Good morning. If you will allow me today, I would like to share a bit of creative writing, which is to say that I would like to share a story that although it is based on the realities of its day, the story itself is pure fiction.
Imagine that you are a Jew of the first century. You live in Jerusalem and have a small clothing shop near one of the city’s main gates. Life is pretty good. You have a wife whom you love and three children who are growing up too fast. Business is pretty good, especially during the times of feasts and festivals when people from everywhere come to Jerusalem to worship and celebrate. This is your story.
It was on one of those occasions that I first met him. It was the week of Yom Teruah, the Feast of Trumpets. The shop was very busy, sales were going well, and then my table collapsed. Sure, it was old, but why now? Why during one of my busiest times when customers were frequent, and the wait for a repair would be at least twice as long as usual. One of my customers was a woman about my own age. She saw the table fall, heard my cry of anguish, and said, “My husband is a carpenter, and we are in the city for the Feast. If you would like, I will have him come and fix it for you.” “Yes, please!” I responded. What luck, at least it would be if the guy was any good. He arrived a few minutes later with his son, a boy of about 14 or 15 years. The father gave instructions and the son set about forming the wood with a mallet and chisel. They obviously knew what they were doing.
My wife came by to tell me that her brother was back and wanted to talk to me. I shouted to her, saying that I had no desire to talk to that bum. My loud and harsh words caught the interest of the carpenter, whose name was Joseph. I felt the need to explain my anger. “You see, he cheated me” I told him. “He needed the money for something, and he lied to me and cost me money that I couldn’t afford.” I asked the carpenter “What would you do if someone you trusted, family even, lied to you like that?” Strangely, the carpenter didn’t answer, but turned toward his teenaged son. The son set down his mallet and smiled at me. “Forgive him” he said. “Words of forgiveness will bring you peace and blessing, while words of bitterness will only bring you pain.” Then he picked up his mallet and went back to work. I looked at the carpenter who smiled a knowing smile. “You should listen to him” the man said. So, I did. That night when my brother-in-law came around wanting to talk, to beg for forgiveness, I invited him in. I forgave him. I told him that our family should have peace and not pain. He was happy, my wife was happy, and I felt like a weight was lifted from me. The Carpenter’s boy’s name was Jesus, and I regretted that I never got a chance to thank him.
Nearly twenty years later I still had the same shop by the same gate in Jerusalem. The week of Passover was at hand and the shop was very busy. I heard some great commotion heading toward the city gate and asked a friend what was going on. “He’s coming!” my friend shouted. “Who?” I asked. “The prophet from Galilee, the one who many say is the Anointed One of God. He’s coming!” There was shouting, cries of “Hosanna!” And then I saw him. He was riding on a young donkey and even though so many years had passed, I recognized him. It was the carpenter’s son. What was his name? Jesus! Yes, that’s it. His name was Jesus.
I stood at a distance and yet he saw me. We made eye contact and I saw him smile. I couldn’t hear the words over the shouts that filled the air, but I read his lips and knew what he said. “You made a good choice.” Yes, I did make a good choice. My brother-in-law had become my closest friend and business partner. I was thinking of this as he passed by, and it occurred to me, I still had never had the opportunity to thank him.
It was a busy week, lots of sales. Through it all I couldn’t quit thinking about the boy, a man now, named Jesus. At the end of the week, I heard news that broke my heart. The temple leaders had declared war on this Jesus, that was no secret. But they had managed to catch him. One of his closest followers had betrayed him, or so it was said. The leaders spent an entire night condemning him, then handed him over to the Romans to be crucified. Crucified! For what, I wondered.
I don’t know why I did it, but I closed my shop on that Friday morning. I made my way to where they led him out of the city, to the hill called Golgotha. They crucified him. They hung him between two thieves. All of the temple leaders and the Romans spit at him, called him names, and continued to torture him as best they could. I barely knew him, but for some reason my heart was breaking at the sight.
I knew that I shouldn’t do it, but something inside me drove me. I came closer to his cross than was safe. Not close enough to cause trouble for myself, but close enough to see him. He was near the end, and his breathing was so labored I knew that his time had come. I looked up at him and his eyes met mine. I burst into tears, but through my sobs I mouthed to him the words I had been wishing I could say for nearly twenty years. “Thank you, Jesus.” Through the pain, I saw him smile. He said to me, “You are welcome. Always, always, always…forgive.” Then he tipped his head back and cried out in a great voice “Father, forgive them, they do not realize what they are doing!” Luke 23:34
I wish I had known him longer. I wish I could have asked him more questions. I wish I could have seen his smile once more. I wish. But I am now a believer in Jesus the Messiah of God, and I know that one day every one of these wishes and more will all come true. Thank you, Jesus!
God bless your day!
Vern