Easter Narrative

Suddenly One Morning

The Shopkeeper's Story: An Easter Narrative

By Charles R. Swindoll

I'm a Jewish shopkeeper on the main street of Jerusalem—a serpentine road that winds lazily from the base of the Mount of Olives through both the proud and the humble sections of Jerusalem all the way to the glorious downtown temple. It's a busy street. I like that. Being a shop owner, it means a lot of people come by my place each day. People from the city. People from the country. People from small outlying villages. Having a lot of people in town means more business, and more business means more money. That's important to me.
My Avenue is the nerve center of the scuttlebutt around the city. The milling masses are noisier than ever today, too, because it's the Jewish Passover time in the city. A holiday. That means a lot more people, and a lot more business. That's good. Very good.
Hey, I just noticed that a crowd is beginning to gather right outside my shop. Looks like an unusual kind of gathering, too. They're not moving along or milling around like the normal crowds do on holidays. They're not window shopping either. This crowd has stopped. They're looking down the street. Waiting. Watching with anticipation. It's almost like the beginning of a parade. … it is a parade! Parents are leading their children by their hands. It's strange, some of the children are dragging fronds from palm trees. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them! They're waving them back and forth over their heads. Hold it. Now they're tossing them out into the street, of all things. Something really odd is happening.
"Hosanna, hosanna, Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!"
The children are laughing, dancing around, holding hands. Most of the older folks are smiling and shouting back and forth, "Hosanna! Hosanna to the Son of David!" Some people are kneeling, holding their hands up to heaven, praising God. Others are singing the songs of Zion. A few are standing back, frowning, with their arms folded … curious but questioning. Skeptical. But most are waving the palm branches. The way they're acting, you'd think a king was coming.
I shoulder my way through the thickening crowd and crane my neck for a look down the street. It's funny. All I can see is a young donkey, an awkward creature with an ordinary-looking Jewish man sitting on his back. The animal steps gingerly over those palm fronds strewn down the street. It's almost staggering along. I'm getting a better look at the man on the donkey. I find myself magnetically captured by his face. I wonder if he's been in my shop before? And so I reach over, tap my friend on the shoulder and ask, "Who is this?"
"Oh, haven't you heard? That's the Nazarene—you know, the prophet from Nazareth. He used to be a carpenter."
Suddenly I realize he's right in front of me. He smiles kindly, and he gives a very gentle wave in my direction. He then nods in recognition. Well, I'm a good businessman, so I wave and smile back. But those eyes! Honestly, I've never seen eyes like that before. The closest thing to them was when I met with my tax collector two weeks ago. It's like he's looking right to the back of my cranium. His stare bores a hole into my skull. But these eyes are different than that. Mesmerizing. Piercing. Probing. But full of acceptance and compassion. It's almost as if his nod is saying, "I understand you. I know you." Who is this Nazarene carpenter-turned-prophet on the back of that donkey? And why is he waving at me? What does he see in me? His gaze inflames my very soul!
I lower my eyes, unable to meet his knowing gaze any longer. I feel exposed somehow. Vulnerable. Unnerved. My heart is thumping in my ears. Why would a simple carpenter's gaze arouse such deep feelings in me?
As the small beast stumbles on, the crowd folds in behind, as people do at the end of a parade. Women and children are reaching out, trying to touch just the hem of his robe.
Suddenly he stops and looks around. "Who touched me?" he asks.
Who touched him! Half the people in town have touched him. But wait. He obviously means someone special, and not just the pressing crowd. I work my way closer to hear what he's saying. An older woman makes her way to the donkey. "I touched you, Lord," she says.
"I felt the power go out of me," he smiles, placing his hand gently against her cheek.
"Have mercy, Lord," she says, kneeling before him.
"Your faith has made you whole. Shalom."
I heard later that the woman had been sick for many years. But after she touched this man on the donkey, she was never sick like that again. Instantly, she was healed! Just by touching him. What kind of power did he have? How could that man on the donkey heal someone of such a lengthy disease with only a touch?
