Passion Voices: Mary

What? 

Who moved the stone? What's going on here?

It's not enough, I suppose, that we watched him suffer and die. It's not enough that every nail was pounded into my heart, that every lash of the whip tore my soul apart.

Now they've taken his body too!

What kind of low-life lunatic would do such a thing? We have nothing left except the comfort of giving him a proper burial. There was no time on Friday. They barely got him to the tomb before Sabbath began. 

And what a strange and silent Sabbath it was. Yesterday I could feel nothing at all. Not the warmth of the sun, not even the pain of my grief. Not the sweet Spirit of God which has sustained me since the day I met him. 

The world went on as always, as if nothing had happened. And even God was silent.

Don't you understand? He was everything to me. Everything. He's the only one who ever looked at me as if I were a real person. Not a harlot. Not an outcast. But as if I were a daughter of the Most High.

I hate the silence.  Never to hear his wonderful stories. Never to hear his prayers. Never to hear the sound of my name on his lips--the sweetest sound I ever heard. The only voice I want to hear is the one I can never hear again.

Here's the gardener. I'll ask him if he knows anything. Maybe he saw something. Maybe he knows who did this. How did they move the stone? Where is my Lord? Where is my. . .

Jesus?

Photo Credits:
    Entombment of Christ, by  anonymous Russian icon painter

    Easter Morning, painting by Johann Friedrick Overbeck

Passion Voices: Pilate

Bring me a basin.

Hurry!

What do I do with this man? I don't see that he's broken any real laws--Roman laws I mean--and what do I care about all their religious falderal? Sabbath? Passover? Phalacteries? What is all that to me?

"Are you a king?" I asked him.

"I came to bring the truth."

Truth? What is truth? Does anyone know? Is that Jewish truth? Roman truth? Your truth? My truth?

And then my wife sends me a message, saying "Don't have anything to do with him. I had bad dreams about him." 

Bad dreams? Am I the sender of dreams? Why is all this on my head?

Then I thought I had the answer. It was brilliant, really. The mob was screaming for blood--so I would give them Barrabas. It was one of their stupid traditions, after all--to release one prisoner at Passover.

Barrabas--a piece of work if ever I saw one. A murderer caught red handed. No question about his guilt. Surely they would rather put him on a cross.

No dice! The Pharisees have got them all worked up. They've got to have Jesus-Jesus-Jesus and nobody else. I just don't like this whole business.

It's their voices screaming. It's their decision. Let it be on their heads! After all, that's what they said. "Let His blood be on us." Well then, so be it!

Where is that basin? I want to wash my hands of this mess! 

More water! Hurry!

No good! No good! Why won't my hands come clean? 

It's not my fault!

Photo Credits:
     Pilate with Jesus, by Nicholai Ge
     The Message of Pilate's Wife, by James Tissot

     Christ in front of Pilate, by Jacek Malczewski  

     detail of Pilate Washing his Hands), 1533-34, fresco, 

             Church of Santa Maria della Neve, Pisogne (BG), Italy

Passion Voices: Peter

His words surprised me.

"You will all fall away because of me this night," Jesus said last night at the Seder.


Not me, I thought. Hey, I'm the rock.


"Though everyone else may desert you, I never will." I said it and I meant it. I had to speak up. I wanted Him to know He could count on me.

He looked at me, and I will never forget those eyes of sadness and love. He said that before the rooster crows, I would deny him three times.

"No, no, never." I said. That's what we all said. But everything was happening so fast. Things were spinning out of control, and I was dizzy with fear.

He went to the Garden to pray. He took just the three of us--me and James and John. The sky was pressing down so hard, I couldn't stay awake. He woke us, but we all fell asleep again. Just when he needed us most!

Then the soldiers came with Judas to arrest Jesus. Why was Judas doing this? He was one of us. I didn't even stop to think. I grabbed my sword and cut off the ear of one of the guards. They had no right.

No right!

Again Jesus rebuked me. "Those who live by the sword will die by the sword." And He bent down and picked up the severed ear and placed it back on the soldier's head.

When they took the Master away, I followed--but not too close. I didn't want to get arrested too. But what I saw was terrible. They whipped Him and drove thorns into his head. What had He done to deserve this?

Then a woman pointed at me and snarled through crooked teeth. "He's one of them. He was with Jesus." I was terrified.

"No," I said, "I don't even know him."

Another one looked at me and said, "He was with them."

"I tell you, I don't know him!" 

Later some other bystanders said that I must be a disciple too. They said my Galilean accent gave me away. I was furious. These people were trying to get me killed. I cursed and screamed, "No, I don't know this man."

Just then, the rooster crowed.

Someone said this morning that Judas hung himself last night. Why, oh why, didn't I do the same thing?

I am so ashamed.

Photo Credits:
     Peter, by Masaccio
     Detail from the Last Supper, from the Netherlands

     Agony in the Garden, by Andrea Mantegna         Jesus Arrested, by Giotto
     Peter Denies Christ, detail from a mural
     The Rooster Crows, by A. L. O. E.
     The Repentant Peter, by El Greco