Dear Readers,
The idea for this fic came to me early on in Lent, while I was attending the weekly Stations of the Cross at my church one Friday. At some point during that hour, I began thinking how interesting it would be to write a story connecting each of the stations of Jesus' journey to Calvary with a modern-day tale describing a situation in any everyday person's life that somehow relates to that station. So, this fic was born. I have to admit, some of the imagery of Jesus' tale I borrowed from Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ, because the cinematography of that film just works so perfectly with the story (in this chapter, the description of Claudia at the window is taken pretty much directly from the film). But that is not the important part. What is important is that no matter what the time, what the place, we all walk the road to Calvary in our own lives, stumbling and falling along the way. But we are never alone, because He walked it first before us, and He walks with us now, beside us, as we follow in His footsteps.
Best Regards from a Bookworm and God Bless,
Miss Pookamonga ;-P
The Way of the Cross
I.
The First Station: Jesus Is Condemned to Death
"…'I was born and came into the world for this one purpose, to speak about the truth. Whoever belongs to the truth listens to me.'
'And what is truth?' Pilate asked."
—John 18:37-38
It was a day like any other day.
Or so it would seem, to the innocent bystander.
They were just children at recess, gathered together in a clump playing some silly game to amuse themselves.
But, oh, how wrong the innocent bystander often is, when looking at the world as if seeing it through a dark veil that conceals the truth lying outside its protection of deceit.
Children…they aren't born knowing how to be cruel to other human beings. But after years of observing the world around them with wide, once-innocent eyes, they learn the brutality practiced so often by their careless elders. And once they learn, they imitate. And once they imitate…well, the rest goes without saying.
And so the vicious cycle continues.
Pontius Pilate sighed and surveyed the wild crowd tiredly, silently wishing the throng of screaming bodies would just disappear into thin air. He didn't want to deal with any of this. This situation was too disturbing, too far out of his league. Yes, he was quite used to sentencing criminals to suffer cruel deaths—he did have a reputation for being one of the most ruthless Roman military leaders, after all—but this man wasn't a criminal. In fact, he was the furthest from a criminal that Pilate could ever think of, and even more. What made it worse was that the man didn't make a single complaint against the malicious treatment he received from the mouths of his own people, but instead he just…stood there, drinking it all in with his exceptionally sorrowful eyes. He was indeed the most perplexing human being the seasoned soldier had ever set eyes upon, and that bothered Pilate intensely.
"Listen to them," Pilate whispered forcefully—and maybe a bit desperately—at the weak, bloodied form standing beside him. "Are you sure you aren't going to say anything to defend yourself?"
But, as the governor had expected, the man said nothing and merely looked at him with those eyes. Those eyes, laden with so much pain and indescribable suffering that Pilate couldn't bear to have to look at them. The expression in them made his stomach churn even more than it already was churning, and there was just something so incredibly perturbing about the matter, even more greatly perturbing than the entire situation of the man's trial had already played out to be.
It was like what had happened earlier that morning with Claudia.
"Please, husband," he heard her trembling voice echo through his mind. "Have nothing to do with him. My dream…I suffered much because of him and I do not wish to see these terrible visions become a dreadful reality. I beg of you…"
She had been so terrified that her whole body had shaken violently in complete fear—he had never before seen his wife in such a state of total disrepair, and he had been deeply troubled by it. Pilate had never been one to pay much attention to dreams, but the terror in Claudia's voice and the way she had desperately clutched him struck a chord of dread within him, a dread that he knew wasn't going to dissipate until he threw the matter away completely.
Taking another glance at the silent man beside him, Pilate sighed wearily yet again.
There was only one thing to do.
"You didn't have to tattle, you moron!"
Dominic backed up against the brick wall of the school building, keeping his head bowed towards the ground so that Greg Anderson wouldn't be able to see how scared he was. Anderson was the tallest, the loudest, the toughest, and the strongest kid in fourth grade and he had a way of making you scared if he really wanted to. The greatest satisfaction for him was seeing that look of sheer terror on another kid's face—he was such a monster that that kind of thing made him laugh. A long, loud, ugly laugh that sounded like the laugh of one of those evil villains from old horror movies.
Dominic hated that laugh with a passion, and he wasn't looking forward to hearing it again, especially if it was going to be directed at him this time.
He hadn't done anything wrong, he knew. In fact, he'd done what everybody always praised as the "right thing", the "good thing", "something to make your mother proud." He was a quiet kid—smart in school, but quiet—and he never spoke out about much of anything, but the other day had been too much. Anderson's devilish streak was so bad that he didn't give a darn about whom or what on God's green earthhe and his buddies chose to bully. Even if it happened to be a girl.
