The Twelve Voices of Easter - backtothebible.org · Back to the Bible 3 I led the way. It was exhilarating. I was in command. No one using me. Everyone following me. I had the power

THE TWELVE VOICES OF

EASTER

PRESENTED BY BACK TO THE BIBLE

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JUDAS: VOICE OF BETRAYAL

Matthew 26: 14-16 | Matthew 26: 47-50 | Matthew 27: 3-5

I stand at the edge of a cliff, a rope around my neck; the other end tied to a limb on that tree. Dark thoughts fill my mind. Wonder what’s come over me.

I should have been a leader. I was named Judas after the great patriarch Judah, first among the 12 tribes of Israel. I should have been first among the 12, not Peter. But there is no other way. I have done unspeakable things. I betrayed my master. I am the voice of betrayal. I deserve to die. Yes, that will be the end.

At least then no one will be able to use me, ever again. I hate it when people use me. The religious leaders tried to use me. All they wanted was an opportunity to arrest Jesus without creating a riot. I gave them that opportunity. They used me. They paid me off.

I thought Jesus wanted to use me too. He wanted to use me to build His kingdom. And He wanted to change me. I could see it in His eyes every time the money box came up short. Jesus knew I was stealing. He knew all about me and should have hated me. I could fool everyone except Him. I grew to hate Him. This tree and this cliff will put an end to all of their plans. He wanted me, but only on His terms. I will not belong to another. I will not be the possession of anyone. Well, I shall be no use to Him now. No more errand boy. No more teacher’s helper. No one can help Him now. They have Him.

It all came to me at the Passover meal. We gathered in an upper room with Jesus to celebrate the feast. I was overwhelmed with a sudden clarity of purpose; an amazing strength of resolve. I could see it all coming together. It would be easy. I knew what I had been made for.

It was all too perfect. The conversation around the table was about the week’s festival. One or two had something to say about the interfering Romans. But most of the talk was about the faithfulness of God, who redeemed Israel from Egypt long ago. I was silent. Jesus caught my eye a few times, but I looked away.

Then Jesus interrupted the conversation by announcing that one of us would soon betray Him. The room was instantly still. The faces around the table all showed stunned amazement. Of course, everyone had heard talk that the leaders of the council would pay for information leading to Jesus’ arrest, but none of them imagined that anyone would ever betray the Master. One by one each disciple asked if he were the one. I asked, too, of course. Low voices ringed the table in worried discussion. The meal progressed. As I dipped my hand in the dish, Jesus said something to the two next to Him, Peter and John. They looked at me, wariness on their faces, and I knew He had told them. I don’t know how He knew, but I had already been to the chief priests and offered to betray Jesus. Somehow He must have known about it.

I had to get out of there. I stood and rushed out of the room. It was time. I expected them to go to the Garden in Gethsemane after dinner. Whenever we visited Jerusalem, that was His favorite place. He loved the solitude for prayer. I went straight to the chief priests and told them to hurry. If the other disciples guessed my plans, they might spoil everything. “We must act now,” I said. They agreed. Some went to get the temple police. The rest of us went to the Roman garrison, where the priests requested a contingent of soldiers to accompany us.


I led the way. It was exhilarating. I was in command. No one using me. Everyone following me. I had the power. When we got to the Garden, as I expected, Jesus was praying. The others had fallen asleep. Jesus heard us coming and roused the disciples. I stepped from the shadows. It was dark and the torches did not provide much light. I had arranged a signal to identify Jesus in the darkness. I kissed Him on the cheek and greeted “Rabbi.” I had greeted Him that way a hundred times; we all had. With a simple daily habit, an innocent token of greeting, I betrayed the Master.

He always wanted to be the Master, to be served. For all His talk about serving others, He always was the Master. As though He had been born king or something! Well, now that they have Him, what kind of kingdom do you think He’ll inherit? It’s one thing to lead few disciples and country peasants when the sun shines on the hillside. But see if anyone follows Him when night is come and all is darkness. Nobody can rule from a cross. Well, I will not serve. I am no one’s fool. Now finally, in this act, I am free, not being used by anyone. Free. A rope around my neck, standing at the edge of this cliff. Soon I’ll be free.

And yet, I wonder. Can a man’s death solve anything? I mean, if a man gives himself to death, freely, no one taking it from him, can one who gives himself to death accomplish anything? Can a dead man hanging on a tree serve any purpose? I’m going to find out. I am just one step from freedom.


PETER: VOICE OF DENIAL

Matthew 26: 32-35 | Matthew 26: 57-58 | Matthew 26: 69-75

Did you hear it? That rooster. Did it wake you? That rooster! I can still hear it. There! Is that it again? No, no, no. I’m fine. I guess it just startled me. I’ve been up all night. I didn’t realize the morning was so near. But it’s dark. What hour is it? So late. It’s cold out here. What are you doing in the street? Yes, I’m from Galilee. Why does everyone have to make such a big deal out of the obvious? I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.

I’m a fisherman. I’ve heard roosters crow before, as far back as I can remember. We would fish all night. We would hear the roosters at daybreak when it was time to bring our catch to shore. When I was just a boy and had fallen asleep in the boat, I would hear the roosters crowing and wake to hear the far-off voices of my father and the others discussing the night’s catch. He would look across to me in the gray light and our eyes would meet.

Rooster music meant an end to the night and cold. It meant home and warmth and food. But not after tonight. I have been with Jesus. They have Him now in Caiaphas’ dungeon, I suppose. I’m afraid. Now the Romans are in with them.

The Master warned me. He said Satan would sift me like a farmer sifting wheat. But Jesus said He prayed for me that my faith would not completely fail. He told us He was going to die. I said, “No, I would die for Him.” What brave words. Now I am the voice of denial.

Earlier tonight I tried to defend Him in the Garden of Gethsemane. We awoke suddenly. There were torches, soldiers, a mob with clubs. I had a short sword and I jumped to my feet swinging. I had a fair shot at one of them, too, but he moved his head at the last instant and all I got was his ear. Jesus rebuked me, told me to put up the sword. The soldier who grabbed me from behind made sure I did. Then it was all noise and confusion. They took Him and nearly trampled us. Even a garden doesn’t offer many soft places to land in the dark. By the time we collected ourselves, they were gone.

John and I followed, a ways back. They brought Him into the city. We made our way through the dark streets, staying a safe distance behind the soldiers. All the way across town. We soon guessed they were bringing Him here to the palace of the high priest. But for what? The council couldn’t meet at night. The priests and scribes and temple guard went through the gate into the courtyard. The Roman centurion posted a guard and led away the rest of the soldiers.

We were stopped just inside the arched passage at the outside gate. But the portress knew John. I could tell she had her doubts about me, but she let us in through the outer gate and then into the inner courtyard. We were inside the high priest’s house. John made his way into the hall where a large crowd was assembled. I had never been in a house like that before. I stayed in the courtyard with the servants. I hoped no one would question me. I did not know what I should be doing or how to answer. And there was a chance that someone might recognize me. What if one of the temple guards identified me as the man with the sword? What if the servant whose ear I cut off saw me and accused me?

