My kids like to listen to a radio program called Adventures in Odyssey. One of the main characters is Mr. Whittaker, or Whit as they call him. Whit created the Imagination Station. People enter the station, push a few buttons, and the imagination station takes them back in time. Today, I'm inviting you and your friends to enter the Imagination Station and take a trip back in time with me. Hang on!
A loud noise.
Blurred vision.
Then our eyes begin to adjust. We're in the Roman Empire, AD 31, surrounded by a large, intense crowd. Next to us, Roman soldiers drink as they gamble over a piece of clothing. Not far off, in a pompous knot, stand a gaggle of neatly-dressed religious leaders, smugly celebrating the defeated man sagging on the middle cross. The crowd includes others, too. Gaping spectators, just here for a gaze, nothing better to do. Followers, looking on in stunned horror at the unbelievable spectacle, the death of their dreams.
The man of these dreams, Jesus we're told, hangs gaunt on the middle of three crosses. As we stare in disgusted disbelief, we hear the chatter in the crowd.
"He's a good man. How did it come to this?"
"He healed Uncle Seth just a week ago."
"Fraud. He should've known what was coming to him."
"Puh. Devil, that's what he is. At least we're done with him now."
"He is the Son of God. I'm certain of that."
"Messiah."
The atmosphere hangs heavy, weighed down with the suffocating presence of evil. Despite this, we can't take our eyes off of him, this tortured figure on the middle cross. He hangs, straining against cold, rusty nails. A crooked wrap of sharp thorns circles his gentle head. The figure grimaces with each breath, unimaginable pain wracking his body. Yet, there is a peace and innocence that radiates from his face. It's so real you can feel it—this warm, stubborn light pushing hard against the darkness.
A clear sound startles you. The middle man is speaking. The crowd silences, listens.
“Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34, NIV).
The astounding words are clear, unmistakable. A wave of surprise ripples through the crowd. Neither you nor your friends have words; just wonder: Who could do this? The figure is not angry, not hateful. Not a twinge of revenge toward those savage murderers looking on. Pity and compassion are easily read in his kind, though tortured face.
Forgiveness. Pity. Kindness. As you continue gazing, you sense that his words seem to sweep up the whole crowd in one mind-bending act of wild grace. You sense your own self whisked up in this stubborn, gentle goodness.
But then you notice another response, as religious leaders and hardened soldiers lift an iron shield of resistance to this kindness, raising their voices as they hurl mocking words and insults. Twisted, angry voices shout from the crowd,
You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God! ... He saved others ... but he can’t save himself! He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him. He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God’ (Matthew 27:40-43, NIV).
You can't believe what you're hearing, the hard, cruel disdain for a Man of such evident goodness. They said he saved others, now they are shouting at him to save himself. What does it all mean?
You turn back toward that middle cross, wondering how he might respond. His face is still flooded with compassion, pity, and forgiveness. For a moment the world seems to slow down, the figures around you blur in slow motion as if you're just an observer as a grand, full-scale war between good and evil, love and hatred, God and the devil himself, swirls and rages around you. You can't believe your eyes and ears. You've never experienced anything so vividly before: deep, savage hatred and wild, unselfish love facing each other down. Haughty, triumphant hatred slithers around the foot of the cross and unrestrained love radiates from the bloodied figure nailed to that middle cross. That figure, his blood dripping warm right in front of you, only seems to love more fiercely with every taunt. His love for those mocking him is greater than his pain.
You're brought to attention as you hear the two men crucified alongside him, speaking. You lean-in to listen.
“Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”
taunts one whom you've learned is a member of a notorious local gang.
But the other criminal retorts: “Don’t you fear God,” he says, “since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”
Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:39-43, NIV, adapted).
Turning to your friends, you look wide-eyed at each other. Have we heard right? The thief had said, "When you come into your kingdom." Is Jesus a king? Of what kind of kingdom? And what kind of a king is he? The thief had asked him for forgiveness and with that look of pity and compassion, Jesus had forgiven him. The moment is heavy with the contrast between goodness and hatred, as the religious leaders continue raging on while Jesus reveals nothing but love. You whisper to your friends, "If this is what the King is like, he must be building a kingdom of goodness just like himself." Your hearts begin to burn with joy and hope. Was this the Son of God?
Caught up in your thoughts it takes you a moment, but then you notice Jesus is looking gently down at a group of women weeping, while some men try to comfort them.
Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home (John 19:25-27, NIV).
Once again you turn toward your friends in amazement, as his love once again reaches beyond his pain, this time to care tenderly for his mother, handing her care to one of his followers so she will not be alone. Oh, what pure, holy, unselfish, self-giving love. You continue to gaze. Never before have you seen anything so beautiful, so majestic. He's so unlike the god you've heard about all your life. That authoritarian deity who demanded sacrifices to earn his acceptance. One who seemed impossible to please. One for whom you could never be good enough.
Now a new possibility dawns. This Jesus has thrust out the bold argument that God was, in the end, not like that at all. He was sacrificing himself for the people, pure love that was centered on blessing others, even enemies. Standing in shock, as this bright light dawns in your hearts, a sense of unworthy floods you, yet does not drive you away, condemned. Unworthy, yet magnetically drawn by the wild love flowing out from him.
Then the world begins to spin, jerking you away from the gripping scene as the Imagination Station begins to return you to the present. Suddenly, you and your friends are in the present again. There's Mr. Whit, who kindly asks: "What did you see?" With humble, soft voices, everyone responds, "We saw God." You plead to go back; that the story isn’t over. He smiles, responding simply, "Go and share the good news with your friends."
Come back next week for Part Two of, I Saw God in Him.
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