Of course that didn't stop me from sinning altogether, but whenever I begin to slip into my old life, I remember the image of Christ on the cross, His sacrifice, and His passion for my soul and I remind myself that if I continue in sin, I nullify that sacrifice. Although I know that nothing I can do can truly nullify it, in my life, it's like He never came to save me in the first place. I might as well have stayed in my sin. In my wallet I carry a thorn I found that is about two inches long. I imagine that this thorn is about the size of the thorns pressed into Jesus’ skull in the crown He was so cruelly forced to wear. The thorn is a reminder to me, as is the Crucifix I wear. I don't want to forget the price He paid to save me, because when I consider that, my sin becomes even less appealing to me. He died to save me, so I should live in such a way as to honor that sacrifice.
This week there will be many chances for you to witness the Crucifixion in one way or another. Whether you watch one of the many movies made about it (King of Kings, The Passion of the Christ, or even Jesus Christ Superstar) or go to see a dramatic presentation on stage (check and see if there's a Passion Play in your area. I recommend He’s Alive! the one that's currently going on in the Four Corners, Denver, and Las Vegas, among other places) please look at it as a hero sacrificing it all to rescue you. (Michael Tait's rock opera was aptly named Hero. Check that one out too) Then think about your own life. Are you living in such a way as to honor that sacrifice? Are you honoring His precious gift, or living as if it never happened?
That's all I wanted to say about this. I'll try to get a story up this weekend (next weekend by the latest. I promise!!!) Happy Easter. (yeah, Wanderer I know, but since this week is Passover, it is also the anniversary of Christ's death and resurrection, so it can be both!) But now, it's time to make the donuts.
Arthur B Roberts