Then my heart froze. There he was! My victim! But he turned his head, and I saw a healthy ear, right where it should be. I must have mistaken him in the firelight. Perhaps I would be safe if I stayed in the shadows. Everything was fine until the young portress came over from the gate to the fire. Her


eye picked me out of the shadows and she said, “You’re one of this man’s disciples, aren’t you?” Everyone in the circle looked at me. I just couldn’t say yes. “Not me! I’m not a follower of Jesus.”

I turned away from her, wishing she would disappear. She stayed a while, speaking in a low voice to one of her friends and pointing at me. The portress left the fire, but soon her friend spoke up. “This fellow is one of them. He was with Jesus the Nazarene.” Other voices rose to agree, accusing me of being one of Jesus’ followers. Anger and shame rose in me like hot poison. I said, “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Maybe that satisfied them. They fell back to their gossip, buzzing about the events of the night. Things settled down. I hoped I was finished with them. Two denials surely would be enough to save my neck.

The night dragged on. What was happening in the hall? I strained to hear. Evidently the council had convened after all. What were they doing? I moved closer to the hall, shifting for a position where I could see. I had no idea where John was. I finally found a place where I could see Jesus Himself, standing before the council, His head bowed, completely still, surrounded by noise and confusion.

I asked the man next to me what was happening. He turned and said, “So, you’re a Galilean, too, aren’t you?” Several faces turned our way. I recognized two or three who had been standing at the fire. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Angry and excited, I began to call curses down on myself. I swore that I never knew Jesus.

The words caught in my throat. From where Jesus stood before the council, He looked out into the courtyard and in the yellow light our eyes met. It was just as He predicted. He told me that I would deny Him three times. I said it would never happen. Peter, the rock. The Master’s faithful follower and chief defender. I had become the voice of denial. The crowing of the cock told me what I really was. I am disgraced. The others will despise me. My name will become a curse.

I stumbled to the gate. The portress let me out, all the warmth, company and light behind me. So late. It is so cold out here. I failed Him. Was chief among the Twelve, and I failed Him. Three times over I failed Him. How could I fail one whom I have loved so? Now I wonder do I really love Him? Can real love produce this kind of failure? But I do love Him. Don’t I? If I loved Him, I would keep His word. I would not fail. Do I even love Him? The voice of the rooster testifies against me. My own words testify against me. My own heart condemns me. I was a leader among the Twelve. I confessed Him on the mountain, but I denied Him in the night. Hereafter I will be known only as the voice of denial.


THE CHIEF PRIESTS: VOICE OF DECEPTION

Matthew 27: 62-66 | Matthew 28: 11-15 My name is Abishua. I am one of the chief priests in Jerusalem. We have charge over all the functions of the temple. It is our sacred office to offer sacrifices in the temple for the glory of God and the redemption of His people. It is the highest office in the land, and with the scribes, we are the most powerful religious leaders in Israel.

Our authority is unquestioned. Everyone knows our lineage. From the time of Aaron, we have been God’s chosen vessels, His official ministers. So it has always been. So it shall always be. We view any circumstance which might upset this order with profound concern.

The recent case of the troublemaker from Galilee illustrates my point. You understand, His teachings have disturbed the people and have even called our temple practices into question. A dangerous extremist. He has challenged an authority and practice that transcends our time, one established and approved by longstanding tradition.

Certainly we have encountered similar challenges before; those who would destroy, cloaking themselves in the disguise of reform. But none as dangerous as this Jesus of Nazareth. His followers and sympathizers have numbered in the thousands. Some even dare to claim that He may be the long-awaited Messiah. But surely if that were so, we in the priesthood should have been among the first to acclaim and honor Him. No, I am afraid the people are too easily deluded. You see, we have been aware of this man for quite some time. And none of our information substantiates these irresponsible claims.

We first took notice of Him in connection with the affairs of John the Baptist, so-called. Our informants tell us that when Jesus was baptized, some who were there reported a miraculous sign from heaven as He came up from the water. If you believe such things, perhaps you would be interested in some beachfront property I have on the Dead Sea.

But rumors spread quickly and are believed too easily among the common folk, and the small crowds became larger. He became decidedly dangerous. You may have heard, for example, that He healed a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath, a clear violation of the observance. But when His error was called to His attention, He actually claimed to be Lord of the Sabbath! And when He came to Jerusalem, He made a terrible scene right in the temple. He drove out those who changed money and overturned their tables. You must excuse me, I do not like to raise my voice, but some things cannot be tolerated. The temple and its precincts are our responsibility. And to attempt reform without going through the proper authority is nothing short of criminal.

He knew we were angry and so He tried to disguise His purposes. He stayed away from Jerusalem and taught the country people, using parables to hide His malice. We did not wait idly. We attempted on several occasions to discredit Him before the people He misled. And we have considered a long series of plans to remove Him.

Our opportunity presented itself at the time just before Passover, when one of His followers came to us and offered to betray Him. He was a dreadful fellow named Judas, a common man of Cheroth. But one must take one’s opportunities where one finds them. And he came for a modest price. For just thirty pieces of silver, he agreed to hand Him over to us. This was our time.


It was the night of the Passover. We were still reclining at table when Judas knocked. He had come directly from the house where Jesus and His followers gathered. Judas told us that soon they would make their way out of the city by the Eastern Gate and cross the Kidron to the Garden of Gethsemane. It was their customary practice. And it fit our purpose exactly. An escort was arranged. Some men with arms was deemed prudent.

Judas led us to the garden and he kissed his “master” in familiar greeting. That was our sign. His arrest was effected and He was taken directly to the house of the high priest. There He received a pre-trial hearing by Annas and subsequently He stood before Caiaphas to answer our charges.

The trial was critical. We had to work quickly and carefully. Our charges against Jesus had to be substantiated by witnesses. Regrettably, we were forced to pay certain witnesses for their testimony. Their testimony was not as compelling as one would wish, but it did open the way for direct examination, and soon He was condemned by His own lips. He blasphemed openly before the council.

Having gained Caiaphas’ sentence, all we needed was the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. We are not allowed to carry out capital punishment without the approval of the empire’s occupation force. We have learned how to play our cases before the Romans. All the governor cares about is the authority of Rome. All we had to do was convince him that this Jesus was a dangerous rebel.

It was daybreak. We arrived at the governor’s residence and called for a hearing. Sleepy-eyed and disinterested, Pilate heard our charges. We suffered some anxious moments as Pilate played the stupid Roman, adopting the position that Jesus had done nothing wrong. Clearly this would not do. We were so close to the final solution. We had paid a disciple to betray Him. We had paid witnesses for their testimony. We could not be stopped just one step short of the goal.

As Pilate interviewed the Nazarene, we worked our way through the crowd, arranging for a convincing solidarity. So when Pilate stood Him before us, the crowd answered with one voice. Ours. “Crucify Him.” The chant surged through the crowd like the undulations of an angry serpent. The governor took our message. Jesus must die.

Pilate was in no mood for a fight. He released Jesus to the crowd and He was taken out of the city to the place of the skull, and crucified as a common criminal. Our work was finished.

Pilate made one final gesture, a sign placed above the head of Jesus as He hung on the cross. The words were written in Aramaic, Latin and for all the world to read. “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

We objected. “Don’t write ‘King of the Jews.’ Write instead, ‘He said, I am King of the Jews.’” But Pilate refused. Stubborn Roman fool. Small matter. Jesus died on the cross. Terrible, in a way, of course, without question. But we look at it as a great triumph. The threat to God’s appointed priesthood had failed. Our place and office had been secured. The priesthood continues to offer sacrifice for the glory of God and the redemption of His people. So it shall ever be.


