“The forces of evil . . .” blared a staggeringly alien voice. The words had exploded like cannons. Deafening. Terrifying. And yet the words that ripped through my ears came with the clarity, and almost the tone, of a trumpet. Never had I heard a voice so majestic, so powerful, so crisp.|
My eyes snapped open, but everything was still black. Then I saw what I can only call multiple flashes of red lightning. Sometimes the flashes were so frequent as to be almost like a dazzling red strobe light.
The darkness, interspersed only by almost blinding red lightning, made it nearly impossible for me to see. As alarming as this lack of visibility was, I had no desire to see a being that sounded like this one.
I was probably in a sweat, trembling, but the churning within me was so violent that it downed all consciousness of my physiological reaction. I could not have been stunned more if I had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep by both an air raid siren screaming just inches from my ears and being drenched with ice water. The shock alone might have been enough to account for the intensity of my emotional reaction, but mixed with that was a terrifying awareness of impending disaster.
Unable to detect even the direction, much less the distance of the voice, I wanted to remain frozen, lest I accidentally touch the being that had spoken. Nevertheless, I had a disturbing thought that I felt I needed to check out. I lifted a leg. While keeping that leg raised, I lifted my other leg. My fears were confirmed. No part of me was touching anything. I was somehow suspended in nothingness. Not entirely nothing, I reasoned. I’m still breathing, so I can’t be in outer space.
The piercing voice resumed its attack on my senses:
“The forces of evil have mustered.
I wanted to flee but it felt like there was no place in the universe in which to hide. It seemed as if some dreadful event was about to shatter every atom not only within me but in every universe and dimension in all creation. Everything – physical, spiritual, corrupt or holy – seemed a hair’s breadth from annihilation.
The voice continued. It was sort of masculine but no man ever sounded like this. I was scared to listen lest there be further ghastly news, and yet I had to find out more.
“From above the Almighty laughs.
Then I was somewhere else. Ground was beneath my feet. It was lighter, but not full daylight. I heard the sound of a small crowd beginning to murmur.
“What’s happening?” said one of the louder voices. “It’s getting dark!”
“It’s an omen!” said another in an alarmed half-whisper.
“That’s no eclipse! I’ve never seen such a thing,” said an old voice.
“You can feel the evil,” said someone else.
“Darkness falls on the Son of Light,” said another reverently.
As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I could make out some crosses and a crowd of spectators.
“Well may the sun grow dark.” I looked around and it was a supernatural being. It must be an angel, I assured myself. Never have I seen an angel so somber. He was bowed down, his back to the crosses and the crowd. He continued, apparently talking into the air:
“Unthinkable things transpire.
The Spotless Virgin raped by sin.
A great feeling of dread and horror fell on me. His haunting voice continued.
“Well may the sun grow dark:
“Grow dark, great sun.
No one but me seemed to hear or see this powerful being. I tried hard to pierce the gloom with my eyes to see the distant crosses. Instantly, I regretted it. I am not squeamish. I am not sentimental. But I was quite unable to endure the sight. I would rather have died. I was precariously close to vomiting. What made the sight particularly harrowing was the contrast between the glorious Being I had seen playing with the children and the one drained of glory and in the throes of death. I tried not even to let myself think this was the same Person I had previously felt so infatuated with that I had been unable to wrench my eyes off him.
Another angel appeared, glanced fleetingly at the cross, then recoiled; horror and anguish distorting his face.
“NO!” His ear-splitting shout pierced my soul like an arctic blast. I was shaken as he continued his tirade. “This should never be! Innocence made guilty. The Holy One crushed by sin’s curse as if humanity’s sins were his own! The Pure and Perfect One smeared with humanity’s shame – scorned, spurned, cursed.
“O Precious Father, what is humanity that you should suffer this much? Stop! . . . Please! Don’t do this . . . . No one is worth this much agony –” Then, with a blood-curdling scream, he bellowed, “NO ONE!”
His shriek was startlingly loud. What shook me to the core, however, was far more than just the volume of sound. It simply magnified what he was saying, and added to the intense emotion in his voice and body language, all compounding the effect of that gruesome scene on the cross. To say the combined effect was chilling or gut-churning or crippling is quite inadequate. So extreme was my emotional reaction that I was pushed to the very brink of my endurance. It was as if his every word hit me like a sickening body blow.
I can find no adequate explanation for the enormity of my inner turmoil. It felt more gut-wrenching than merely being a spectator to a grisly incident of earth-shattering proportions. It was almost as if the intensity of the angelic outbursts was causing me to experience Jesus’ tortuous death, not through a hardened human heart, but through the passionate innocence of angelic eyes and emotions.
