"It is finished."

And they crucified him.

Mk 15:24

I’ve been a paramedic for seventeen years. Witnessed the brutality of man. I’ve seen people shot and stabbed. Heads crushed. Limbs twisted and broke. I’ve even seen a small baby girl dipped into boiling water by an insane mother. But this? What we did to the Lord? I can’t even fathom it.

"Crucify him!"

The hammer fell. Clang! The point of the spike drove through the bones of his wrist and into the wooden patibulum. The victim screamed. A hot spasm shot up his arm and exploded at the base of his skull. A wave of pain seized him, so intense it dulled his senses and stole his breath. He writhed and cried and groaned as the Roman soldiers pinned his other arm to the beam and repeated the process. Clang! Again the same results. Blood spewed from the wound. His fingers groped and bent like spastic claws. His breathing came in shallow ineffective bursts.

"Now his feet," the Legionnaire shouted. "One on top of the other!"

The torturers grabbed his tired swollen legs. They bent his knees. They placed one foot atop the other and then hammered a single nail through the top of each foot. The sharp steel penetrated the flesh, pushing the bones apart and pinning his feet tightly against the wooden beam. An indescribable wave of excruciating pain raced up his legs, shot through the small of his back, and gripped his spine. The damaging blow hit his brain, a powerful nervous impulse that shocked his nervous system and locked his chest in spasm.

"Okay," the guard shouted. "He’s crucified. Raise him!"

The head of the cross began to rise. Jesus felt his torso shift and slide down the length of the splintered cross transferring the weight of his entire body to the nail holes in his tortured wrists and feet. The cross reached vertical. It locked into place. Jesus hung there in agony, barely able to breathe, his chest wall pulled tight. And for the next few horrible hours, as he looked through blurry eyes down on the world, a terrible battle raged. He’d stand up on the nails to relax his chest wall enough to breathe, but only for a moment. His feet screamed for mercy. His tired thigh muscles cramped and burned. Exhausted and no longer able to stand the pain he would collapse and fall once again upon his wrists. And the excruciating cycle repeated itself. Again and again. Back and forth he shifted his weight searching for relief but finding none.

And so it went for hours, until our savior’s battered body could take no more. Deep in shock he finally succumbed and lost all strength in his legs. He fell full force upon the nails within his wrists. His arms pulled at their sockets. His wrists writhed with pain. His chest wall tightened for the last time, and an intense pressure began to crush his heart. The organ quickly congested. Began to struggle and fail. And finally, as his precious lungs filled with fluid and drew their last and most difficult breath, Jesus murmured his final words…

"It is finished."

*

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but no portrait could ever reveal the true price Jesus paid for us at Golgatha. For you see, he was human, human in every way—they beat him, and scourged him, and nailed to a cross, and he died—but he was much more than that. He was the Son of God. They took him down, and placed his body in a tomb, and they even posted a guard, but forty-four later hours when they rolled away that huge entrance stone and looked inside, he was gone. Jesus Christ. The Son of God. He overcame death that you and I might live.

And now, it is finished.

* * *

The Cross

Finally Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha). Jn 19:16-17

So there he was: Whipped nearly to the point of death, lacerated and punctured, his back and chest a cross-hatched pattern of torn bloody stripes. Blood seeped from every inch of his torso and legs. His head dripped from the deep puncture wounds that covered his scalp. And his crown? A nasty skull cap of tangled limbs and thorns encircled his head, gouging the tender flesh and causing unimaginable pain.

"He’s tougher than I thought," one of the scourgers exclaimed. "Most men would have died from that beating."

"Get out of the way," the chief guard shouted pushing him aside and cutting Jesus loose. Jesus fell to the ground exhausted and short of breath. "Now pick it up," the guard demanded, "or you’ll get more!"

Jesus picked up the gnarly piece of heavy timber they’d dropped by his side. He lifted it onto his shoulders and started walking, stumbling across the court.

"Move," the chief guard growled. "Get going, you!"

But Jesus couldn’t take another step. His tortured body cried for mercy. Weak and weary, deep in shock, he fell to his knees. And that awful patibulum. His cross. It weighed his shoulders down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"He’s shot," a Legionaire scoffed. "Look at him."