CAIAPHAS: VOICE OF CONDEMNATION

Matthew 26: 59-68

Some call me a puppet. But I am not. Those who see me as a puppet obviously know nothing about the strength of family ties. They have no understanding of my loyalty to my father, or actually my father-in-law, as you would call him. He has a strength of influence over me as though he were my father. Annas is a powerful man, perhaps the most powerful Jew in Palestine. He was appointed high priest by the governor Quirinius 25 years ago. During his term, the Sanhedrin was little more than his personal judicial body. And even though he was deposed more than 15 years ago, he still dominates the council and the priesthood. Always a manipulator, enforcing his will. He had his successor removed from office so that his son, Eleazer, could serve as high priest. And then, he worked things so that I received the title. And his purposes do not end with me. There are still four other sons and a grandson to follow.

My father is a powerful man. I do not doubt that each one in turn will serve as high priest. Our father gets his way. And now, although Annas is the power, I have the office. I do pretty much what he wants me to do, and he makes sure I know what he wants done.

So you see, the events of that night were not entirely my doing. A mob burst into the courtyard of our home, dragging a bound prisoner. They took Him first to my father-in-law. I am used to being second. Whenever there is a quarrel for the high priest to decide, the matter is brought to me for a hearing, but only after Annas has heard it.

It was late, midnight or after. I had already gone to bed. Apparently Annas was still up. He interviewed their prisoner while I dressed. I came down to the hall and the chief priests. By that time some of the elders of the city and many members of the Sanhedrin had arrived. The man with the mob was Jesus of Nazareth.

They presented their accusation. He was a blasphemer and His case must be decided immediately. Blasphemy. A capitol offense. I have to tell you, I wasn’t much interested in this business, but I caught a look from my father. He was.

I hastily convened a meeting of the Sanhedrin, since many were at hand. We heard the evidence. Frankly, there was not much of a case. The preliminary interview with Annas had turned up nothing we could use. It was clear that we would need more evidence if we hoped to make any charges stick. I did not like hearing a capital case without the full council.

So I adjourned the council so we might renew the inquisition later when more could be there. I commanded the officers to take Jesus down to the dungeon in the lowest level of my house, there to be held behind bars in chains until the evidence was gathered and the full council convened. I didn’t know what else to do with Him.

In the morning just before dawn, we reconvened. Most of the council members were present, along with the elders of the people, both the chief priests and the scribes. And there were some witnesses, those who claimed to have heard Jesus make blasphemous statements. But the witnesses could not agree. There weren’t two stories that matched in the whole lot. If we could not get some real evidence, we would have to dismiss the case.


Finally, one member of the Sanhedrin asked Him directly, “If you are the Christ, tell us.”

That was something. Maybe the prisoner would supply His own evidence. But His response was not as direct. He said, “If I tell you, you will not believe Me. “ Then He said something about the Son of Man being seated at the right hand of the power of God. That enraged the council. One of them asked, “So you are the Son of God.” To this, His reply was direct: “I am.”

The room erupted. Voices shouted, “Blasphemer! Traitor! Pagan!” The Sanhedrin was in a frenzy. But He stood silent.

Of course it was all wrong. How did we expect to get away with this? This was no trial. In the first place, our law does not permit a trial to be held at night, and yet we had been up all night long. And then we had the man before us only because of a blood-money bribe paid to one of His followers. Plus, we had asked the defendant to incriminate Himself. That was excluded from our law as well. And there I was, about to pronounce a capital sentence, even though our law does not permit a sentence to be pronounced until the day after a conviction. What were we thinking?

It was the kind of thing you hope nobody ever hears about. I could feel my father’s eyes upon me. It crossed my mind that I had an opportunity to step out of his shadow, to rise to a higher level of justice and throw out this case. But there was Annas. His will beat on me like a hot summer sun. I really had no choice but to follow his wishes and please the chief priest. I knew what I ought to do, but I also knew what I had to do.

I am one of the twelve voices of Easter. Mine is the voice of condemnation. It was my voice that proclaimed the innocent Nazarene guilty of blasphemy. What else could I do? Don’t you understand the power of our family? Or don’t you understand the significance of the office of high priest? I am not a puppet. I am a dutiful son. In that room that morning, a simple man submitted himself to the will of his father. That’s all.


PILATE: VOICE OF EVASION

Matthew 27: 11-26

This is not the life I hoped for. I am a Roman citizen; my family is wealthy. Our name is held in honor and respect. For all of my adult life I have carefully made my way among the powerful elite of Rome. I positioned myself to receive a prestigious appointment from Caesar. My glory would be to do his bidding, to be part of the greatest empire the world would ever know. Kings and kingdoms pass away, but Rome endures. The glory of my name--to serve Caesar.

But the emperor sent me here, to Judea. What glory or prestige can there be in governing this mad race? The Jews are subject to Roman power, but they are not of the Roman mind. In Rome, we cultivate common sense, peace and ordered prosperity. But these people--they are impossible. They are unreasonable, rebellious, restless, fanatics. There is nothing to love or admire among them. Nothing noble, no honor. Rome does not govern here, she baby-sits.

They have incomprehensible religious convictions. They stubbornly hold antique traditions that no one can explain sensibly, and they automatically hate me. Not that it worries me. If I were loved by this mad race, that would worry me. They have no notion of Rome and her empire.

They must be taught, but they will not learn. I have done things for the very purpose of angering them. I took their temple treasure to pay for an aqueduct I was building. Another time I brought the Roman standard into Jerusalem to their temple. All the golden shields inscribed with the images and names of our gods. How they screamed about defilement and desecration. They make my service here miserable. I make their subjection to Rome miserable.

It was springtime, and I breathed deeply the sea air wafting in from the Mediterranean to my palace in Caesarea. But the spring is always spoiled by the Passover festival. I hoped the Jews would cause me no problems during their week of celebration. Perhaps this spring would be different from the others. That’s what I hoped.

I journeyed to Jerusalem so I would be at hand in case of trouble. You see, their feast commemorates some deliverance in their ancient history, and their nation still hatches the occasional desert deliverer who would overcome the empire of Rome. Prudence requires a watchful eye at seasons when national spirit runs high.

I was awakened early in the morning, just after sunrise, by the noise of their council, the Sanhedrin, the chief priests and elders, and an angry crowd at my gate. I recognized the mob spirit, dangerous and difficult to turn aside. They would be trying to lynch someone. I would have to play for time and let their passion cool before we could settle the business.

The gate was opened and they burst into my courtyard. I walked slowly to my place. The moment needed calm. It was easy to spot their victim. He stood out, their target, the object of their concentrated fury. He was bound. I asked their leader what they wanted. He said this man was misleading the Jewish people, telling them not to pay taxes to Caesar and claiming to be their Messiah.

How ironic to hear these Jews, who so hated paying taxes to Rome, charging one of their own with speaking against Roman taxes. Surely their real grievance lay elsewhere. Well, he might be trying to raise some money for his own treasury if he thought himself to be their Messiah King. I asked Him


directly. “Are you really the King of the Jews?” I wanted everyone to hear the sarcasm in my voice. It was a ridiculous charge; this Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.

