This is a dramatic reading on the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus Christ from the viewpoint of the Apostle John.

It strikes me as odd realizing it’s been a year since the Shavuot after our Messiah’s crucifixion and subsequent resurrection. Some call the holiday Pentecost because it comes fifty days after Bikkurim or Firstfruit, the day our Messiah rose from the dead. It’s really beyond my comprehension how the Holy Spirit has added so many people to his church. Actually, now that I think about it, Jesus did say that one day we would be able to do more than he ever did. I remember thinking at the time, that was a bold and impossible statement. Yet, his Holy Spirit has really done that as it helps us convey to others that Jesus is the answer to what they are searching for.

I think back to how this all started for me. I was a mere fisherman. No one really important. Although, my father Zebedee having his own fleet of fishing vessels made me think I was important. Boy, did I have a lot to learn. Yet, Jesus called me to follow him, and he said he would make me a fisher of men. And, I guess, that is what he has done. Of course, my start was not so profound. I have always been passionate, but unfortunately, that passion was not always bridled very well. Thus, I was labeled a Son of Thunder. On the flipside, many also implied I was his beloved disciple. Yet, that, too, was not how it had always been. In the beginning, Jesus would tell me, “I love you, John, but . . .” These words would cut me to the core because what he was really telling me was that I had made another blunder.

Yet, over time, I took his words to heart, even though they were quite painful at the moment he spoke them. I tried desperately to do things differently and to bridle my passion and make it positive and not explosive. I remember the first time he cusp my neck with his hand and gave my cheek a peck, but now, his words were, “I love you, John” without that dreaded “but.” I can’t tell you how my heart soared, and that experience even made me long to become more diligent. I often woke early from my slumber and deeply pondered the meaning of his words as I lay there and listened to the birds starting their day.

Although I didn’t always understand his stories, I knew there was more to them than just the obvious. Yet, even when I understood, or thought I understood these stories, that did not prepare me for what was soon to come. Even though what occurred was foretold, that was not what we had been taught about how the coming Messiah would act or would do. Now, I definitely knew Jesus was our promised Messiah, but I guess I imposed what I was taught about the coming Messiah on him rather than really listening and understanding what he was trying to tell us about what he was going to do and what would happen to him. Dying was nowhere in our thoughts about what was going to happen to him. We never focused on those things in the prophetic Scriptures. Our Messiah was going to be a conquering Messiah and would become our king. This is what we wanted for Jesus. But that is not what happened.

His dying on the cross is still so vivid in my memory. I don’t think this memory will ever fade. His crown of thorns caused blood to trickle down his cheeks and chin and then onto his chest. It was so heart wrenching to watch. I can’t even explain the blood. There was just so much of it. I don’t think anyone could have endured so much agony as he did if they were merely human. If he had not been our Messiah, being both divine and human, he would not have even made it to the cross before he would have expired. To put it mildly, he was a bloody mess.

Mary, his mother, who had always treated me as a son, stood beside me with tears streaming down her cheeks. She tried to ignore all those who were hurling jeers and insults at him. Yet, it was almost impossible to ignore. Grief is a strange thing though as that memory is not as vivid as just seeing him suffer. What else is vivid is the darkness that descended upon this scene before us. It was almost like nature had joined in our suffering and sorrow and was now displaying our inward emotions for all to see.

Mary clung to me as if her very strength depended on me supplying it. I think that was the only way she made it through this awful ordeal. I can’t tell you how horrific it was to stand there unnerved as we looked up at him slowly dying before us. Through pained eyes, he looked at me and said, “Behold, your mother.” I almost gasped as this statement revealed he was thinking about her during the very last moments of his life. I nodded. Of course, I would do anything he asked of me. Yet, she was like a mother to me already, so it was not a burdensome request. Mary seemed to lose it, though, and she clung to me even more tightly as she lost almost all her strength understanding the finality of Jesus’ words.

I then saw one of the guards put something on a sponge and put it to his mouth. I thought it a hint of compassion as he was giving Jesus something to relieve his thirst. Maybe he was, but I soon realized it was more likely a playful distraction for the guards as they argued over who would do the deed. He then uttered, “It is finished.” As he uttered these words, he looked at me, his eyes so piercing, without even a blink. His expression turned almost serene, but I felt the obscenity of the event as I saw the spark in his eyes slowly go dim.

