The Man With The Whip

I did it.
I'm the one.
I'm the man with the whip that lashed the back of the Son of God.
Even now, after all this time, when I close my eyes I see the blood, the torn, bleeding flesh of God Incarnate's back.
And I weep.
As a Roman soldier it was not the first lashing I'd ever given, but this one was different.
Come back to the moment and relive it with me.

Pilate just ordered the scourging of the Nazarene. I'm uneasy about this and I fear that my commanding officer will order me to do it.
The officer is nodding toward me. I salute him my obedience.
I must do it.
Normally being the lichter doesn't bother me. I know I am executing the just penalties of law breaking.
But this one is different.
I know this Man's reputation. They say He has done only good things--that He has done miracles. They even say He's the Son of God.
Can it be true?
Am I about to punish God's own Son?
My mind reels. It feels like my soul is fleeing my body and leaving a dank, foul cavern inside me.
But if I disobey the order, I will be the one to receive the lashes…
The whip in my sweaty hand is heavier than it's ever been as I walk toward the Man. He is looking at me and it's taking my breath away.
It's never been like this. Normally they are trembling and their eyes glare with fear and hate toward me.
I want to look away but that would show weakness.
"Stop looking at me!" my mind silently screams at Him.
No fear in His eyes. It's rather like He is feeling sorry for me.
"I can't do this!" "You must!" my mind battles.
"I'll just go easy on Him," I think as I bring the cat-o'-nine-tails down the first time.
"Soldier!" my commanding officer shouts. "Harder! He must be taught the power and justice of Rome."
The Man is looking at me again. His eyes seem to give me permission to continue--like this was something that has to happen.
Fellow soldiers are counting out the number and cadence of the strokes. It's all just a blur of lashes and blood and torn flesh--and His eyes.
He never cries out during the whole beating.
The scourging is over and one last time I look at Him.
The eyes again. He isn't saying anything. But, I'm sure His eyes are saying, "I forgive you."
All I can think of now is to get away. That foul cavern inside me wants to erupt and spew out the bile of this wretched deed.
"Run. Find a place to gain control of yourself."
I throw down the whip and run.

They are taking Him away now. I hear the crowd chanting, "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!"
I see where we are going--out to the garbage dump at Golgatha.
And again it's all a blur of hammer "thunks" and nails and blood and screams--not His but from those two criminals beside Him.
I can't turn away. He's telling one of the men beside Him, "Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise."
I begin to know Jesus must really be the Son of God--our Savior.
How can I bear the weight of what I have just done?
He's saying something again. He's calling upon His Father.
"Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."
It stuns the crowd.
He's lowering His head and opening His eyes.
And our eyes lock again.
This time I know they are saying, "I forgive you, son."
I know I'll never forget what I have done, but neither will I ever forget the warm balm of His forgiveness.
It's over now. He has surrendered His spirit into the Father's hands.
A sun-darkening storm has come suddenly with torrential rain and violent lightening.
Over by the Temple is a great commotion. Somebody shouts, "The veil is rent! The Holy Place has opened up!"
I'm trying to ask my commanding officer for permission to leave. He doesn't even acknowledge my presence. And then I discover he is experiencing the same awesome moment of forgiveness I did.
"Truly this man was the Son of God." he says

Right now there is a holy hush of awe in my office. In a few moments I'll be going to one of the Sunday AM services at Healing Place Church where thousands of friends will celebrate that same forgiveness that the soldier and the Centurion and I have known.

I've just reread these words. When I got to the place where the soldier threw down the whip, a crushing thought came.
Too many times I have picked it up--I've been the man with the whip.
Every time I have sinned my sweaty hands have reached for the whip and punished God.
Authors often assume the identity of their subject to sense more fully the emotions of an event. They call it writing in the “first person.”
I wasn't prepared for the stunning awareness that I was, indeed, that first person.
Too heavy for me, this weight of guilt.
Too heavy, that is, until once again I hear Him say, "Father, Forgive."
Thank you, Awesome God!