The Sanhedrin and the chief priests were blind to their folly. I could tell this man had committed no serious crime and I told the Jewish leaders so. No, they insisted, He causes unrest everywhere, from Galilee to Jerusalem.

“Is He a Galilean?” I asked. I saw an opportunity to divert them. Galilee was under the jurisdiction of Herod Antipas, who just happened to be visiting Jerusalem. Herod was as close as they would ever come to having a king of the Jews. He was incompetent, but he was ethnic aristocracy of a sort, and Rome uses his type when possible.

I sent this angry band to Herod. And I sent along an assistant to observe, just so I would know. I was glad to be rid of my problem while creating one for dear Antipas.

But before long they returned. It seems that Herod, drawing from his deep wisdom and exercising his keen political mind, had mocked Jesus and taunted Him, asking Him to perform miracles. When the prisoner would not perform, Herod wearied of his sport. So he dressed Jesus in a gorgeous robe and sent Him back to my judgment hall.

I must say the robe looked better on Jesus than it ever did on Herod. King of the Jews, indeed. Again, the chief priests and rulers of the people demanded a judgment. Their hatred for this man had not cooled.

Again, I did what I could to put them off. I examined the prisoner again. You know, it is not easy, this business of judgment. The law is not always adequate for the case. It is no fun dealing with someone like Jesus at the judgment seat. I was too conscious of my own failures. What is it they say? “An innocent prisoner convicts a guilty judge.” Well, I suppose it won’t be the last time.

To complicate matters, my wife interrupted. She called me aside urgently. She frightened me. She looked like the walking dead. She said she had dreamed about this man and told me to have nothing to do with Him. She was terrified. I confess, it unnerved me. But one cannot run an empire on dreams and visions.

I could put it off no longer. I told them I found no fault in the prisoner. “He is no threat to Rome.” Oh, it’s not just the taxes, they said. Jesus had transgressed some provisions of their religious law. Fine, I said. Try Him in your council. Don’t bring Jewish religious law into a Roman court. They were furious. They said their law required death.

I was running out of diversions. Herod would not take the case. Their council would not take the case. I had raised my voice twice in evasion, but some things just will not go away.

I did not think they really would insist on crucifixion. Rome crucifies Jews to make sure everyone understands who rules the world. Jews would not crucify a Jew. Every cross reminded them of a king they did not want and could never defeat. I just needed to give them a way out. I felt sure they would back down. So I proposed a compromise.

I had followed the custom of releasing a prisoner to them each year at this time. I did so to demonstrate Roman kindness and to generate good will. I thought perhaps I could release Jesus to them as that prisoner.


The chief priests would have none of it. The crowd cried for Barabbas, a thoroughly nasty sort, to be released instead of Jesus. I couldn’t believe my ears. How they must have hated this Nazarene. I could not escape. I would have to release Barabbas. And still I had to deal with Jesus.

My next thought was to have Jesus scourged. Perhaps some blood would satisfy them. The soldiers of Rome use a whip of several thongs with pieces of lead or brass or sharp bits of bone in the ends. They laid His back bare. In short order the flesh hung from His back in strips, deep veins and arteries exposed. I brought Jesus to the mob. Surely His blood would satisfy their thirst.

But again I was wrong. They screamed for His death. A third time I told them He was innocent. But the crowd began to yell, “Crucify, crucify, crucify Him!” They would be satisfied with nothing less than His execution. There was no room for evasion.

I finally realized that the only way to be done with the matter was to release Jesus to the crowd. I called for my basin and washed my hands of His guilt or innocence for all to see. Then I turned Him over to the mob. He was crucified.

Nothing I tried would make it go away. The problem of Jesus always came back to me. It is not a thing to be proud of. Not the way I hoped my service to Caesar would go. But I do not see what I could have done differently. Just bad luck, I guess. I console myself with the thought that few will ever know of this matter; a minor affair of a mad race in a backwater province. My name, when remembered, will be remembered with the glory and honor of Caesar, ruler of all the earth, and Rome, the kingdom that will endure. My voice, a voice of evasion, will grow silent, but my name will be remembered in honor, and not because of some unfortunate man who suffered under Pontius Pilate.


THE MOB: VOICE OF HATRED

Matthew 27: 15-26

Jerusalem is our capital, the major city in our land. It teems with people at any time of the year, but especially at festival time. Jews from everywhere converge on Jerusalem to observe the appointed feasts. Our city is filled with crowds. And it doesn’t take much to turn a crowd into a mob. A throng is a crowd in love. A mob is a crowd in hate. I’ve been in a mob or two. I was there when the mob raised its voice in hate.

The city was packed with Jews here to celebrate the Passover. I was in the street late on the night of the feast when I saw a group of the priests and members of the Sanhedrin making their way towards the Roman fortress of Antonio. They went past us in a cold rush. A number of people followed along, curious and excited. Something big was up.

I fell in step and from snatches of conversation, I soon learned there was to be an arrest, and a trial. Someone was going to die.

We stopped at the gate and waited while the priests went into the fortress. Some of the temple police were there. Torches and clubs appeared and were passed through the crowd. A crowd draws a crowd, you know, and soon there were scores of us, eager, energized, expectant.

The priests banged out through the fortress gate with a contingent of soldiers and led us out of the city to the east. Our torches made little light in the heavy blackness. We were swallowed up in the cool rush of darkness, and stumbling, hurried excitement. We came to a garden and found the one they wanted.

I was disappointed. I thought with the soldiers and the mob, we might be there to surprise some outlaws. I was ready for a fight. But they were after one man who looked completely unremarkable. Evidently He was a rabbi who had been praying there in the garden with His disciples.

He came to us with a greeting of peace. The man next to me pointed and said that was Jesus the Nazarene. I recognized the name. He had caused some kind of trouble in the temple and the religious leaders were determined to silence Him.

Jesus was bound and dragged from the garden back into the city to the palace of the high priest. Several of us got into the courtyard at Caiaphas’ house. We grouped around the fires, trading guesses about what was happening to the prisoner inside.

As the night grew old, I found a corner and sat watching the fire. I must have dozed. Suddenly I was awake. Noise and confusion, pushing and shoving. We were on our way. Pressing through the narrow streets, bumped against stone walls, we were heading for the fortress again.

We stopped outside the governor’s judgment hall and shouted for Pilate. The council had condemned Jesus for blasphemy. They wanted an execution. We had to make sure the governor would hand down a death sentence. Jesus stood before the governor, beaten and bloodied. But Pilate was being difficult. That ignited our rage.

Pilate challenged us. “I find no fault in this man. What do you want me to do with Him?” The chief priests led the chant, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” We picked it up quickly. Perhaps you have never been swept up in a pure hatred. Rage has a mindless strength that no power can resist. I shouted


with the others. “Crucify Him! Crucify Him! Kill Him! He deserves to die.” All this for a man I did not even know.

Pilate had the Roman soldiers scourge Him. When Pilate stood Him before us and showed us the result, we flew into a blind frenzy. I could see that Pilate was shaken. He was ours.