Picking on other boys his age was bad, but it wasn't as bad as picking on poor little Tammy McCree. She was a girl, for starters, and in addition to that, she was a tiny thing, as fragile as a little china doll or a fairy, and she had a way of making the worst out of anything awful that happened to her.
It hadn't been fair, huge ogre Anderson and his crew of vipers up against tiny, defenseless little Tammy. So Dominic, who never liked to interfere in anything, had decided to put a stop to it all before Tammy had gotten hurt.
Unfortunately for him, doing what the teachers were willing to give loads and loads of gold stars and blue ribbons for did not earn a good mark in Anderson's book.
"Do you know how much trouble I got in when I got home? Grounded. I'm grounded and it's all your fault!" Anderson bellowed so loudly that Dominic's ears started ringing.
Serves you right, Dominic thought to himself, but he didn't say anything.
"Aren't you gonna say anything?! Huh? Are you?!"
Anderson was practically breathing down Dominic's face at that point. Dominic still didn't look up. He was feeling that painful feeling pushing up from the back of his throat and he knew with dread that he was going to cry if he looked up. He could not let Greg Anderson see him cry.
"Say something, Nicky!" yelled Jack Branson, one of the vipers.
"Yeah, say something!" taunted yet another one.
Dominic clamped his teeth together. Don't look up, don't look up.
"LOOK at me!" screamed Anderson at the top of his lungs, thrusting his hand underneath Dominic's chin and forcing it upwards. Dominic whimpered instinctively, afterwards cursing himself for not holding it in.
"Oh, are you a crybaby now, Marchesi? Are you?" jeered Tam Lawrence from somewhere behind Anderson's back.
"Crybaby, crybaby, crybaby!" they all began to chant, their voices growing louder and louder and louder with every shout.
Dominic's strength faltered, and suddenly he felt as if all the boys were closing in on him like wolves cornering their prey. He was going to cry, he knew it. He couldn't hold it in. Oh, he was such a baby.
"You know I don't like people who tattle on me," growled Anderson as his pack continued to chant like this was some sort of evil ceremony.
Dominic gulped, desperately trying to hold back the tears of fear from running down his face.
"And I'm gonna make sure you don't do it again."
Pilate stepped out onto the terrace, the man called Jesus near his side. The crowd erupted into a frenzy upon their entrance, and within seconds the din was so loud that Pilate couldn't even hear himself breathing. By the gods, he hoped this would be settled soon.
"Behold the man!" he yelled out over the racket, thrusting his arm in Jesus' direction. At that, the crowd burst into another wave of frenetic screaming.
Pilate took a quick glance at Jesus. The man was staring into the crowd, head bowed, eyes deep in thought…or prayer…or something like that. Pilate wasn't quite sure.
He turned back to the crowd. "Here is your king!" he shouted, straining his voice. "What do you want me to do with him?"
It started from somewhere at the back of the mob—perhaps a single voice or a group of them—and then suddenly the entire mass of people were screaming the same incriminating words over and over again.
"Crucify him! Crucify him!" they shrieked, the bodies pulsing malevolently with every cry.
Pilate inwardly groaned at the response. "Do you want me to release to you Barabbas? The murderer?!" By Jupiter, these people were insane.
"Free Barabbas! Free Barabbas!" the vile bodies screamed wildly.
"You want me to crucify your king?"
"We have no king but Caesar!"
Pilate cursed to himself and motioned to one of his guards as he backed towards his seat. He settled down upon it as the guard rushed back with the bowl of water and placed it carefully on one of the stone arms. Another guard stepped to the opposite side of the chair, holding a cloth across his arm.
Finally, the moment of release. He could forget about this business and carry on as if nothing had happened.
But as Pilate glanced towards the man wearing nothing but a purple robe and a crown of sharp thorns, something stirred inside the governor, and he didn't feel as relieved as he knew he should have been.
He shook it off. It would do no good to ponder over the matter any further.
So, taking a deep breath, he raised his hand to silence the crowd. Fortunately, it took them only seconds to respond.