He was gone! How could this be? His work couldn’t be over. In whom would I now confide? I saw his head fall to his chest which caused more blood to spatter and cascade down from his cheek. His body was now just a shell. His words to Nicodemus later came to mind. He was now like that brass serpent Moses placed on a pole. Yet, the significance of this didn’t really register quite yet. Also, it was not until much later that I realized his Spirit was accomplishing the victory for us our souls needed. For now, it was just heartache. Mary hugged me tightly, still sobbing. Our senses were assaulted again as one of the guards rammed his spear into Jesus’ side with an upward thrust. Mary shrieked as the act startled her so. I wrapped my arms around her and buried her face into my chest as I didn’t want her to see the blood and water that gushed from the puncture wound now visible in his side. If I didn’t know he had already died, there was now no question as to his death.

Both Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, two prominent members of the Jewish Sanhedrin and evidently secret disciples of his came forward and took his body down and placed him in a nearby tomb. This surprised me that they would be so bold now and do this. I was impressed that they were so gentle with his body. I knew Nicodemus had talked to the Messiah, but I never saw him at any of our gatherings. I did see Joseph occasionally when Jesus talked, but I had no idea he had now believed in Jesus. Most of the Jewish leaders didn’t. I was glad these two had finally gotten their courage to act. But it seemed a little too late to me. The tomb lay in a quaint place that had been made into a beautiful garden for someone of wealth. Quite fitting, I thought. Just then, we heard the shofar at the temple being blown announcing the Passover lamb had just been slain. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this symbolized a double vignette of offerings. Both the national pascal lamb and the true Passover Lamb of God were sacrificed. At this time, I had no understanding that this was all part of his plan for us, for the world, and of all we would gain eternally from his death. It’s not that he had not said or implied such, it’s just that my brain was not willing to go there while he was alive.

I, along with the other disciples, sequestered ourselves away. We were scared and really had no idea what to do or what to believe. Our minds were in such turmoil. Many of the women wanted to go back to the tomb and do their own anointing of Jesus’ body. Some of us tried to discourage them from doing so, but they were determined to show their devotion to him. Yet, it was three days after his crucifixion before they were able to do so due to the first day of Matzah, or Unleavened Bread, being a special Sabbath and then followed by the weekly Sabbath. None of us men went with them. We believed that if any of the soldiers guarding his tomb saw us, we would get arrested. Yet, the women could likely cajole the soldiers to let them into the tomb for a short time.

Not long after the women had left us, the door suddenly burst open. We all flinched and looked for a way to escape as we thought Roman soldiers had somehow found us. A couple of the women had returned and were beside themselves. “He’s alive!” they shouted. “We should not have doubted.” We all sat or stood dumbfounded. I was one of the first to leave and check this out. Peter was not far behind. I ran with all my might. Although quite a distance to the tomb, I didn’t stop for anything except seeing Mary Magdalene along the way. “I saw him,” she said. “He is risen, not dead. Go and see for yourself.” I rushed off, but her words did not compute in my mind. I could only think that someone must have stolen his body and Mary was confused. The faster I ran, the more livid I became that someone would steal our Master’s body like this. There had to be a way to make them pay for such cruelty. Yet, when I arrived, I first didn’t go in, but Peter did. When he came out, I went in as my anger had subsided and I became curious as Peter looked perplexed. My eyes grew wide upon seeing the facecloth folded neatly and set apart from the other linen. This meant his body was not taken in haste or inhumanely. Someone had taken a conscious effort to fold this linen. My heart leapt within me. Could it really be true? Was Mary not confused after all? Was he actually alive? I began to believe it. Our Master was alive!

Peter and I and the women all went back to the others. Everyone was in an uproar disputing what we had seen. Some believed and others were skeptical. Suddenly, with the door locked, Jesus stood among us. At first, we all jumped back. I was one of the first to step forward. He came up to me, gave me a hug, and said as he had done many times before, “John, I love you.” My eyes filled with tears as his hug calmed my doubts and fears. Then, all the others flocked to him and began to embrace him as well.

Unfortunately, he was with us for only forty days when he took us to the Mount of Olives, and we saw his ascension. I have to say, we were so unprepared for comprehending his instructions to us of, “Stay in Jerusalem.” Before we knew what was happening, he rose out of our sight and into the clouds. While angels did appear and tell us not to be flustered because, one day, he would return to us just as we saw him leave, their words only added to our tension and confusion as we had a hard time processing all of this.

Yet, in ten days, things became so much clearer as the Holy Spirit descended upon us in a mighty way on that Shavuot, or as some call it, Pentecost. I have no words to really tell you how I felt. Yet, the Holy Spirit gave us calmness and a boldness which I had never experienced before. Words to say just came to us. We apparently spoke in other languages, but all we knew was we were speaking words God gave us to say.