He delivered Jesus to us to bear His cross out of the city to Golgotha. Crowds lined the streets, mocking and jeering. Every hateful and spiteful emotion anyone had was spent on that man. He bled. He stumbled. He fell. Finally, the Roman centurion commanded a man coming in from the country to bear the cross for Him. All the while, we cursed and railed against this Jesus.

We finally made our way through the gate of the city and out to the place the Romans call Calvary, where common criminals were crucified, raised on a cross barely off the ground and left to die. The Roman soldiers nailed Him in place and uprighted the cross, dropping it into a hole in the ground with a jolt. You could hear the Nazarene groan as the weight of His body pulled against the nails in His hands and feet.

The mob spread across the hillside to watch. Most were men like myself, cursing the one on the cross. He had claimed to be a savior. We taunted Him, calling Him to come down from the cross and save Himself.

But there were women there, too, beating their breasts and lamenting Him. You could tell from the agony in their cries that some were His followers. But our jeers drowned out their voices.

The Jewish religious leaders were there, mocking Him. The Roman soldiers ridiculed Him. We wanted Him to die. We relished His pain and suffering. A strange thing it is, to watch a man die. A fascinating horror. There is no dignity on a cross, hanging there in public view. The mob feeling drained from me, and I was just one man, watching another man die. He was covered with blood and sweat.

The other two whimpered and cursed and pleaded for mercy, but this man was different. He spoke from the cross, but not in anger nor in bitterness. He spoke in compassion to one of the thieves hanging next to Him. He spoke to a woman I guessed to be His mother. There were words to a man with her. There were requests to the soldiers. And as He hung there near death, He spoke toward heaven. I heard Him call on His Father to forgive us, those assembled in the mob. But how could He pray for our forgiveness after what we had done to Him? How could He answer our hatred with love?

Yes, I was in that crowd. Part of that angry mob. We raised our voices in hatred. But the one on the cross answered our hatred with love and forgiveness. I don’t understand it. He did not live long enough to remember my voice, but as long as I live, I’ll never forget His.


THE THIEF: VOICE OF FAITH

Matthew 27: 27-44

I haven’t much time left. Breath comes hard. Death is near, I hope. No one who knows me is surprised to see me end this way, on a Roman cross. I’ve been stealing, cheating and robbing all my life. Even when I was a boy, I’d run through the market, snatching fruit from the vendors. While other boys studied in the synagogue and learned a trade, I was becoming an accomplished thief. I could steal from anyone, anytime, anyplace.

I never knew my father. I wish I had never my mother. I learned early to trust no one. No one cared for me. If I had not stolen, I would have had nothing. I have even stolen from the Roman soldiers. I could steal anything and get away with it. Too bad for the Romans. I always hated them. Too bad for everyone else too. I hated everybody. There was no one I could trust.

I believed I would never be caught. I mean, I’ve been caught before, but they could never prove anything. I believed they never would. I was wrong. Here I hang, condemned to die on this cross. A sign posted above my head announces my crime to all who pass: “Elirab or Jerusalem, thief.”

Two others hang here with me. Matthan, a thief like me. I have encountered him professionally on a few occasions. I preferred to steal under the cover of darkness; but Matthan could swindle you in broad daylight.

The one in the middle I never knew. He is Jesus. Some have called Him Messiah. Others say He’s a magician. He raises people from the dead. The priests seem to hate Him, all right. He caused some trouble in the temple. I was familiar with some of the money changers He chased out.

But what was His crime? The centurion posted a sign on His cross announcing, “ Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.” It must be a crime to be a king now.

I am dying. Some people die in bed, surrounded by those who love them, who soothe them in their pain and draw a cover over them for comfort. I figured out a long time ago there would be no one at my side when my time came, speaking words of comfort or easing my fears. The people at a crucifixion have no words of comfort. It’s all mocking and abuse. Scolding, berating, insults. It’s to make us an example. I realized I am afraid to die. Nobody comes down from a cross alive. Not that I have much of a life to come down for, but at least I know what it is. I do not know what will happen to me when I die.

Tomorrow is the Sabbath, so this afternoon they will break my legs and I will no longer be able to breathe. I thought, “I am going to die. I don’t want to die. I am afraid.” Then I thought that maybe Jesus was a prophet. Maybe He would work a miracle. Maybe He would say the word and we would be surrounded by the armies of God like Elijah of old. He would save us all. For a moment, I actually hoped. But Jesus didn’t look like He was in any condition to save anyone. The soldiers had beaten us all, but Him. I’d never seen work like that before. The soldiers mocked Him. “Save yourself!” The chief priests reviled Him, “He saved others; He cannot save Himself.”

I could see my brief hope was empty. I joined in, “If you are the Son of God, get down from the cross. Let God deliver you now!” Matthan taunted Him the same way. But I stopped. Why didn’t He show any anger? Why didn’t He curse those who cursed Him?


Then, as Matthan continued his scoffing, I rebuked him, “Don’t you even fear God? Don’t you see that we are being punished justly, but this man has done nothing wrong? How can you continue to ridicule Him?”

Then the darkness came. At midday it was like midnight. It was eerie. This Jesus must be more than a man. He must be the Messiah. Jesus was dying. He would go to God. He would go, and I would die alone. He would leave me, after all. I couldn’t bear the thought.

With all the strength I could muster, I turned to Him and said, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” He was the King of the Jews. I was a thief, but a king can pardon a thief if he wants to. He said, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.”

Some people die in bed, surrounded by those who love them, who soothe them in their pain and draw a cover over them for comfort. But no one ever died with Him at his side, speaking words of comfort like that, or easing his fears so completely.

He died a few minutes ago. The soldiers haven’t noticed yet. Before long they will come and break my legs and I will die. But I believe what Jesus said. I am the voice of faith. And I believe He has gone ahead to paradise, and that I will be there with Him. Very soon now.


THE CENTURION: VOICE OF AFFIRMATION

Matthew 27: 54

I’m a Roman centurion. I serve, not in my home country, but in this God-forsaken land of stones and scorpions. I have about 100 men in my command. But don’t be impressed. I’m just a grunt in the Roman army. I do whatever I’m told. A soldier has his duty. Soldiering is never pretty work, but where would we be without armies? Ask yourself that. The Roman sword and spear are the only foundation for peace in this world. Maybe someday someone will run the world without armies. I’d like to see them try. I’m not saying that I enjoy everything I’m ordered to do. But you get used to it. You lose certain sensibilities over the years. I thought I was as hard as any other soldier. Until that day.

Actually, it began late the night before when my commander sent word to our barracks at the Antonio fortress. The Jews had come to the fortress full of their confused noise about some traitor they wanted to arrest. They wanted Roman soldiers to accompany them.

There was no guessing what they really were up to. You never know what kind of crazy fanatics you’ll come up against in this cursed land. This was the time of their Feast of Deliverance, and it did not take too many brains to imagine some “deliverer” taking a swipe at Rome as part of the festivities.

So I took several hundred men with me. We went east out of the city across the Kidron Valley to an olive garden. A strange company we were; led by an informant named Judas, at his heels a group of angry priests and religious leaders, a mob with clubs and torches. They had their temple police with them. I had to wonder, “What kind of traitor needs to be arrested with both Roman soldiers and Jewish scribes, their clubs and torches alongside the iron of our spears and swords?”