Another day passes.
Diotrephes walks in my shop with a swagger, and blurts out, "Well, they got him. They finally got the Galilean. One of his own turned him in."
"The carpenter?"
"Yep, they got him. I knew it would happen. You know who turned him in? A Judean. I knew it. Galileans are pretty thick, you know. The rest of his followers are Galilean. But that Judean saw right through him. He's one of Simon's sons. His name is Judas. In fact, it served him right. He and his bunch were doing weird things. You're supposed to pray in the synagogue, right? But he's out there in the middle of the night with his followers praying in that park down at Gethsemane. (Anything can happen down there, you know?)
"So what happens? A mob comes. They have torches, and they're wearing swords. One guy cuts another's ear off. It almost got out of control. But they got him.
I wonder what the Nazarene is doing right now? I can't put it together. So I ask, "What are they doing with him? Where is he? Where are they holding him?"
"Well, my source says he's on trial for his life. They say he's been on trial throughout the night. That's not supposed to be kosher, but they did it because they're in a hurry to get him crucified. If they asked me, I'd say 'Crucify him!' Well, I've got to get back to my shop. See you later."
"Yeah … later."
Crucified? It strains my mind. The word is "murdered." Pure and simple. An inhuman, degrading, morbid taking of another's life. Why would they want to crucify someone so kind and caring? How could anyone do that?
Suddenly I have a mental flashback to when I was seventeen years old, the last time I visited that hill called "place of the skull." I can still remember a couple of convicted men hanging on Roman spikes until they slumped in death. My only thought: I'll never look at this again. It was worse than the most gruesome horror story I'd ever heard. I couldn't imagine how one human being could do that to another, no matter what the crime. It was indecent. Humiliating. Wretched. That's why I wondered if they would really do that to the Nazarene. What could he have done to deserve that? He seemed so straightforward. So harmless.
Lunch time. I reach under the counter and pull out my hand-painted "Closed" sign. I surprise my workers by telling them to take the afternoon off. Once they leave, I hang the sign on the door and then, to my own amazement, I start making my way towards the center of town.
Why am I doing this? I feel as if some irresistible force is drawing me to this horror, like a moth drawn to fire. I should just turn and go home. I shouldn't get involved in such things. It's bad for business.
Still, I don't turn back. I realize I can't turn back. It isn't long before I find myself in the mob of people now flowing along like a rapidly moving river through the city gates and along the city wall outside. I suddenly remember where it is, this hill of horrors, this mount of mourning. There are some profane names for it that are thrown around by the rabble of the city. But I can't bring myself to repeat even one of them.
Finally I arrive at the dreaded hill, and I'm careful to keep my distance, because Golgotha is an eerie place. Besides, I don't want any of my customers to see me there. So I yank my head covering forward to hide my face. Three rugged crosses stand silhouetted against the sky.
Pushed forward by the morbidly curious crowd, I find myself getting closer and closer to the top of the hill. I try to pull back, but I can't because the crowd is too thick. Suddenly, sounds of torture fill the air. I hear one of the criminals, on the side cross, screaming out cursings against God, and that's offensive to me. My stomach turns.
Stop! Stop! my mind is shouting. But I remain silent. I can't speak.
I notice that the thief on the other side cross says very little. His face is twisted in pain, but it's almost as though he's resigned to die. But there … in the middle … under a sign that reads "King of the Jews" … that's him! That's the one who looked at me so kindly. Oh, no.
I can't see his eyes now. His face is so swollen that they're just little slits. I make my way slowly around behind his cross and look at his back. It resembles raw meat, draining with blood, oozing down that stocky piece of rough timber. Again my stomach lurches at the pitiful sight. I can't imaging his agony.
As I come around to the front of the cross again, my heart freezes. Talk about brutality—those are thorns on his head! Somebody has made a crude crown of thorns and jammed it down on his head! The blood has drained down into his eyes. He blinks it away, and for an instant his pain-filled eyes lock with mine. And what do I see for that moment? Hatred? Fear? No! I see compassion. Calm. Pleading. Love! Then the pain mixed with blood forces him to squeeze his eyes shut again.
