What did it feel like, back broken and bleeding on the mat, cataclysmic defeat ripped from certain victory? Did it feel like being cast out all those eons ago, you and the other Sons of Heaven?
At times, I’ve felt we’re not so different, you and I. The same things that drove you from his presence also drove me. I’ve been captivated by a desire to control my destiny. I thought I had it all together. I wanted to be god of my life, and, if I’m honest, at times, god of others, too. I believed I could change others and manipulate them into my way of thinking and being. I lied to get what I wanted, and I justified my lies by telling myself I was accomplishing something more significant and important.
I’ve been oblivious to the pain I caused others and, at times, just didn’t care, because what I wanted and thought I needed was more important than what they needed or felt. I used them for my purposes. In so doing, I shook my fist at God and his creation, those he considered most valuable. You and I have danced far too often, and for too long in my life, I’ve lived in your toxic embrace—like hugging a nuclear reactor, warm and bright, all the while draining all that is life from my soul.
I regret all of this, and looking back on it cuts me to the deepest fiber of my being. You and I are the pinnacle of creation, together in the abyss.
Yet, you are different. You actually seem to like it. You are the force that tears the life out of young men’s hearts and dreams and snatches the hopes of family and innocence from young girls. You’re the voice that comforts children suffering terrible abuse from those they love most, keeping them from taking steps that will free them from their prison. You’re the whisperer of despair into the ears and psyches of countless young men and women who believe they are worthless, dirty, unloved, and forgotten. You are the seed of perdition and the root of separation, and far from being a source of profound misery for you, this is your intended outcome. This is where the sympathy ends, and the enmity begins.
While you were once my father, you were never my friend. You have always been my soul’s enemy.
So, what did it feel like as your master plan was coming to fruition? As you repeatedly whispered into the betrayer’s ear that he wasn’t respected among the twelve and wasn’t getting his due, that a person of his stature and prospects deserved better? As you convinced the leaders that this rabbi was dangerous, that he represented a threat to the order of things, to the peace with the Romans they had worked so hard to achieve? Did you convince them that, if left unchecked, his power would destroy everything?
Were you excited as you turned Pilate’s heart against his better instincts? Did you feel a sense of conquest when he disregarded the obnoxious warning your enemy had given his wife in a dream? Did you laugh when he went against her warning, persuaded by fear engendered by the mob you incited against him, as you have always used the mob to rule the hearts and minds of weak men throughout the ages?
Did you feel heightened anticipation as you watched the death march through Jerusalem? What were you imagining at this time? Did you believe that this was the moment all your dreams had come to fruition, that you had foiled the plans of the Most High, and you would soon get your retribution on this Son who had foolishly rebuffed you in the wilderness when he had the chance?
As the Romans, perhaps your greatest invention—pure martial perfection—drove the nails into the Son’s hands and feet, did you squeal with glee? Did you and your host laugh and toast and rejoice as he slowly asphyxiated in pain so profound that a new word—excruciating—was created to describe it?
As they peeled him from the cross, and buried him in the tomb, were you entirely in the throes of victory, the greatest triumph you had ever known? Were you so far gone that you really didn’t notice? Or, was there something nagging in the back of your mind, some residual doubt, some fear that the father of lies might have just been the victim of the greatest trick of all time, an act of cosmic jiu-jitsu that, instead of making you the apex predator, would deal the dying blow?
What happened to you that Saturday? Did a second war rage in the cosmos, one that stripped you of your power to ultimately kill, destroy, and rob the Most High of his sons and daughters? Or were you as surprised as the rest of us that Sunday morning to find the tomb empty as you went to claim your prize, only to find this treasure denied you and every other one from that moment forward? Including me. I was once your child, but now I am your enemy’s son.
Sure, you can still hurt me. As you lie there, thrashing about in your hideous, tortuous death ballet, you can crush me. Your lies cause me pain and create uncertainty. You can injure my body and weaken me. You attack those I love, and I feel their sorrow. And I lament the catastrophic collateral damage you cause as you die on that mat.
However, like the original Son of my new Father, any suffering you inflict upon me only fortifies me; any deceit you employ against me magnifies your adversary’s reputation, ultimately benefiting me and making me more like him. Wow! That has to be torture for you! It’s almost as terrible as the suffering you inflict on others. It must feel like eternal justice.
There was only one being in Creation for whom that Friday through Sunday was a bad weekend, and that’s you. I don’t feel sorry for you. Not one little bit.
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