Father, Forgive Them

We are in a forty day march toward Easter—the most significant event in human history. During the season of Lent, there is great value in reflecting on the significance and meaning of the cross. What would it have been like to be there—to have witnessed the death of Jesus on the cross? 

In my novel, The Soldier, the Terrorist and the Donkey King,

I portray the events of Passion Week from the perspective of Marcus Longinus, the Roman centurion who oversaw Christ's crucifixion. Here is an excerpt as seen through his eyes: 

Friday 10:00 a.m. April 7^th 30 AD

          Within me I knew there was something primeval about this position, the position on the cross. This is a man’s first nightmare, his worst nightmare. Here he hangs, naked, ripped open, nailed open, unable to cover himself. He is unprotected. He cannot hide; he cannot run. In shame and nakedness his tormentors lift him up. His sin is posted above his head. Body and soul are pried open, and he hangs fully exposed. He is exposed before heaven and the world—the world that has rejected him—the heaven that he has offended.

          Nothing can be worse. It breaks the strongest men.

          But he was silent. The Christ was silent. He was still—quiet—beneath the flesh piercing blows. I had never seen, or heard the like of it.

          It troubled me.

          Now that he was pinned and mounted, he summoned his strength, and raised his voice for all to hear.

          “Father,” he gasped, “forgive them . . . They don’t know . . . what . . . they are doing.”

          Then silence, troubling silence.

          I dismissed his words. I knew what I was doing.

          Claudius doubled over, as though punched in the stomach. He staggered off the back of the Skull and began vomiting.

          He’s green I suppose, green and soft, yet to be hardened by the sights and sounds of the battlefield. He reminded me of how I was, when I first arrived in Germania. A few more of these trips up the Skull, and the toughness will come.

          A squabble broke out over the messiah’s clothes. Who gets what? I intervened and said, “The purple robe goes to Octavian’s crew.”

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Like the centurion in this account, we often are confident that we know what we are doing, but nothing could be further from the truth.

David Kitz 

David's award winning novel can be purchased directly from his website: http://davidkitz.ca/opencart/