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…

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