"They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!" John 20:2Anguish. Pain. Traumatic shock. Death! Do you understand what Jesus Christ did for you? The price he paid for your soul? Well let’s take a look and see what happened, because it’s Easter once again. And it’s time you knew the truth…
He knew what was coming: His darkest hour. A time of unbridled evil the likes of which the world had never known. It was his appointed time, time to stand alone against the forces of darkness, and the thought of what was coming was more than he could bear.
"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me, yet not my will, but yours be done."
Surely his heart pounded as he uttered that prayer. His head throbbed, his chest ached, and his blood pressure rose so high that a mixture of bloody sweat and oil oozed to the surface of his skin. He shivered as he knelt in that shadowy garden, cold, alone, and frightened, aware of the excruciating death that awaited him, now just hours away.
"Father," he prayed, "the time has come."
An angry mob arrived bearing swords and clubs. They surrounded him, arrested him, and then led him quickly away. He stood for their questioning, their mockery and their scorn, and then submitted to their cruel sharp whips as they beat him again and again. His torturers laughed and cursed, striking him without end until his battered skin fell away in ribbons of bloody flesh. "Hail, King of the Jews," they taunted, throwing a purple robe across his back. They thrust a crown of thorns upon his head and struck it with their staffs. The blows jarred his senses and drove the needle sharp thorns deep into his scalp. Then half-dead and humiliated he was led before his judge and forced to stand in submission as Pilate announced his fate.
"Crucify him!"
Oh, what horrific images must have ricocheted through his mind. He was to be crucified, nailed to the very piece of wood that they were strapping across his back. He picked up the heavy patibulum—the upper beam of the cross—and started to walk, but his tortured body could take no more. His knees buckled. He fell. The timber pushed him down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.
"You," 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. "Now get up," the guard shouted, striking Christ atop the head. "Get going. Move!"
Christ struggled to rise. He dragged his tortured body through the city gate and up the steep dirt path that led to the top of the hill, Golgatha, that horrible sun-bleached mountain that bore the face of a skull. Could he hear the enemy taunting him, I wonder, whispering in his ear? Could he see the other two crucified there? The post to which he’d be nailed? How awful must that sight have been. But how remarkable his courage. Up the hill he trudged, each step harder than the last, until he made it to the top and paused to catch his breath. But his executioners showed no mercy. Wasted no time. They knocked him to the ground, pinned his hands and feet, and then placed a spike against each wrist and let the hammers fly.
Clang! Clang!
The cold steel spikes pierced his hands and pushed the bones apart, and fiery jolts of energy shot inward to his chest. Agonizing was the pain. Paralyzing the effect. Spasm after spasm gripped his core. His trunk began to quiver, his teeth to chatter and cringe.
"Raise him," the chief guard shouted. "Get him up there, now!"
The soldiers grunted as they lifted the heavy beam with Christ attached. He hung by the nails in his freshly pierced wrists. And the pain was blinding. The agony beyond belief. Six feet high they raised him, seven, maybe more, until the patibulum dropped into position atop the mighty post.
"Grab his feet."
The soldiers bent his legs, held his feet against the post. Clang! Jesus cried out in agony. Clang! Excruciating pain crippled his core. His heart pounded, his mind screamed for reason. His tortured feet quivered, his hands grew cramped and numb. The soldiers backed away. The people mocked and scorned. And Christ was left to hang on the post—
"Crucified!"
His chest wall, paralyzed by painful impulses and the weight of his outstretched arms, spasmed and heaved. He stood up on his impaled feet to catch a breath of air, but the pain was overwhelming. Relief impossible to find.
"My God…why have you forsaken me?"
Jesus hung on the cross for hours, battling to breathe, while soldiers gambled for his clothes and animals nipped at his feet. And slowly but surely, deep in shock, weak from blood loss and pain, the human Christ began to wither as his body slipped away. His heart became congested with blood, his lungs heavy and stiff. And soon the act of breathing, even shallow gulps of air, became impossible. The carbon dioxide in his blood reached toxic levels. Soon organs systems began to fail, and tissues began to die.
Most human beings would have lost consciousness by this point, but Jesus? He was more than a simple man. He was the Son of God. And somehow, miraculously, he stayed lucid to the end. He gazed down upon the crowd, at his enemies and his friends, then he drew a shallow breath and murmured his final prayer.
"It is finished."
Finished. All the anguish and pain. That terrible asphyxiating death. Yes, finished. Completed. Jesus Christ paid for our sins, paid the debt in full. But all that would be meaningless if not for Easter morning…
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"Come! Quickly," Mary Magdalene shouted. "I have seen the Lord!"
Jesus’ disciples raced to the cave. They peered inside the tomb. "Where is he?" they must have whispered, stepping inside the room. "I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not here!" But on the bench where Jesus’ body had been placed they saw the linen burial cloth, and another piece of cloth that had been wrapped around his head. It was folded up by itself, lying neatly to one side.
Folded up? Lying neatly to one side? Is this a picture of violence? Unbridled evil or rage? What happened inside that tomb? We may never know, but we do know this, that tomb could not contain the Lord. For Easter morning is not about pain or suffering. It’s not about sorrow and death. It’s about life. Resurrection. The culmination of God’s ultimate plan. It’s about that wonderful day that Jesus Christ rose, to overcome death forever.
Do you see now? Do you understand the crucial price that Christ paid for your sins? Well raise your hands and rejoice, for Jesus Christ is risen. He’s alive! It’s the wonder of Easter morning.
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