The effect reached its peak when the angel screamed, “No one!” As you can physically feel loud, low frequency sounds, those words seemed to rip through my entire body almost as physically as a hail of bullets though, of course, not as deadly. My knees buckled, I doubled over and crumpled to the ground. This time, a loss of consciousness would have been welcomed. Instead, I remained acutely aware of my surroundings.
An uncomfortable silence dragged on for several minutes.
“My God, why have you forsaken Me?” I assumed the words, barely audible, came from the middle cross. I didn’t want to look up to check.
“O Father of Compassion!” shouted the celestial being, “how can you do this? You hurl upon your darling Son all the outrage ever felt when the objects of your love were cheated, abused, violated. Flaming anger fueled by infinite love – fury so intense that only you can contain it – unleashed upon the Innocent One, instead of those who deserve it! Why? WHY?”
I had sincerely believed I loved Jesus passionately. At the sight of the grief on this extraterrestrial’s face, however, I suddenly found myself appalled at how little I loved my Savior. Only then did I realize that my emotional response to Christ’s crucifixion has never been like the trauma I would feel at seeing a loved one being tortured to death. In fact, until this experience, I think I had been little more moved by the thought of Jesus’ suffering than by reading a newspaper account of the death of a stranger.
More silence. At last, more quietly this time, he spoke. “Seconds scream like hours. How long must this torment continue? HOW LONG?” He was back to full volume again.
He looked fleetingly at the center cross, then quickly turned his back again, as if the sight were too painful. “He suffers in silence, but I cannot be still.” Then in what seemed a mixture of anger, exasperation, and disbelief, he shrieked, “This is no ordinary man!” The words seemed to rip through my insides.
“O Matchless One, let me intervene. Let me spare your Son – your only Son – your precious Son . . .” Then, he began to sob. It came as no surprise, having witnessed his anguish, but before this I would never have thought of an angel crying so bitterly.
A voice seemed to well up within me:
“Behold your crucified King;
“It’s finished!” said the Man on the middle cross.
An unseen celestial choir began to sing in sober tones:
While demons mock and men revile,
While they mourned in song, it seemed as if an enormous viper attacked Jesus. I shuddered as it bit with such fury that its entire body trembled. Finally, it went limp as though dead. At that very moment Jesus’ head dropped as though he, too, were dead. I looked again and the serpent was a spear in Jesus’ side.
Then, a monstrous scorpion stung the crucified Christ. Its stinger was torn off and remained embedded in Jesus’ side. The scorpion died and shriveled up. When I next looked, the sting was a spear that a Roman soldier ripped out of Jesus’ body.
Next, I saw deadly projectiles – darts, arrows, spears, rocks – hurled at the crucified Savior. A multitude crouching directly behind his mutilated body sheltered in safety.
As this was happening the invisible choir sang:
All who cling to Christ are safe;
As they finished, Gabriel appeared from nowhere, triumphantly declaring:
“It’s done! He’s drained that dreaded cup.
It’s paid! Sins’ debts are canceled.
Consumed! Cruel fires burnt out for lack of fuel.
It’s stilled! God’s wrath is fully spent –
He’s dead! Hell’s fury at last is ended.
Twice dead! Dead in body and dead to God.
Then, that still-invisible choir began to sing in quiet reverence:
Hell’s power is lost;
I looked on in shocked bewilderment. I somehow felt as if what I had just witnessed made a nuclear holocaust seem like a picnic. It seemed as if all human suffering had somehow been focused on one human being. Somehow, what had just occurred was the pivotal point of all of history, but how it all fitted together I had almost no idea.
On one level, I was trying to grasp what it would be like to die of starvation when I was nothing but a spoilt brat who throws a tantrum if his meal is delayed thirty seconds. On another level, I was an ant on the Statue of Liberty, having no conception of the artistry and meaning of what I was trampling underfoot because I could never get back far enough, nor have eyes strong enough to truly see. The ramifications of what had just transpired were further beyond my comprehension than a four-year-old trying to grapple with mathematics that confound the minds of earth’s greatest geniuses. Everywhere I looked I was completely out of my depth.
The soldiers pulled the nails and the corpse fell to the ground – a stinking pile of sweat and blood. About half a dozen spectators emerged from the crowd and heaved the crumpled mass. It flopped onto a sheet. Fighting waves of nausea, they straightened the limbs. They lugged the body to a nearby grave, then tightly bound the lifeless shell – head, eyes, nose, mouth, arms, trunk, legs, feet. As they worked on the corpse they found themselves confronting all the unavoidable signs of death – body cold, eyes set, chest silent and motionless; gaping wounds in the head, back, side, hands, feet, all refusing to bleed. The professional executioner had drained every drop with that final thrust and twist of the spear.
They bound with the corpse seventy-five pounds of aromatic spices to fight the stench of death. No need to struggle with the massive stone. An armed squad had arrived to check the body, seal the tomb and remain on guard until relieved by the morning shift.
The ghastly scene finally dissolved.