"You there," the chief guard shouted pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board from Christ’s shoulders. "Now get up," the guard shouted striking him atop the head. Jesus cried as the needle sharp thorns gouged deeper into his scalp. "Get going," the guard yelled. "Move!"

Christ struggled to rise to his feet. He strained to see. Blood covered his face. Pain clouded his senses. He continued up the road dragging his tortured body through the city gates and up the steep dirt path that led to Golgatha…

The place of the skull.

I wonder what Jesus was thinking about at that moment. Death? The agony yet to come? Well the Gospels tell us that on the night before this all began, Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. But he didn’t pray for himself, he prayed for us.

Why? Didn’t he know what was coming? I can assure he knew what was coming. Luke tells us that his agony was so intense, his sweat fell like drops of blood. A physiological phenomenon, called hemohydrosis. Something that occurs only rarely when the tiny capillary beds in the victim’s skin come under such intense pressure that the blood literally seeps through the capillary walls and into the ducts of sweat. Oh yes, he knew what was coming. And yet instead of running away he knelt and prayed, for his disciples first, and then for you and me.

So in his darkest hour as he mounted that horrible skull-shaped hill, I’m certain he knew what was coming. But he was thinking of us.

"Stretch him out!"

The guards wasted no time. They threw the battered Jesus atop the wooden cross. They grabbed his arms and legs. Pulled them tight.

"Now, crucify him!"

And three horrible nails appeared. Ugly nine inch spikes formed on a blacksmith’s anvil for one purpose: To crucify the Lord.

*

Have you ever stopped to think of the true price Jesus Christ paid for you? Well this frightening adventure is not over yet. It’s really just beginning. And as you anticipate the finale, that bloody spectacle of Roman sport they called crucifixion, consider this: He did this for us. He did it for you.

* * *

The Scourging

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying "Hail, King of the Jews!" Jn 19:1-3

Do you realize what Christ did for you? The suffering he endured? Well in EMS we see a lot of cruelty. A lot of mean cases, and a lot of needless blood. But most of us will never see anything to compare with this…

"Spread his arms," the chief guard roared. "That’s it, now lash them tight. Tight I said! Tighter!"

He knew what was coming. The anticipation alone would have been enough to make most men cry for mercy, but not him. He stood like a man. He knew what he needed to do and he did it. He loved us that much.

"Ha," the chief guard growled. "You call yourself a king? Let’s see what you got."

The scourgers readied themelves, one to each side, each with an evil grin on his face and a cat-of-nine-tails in his hand. But these Roman soldiers weren’t savages. Not at all. They were artists, skilled in the art of torture, and they carried out their jobs with practiced precision. They knew just how much punishment to inflict, and exactly how to do it to evoke maximum pain. It was a well rehearsed performance, a punishment equal to the crime.

"Proceed!"

The first scourger stepped forward gripping his lethal weapon. "King of the Jews, huh?" He spat on Christ’s back. Whacked the side of his head. "Take this, your majesty!" He swung with all his might. The wicked instrument flew. Its deadly thongs whipped through the air then struck with exacting purpose, ripping and tearing at Christ’s bare flesh. Blood spewed forth. The scourger stepped back grinning; the second one stepped in. He repeated the brutal onslaught as if part of a terrible game. And back and forth they went with their sick, sadistic sport, whipping and lashing, and lashing and whipping, and on and on and on…

Christ cried out in agony. His flesh fell away in bloody chunks leaving behind a mural of horrible stripes. The battered skin swelled and oozed. Capillaries leaked. Shock soon set in and his blood pressure began to drop.

"Enough," the chief guard roared quickly tiring of the game. "Cut him down. He’s done."

The soldiers cut him loose and The King of Kings stood on shaky legs, his physical body robbed of strength, his spirit pushed to its near limit. "Here," a guard said stepping forward and placing a purple robe across his back. "A gift. A garment fit for a king."

"No, here," another guard bellowed. "Take mine." He brought an ugly crown of twisted thorns and shoved it onto Christ’s head. "Behold, your majesty. Your crown!"

