I can barely stand because I am so heavy with guilt and shame, but there I am, weighed over, torn, bruised and broken. My hair is unkempt, and there is dust on my face. An angry crowd of spectators is encircling me, and in my hand there is a ticket that’s been handed to me. On this ticket are inscribed my sins and all of the crimes that I have committed, and of course my price, my penalty- death!
I hang my head in shame as the crowd surrounds me. They are my accusers. They have seen me commit these atrocities. They have caught me in these very sins. They know of the evils that I have engaged in. I have been exposed and for that they laugh. They jeer. They begin to call out my sins in mocking voices:
They know very well of my sins.
They kick dust at me, tossing small stones at my face. I shudder at them, and cower under the weight of their condemnation. They point their fingers and stare with scornful eyes. Their grimaces contort in satisfaction. I notice them slowly begin to close in on me. I know that they seek to satisfy the penalty for my crime soon. They tell me to lift my ticket, and as they roar I can feel their spit land on my face. I close my eyes shut and clench the fist that contains the ticket. My hand is shaking. I know that they seek for me to pay.
Their voices grow louder, and I can now feel their hot and bitter breath upon me. It stings as they continue in their pursuit against me. It is time now. I know that I cannot put it off any longer. I have sinned. I have done the crimes that are written upon this ticket and I must pay.
I shut my tear filled eyes and I lift my shaking hand out toward them. I expect a quick snatch or a rough tug of the ticket from my hand. Surprisingly instead, what I feel is a hand suddenly over mine. The very fist that contains my guilty ticket is now being held? I open my eyes and struggle to see past my stinging tears. Before me is a Man, quite different from the onlookers and accusers, and in His eyes is the deepest of compassion. I blink hard. I want to capture Him clearly to make sure that this is not some apparition before me, but the tenderness of His hand on mine is very real. All of a sudden, His hand slips off of mine. He seems to smile at me even though His lips have made no motion, and neither has He said a word. Then I see it. In the hand that He has drawn back to Himself is my ticket. My hands have been emptied!
I am so confused right now, as you can imagine. See, that is the ticket that says all those horrible things like "liar", "thief" and "fornicator", and the Man before me is none of those things. That’s my guilty ticket that He’s holding. But, before I can protest, they who were once my accusers are now encircling Him. They begin to yell at Him and all the while He remains timid and calm, with His eyes still completely fixed on me.
Oh, the brokenness I feel when they spit on Him, and toss angry words and punches. I yell for them to stop. This man is not guilty. He has not committed a crime. Don’t they see that? I thrust my hands forth to lay hold of Him to get my ticket back but the crowd is too strong against me. Without warning, they start taking Him away. The Kind, Gentle, Timid, and very Innocent Man is being lead away by the multitude. "DEATH!" They scream.
He is still looking at me the whole time that the mass swarms and seeks to suffocate Him with the very threats that should belong to me. Yet His eyes never accuse. I am crying loudly now; my heart is aching like never before. I watch them drag Him up a hill willingly, and I can’t stop sobbing because I am the guilty one, you see. The Innocent Man is holding my ticket and He is about to pay its price for me.
| I will try to stand by your opinion of this not being a poetical creature, or a piece of art. I must firstly infer that I'm far from being in the gracious light you find yourself in, because I find myself to logically tempted by the darkness of absurdity. I enjoy, you could say, knowing that life, a life like my own, can be such a tragedy because of such insignificant details. They say a name does not matter, in fact they nurture children with that idea to protect them from those malicious name-callers. So I asked myself once upon a time, why would it matter if you used His lord's "name" in vain? And for that matter, what makes "Gosh damn it!" any less vile than "God damn it!"|
Later on I began to ask myself why it was that I was so free, and seemingly clueless of all these "rules." I also wondered what purpose it served others to distinguish themselves by those rules, proud of being prideless. I also wondered why my neighbour only seemed happy at church, as if fulfilled by some sort of Golden rule (or Golden Means as Aristotle would call it).
Well, finally, I was left with tons of questions and no answers. So I up and decided to abandon asking them, abandon the aporetic pursuit of righteousness and told myself I'd live life to my best and be damned if I was meant to be. Does that make my mind proud? Probably. But who's nature is that of the damned? I once tried to explain to a very gracious friend of mine why it was that I couldn't submit myself properly, and it went along the lines of this, the explanation that is: You know the Pythagorean theory? Well, it's stipulated as being right based on epitome, whereupon the solution has the quality of being unique. Now I know one thing when it comes to math that is ALWAYS true; there is never just one solution. So am I wrong to be looking for that second solution?
I must congratulate you on this write though, it is extremely tightly nit. Even down to the play on "opening your eyes." My only possible suggestion, which might be completely wrong being as it's late and I may be delirious is this sentence: "I notice them slowly begin to close in on me." I read it over quite a multitudinous amount of times and can't decide whether or not it fits. I can say this much, it reads awkwardly to me and I'd swap them for they (which might warrant an inverted syntax) because otherwise my mouth wants to read it as: "I notice them slowly beginning to close in on me."
Well, best of luck with your ticket.
|| Posted on 2008-06-21 00:00:00 | by Outlaw | [ Reply to This ] || Hi, |
He did die for our sins, and this piece of writing, illustrates that He wants to help, and forgive us, great write, thanks for sharing.
You are fortunate for having this vision.
|| Posted on 2007-02-24 00:00:00 | by bornx2000 | [ Reply to This ] || I love this writting and I think we sometimes forget that this man died for our sins? I am glad someone such as yourself had the strength to put this here. You have a way with words, strong and gentle but you get your point across.|
Thanks for the great words of wissdom!
If you get a chance come read my poem
Between Heaven and Hell.
|| Posted on 2006-06-06 00:00:00 | by whendt | [ Reply to This ] || wow, this is poetic and brilliant, and captures the very nature of Jesus as the redeemer... now i don't necessarily believe, but this touched me as well as it touches others... Jesus taught love and understanding, the way i try to live my life... but that is a discussion for another time and place...|
this "vision" you had is one of the most poetic epiphanies i have ever read... nicely done
PEACE and LOVE, greg
|| Posted on 2006-02-13 00:00:00 | by geherald | [ Reply to This ] || "There is a redeemer, Jesus God's own Son..." You've stated in a brief analogy what Christianity has attempted to teach as its central doctrine for aproximately two thousand years. You also describe a scene similar to that which haunted Peter after his betrayal at the trial of Christ before the Sanhedren (when he Lion momentarily became a Lamb). Now the true test of that longing look is to accept all that you've been and all that you've become and express that energy and passion in your writing (both as art and as ministry). It's been said of pagan poets that the spirit of the god they worshipped 'breathed' in them (which is considered inspiration). It was also noted by Homer that, given the choice of tossing a priest or a poet overboard to lighten a ship caught in a storm, the crew would invariably toss the priest and keep the poet (because those who 'professed' God were a dime a dozen, those who heard and wrote His thoughts were rare). An interesting write about your epiphany. Take care. Bill.||| Posted on 2006-02-13 00:00:00 | by rws | [ Reply to This ] |