What is it that makes you stand by, look away, when someone you know is being hurt? Cowardice? Fear? He's yelled at, mocked--and you're silent, removed.
In this case, it was the director of the musical that kept me from intervening. But I knew that guy--knew the guy who was stumbling, tripping, dragging his cross and then falling with a thud at the crest of the hill. I knew the guy with the crown of thorns--the guy showing the patience of the Creator of Job. He was placed on the cross, and it was raised until its base settled into a hole in the floor of the stage. And there he hung. The lights went dim. I knew that guy.
They rehearsed it again--yell...shuffle...stomp...fall...
Couldn't watch it.
I'd seen "The Passion of the Christ" a couple of times, and it was easy enough to distance myself from the crucifixion scene in that one. Fake blood; fake hand; Jim Caviezel got paid.
But tonight, sitting six pews from the front and again hearing the commotion of soldiers and a Savior coming up the aisle beside me, it struck me: I know that Guy.
No comments:
Post a Comment