Imagining His Death: A Passion Week Narrative

As John looked on, watching as the soldiers drove nails through the arms and legs of his Rabbi, I wonder if the words of his Master came to mind.

 “This is My Body, broken…”

“This is My Blood, spilled out…”

This wasn’t how he expected those words to be fulfilled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. And yet, here was the man on whom he’d pinned all his hopes, bloodied and bleeding and moments from death.

And then Jesus spoke; each word carefully and painfully uttered as if the effort was a labor that brought death a bit closer. “John… take care of my mother as if she were your own. Mother, take care of my beloved friend as if he were your own son.”

He arched his back in pain, struggling for another breath.

The sky darkened.

“Oh God, why have you abandoned me?” The words barely escaped his mangled lips.

And with that, He was gone.

A Roman Centurion standing close by looked on, awestruck.

“I think we made a mistake,” he said. “For that was surely the son of God.”

“Yes,” said John under his breath. “I believe he was.”