His plan for us is now so much clearer. We are to build his kingdom until he returns. Then all the prophecies that he did not complete when he was with us will be fulfilled when he returns because he is always true to his word and his word will never return to him void. All that he says or has said will come true. I continue to be a fisherman of souls and can only share what my Messiah shared with me. The answer to what each person is truly seeking for themselves is to respond and allow Christ to give them their own Pentecost just as he did for me and so many others.

And what about you? Are you willing to join us and be one of his disciples too? Have you had your Pentecost? All you have to do is do what I did. Accept his sacrifice. It is only through his sacrifice for us, for our sins, that we can now come to him in repentance and accept what he has done for us which we could not do for ourselves. Nothing we do now or even after we accept him is necessary or even effective. It is all through his work and not ours. Then the Holy Spirit comes and dwells with you and helps you to become more like him. Today can be your Pentecost. I had mine. Why not have yours today?

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Visit Books & Words to Inspire by Randy C. Dockens

 Numb.

How else do I describe how I feel?

After three days of tears, nightmares, and incoherent thoughts, I’m surprised I can even do this. After experiencing all I did, I’m still expected to celebrate Pesach, Matzah, and Bikkurim? Impossible. I wasn’t hungry. No one was hungry. It was all perfunctory. It should have had meaning, but, no, it had none. My loss—our loss—is too great.

Feasts are to bring one closer to HaShem. Yet wasn’t I already close to him? He was here. Physical. Tangible. But now? After what happened, my Jewishness failed me. I do not feel “passed over.” I feel like I received a direct hit. When the Pascal shofar blew, he said, “It is finished.” My heart melted at that very moment. I have not recovered.

It’s now just after sunrise on the first day of the week. The Romans never had a knack on timing. Or, maybe they did. Didn’t this act create the greatest suffering for all involved? Not only for him. Oh, most definitely for him. It was hard for me to watch, to bear, to endure. I can’t even imagine how he did. Again, Rome exacted the harshest punishment on us. My Jewishness, rather than helping, hindered. No time to pay my respects to this one who had done so much for me. I owe my very life to him. He brought me from the very depths of Sheol into the light—his light. I owe him more than forcefully having to ignore him at such a critical moment. Rome had no concern for our suffering. They had the crucifixion on Pesach and the day of preparation for Matzah, a day we treat as a special Sabbath. This forced our hand to not care for the body of the one who had taken care of us. Then came the weekly Sabbath. Again, our Jewishness left us in despair and away from performing our desire to honor this one who deserves our honor more than anyone. My respect to this one who gave me more respect than anyone else on earth has been delayed for three days. I am heartbroken, tired, weary, and worn. But this day, I will fulfil my duty, my obligation, my honor.

Other women are with me. No one can be more grieved than Mary, his mother. I know how broken my heart is. I can’t imagine hers. It must be inconsolable. I know mine is. I walk behind the others carrying an armload of spices. I know Joseph had spices and used them, but I need to show honor to him as well. The other women with me feel the same. Yet, I also dread doing this after three days. To add spices, some of the linen will have to be loosened to add them—not to mention the odor of decay. I saw how bloody his body was. The linen Joseph and Nicodemus used will likely be stuck to his body, unyielding to be released from the spots where blood oozed from his body, which were many. So many. I will be strong. I must be strong. I will pay honor to this one who loved me so.

We are all still grieving. Yet, I no longer weep. I can’t weep even though my heart feels like it is broken and seeping. Three days of weeping has exhausted my tears, but not my grief. The grief has only intensified even though my tears have dried up. No one is talking, except for Salome who is trying to comfort mother Mary. She was not only the mother to our Messiah alone, but to us all. She treated all his followers as her children. Indeed, she is most precious. Seeing her heart breaking continues to break mine.

One of the women in front of me stops suddenly and I almost walk into her. “The stone!” she exclaims. “How will we roll the stone away? All the men stayed in the city.”

I place my hand on her shoulder. “We will just convince one of the guards to roll the stone away for us,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Speak to a Roman! I . . . I can’t.”

“Oh, I can,” I tell her. “I’ve done it before.” My cheeks redden. “Too many times, I’m afraid,” I say in almost a whisper.

As only she can, Mother Mary says, “HaShem will help us.”

Her words suffice everyone, and we continue on. Yet, I really didn’t want to speak to a Roman soldier. Remembrance of their touch I had received before almost put me in a panicked state. Mother’s words calm me. Yes, HaShem will be with us. After all, HaShem would want us to honor this one who honored Him as well.