We arrived at the olive grove and I got my first look at this traitor. We had come with a small army for this one man?

Judas kissed Him; that was the signal. Then for an instant a sudden wave of sheer panic swept over me. The whole troop convulsed in a moment of blind confusion and lurched backward; there were soldiers all over the ground. If there had been an opposing force in the garden that night, we would have been helpless before it.

I shouted for order and my troops recovered themselves. The Nazarene was arrested and taken to the house of the Jews’ high priest. I left a small patrol nearby and led the others back to the fortress. But that was not the end of it.

It was nearly dawn when the Jews brought their prisoner to the governor’s judgment hall, clamoring for Pilate. The Jews had finished their own trial and wanted the governor to approve an execution.

Pilate was not interested; it was a matter of their religion. Then they put it in political terms. Jesus claimed to be King of the Jews. They demanded that Pilate sentence Him to death for treason against Caesar.

It was easy to see that this man was no threat to Rome. The governor was not convinced that Jesus was guilty of any capital crime. But Pilate wanted to appease the Jews, so he told me to have the Nazarene flogged. I gave the nod.

My men scourged Him, opening His back to deep wounds, shredding the flesh until pieces--well, if you’ve ever seen a Roman flogging, you don’t need my words.


But the scourging was not enough for the Jews. They screamed for His crucifixion. Pilate finally gave in. The men enjoyed the sport. First we took Him into the Praetorium and gathered the whole battalion. They mocked the because He had said He was King of the Jews. One of them pulled some thorns beside the wall and fashioned a crown.

I’d seen that kind of thing before. But for the first time in many years, I winced as they pushed it into His brow. They slapped Him, spat upon Him, ridiculed Him. I knew we were doing the right thing and I fought against the new feelings inside. You must rule with power and fear, or you cannot rule. At least, that is what we had always been taught.

I led the execution detail to the hill outside of town. Jesus had to carry His own cross, like any other convict. We crucified Him with two others who had been sentenced. Some of the chief priests were there; an unusual audience for a crucifixion.

They weren’t finished mocking. They said, “If you’re really who you claim to be, come down from that cross and save yourself.” My men jeered too. “If you’re the king of the Jews, save yourself.”

I usually joined, too. But I couldn’t. This man was no criminal. And He didn’t whimper or plead like the others. I’ve never seen anyone who knew how to die. No cursing, no spite, no fear. I mean, everyone loses their nerve or struggles or whimpers. It’s only natural. But not Him. I don’t mean He didn’t suffer. Everyone suffers. It’s just the way He took it. They curse or they cry. They blaspheme their gods. I’ve seen the toughest criminals terrified. You find out what a man really believes at the cross. You see who he is. And this one was different.

The funny feeling I had at the scourging grew in me, stronger than ever. Even though I had been trained to believe that crucifixion was the only way to rule, that it was the final solution for all human crime--but watching Him on that cross--this was not Roman justice.

At midday, the darkness came. I don’t mean the sun was shaded. I mean inky darkness. Many of the spectators lost their nerve and left. But, of course, an execution guard has to remain until the prisoners are dead. Obviously, we can’t let a prisoner’s friends get him down before the work is done.

We usually rotate watches because the strong ones can last two or three days. But as the hours passed, I could see that this man was really close. I stood close and watched. He looked upward and said, “Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.” And then He died. I mean, He chose the moment. Death didn’t happen to Him, dragging Him away, catching Him off guard, struggling to get away. Just a man chooses his next action, chooses a moment to sleep or sing or eat, He died. On purpose. Just like that. Nobody has that kind of power over death. It was a miracle. I heard myself say, “Certainly this was a righteous man.”

I haven’t been the same since. I will never be able to look at a cross the same way again. This God-forsaken land. Holy men and scorpions. I never expected that a man on a cross could change me so. It was the way He died. I’m not the hardened Roman soldier I once was. I have seen the death of a truly righteous man. Now I’ll never rest until I find out who He was.


JOSEPH OF ARIMATHEA: VOICE OF COURAGE Matthew 27: 57-60

Sometimes there is nothing you can do. At least that’s the way I felt that night. My last night on the council. I had never seen the Sanhedrin driven by such a mad obsession. I wonder if anyone could have said or done anything to deny them their objective.

We had been summoned with great urgency to Caiaphas’ house. Quite out of the ordinary for the Jewish high court. Inside were the judges and lawmakers of Israel. Out in the courtyard were the temple police and a mob. And there before us, stood a man I had to come to know and admire. Jesus of Nazareth. I had come to believe that He was the very Messiah of Israel, the one we had long awaited.

And more than that. I had watched Him heal the sick and feed the hungry. I heard Him teach in the temple. He was . . . well, the more I listened, the more I marveled, the more I loved Him. He said He had come to save those who were lost.

I was a respected member of the Sanhedrin. I held a high position of religious authority. Others on the council scoffed at His claims, “Let Him seek the lost and save them if He can, just as long as He leaves us alone! We have always followed the ways of God!” But that is not what Jesus meant. He spoke the very words of God. This man was God’s appointed Savior for Israel.

But I am not a brave man. I have never shown much courage in the storm of debate. I followed Jesus secretly because I was afraid of the others on the Sanhedrin. They would despise my faith, ridicule me, and put me out of the council. What would happen to a man my age then? There would be nothing for me back in Arimathea after so many years. So even though I believed that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah, the Savior of Israel, I never told anyone about it.

And then He stood before me and the others on the council. Angry voices derided Him and false accusers lied about Him. Still my voice was silent. Some of the council objected that this trial was illegal. I nodded agreement. The objections were thrust aside. Our leaders condemned Him and sent Him to Pilate the governor for a sentence of death.

Pilate passed sentence and sent Him to the place of the skull, where they crucified Him. I had been waiting for the kingdom of God just as many faithful Jews had been. I thought surely this Jesus would gather followers to His side, repel the Roman invaders and establish the kingdom of heaven. But now my hopes were nailed to a cross.

I had never paid much attention to the crucifixions before. Horrid business. But this one I watched. Jesus hung on the cross in agony, more terrible suffering than I had ever imagined. I stood in the shadows, afraid to approach. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I saw Him with His arms outstretched as though to embrace the world. I watched Him suffer. I saw Him die.

I believe now that He could have come down from that cross and saved Himself from the agony and pain. But He accepted that pain as the will of God. Before He died, He raised His voice in forgiveness. Forgiveness. More powerful than the armies of Rome and the strategies of all our leaders. Forgiveness.


Something changed inside me. I decided that my seat on the council was nothing to cherish; it would never again bring any honor to me. I decided that it was past time for me to raise my voice. Perhaps my silent voice might become something better--a voice of courage.

The Roman soldiers determined that Jesus was dead. I left Golgotha and went straight to the Tower of Antonio. I requested an audience with Pilate. Because of my stature in the Jewish community, he received me. I plucked up my courage and asked Pilate to release the dead body of Jesus into my custody.

Pilate was surprised to learn that Jesus had already died. Sometimes, you know, the victims suffer for days. I was not sure what Pilate would do. I knew enough about Roman law to know that those condemned to death had no right to burial. Would Pilate enforce their law? I also knew that Pilate hated us Jews. He had nothing to gain by granting me a favor. But he signed a release. Maybe he saw in me an opportunity to get back at the Sanhedrin for forcing him into this business.

