Daddy, Why? OR
The Crucifixion of the Lord
Jesus Christ, Our Savior
Story Idea by Bishoy A. Michael
Written by Youstina Guirguis
It’s
Friday. I like Fridays. It means I get to rest tomorrow; it will be
the Sabbath day. My parents told me that
because God commanded us to rest on the Sabbath day, we cannot do anything at
all. The Sabbath day is solely dedicated
to God. That meant that my father had to
finish his errands today. He allowed me
to accompany him.
We
headed out early in the morning. As we
walked along the side of the road and my father went in and out of buildings,
taking care of various matters, I noticed that the streets were busier than
usual. There were many people standing
outside of their homes as if they were waiting for something coming their way. Some people went about their normal business,
others simply stood, waiting. Of the
ones who waited, many had malicious looks on their faces. Others looked upset and had horrified looks
on their faces. My curiosity was aroused
and I desired to know exactly what these people were waiting for. Why did some look so eager and spiteful? What were the others scared of?
I looked
at my father. For the first time since
we left our house, I noticed that there was something bothering him. I inquired of my father what the reason for
the presence of these people was and why they appeared the way they did. My father absentmindedly told me not to worry
about it and we continued along, my father trying to finish up his errands as
quickly as possible. I knew then that
what these people were waiting for was indeed so terrible that my father wanted
to get us out of there as quickly as possible, before it happened.
My
father walked into the last place he needed to run errands in. While my father spoke to the man in charge of
the place, I examined my surroundings.
This man was something like an apothecary; he had many different vials
and flasks filled with liquids, herbs, and other things of the sort. As I took note of all this, there were sudden
shouts outside and people scrambled to see what was going on. I saw my father’s shoulders tense as he heard
the commotion outside. Naturally, the
storekeeper went outside to see what was happening. My father followed reluctantly and I crept
out behind them. I slipped in between
the crowd in front of me and peered out, trying to get a glimpse of what was
happening.
Coming
down the road, there was a Man in a tattered and bloodstained garment. He had a crown of thorns on His head and He
was carrying a cross. As He came closer,
I could see what was happening better.
His face was contorted with pain and tears fell from His swollen eyes. The soldiers beat Him as they shoved Him
forward. He fell and His garment slid a
bit off His shoulder, revealing deep cuts and wounds. The crown of thorns atop His head dug deep
into His flesh and large drops of blood fell from where they pierced His forehead
and sides of His face. I wept; I
perceived that this was Jesus, the Man my father and I went regularly to the
synagogue to hear. One of the people
next to me, a man, grabbed the edge of His garment that was falling off His
shoulder and pulled Him up. Then, he
spit in Jesus’ face. Jesus didn’t say
anything as the spittle slowly moved down his cheeks mingling with His tears
and blood.
The
soldiers relentlessly beat Him, even when He fell. Everyone was cruel to Him and I did not know
why. He was a gentle Man who spoke
comforting words. I could not understand
the hostility I saw in their eyes. As
Jesus continued walking down the road, He fell once more, this time right next
to where I was standing. Another person
spit in His face and I reached down with my handkerchief to wipe it away. A menacing Roman soldier pushed me back and
roughly shoved Jesus along the path. I
was terrified. What was going to be His
fate? Why was He carrying a cross and
where were they leading Him? I could not
stop crying; I pitied Him because of what the soldiers and the people around me
did to Him.
I felt a
hand on my shoulder as the crowd thinned and followed the soldiers and
Jesus. I looked up through my tears and
saw my father.
“Father,
where are they taking Him? Can’t you do
anything to help Him? He didn’t do
anything!” I pleaded with my father.
“These
are troubled times, my child. We cannot
do anything. They have sentenced Him to
death,” my father replied.
With
that, my father and I walked home, each of us lost in deep thought about what
we had just witnessed. The walk back to
our home seemed to take a very long time.
When we reached our home, my father told my mother what we had
seen. I stood in the window and looked
out. In the distance, atop a hill, I saw
three crosses. The tears spilled from my
eyes, as I knew that Jesus was crucified on one of them. Again, questions crept into my head. Why did He have to die like a criminal? What had He done to deserve all of this?
I stood
some time in the window looking out at that hill and thinking. Suddenly, it got very dark. I was close to my parents and I clung to both
of them. I heard cries coming from our
neighbors’ houses. Everyone was alarmed
that it was dark. The sun was supposed
to be shining bright and hot just about this time and yet there was darkness
all around. What could be the meaning of
this? The darkness lasted for three
hours. Then there was an earthquake and
someone was running in the middle of the street telling everyone that the veil in
the temple was torn in half! I couldn’t
believe it! The veil was so thick; how
could it simply be torn in half on its own?
Other people said they saw dead people rise from their graves and rocks
splitting! I tried to put all these
events together and come up with an explanation and could not. These were all extraordinary things!
I looked
at my father questioningly. I was
surprised that he had a calm but melancholy look on his face.
“Father,
what is the meaning of all this? Why are
all these things happening?” I asked.
“The Son
of God has died my child. The Son of God
has died. How can nature not lament and
mourn His death?” my father replied.
“But
father, why did He have to die? What did
He do wrong?” I asked once more.
“He came
for you and me, dearest one. He said: ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are
sick. I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.’ Did you not hear Him say so? He is the long-awaited Messiah who came to
save us,” my father said.
“But they
killed him father!” I cried.
“Indeed they
did child. But we must have faith. Did you not also hear Him speak many times
and prophecy that He will be crucified, die, and rise again after three days? Have hope, my child. He will rise again.”
I looked out
the window of our home once again and looked into the distance at the crosses
on the hill. My father’s words rang in
my ears. “He will rise again.” I started to get drowsy and eventually I fell
into a deep sleep after gazing once more at the crosses at the top of the hill
and willing myself to believe in my father’s words…“we must have faith…have
hope, my child…He will rise again.”