He moans something.
He's uttering the words of a prayer: 'My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?' Something like that."
Why does he say that? He must be heartbroken. He feels totally deserted. Alone. It's almost as if he has been forsaken and forgotten. I remember last Sabbath when the rabbi spoke about all kinds of people who will come and pretend to be the Messiah. Is this one of those impostors? Is this man pretending? The rabbi used the scroll of Isaiah to describe what the Messiah would be like. He pictured him as a powerful military king—one who would overthrow the miserable Roman yoke! But this man hasn't done that. So, could he be the Messiah? Or, wonder of wonders, could the rabbi possibly be mistaken? I'm really confused now.
Somebody in the cluster where I'm standing whispers, "Did you hear about the suicide last night?"
"No."
"Judas, the one who betrayed Jesus, hanged himself."
Why? I wonder. What's happening? Time was when life in my city was so simple. I sold my goods, ran an honest shop, and aside from putting up with Diotrephes next door, life was pretty simple. No longer! Now here's a simple and kind man on the back of an ordinary donkey, surrounded by everyone shouting, "Hail, Son of David!" But now those same people are crying, "Crucify him!" His proclaimed followers aren't following him anymore. And the one who turned him in to the authorities has hanged himself. There's something very wrong here. Some powerful spirits must surely be at work here somehow. What's going on?
Again, through swollen, cracked lips, he speaks: "I am thirsty."
One of the soldiers below the cross, gambling for his garment, stops and looks up. He sticks his spear in a sponge and in a bucket of vinegar and wine and pushes it up to his face, cutting him on the cheek.
Roman swine! Wasn't he in enough pain already? Get away from him. Just leave him alone.
Jesus sadly turns his face away, refusing to drink the pain-killing liquid. My heart breaks for him. Without a word, he then turns to spit out some of the blood that has begun to hemorrhage from his mouth.
Taking a breath, he whispers in a raspy voice, "Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they're doing."
I can't believe my ears! I move in a little closer to the cross. What did he say? Could he actually be forgiving the very men who crucified him? Did he call God "Father"? Some say he's the Son of God. If he really is, he would call God "Father," wouldn't he? He certainly is no ordinary man. Who could forgive his own murderers? Who could look into the eyes of his brutal killers with compassion and love? What incredible power and control he has! Wait. He's speaking again. I take another step closer to the cross so as not to miss his words.
"It is finished!"
I frown. What's finished? I look to my left, and about four people over from me is his mother with her hands on her tear-stained cheeks. Standing next to her is a friend somebody told me is John, one of his most faithful disciples. How cruel. Hard enough for a mother to give birth to a child, but to watch him die at such a young age. He can't be but thirty, thirty-five years old. But she's standing there drowning in grief nonetheless.
His comment, "It is finished," bothers me. I worry over it like a dog worries with a bone. I can't unravel the mystery. Why didn't he simply say, "I am dying"? The last time I heard that particular expression used was by one of those two carpenters who was finishing my shop, back a dozen years ago. Maybe it's a carpenter's term. It's like he's worked to the end of a project, and at the very bottom, when he's checked the last thing off, it's all complete. It's done. It is finished. And he swipes his hands together and walks away to pick up his pay and go on to the next job. Maybe that's it. It's as if he's saying, "Mission accomplished." But wait a minute … what mission? The sky has gotten dark since I've been standing here. Strangely dark. It's not supposed to be dark at three in the afternoon. What phenomenon is this? Could it have anything to do with him? As he pulls himself up once again to speak, I move even closer to him to listen.
"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"
I notice that blood streams out of his mouth and runs down his neck as he pushes those words out of his throat. Immediately, he slumps down, tearing the flesh around his wrists and feet. I can't stand that sound! It's awful! And yet, somehow, I can't bring myself to move away from the cross. His graciousness, even in death, holds me to him like wet clay stuck to a potter's wheel.