I didn’t linger to chat with him about it. I sent word to my friend Nicodemus to meet me at my family tomb. I hurried back to the scene of the crucifixion with Pilate’s release. I presented it to the centurion and asked him to take Jesus’ body down from the cross. He gave me a funny look and then put his men to work. Some of Jesus’ followers were standing nearby, watching us, so I asked a couple of them to help me carry the body. We took it to my family tomb, which was nearby.

Nicodemus was there. He had brought linen bandages, spices and aromatics, a mixture of myrrh and aloes. We did not embalm Jesus’ body like an Egyptian would, but we bathed it, and cleaned it, rinsing the wounds, His head, His side, His back. And we wrapped it in layers of the bandages and aromatic mixture. It was late in the day and we had to hurry to finish before the Sabbath.

My family tomb is not a natural cave, but rather is hewn out of solid rock. After we laid the body of Jesus in the tomb, Nicodemus and the others helped me roll a great stone in front of the entrance. It was a heavy stone and would not be easily moved. Later Pilate even sealed the tomb and commanded Roman soldiers to guard it. Our leaders wanted no one to have access to the body of Jesus.

When I think back on these things, it surprises me that I had the courage to do what I did. I knew that my actions meant the end of my term on the Sanhedrin--the end of my good name in the community, the end of everything I had thought so important in my long life. The Sanhedrin knew, the entire world knew that I was a believer in Jesus the Messiah. But what they thought no longer mattered to me. In the face of deep sorrow, I was thrilled to find my voice. And what a happy surprise to find that it was a voice of courage.


MARY MAGDALENE: VOICE OF ADORATION

Matthew 28: 1-11

I am one of the twelve voices of Easter. Mine is the voice of adoration. Jesus changed my life. He loved me when no one else did. I have almost forgotten the days before. I will not speak of them. I will speak of Him.

I followed Him wherever He went. I was always in the crowd when He taught. I saw Him raise the dead and heal the sick. The blind saw, the lame walked, the deaf heard, and the dumb spoke. Those bound by evil spirits were released by His command. I was one of several women who followed Him. We were not as close to Him as the twelve--Peter, Andrew, James and John and the others--but we constantly felt the warmth of His smile and the gentleness of His voice. He loved us as much as we loved Him.

But then the leaders in Jerusalem arrested Him and killed Him. I stood at His cross and watched Him die. I wept to see Him suffer. The Roman soldiers were cruel. Our leaders were no better. The chief priests and scribes mocked Him in His agony. But Jesus had told us beforehand that this was the hour for which He came from the Father. He said He was laying down His life of His own accord, that no one was taking it from Him. We stayed there all day. From the morning when they drove the nails through His hands and feet into the cross, until it was over and the soldier drove a spear into His side.

Late in the afternoon, a strange thing happened. A member of the Sanhedrin approached the centurion in charge. Someone said he was Joseph, from Arimathea, a town just 20 miles away. He showed the centurion a document, and the soldiers took down the body for him. What was he going to do with it?

We followed him as they carried it to a tomb nearby. Another rich man met him and they worked together quickly, preparing the body; it was almost the Sabbath. They didn’t have time to finish. They had time only for washing and wrapping. They laid His body in a new tomb; it must have belonged to a wealthy family. We watched, and remembered the place. We wanted to come back and anoint the body properly.

We spent a long, cheerless day together. As soon as the sun set, the bazaars opened. Mary the mother of James, Mary the wife of Cleopas, Joanna, Susanna and others of us hurried into Jerusalem and bought the spices we needed to anoint Jesus’ body. We decided to go the next morning, early in the day, when we could go without notice.

We rose in the cold and dark, and set out. The sun was still behind the hills of Moab when we made our way down the dark path to Joseph’s tomb. Someone asked how we would move the stone. That’s right. We had watched Joseph and the others block the entrance to the tomb with a huge stone. How would we ever move it? And there was a report that Roman soldiers had been posted to guard the tomb. What would we do?

But when we arrived at the tomb, we were shocked: The stone was not there, nor were any soldiers to be seen. The stone had been rolled away--taken right out of its trough and tipped over.

As we stood and wondered at what had happened to the stone, two men dressed in dazzling white robes suddenly appeared. These garments were not the togas of Roman soldiers, nor were they the long white robes of the Pharisees. These were not men at all, but angels of God.


We were overcome and we fell to the ground. But the angels reassured us. They reminded us how Jesus had said that He would rise again. One of the angels bid us to look inside the tomb and see for ourselves. I ran as fast as I could to tell Peter and John. When we returned, the other women were gone. We looked in the tomb. Empty. I was convinced that someone had stolen the body of Jesus. The linen garments Joseph had wrapped Him in were lying there, neatly folded in their places. But the tomb was empty.

Peter and John ran from the garden, but I remained. I had nowhere to go. What had happened to the Master? Could it be that He actually did rise from the dead, or had the soldiers taken His body away? My heart was overcome again sorrow. I just stood there, weeping.

Then I heard a voice behind me ask, “Woman, why are you weeping?” I assumed it was the gardener. “Sir, what have you done with Him?” I asked, wiping my face.

It was fully light, but tears blurred my eyes. I turned, but could not see clearly. Then He called me by my name. “Mariam.” That was my Aramaic name, the name my parents and my friends called me. A gardener would not have spoken Aramaic to me. A Roman would not know my name. I knew that voice. I looked up. I saw Him. It was Jesus. I answered in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” I threw myself at His feet, weeping, laughing, not believing, believing. My Master, my Teacher, my Savior, my Lord. He was standing there alive.

Of course I became one of the twelve voices of Easter. A voice of astonishment and wonder. The first human voice of adoration. He told me to go tell the others, and I did. Marvelous news. A wonder beyond all wonders. God has accomplished great things in our midst. Jesus is risen from the dead!


CLEOPAS: VOICE OF ASSURANCE

Luke 24: 13-40

The road before us was hard and colorless. It was springtime, but we were deaf to the birds singing in the trees. We were blind to the flowers blooming in the field. The sun gave no warmth. The skies had no color. Jesus the Nazarene was dead.

We were full of questions and doubts. We had been in Jerusalem for the Passover. It was only a few miles from our village of Emmaus. But instead of celebrating the Feast of Deliverance with joy, we observed the crucifixion of our Deliverer with despair. We were at Golgotha. We saw Him die.

I had come to believe this Jesus was the Messiah. My friend and I were both His disciples. Not chosen to be among the twelve, but disciples no less. We followed Him. We listened to Him preach. We submitted to His instruction. We believed His words. We expected to see Him established as God’s anointed king on earth, the hope of Israel, and light to all the nations. Instead, we saw Him crucified, falsely convicted by our leaders and executed by the Romans. He was gone. When He died, all our hopes died.

The crucifixion was Friday. We stayed in the city through the Sabbath. The weight of His death grew on us each hour until it seemed we would be crushed completely. On the morning of the first day, we prepared to return to Emmaus. There was nothing more to do in Jerusalem. There was some chance the authorities would arrest any disciples of Jesus they could find. Those who stayed in the city were keeping out of sight.

As we prepared to leave, we heard some rumor that His grave was empty. Someone had heard it whispered that the women had seen Him alive. Another snatch of news had it that Peter and John had been to the tomb and seen it empty. But who knew for sure? There was no way to know.

