THE SCOURGING

THE SCOURGING

Voyle A. Glover

This is the image in my mind from the story found at Matt. 26:57 - 27:56.

He was led away by the soldiers to be scourged. He understood what was to come and while his flesh cringed at the thought, his spirit was strong, almost eager, understanding that it was an ordeal he had to undergo in order to reach the final objective. In the shadows, some distance away, a man stood watching—wary, with fear sitting like a huge, leaden stone in his chest.

The crowds thronged, and their voices ran together in a crescendo of words, phrases, and shouts, some angry, their tongues hurling whipping, taunting, words, while some words and shouts were rhythmical, almost a chant. The watching man moved back as three soldiers shoved at people in their way, cursing them, brutally hitting those not quick enough to move from their path. He saw the slender man, clothed in a dirtied white garment, following behind them, and gasped as the man suddenly stumbled. The thin, bearded man was slammed viciously in the back by one of the guards, propelling him forward into a huge open area. He fell to the ground, his face slamming into the dirt. Instantly, a burly soldier leaned down and jerked the man to his feet and shoved him towards the center of the room.

Another huge soldier with long hairy arms stepped forward and grabbed at the slender man, who stood silent, staring quietly at his tormenters. In an instant, the big man had wrenched off the thin man's garment from his shoulders, exposing the man's back and chest. The giant stepped back, and with a tremendous effort that drew a heavy grunt from him, he swung a large, blackened whip over his head. Small bits of metal embedded into the ends of the leather hummed as they lashed through the air, weighting the blow and giving it greater impact. The crack of the whip on the naked back, followed instantly by the cry of pain from the man, was echoed by the gasp of the crowd. Nervous giggles followed, then came cheers and jeers. Their gasp had been one of pleasure and delight. Clearly, they were being entertained. This was what they'd thronged to see. They wanted pain. They wanted suffering.

The man with the whip showed his talent. His whip sang its song of torture in blow after blow, bringing with each crack of the whip a cry of delight from the crowd and a groan of pain from the victim, until he could cry no more and the pain had deadened his mind. Blood splattered those standing near, but in their excitement, few noticed, and those who did gave no concern for the stains on their garments. They accepted it as a kind of badge of honor. It said they'd gotten close to the action and that they'd been important enough to have been close enough to have been splattered by the blood of the victim. They took their pleasure in the spectacle before them, wine skins uplifted as many drank greedily, the dark red of the wine dribbling from the corners of their mouths, vanishing into dark, dirty beards. This action was followed by shouts of encouragement to the cruel man with the whip, then they roared with delight and laughter at each new blow as the human being before them was stripped of his flesh and became less visible as a human, appearing more like a piece of butcher's meat that was, somehow, still moving.

The man who'd come to watch grimaced as soldiers stepped up to the man, jerked the garments from the bloodied figure, and roughly thrust a scarlet robe upon him. One soldier took the man's right arm and raised it, then placed a reed in his hand. Another soldier wound a dirty cloth around the eyes of the man, blindfolding him. Then, they held his arms while another man jammed a crown made of woven thorn bushes down on the thin man's head. A groan came from the weakened, emaciated man as he slumped down from the harsh pressure, and then he regained his stance with help from the soldiers.

No further sounds came from the man, though blood ran down both sides of his face and mingled into his beard, which was ripped out in patches. Several Jews then knelt and in unison, their voices guttural and mocking, they shouted: "Hail! King of the Jews!"

Then, they leaped forward and spat upon the man, their spittle striking him in the face and mingling with the blood. One man, his attire showing him to be of the elite—a part of the crowd from the Temple—grabbed the heavy wooden reed from him and struck him harshly several times, cursing him and mocking him as he did. Others came forward and struck the bloody, helpless man, some upon the head and back, others upon the face.

One man, also a part of the group from the Temple, strode forward, stopped directly in front of the frail, beaten man, and struck him viciously. Then, with a sneer in his voice, said loudly, "Prophesy! Who is it that smote thee?"

