Crucify Him (Holy Friday)

Note: the following is a fictional short story.

I shouldn’t be here.

There’s a lot that I should do and shouldn’t do, if I don’t want to get in trouble. I know that my older brothers and sisters have more to do, but even though I’m small there are still a lot of rules. I have to milk the goat Methuselah every morning, even when he bleats and knocks the bucket over. I have to help Mother sweep. I have to go with Miriam to the well even though she talks to her friends for so long. And there’s lots I can’t do: I can’t wake Mother and Father, I can’t leave the house at night, I can’t cross the big road, and I can’t go near the tax collector’s booth.

Mother never told me I couldn't be in this crowd, the one in front of the justice building. But as people get louder and louder, screaming and throwing things, I think she probably won’t like it. I’m jostled against people’s legs, and I can’t find Father. Mother sent me to go find him again, just like last week, but this crowd is much worse. They aren’t cheering. They aren’t waving green branches. They’re angry, and I can’t find my way out. I’m knocked to the ground and I get dust in my teeth.

“Josiah!”

I’m pulled up into the air so fast my head spins. Father’s face comes into focus and I press my face into his chest. He smells like leather, like his shop, and I cling to him.

“What are you doing here? Where’s your mother?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, face muffled in his tunic.

“What?”

“What’s happening?” I lift my face up. Father’s face is very red. He’s angry too, but also sad, and I start to shake a little. The people around us get louder, and I don’t want to turn around and see why. But I do. But I don’t.

“The Romans have some criminals,” Father tells me, and doesn’t say any more. He turns me around in his arms, and up here, I can see it all. There’s a small platform outside the justice building, and there are two men up there. One man is huge and scraggly. He has a large beard and a scar on his face and his hands are in chains. I shrink back against Father.

“Who’s that?” I whisper, but Father doesn’t hear me.

“Give us Barabbas!” Someone yells, and other people in the crowd take up the chant.

The governor is standing behind the two men. He wears a long, red robe and has a pale face. Father doesn’t like him. I can’t pronounce his name. It’s Roman, which means we don’t like it, or him.

The governor spreads his hands wide. “Are you sure?” he yells, voice ringing over the crowd.

“Yes! Yes!” comes the jumbled response. Someone yells, “Barabbas!” again.

“Why is he in chains?” I ask louder.

“He’s a murderer,” Father answers shortly, not looking at me. “But he’s better than the false prophet.”

False prophet?

I look closer at the other man standing next to Barabbas. He’s been hit a lot. I can see the bruises from here. Wait, I know his face. It’s the man from the garden! And the man who came into the city on the donkey! I lean forward to try and get a better look but Father pulls me back. The man is standing very, very still, and the governor seems very uncomfortable. The crowd continues to scream, and chant starts.

“Crucify him!”

More and more people start chanting it, including Father. I turn around. His face is twisted and red and angry, and he’s shouting “crucify him!” so loud my ears hurt. I ask him why why why why why over and over again until he finally looks down at me. So fast I almost miss it, his face changes from angry to sad. Or sad-angry. Both at the same time.

“He was supposed to kill Romans,” he tells me, his voice confused, “not get arrested by them. He isn’t the Messiah. He lied to us.”

Not the Messiah? Not the king? I look back over to him standing on the platform, and one of the soldiers punches him, hard. He falls to his knees and the crowd cheers. If he isn’t a prophet, then why was he crying blood last night? Why was he praying all alone in the garden?

The soldier hauls him to his feet, and his face is bleeding. He doesn’t look like a prophet or king. He looks like any other other adult.

“Crucify him!” Father shouts. My head pounds, and I wriggle from his arms. He shouts something else, but I don’t listen.

My feet hit the ground and I’m running, pushing my way through the crowd and hitting people’s legs. When I break free I gulp in huge breaths of air and I don’t stop running. Father yelling. A murderer. The governor. The man, a prophet and not at the same time. Crucify him.

I’ve seen dead people before. Mother doesn’t like it, but Father says it’s a part of life. When we walk along the big road in and out of the city, I’ve seen the crosses on the side, people up on them. Mother turns my head away, but I saw anyway.

I don’t stop running until I get home and I burst through the front door.

“What—where is your father? Why are you running?” Mother asks me, hand on hip, holding the baby.

In answer, I start crying.