When the angry cries had died down completely, Pilate finally opened his mouth to speak. "I cannot condemn an innocent man," he declared firmly. "I find no fault in him." He looked at Jesus again. The man was still staring at the crowd with his head bowed low. "But, since you are so adamant about putting him to death, I am handing him over to you. He is one of you, and you are the ones who find him so deserving of punishment. So go ahead—I will let my soldiers crucify him for you if you wish, and I will release Barabbas to you." He dipped his hands into the water, avoiding looking at Jesus' frail form standing at the edge of the steps. "But know this," he said very deliberately as he lifted his dripping hands from the bowl, motioning to the other guard to hand him the cloth, "I take no responsibility for these things. May the guilt fall upon all of you for condemning him to an unjust death, and see to it that if any ill fortune should befall you because of this, you do not come running to me with the blame." He wrung his hands on the cloth and then handed it back to the guard.
There. It was finished.
The crowd roared deafeningly in victory.
And Jesus of Nazareth…he remained motionless. Staring intently into the crowd.
Pilate stood up reluctantly and motioned to the guards to take the man away. They seized him roughly by the arms and began to drag him, the man still showing no signs of protest. It was astonishing. He was going to die the most horrible of deaths, and yet he didn't even cry out in indignation or anguish.
Just silence. Utter silence.
Pilate gulped, wishing for the churning in his stomach to subside. Never before in his life as a soldier had he ever cared so much about the guilt or innocence of a convicted man.
And this man…yes, yes he was fully innocent of any crime.
But so was he. He'd washed his hands of it all, hadn't he?
Out of the corner of his eye, Pilate suddenly caught a glance of Claudia at her bedroom window as she surveyed the chaotic scene below. Her eyes suddenly met his. For a split second they held his gaze, and he expected her to nod in approval of his actions.
But instead she lowered her head mournfully and turned away, disappearing behind the wall of stone.
Everything happened so fast that Dominic didn't even have time to react.
One minute he had been pushed up against the wall of the school, Greg Anderson's hand clenched around his chin and the pack closed in around him, cutting him off from the rest of the world. And then the next, he was suddenly being dragged violently across the ground by what seemed like hundreds of clawing arms and legs.
Dominic cried out in pain as he felt the rough pavement of the parking lot scrape against his skin. The boys, like wild animals, dragged him even harder and even faster, yanking and pushing him this way and that as Dominic struggled to break free.
"Stop it, stop it!" he screamed, wriggling against the iron grip that Anderson and Tam Lawrence had around his arms. Someone suddenly kicked him in the ribs, and he screamed yet again.
The tears were flowing freely now. There was no way he could hold them back against the pain.
"Crybaby, crybaby!" they chanted viciously, wagging their tongues in his face.
"Shuddup! Lemme go!"
"Oh, the only place you're going is The Cell. And you're not gettin' out either. I'll just tell Mrs. Morrison that you decided to play hooky and then you'll be in real trouble," sneered Anderson devilishly.
No. Not The Cell.
The Cell was a makeshift prison Anderson and his pack had built out of rocks, tree branches, and old boards of wood at the far edge of the playground, just past where the woods sprung up. It was awfully dark in those trees, and The Cell made it even worse because the boys had made it so that the branches and boards blocked out most of whatever light could make it past the tree canopy. And it was always kept guarded by at least two of the bigger boys, so if you tried to escape they'd just beat you up and shove you back into the little fort.
Getting sent to The Cell was the worst fate any kid at the school could possibly dream of, and it was reserved only for those who really made Anderson mad. Really mad. Which Anderson definitely was.
"You scared of The Cell?" jeered some of the boys as they dragged him through the leaves to the little prison in the woods. "You a scaredy-cat, Marchesi?"
Dominic didn't say anything. He was already crying too much.
"See, this is what you get for being a tattle-tale on Gregory Anderson," growled the bully as he shoved Dominic into The Cell. Dominic whimpered as the stinging in his legs suddenly grew sharper, and Tam and Jack spat at him.
"Crybaby scaredy-cat!" they teased, and the rest of the pack joined in chanting.
"Crybaby scaredy-cat! Crybaby scaredy-cat!"
Dominic curled up into a ball and hid his head in his knees so that he wouldn't have to see their faces mocking him.
"You see, he won't do it again. I guarantee that," Dominic heard Anderson say loudly to the little crowd. Then he heard the crumple of leaves as Anderson knelt down and leaned towards him. "That's what you get for messing with me. That's what you get, Marchesi."
And then it happened.
He laughed.
That loud, crazy laugh that only villains in old horror movies could do.
Dominic scrunched himself up even tighter as the rest of boys began howling with their own beastly laughter. He wished they would go away and leave him alone. He wished that recess could miraculously end that moment. He wished that an asteroid could crash into that very spot and crush all of Anderson's gang flat.
But none of that was going to happen, he knew. He was stuck there, blubbering like a little baby as the other boys laughed at him as if he was some kind of joke.
So much for doing the right thing.