I watched the angry crowd, pushing and shoving the lone man towards the stage. Insulting him, their voices could be heard echoing off the walls of the room.
He stumbled towards the stage while his accusers grabbed him roughly pulling him up the stairs. Shoving him upright, they nailed his hands to a cross.
They were college students clothed in robes, pumping their fists, sneering in anger and derision, “Come down from the cross and save yourself!”
They mocked him; they pretended to spit. “He saved others, but he can’t save himself!”
They looked from one to another laughing, pointing towards him, “He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him.”
Shouting and jeering at the college student portraying Jesus, their voices grew louder and louder as they growled their contempt at him.
“Let God rescue him now if he wants him!”
They shouted louder and the contempt rose higher, my eyes darted from them to him on the cross.
One loud and mocking voice rose above the hum of anger for all to hear, “Come down and save yourself, King of the Jews!”
With the roar of voices surrounding us all, the man on the cross began to painfully pull away his nail-pierced hands. First one, then the other dropped to his side.
I sat in my seat, watching the once familiar crucifixion scene unfold anew before me.
There was an eerie silence as we looked on in shock. With both arms to his side and head hung down, he walked down the steps of the stage, down the aisle, and out the door they brought him in.
We waited. I wondered.
And quietly, firmly, a voice simply said, “Aren’t you glad he didn’t do it?”