Talk again subsides and I get lost in my thoughts until, again, I almost run into those in front of me. I look up and gasp. The stone is not just rolled away, but off its track! We all stand there, looking at each other in astonishment.

It then strikes me. The soldiers. They are nowhere to be seen. It is almost like each one of us wait for the other to make the first move. I take a deep breath and step forward. “I’ll investigate,” I say.

I slowly walk toward the tomb. I can feel my heart begin to pound and begin to hear my heartrate in my ears. I force myself to breathe. Once I get to where the stone lay off its track, I lay the spices in my arms down at that spot, stand, and straighten my clothes, biding time, and force my nerves to allow me to enter. The only thing I can think of is that someone stole his body. I can barely fathom such an act. If so, how can I ever show my respects?

I slowly enter. It takes time for my eyes to adjust. Before I even get all the way in, I see his body gone! I gasp as my hand goes to my mouth. But his shroud is still there. The blood stains are undeniable. I stiffen in fear and panic. I cannot force myself to go farther. I turn and run out of the tomb and into the garden.

I know my actions surprise my friends, but I am so overcome, I cannot stop and say anything. I don’t even observe what the other women do. I know they enter, but I become so enwrapped in my own sorrow, it doesn’t even occur to me to think of theirs. Very selfish, I know. But I am so overwhelmed.

I rest my hands on a nearby stone to steady myself. The beauty of this garden is undeniable, but its beauty seems to mock my sorrow. This is supposed to be a place of contemplative remembrance, but now, even that is stolen from me. I see a gardener tending to some of the flowers. He does not seem to notice me, and I am relieved as I just want to be alone. In the distance, I can still see three crosses erect and vacant. A flood of horrific memories flood over me: the jeering crowds, the taunting by the supposedly “righteous” priests, and his blood dripping from his body onto the ground. So many wounds; so much blood. I close my eyes and sob. I still can’t form tears. They are still dried up, but not my sorrow. The event, the timing, his burial—all at inconvenient times that seem to mock me. Now, the ultimate mocking. His body itself is gone so I cannot pay any respect at all. It is almost too much. I sink to my knees. My legs can no longer sustain me.

After a time, I realize that I need to tell the others. Strength comes back to my legs, and I run. My sorrow fuels my strength. Before I get very far, I see Peter and John running toward me. They stop and take my arms.

“Mary,” Peter says. “What did you see?”

I can only shake my head and barely get the words out, “They have taken him. I don’t know where he is.”

Both nod and then run on. I debate to go on or return. I decide to return to see what Peter and John will do. Yet, my running is over. I walk. By the time I arrive back, Peter and John are gone. I also know I must keep my commitment and go into the tomb. I had told Mother Mary I would, so I need to keep my word. I know they, Peter, and John have already entered, but while perfunctory, I must keep my commitment. As I slowly enter, I become overwhelmed with emotion all over again and begin to sob. This time, tears come. Yet, seeing two people dressed in white startles me at first, but their voices are so kind. “Why are you crying?” they ask.

I put my hands over my face and weep. “They have taken him away and I don’t know where.” My mind is so frazzled I don’t even question why two individuals are inside the tomb.

I then hear someone behind me outside the tomb speak. “Why are you crying? Who are you looking for?”

I assume this to be the gardener I had seen before. He evidently finally noticed that I am here. I step out of the tomb. My eyes are so wet with tears now, I can’t really focus. “Please, sir. If you have moved his body, please tell me.”

I then hear him speak my name: “Mary.” My heart stops. It’s him! Even without being able to focus my eyes due to the tears, I know this voice. I would know this voice anywhere. He said my name so many times before. I am so overcome I fall to my knees. I wipe my eyes and reach out my hands. “My Lord,” I say. I see him before me. How is this possible? I don’t know and at this moment, I don’t care. He is here!

“Do not touch me yet,” he says. “Go tell my disciples I am ascending to my Father, their Father and God as well.”

At once I run to do his bidding. I had come to respect and honor him. Rather than anointing his body, I am doing his bidding instead. This is how I honor him: by doing his bidding. Three days of sorrow has turned into joy. Suddenly, the day looks bright and vibrant. My heart is again about to burst, but this time with joy—pure joy. The one I had grown to know and love and who knew and loved me back was with me again. For us again. I can’t wait to tell the others.

Their three days of morning are over.

Resurrection day has come!

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Visit Books & Words to Inspire by Randy C. Dockens