through the eyes of the marginalized
I have heard it spoken as if to shame the disciples, as if they could not stand to see such a horrific sight
Someone they had come to know and love (and who in turn, knew and loved them to the fullest)
to die a death so brutal and ugly.
I have heard it spoken that the disciples are us or that we are the crowd condemning Him to die.
And sure, perhaps that is the majority of us. The religious leaders for certain, those who hated who He is, what He did, what He taught. But I do not believe that is an outcast's experience.
The meek,
the lowly,
the weak,
the abused,
the odd ones,
the lame,
the blind,
the ostracized,
the poor,
and yes, even the faithful.
I look at Scripture and see faithful disciples unable to witness the death of Someone they loved so much.
I look at Scripture and see faithful women standing at the foot of the blood-stained cross He hung upon, accompanied by John, the disciple who Jesus loved (as he often took pleasure in reminding us throughout his gospel).
I look at Scripture and see people's humanity. All those who Jesus came to minister to and love with all the fullness of the Father and Holy Spirit.
I look out at the evangelical church
and see a massive group of people forgetting they are human beings; prone to fear, to abandonment, to anger, to sadness, to just plain, damn human emotions
that they forget not everyone wants to witness their friend or beloved dying before their very eyes.
Maybe we need to look at who was at the cross a bit more closely and remember our shared humanity.
Our fear,
our grief,
our inability to watch someone die.
Maybe we need empathy, a core aspect of our humanity.
So let me go first. This is what I see when I look at Scripture and what happened at the cross prior to the resurrection:
I see faithful disciples: a group of people who could not show up, grieving something they could not control, afraid of what life was going to look like without Jesus physically at their side anymore.
I see faithful women at Jesus' suffering side: a group of people marginalized by society yet were beloved by Christ, clinging to the hope things would get better, because He made them feel safe.
I see John hanging back there too, wondering if maybe, he told himself he had to watch, he had to stay because he could take it; he could take watching his Lord draw His last breath. He had to be the first and only male disciple to see it happen. (After all, he was the disciple to outrun Peter to the tomb, was he not? Can't say he was not committed.)
I see a Roman centurion in awe at what he witnessed, so overcome with the realization that maybe they got it wrong—the Romans and religious leaders alike—maybe they really did kill an innocent man, that I imagine he fell to his knees in disbelief—and incredible faith.
I see those who Jesus healed (because surely they were there or if not, in their homes, ears covered, eyes tightly closed): weeping, watching, breathless. I see those who Jesus loved, like Zacchaeus (a tax collector you know, a person who was very much hated in society), Mary, Martha, and Lazarus (someone who I fully believe was a person who had a disability, whether intellectual, physical, mental, or all the above) to name a few. Men and women, rich and poor, all whose lives were inevitably changed because one Man, full of perfect wonder and beauty saw them, spoke to them, ate bread at their tables, danced with them, drank wine with them, grieved with them, prayed for them.
They said He was left alone, abandoned by those closest to Him.
But I say differently, because I see differently, now, dancing on the edge with the marginalized. My people. People He came to seek and find, love and give life abundantly to.