We took to the road. We walked some distance in sad conversation. Then we became aware of footsteps behind a man walking by Himself. We let Him join us. He asked what we were talking about. “Why do you look so glum?” He said. At first neither my friend nor I responded. Was He in sympathy or would He betray us?

Finally, I risked it. “Where have you been these last few days? Haven’t you heard what has happened in Jerusalem? Are you a stranger here?” How could anyone within miles of the city not know what had happened? This had been common execution. Three hours of thick darkness covered the land. Never had earthquakes accompanied a crucifixion. How could this stranger be ignorant of all this? But He seemed sincere. We told Him that the one we expected to redeem Israel had been crucified and placed in a grave. His death was the end of our hopes. There could be no deliverance now. We even told Him the rumors: that some of the women had gone to the tomb that morning and found it empty. Peter and John went too. But what could have happened to the body? Who would have any reason to move it? And what about the Roman guards? We admitted the stories were hard to believe.

The stranger shook His head at our confusion. He chided us for not believing the promises of the Scriptures regarding Messiah. Then He taught us. He quoted passage after passage from Moses and the prophets, and David, showing us how the promises must be fulfilled: how the Messiah must suffer first before He began His reign. How His death would atone for sin, and that God would not leave Him in the grave, but would raise Him to life again. Our hearts quickened to hear these words


of promise and new hope.

By the time we arrived at our village, it was late in the afternoon. Traveling after dark was dangerous because of thieves on the road, so when we saw that the stranger intended to go on alone, we persuaded Him to stay. He accepted our invitation and came to dine with us. We reclined together at the table. The stranger took up the bread, blessed it, broke it and we began to eat.

That’s when I noticed them--the marks on His hands. When He broke the bread, I caught my breath. I said, “Show me Your hands.” He held them out and turned them over. Nail prints. I raised my head and looked Him full in the face. His eyes held my gaze. And I knew Him. My heart pounded in my chest. I was looking in the face of Israel’s Redeemer, Jesus, the Messiah, our Teacher, alive from the tomb. The women were right. Peter and John were not talking nonsense. He was alive, in my house, reclining at my table. I looked across at my companion. He, too, had recognized the teacher.

When we looked back, Jesus was gone. I stood up quickly, “We have to go to Jerusalem. We must tell them what’s happened.”

My companion said, “Are you crazy? We’ve been on the road all day and now it’s after sunset. It will be dangerous.”

I picked up a heavy walking stick. We left everything and rushed back to Jerusalem. That seven-mile journey was the most exciting of my life. If there were bandits, we never saw them.

In the city, we found the place where the disciples were hiding. We burst in. Peter, James, John and the others--we told them. Then we told them again. They told us what they had seen. That small room could barely contain us.

Yes, I am one of the twelve voices of Easter. I am Cleopas, and mine is the voice of assurance. I tell you today what I know is true. Jesus is alive. I have seen Him. I have looked the resurrected Christ straight in the eye. I have heard Him teach. I have eaten bread broken by His nail-scarred hands. Now there are no more questions. No more doubt. Only this assurance: I have seen Him. He is alive.


THOMAS: VOICE OF DOUBT

John 20: 19-29

He was gone. My Master, gone. Departed. All of our plans ruined. All of our hopes shattered. He was nailed to a cross and died. And then they took Him down and put His body in a grave. It was all over.

I am Thomas, one of the twelve. I loved Him. I was devoted to Him. I believed Him. In fact, I was ready to die for Him. When news came that His friend Lazarus died, Jesus told us He was going to Bethany where the family lived. But that would be dangerous; His enemies would be at hand, and those who wanted Jesus dead might find their opportunity. So I would not let Him go alone. I got the others to agree, and we went with Him even though it could have meant death for us. It eventually meant death for Him.

Now, of course, I remember His teaching. I understand now that He was telling us this would happen. But none of us could see it at the time. He said He was going away to prepare a place for us. We didn’t know what He meant. I asked, “Lord, we don’t know where You’re going, so how can we know the way?” I wasn’t doubting; I just didn’t understand. I always learn better when I get to see something to go with the words. At the end, I saw. Something to go with His words about leaving us. The horror of Golgotha.

After that, we fled. We feared for our lives. We thought the chief priests or the Roman soldiers might come after His disciples next. So we hid in homes around Jerusalem through the Sabbath.

The next morning Peter and John and some of the women went to the tomb. They came back saying the tomb was empty, claiming that Jesus had risen from the dead. That night they all met in secret, and later they told me that Jesus visited them and then disappeared.

But I just could not believe it. A dead man from a grave, alive? I remembered Lazarus coming out of the grave. But Lazarus did not mysteriously appear and disappear through locked doors. And Lazarus had a--well, he had a whole body. His back had not been stripped of flesh. His side had not been opened by a Roman spear. No, I said, unless I could put my hands in the print of the nails in His hand, unless I could see and touch that horrible gash in His side, unless I could see with my eyes and touch with my hands and have proof that He was alive, I could not believe.

The other disciples still insisted that they had seen Him alive. Two of them told that He had walked the road with them to Emmaus. Mary Magdalene told again how she met Him in the garden. They urged me with their personal experience. But I could not believe without seeing for myself. I had to see for myself. I didn’t want to hear about Him; I wanted to see Him and touch Him, to know myself that He was alive. I was the voice of doubt.

A week later we all gathered in the same room where the others claimed to have seen Him before. Suddenly, He was there. Jesus appeared in our midst. I knew He didn’t come through the door. The door was locked because we were afraid. He greeted us. Then He turned to me. My heart pounded. His eyes looked straight into mine. He reached out and took my hands in His. He spoke my name. “Thomas, put your finger here in My hands. Place your hand in this wound in My side and believe.”

He knew how I had doubted. He knew exactly what I had said. I had said I would not believe unless I saw the print of the nails in His hands. He said, “See My hands.” I told the disciples I could not believe unless I put my finger in those nail prints. He said, “Put your finger here.” I said I would not believe unless I could put my hand in His side. “He said, “Put your hand here in My side.”


And I touched the marks. Marks of the soldiers and the chief priests. Marks of men who rejected Him, despised Him, cruelly abused Him. They were marks of men who would not believe. Marks of unbelief. Scars of doubt. They were my marks. How was I any different? I was the man who would not believe. Mine were the nails. Mine was the spear. The scars were the marks of my disbelief. I fell to my knees and said, “My Lord and my God.”

What about you? To any of you who doubt that Jesus is alive, to any who doubt that He is the risen, living Lord, to any of you who doubt that He is God, I say doubt no longer, but believe. He rebuked me gently as the others watched. He said I believed because I have seen, but He said even greater blessing would be upon those who have not seen as I have and yet believe. When you come face-to-face with the resurrected Christ, the voice of doubt is silenced. It gives way to the voice of faith and hope, because this Jesus, this Lord, this God is not in a Jerusalem grave. He is alive. Me? I doubt no more. And our hopes live again. Now the promises of God have come true. The Lord is risen indeed.

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The Twelve Voices of Easter - backtothebible.org · Back to the Bible 3 I led the way. It was exhilarating. I was in command. No one using me. Everyone following me. I had the power