Then they placed a staff in his hands, and the crowd of soldiers knelt before him and mocked him. Then they grabbed the staff and hit him over the head with it, again and again, crying, "Hail, king of the Jews. Hail!"

*

Of course I didn’t witness this terrible event, but the Bible paints a clear picture of what happened. Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. He was scourged. A common form of punishment in Christ’s day, and one well documented in the history books.

Today my coworkers and I still see a lot of blood—battered skulls, broken limbs, gunshot wounds and burns—and these images will be forever written on my mind as terrible reminders of the savagery of man, but for me one image remains the most vivid of all. And it’s not a pretty one. It’s the picture of my Lord walking away from that ill-conceived whipping post and picking up that awful cross. Lacerated. Punctured. Beaten and bleeding to the point of death. Most people would have died from those injuries alone, but not Christ. He still had a job to do, and this torture was only beginning.

The worst was yet to come…

* * *

Respond! Your life depends on it!

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." Mt 4:18-19

Imagine if you called for help and nobody responded. How terrified would it make you feel to realize you were all alone? Well what I’m speaking of here is far more important than that.We’re speaking of eternity. I’m talking about someone’s life…

"C’mon, partner, we need to go!"

"Unh uh, I’m not going."

"Right. Put your boots on, man. I’ll be in the truck."

"I’m serious. I wanna see the end of this game."

His partner gazed at him, incredulous, as if trying to see the humor in a sick joke without a punchline. At first his face revealed confusion, and then a small degree of anger, and then outright disbelief. "You what?"

"I want to see this game."

"Medic-seven?" the dispatcher exclaimed. The station radio crackled as if to emphasize the frustration in her voice. "Are you en route yet?"

"Don’t answer her."

"What? We can’t just ignore this, man. We have to go!"

"Look, I’m not wasting my time on another silly call. It’s a cardiac arrest for crying out loud. There’s nothing we can do for the poor guy anyway."

The radio crackled again. "Medic-seven?"

"Seven to dispatch—stand by please." His partner’s expression deepend. A stern frown soured his face. "Are you insane? Do you realize what you’re doing?"

"Sure I do."

"Medic-seven!"

"Seven," his partner answered, his voice revealing total confusion. "I-I’m sorry, but you’ll have to send another unit. It’s my partner, he’s…well he’s refusing to take this call." A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed before the radio erupted in a swarm of heated responses. The dispatcher, their supervisor, the fire department squad unit already en route to the scene—everyone fighting for radio space trying to understand the madness taking place. His partner stared at him dumbfounded. "I can’t believe this, man! Someone’s life is on the line and you’re just gonna sit there and watch that game?"

"Sit down and relax. Ignore it. It’ll go away."

*

Sound ridiculous? Well sure it does. But what if it really happened? I mean what if you dialed 911 and nobody came? Be pretty scary, huh? Well don’t worry, no serious first responder would ever consider ignoring an emergent call. In fact, as a whole, EMS personnel are some of the most dedicated people I know. They jump into action whenever the tones sound, regardless of the weather, or the time of day, or of how crummy they might be feeling at the moment. They jump, and as a result lives are changed. Many are saved. And yet I wonder, do these people care as much for themselves as they do for others?

You guys understand what I’m talking about. All of you firefighters. You police officers and paramedics. And all you ER nurses and doctors. You understand the importance of diligence. That another’s life may hang in the balance each time you’re called to act. You do it because you care. But I have a question for you—what about you?

Jesus said, "Here I am! I stand at the door and knock."

Will you dare to answer it? Will you respond with the same diligence that you would an everyday call? I mean, listen! This is the call of your life! It will determine your ultimate destiny. Where you’ll spend eternity. So will you open the door? Answer Christ’s call and let him in? Or will you sit there and ignore him and hope he simply goes away?

When Peter and Andrew heard Christ’s call they jumped. They followed him. And on their backs Christ built his church. If Jesus Christ is knocking on the door of your heart today, please don’t ignore him. Do as they did. Respond to his call. You must, for someone’s life depends on it…

Yours!

* * *

Leave me a comment. I would love to hear from you!