Perhaps the most central and most powerful way we have historically expressed the various truths of our lives and passed those truths down from one generation to the next is through narrative. Indeed, one of the most fundamental aspects of what it means to be human is to be a teller of stories. So, sometimes I wonder if the way we work through and share the truths we find in the scriptures (which are also heavily narrative-based) would be more fruitfully done through story rather than doctrinal lists or theological textbooks. What you see below is one attempt at doing just that.
I hope, through sharing this with you, and, subsequently, through your responses, that we can build a more dynamic (perhaps even more human?) conversation about these truths we hold so dear.
(I would love for you to leave your thoughts/comments down in the comments section below!)
So, without further ado...
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It wasn't the light of their lamps that had first caught his attention; it was the hate in their voices. A sea of faces -- contorted with murderous intent, breathing death into the still night air -- was winding its way toward them. In the midst of all that broken humanity, a face he recognized, though only as one recognizes a childhood friend. The broad outlines were the same, but there was also so much that was different, so much that seemed darker, heavier as he trudged his way up the hill.
How could one man change so much in the course of just a few days?
The boat rocked slightly in the breeze, drawing him back to the task at hand. At his feet lay piles of tattered, woven nets. Funny, how little they meant to him now. After three years, his hands had almost forgotten how to hold them.
Almost.
His face went hot. Why wouldn't he fight for us? Why wouldn't he let us fight for him? They knew he was capable of far more than facing that ridiculous crowd would have required. Priests? They'd seen him do war with unspeakable things, seen those things shut their mouths at his command.
They would have followed him anywhere. They would have laid down their lives -- gladly! -- if only he'd been willing to ask. Instead, they all got to watch as he gave up, as he handed himself over to the mob -- worse -- to that monstrous traitor who'd sold him out.
Of course the trial was sham! Of course they would find any reason to be rid of him! What the hell did he think would happen?! Surely, he knew what he was up against. Surely, he knew the Warring Terror would tolerate no challenger, that he would be crushed under the imperial weight of the Power he'd opposed.
Did he even care? All the people he'd leave behind, all those who would continue to suffer at the hands of wicked and violent men -- if there was ever a time to fight, to stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves, wouldn't that have been the time?!
To see him, hanging there...
His fingers dug into his palms as he spat his words into the void.
What a goddamn waste.
The winds shifted, threatening a storm -- as though he even needed much excuse to head in. Making his way toward the shore, he noticed a figure lingering at the water's edge.
Great. He thought to himself. What does this guy want?