The man who'd stood watching earlier melted far back into the crowd, eyes moist, stomach churning, emotions exploding. One part of him wanted to charge in with sword in hand, taking heads and limbs as he could. He knew it would end with his own death, but that was not what stopped him. Deep down, he knew that the Master would not want him to do that. He was unsure why, but he'd blundered enough times during his relationship with this man that he did not want to do it again. Another part of him was afraid, but his fear was mostly of his own ignorance and doing something impetuous once more and being very wrong. And, part of him understood that he'd not change a single thing by his actions. He could not stop what was taking place. Only God could stop this. And apparently, God was not going to intervene.

For the first time, Peter was not so sure of things. He had not expected this. He had not expected to see Jesus treated so cruely, and did not expect the complete humiliation he saw of Jesus. This was, to his mind, catastrophic. Peter was confused and bewildered. When Jesus had spoken of death, this was not what had come into Peter's mind.

The memory of his profanity-laden denial of a relationship with Christ kept coming to mind. Only hours earlier, at the great hall that morning, before the sound of the cock broke the morning quietness, he'd denied a relationship to Jesus three times. Worse, Jesus had known he'd do that very thing. He'd predicted Peter would do exactly what he did. In a strange kind of way, Peter took courage in this.

He knew I would do that. The thought was reassuring. Jesus had known! He'd known Peter's future. Surely he had to have known about the horror that he was now enduring. There had to be something he was missing, something he was not understanding about all of this. But, no matter how hard he tried, the vision of Jesus beaten, bloodied and completely humiliated, was unacceptable to Peter. A King of Kings did not permit such humiliation. The Lord would not suffer such indignities to be performed on his person.

But he had healed Malchus and made me put up my sword. He said it was a cup he had to drink. Peter's thoughts were racing. His confusion mounted.

He had slipped away and wept bitterly after the cock had sounded, his shame too great for him to bear in the presence of Jesus. But later, he returned to follow the throngs and see the matter to the end. He no longer cared if they associated him with Jesus. Deep down, one part of him yearned for it. This would enable him to redeem himself, for he'd not melt in cowardice before them again. Forever, he knew the image of Christ, his features marred almost beyond recognition from the beatings and abuse, would remain in his mind and heart. He'd never forget the cries of agony. The sounds were etched into his soul. Also etched there was the look of compassion Jesus had given him.

Peter followed the crowd later from there to the hill where he'd watched as Jesus stumbled along, following his cross, which was now carried by another, up the steep hill. Inside, he was empty. The tears of remorse had emptied him, and now, he walked as a dead man, feeling nothing, bewildered at the events, and in despair over his confusion. Yet, he was unable to walk away.

He watched until near the end. And near the end, when Jesus cried out to God, Peter felt Jesus' pain, and he'd buried his face in his hands and would not look at Jesus. He left quietly, unable to bear it any longer, frustrated at his inability to stop the events, angry at the evil men who'd murdered Jesus, and unsure of himself and his future. One part of him wanted to take a sword and go berserk, killing as many of the soldiers and of the Synagog as possible before they killed him. Again, something kept him from that. He remembered when he'd once reacted in a similar fashion in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus has rebuked him for his violence.

Peter left the city and soon went back to his boat, returning to the life he lived before Jesus had pulled him away from it: fishing. He went back to work, throwing himself into the work furiously, forcing his mind to leave the images of the horror and attend to the present. Other followers of Jesus joined him, and silently, they worked, none wanting to voice their doubts, their fears, and confusion. It was a closed subject. In Peter's mind, that was a past life, a part of his past he would never forget, but one he was now compelled to put behind him.

He would be fishing much in the same manner a few days later when Jesus found him and bid him cast his nets on the other side of the boat.

And the confusion, the doubts, and the fears would leave him as surely and completely as Peter left his boat and his nets and became a Fisher of Men.

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