The 9th Hour

It’s been six hours since I’ve been here – the last three spent in darkness even though it is just past midday. The crowds on the hill have drifted away to their homes, some laughing but most in sadness and fear. I can still recall in my mind’s eye the tiny clutch of bedraggled men with terror of their faces who stood by the side trying to avoid the piercing gaze of the soldiers. Through our ordeal they tried to disguise their tears as they clutched each other for comfort, hopelessness in their eyes. Who were they? Why were they here? Why did they not join in the frenzy? Well, it doesn’t matter now. As much as I regret it, I knew this day would one day come. 

Thoughts flit across my consciousness like rocks skimming the surface of a pond – touching with painful clarity and then skipping off the surface into welcomed oblivion for moments at a time, and then returning uninvited into depressing reality. I see my mother tearfully begging me to walk the straight path. “Gestas, please listen”, she used to beg me. I see my father, in desperation, stripping my flesh with a switch – all to no avail. I didn’t listen - I wouldn’t listen and as petty thefts escalated to more heinous crimes, the law finally caught up to me. So, here I am hanging from a cross, praying for surcease that eludes me. My confidence and bluster that just a few hours ago led me to make the biggest mistake of my life has long departed.

I try raising my head for a breath but cannot. My arms and shoulders are in agonizing pain, stretched beyond their natural limits trying to bear the weight of my emaciated body. Aching for relief, my back arches spontaneously, but all that does is transfer the agony of my scourged body onto my ankles bound to the cross. Ankles that are bleeding and raw, the rough hemp cords now cutting though my tendons almost to the bone. I swivel my blood shot eyes to the right once more and try to cry out – begging for forgiveness and praying for death, but I can make no sound. My tongue, a rotten piece of bark in my mouth lolls uncontrolled over my parched bleeding lips. I can sense rather than see my companions - if you can call them that. I know the one on the far end – his name was Dysmas. We only had each other to blame for our predicament. It has been an hour since his cries begging for mercy have ended. I still remember his last plea, not to the Romans who stood at our feet looking up at us with disgust. Surprisingly, he spoke to the poor soul hanging in between us. This wretch who had it so much worse than us. That didn’t make any sense. Why plead with someone who was about to die with you? Someone who was beaten, scourged, ridiculed and spat upon. This man’s cries still echo in my head. He was nailed rather than bound to his cross for a crime that someone considered even more heinous than mine. Some wandering rabbi who for the last three years preached of an unknown kingdom, a kingdom filled with the love of God and the love of others. No one was surprised that powerful feathers had been ruffled all the way to Rome. I had heard talk about this so-called miracle worker, this so-called king of the Jews. Some claimed he was the son of God, that he walked on water, healed the crippled with just a touch, changed water into wine, multiplied loaves of bread and, if you can believe it – even raised people from the dead. “Are you not the messiah?” I had scornfully asked him just a few hours ago when I thought I could live forever. “Why don’t you save yourself and us?”. The man said nothing. 

"Have you no fear of God, Gestas?”, Dysmas had cried. “We have been condemned justly, but this man has done nothing criminal." What did Dysmas know? And then through his tears Dysmas looked at the stranger and said, "Rabbi, remember me when you come into your kingdom." 

For a moment there was silence and then I remember the gently whispered reply from the Rabbi. "I say to you today - you will be with me in Paradise.” I didn’t hear any more sounds from Dysmas after that. I can’t explain how, but I somehow knew that his grimace of sheer agony had been replaced with a smile as he gave up his spirit.  

Not me! My pride, confusion and ignorance had prevented me from doing the same, but that was just before the sixth hour. Now, with all hope fading, a frightening thought crosses my mind. What if I had begged this man hanging between us to remember me too? What if everything this dying Rabbi had said was true? What if he truly was the son of God? Would he take me to his father’s house? Would he forgive me my sins? I strain to look at him. A gash on his side still oozes, his parched lips still gleam from the vinegar the soldiers cruelly gave him upon his cries for water. The rough crown of bramble thorns still digs into his forehead, the rivulets of blood slowly seeping into his torn beard. But his eyes are closed. I cannot tell if he lives and breathes. It’s too late! My God, it’s too late! Tears stream down my face, the pain of the cross replaced by the unimaginable agony of hopelessness and I cry out to him, but there is no reply. It is almost the ninth hour. And as I start to fade, and the veil begins to drop over me, he slowly opens his eyes and through the piercing darkness looks through my eyes and into my soul, and I know...

…I know that I too will rest in his father’s house today.