Sometime later I heard that an intriguing thing happened at the downtown temple. That enormous, thick tapestry curtain between the holy and holiest of all, where no citizen will ever be able to go, ripped from top to bottom! But that seems impossible—it's a hundred feet high and woven to four inches thick, according to the instructions of God himself. How could it rip at all, much less from top to bottom? They'll never be able to repair it. And strangest of all—they say it happened at the exact moment he died and the sun went black. Amazing. Could it be coincidence? Or … divine coordination?
But what really gets my attention are the words of a hardened soldier who has been on so many crucifixion details he can't even remember what number this one is. He stops and looks at the stones, sees the tombs open, and says with tears in his eyes as he looks up into the swollen face of the carpenter, bruised, battered, and now dead, "This was the Son of God." It's like he was admitting, "We've killed an innocent man." That does it! I can never erase those words from my mind again. I'm trembling with acceptance and mind-stretching awareness. He really was the Son of God!
Hours pass slowly, dragging on to the Sabbath. Nevertheless, I can't get the words, "It is finished" off my mind. His swollen but forgiving face swims through my thoughts over and over again, distracting me, disturbing me. My sleep is nervous … restless.
All of a sudden, just before dawn of the first day of the week, I'm jolted awake by a shuttering racket. The hard dirt floor of my little place cracks apart from one wall to the other, and the furniture begins to creak and crawl across the shaking room. Another earthquake … an aftershock, no doubt. The first one finally stops, then another begins. Then another … and another. What in the world is happening?
My little, raven-haired four-year-old Rachel runs in crying. She crawls into my lap for protection. Afraid of the shaking floor and rattling dishes, she clings tightly to me. In truth, I'm frightened, too. So I find comfort in comforting my precious child.
Suddenly this morning I find myself reviewing my life and remembering an event that transpired three years ago. It flashes across my mind, uninvited, unwanted, but unavoidable. There was this preacher. Strange fellow. Wore weird clothes. Ate weird food. Preached out in the wilderness. Baptized a lot of folks, as I recall. John. His name was John, wasn't it? I remember someone's telling me of a time when he once saw Jesus coming toward him and said to those he'd baptized, "Look! Look over there! Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world."
Lamb! Lamb of God! "He was led like a lamb to the slaughter." This morning it's beginning to dawn on me what that was all about. I've seen numerous lambs offered at the altars. Perfect lambs. Only perfect ones will do. Blood from the lamb's slit throat is held in a saucer. And that blood becomes the sacrificial atonement, that which provides forgiveness from sin. It's the substitute for the sin of the penitent. The whole picture suddenly comes clear to me: That's it! That's what it is! Jesus, God's perfect Lamb, sacrificed on that cross for the sins of the world—mine. Now, at last, I get it. He was the perfect Lamb, God's promised Messiah, and he paid the penalty for my sins! Paid it in full.
I weep with joy.
The earthquake stops as suddenly as it had begun. And it all begins to make sense. It finally falls into place. This earthquake is like God's answering "Amen" to Jesus' words from the cross: "It is finished." Mission accomplished. The penalty has been paid. The sacrifice has been made. People will never again have to die for their sins. The Lamb has been slain once for all.
It isn't long before someone in my shop mentions that his body has disappeared from the tomb. I realize it hasn't disappeared. Not really. Jesus has been raised from the dead! God is saying, "Amen. It is done. It's finished. He is alive forevermore!"
Suddenly one spring morning I'm alive—more alive than I've ever been before in my entire life. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I hug my little Rachel with eternal relief and overwhelming joy. Alive! He's alive! I can get to know him. I can talk to him. I can thank him for what he's done for me. I can follow him. Really follow him. I can be alive forevermore too! Hallelujah!
Suddenly one morning my life has been transformed by Jesus, who was once my carpenter but is now my Savior. Oh, what a glorious morning this is!