A Connecticut Yankee in King Jesus' Court -- part 6

FRIDAY     

Jerry Francis stood nervously in the middle of the large and agitated crowd. The Roman governor appeared at the top of a large stone platform and spoke. “Which of the two do you want me to release to you?” he shouted.

     The crowd replied, “Give us Barabbas!”

     Looking uncomfortable, the governor said, “What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called Christ?”

     “Crucify him!” the multitude thundered. Jerry cringed. Then he noticed that Benjamin, his companion these past five days, was screaming at the top of his lungs, “Crucify!!”

     “Benny!” Jerry said, grabbing Benjamin’s arm, “Please don’t say that! Just a few days ago you were willing to follow Jesus anywhere!”

     “Yeah, but that was when I thought he was going to lead us in a violent revolt against the Romans,” Benjamin sneered. “Instead he turned out to be just another deranged religious dreamer.”

     Then Jerry heard the governor say, “Who shall I release to you?”

     The crowd, including Benjamin yelled, “Give us Barabbas!”

     Benjamin turned to Jerry and said, “Barabbas is a fighter! He can be our leader. Who needs Jesus?”

     When the governor asked the crowd, “What should I do, then, with the one you call the king of the Jews?” the entire mob, including Benjamin, screamed, “Crucify him!!”

     Jerry hung his head in sadness. Despite the fact he never paid much attention during his youthful catechism classes, he knew what was going to happen. It was futile at this point; Jesus was going to be crucified.

     The sound of the crowd increased to a steady roar. Over the din Jerry heard the rhythmic crack of a whip. A few minutes later the crowd shifted as a squad of soldiers emerged from the gate, escorting a frail prisoner who struggled under the weight of a large wooden beam. “C’mon, Benny, let’s follow,” Jerry said.

     “Why?” Benjamin asked in confusion. “There are too many soldiers. Let’s go find Barabbas instead.”

     “They have their victim,” Jerry said. “The soldiers aren’t going to bother us. C’mon, please. I want to see what happens.”

     There is no doubt that Jerry Francis desperately longed to be home, back in his comfortable middle-class house in Hamden, Connecticut, in the 21st century, with his wife Brenda and children Michael and Jennifer. For five consecutive days Jerry woke up in the morning expecting to smell fresh Dunkin Donuts brand coffee brewing in his kitchen. But for five consecutive days the first things Jerry’s nostrils detected in the morning were the smells of hay, urine, and body odor. Then in an instant all the sights and sounds and fears flooded back into his brain. Oh no, Palestine. Ancient Jerusalem. He was still stuck in his unexplainable nightmare. How did it happen? Why did it happen? Jerry asked himself those questions a couple times each hour, far less frequently compared to earlier in the week. If he was destined to be stuck “here,” in the middle of an historic time and place, he was determined not to miss it. He wanted to see each event—events he had suspected for most of his adult life were nothing more than folk legends—with his own eyes.

     Jerry and Benjamin followed the slow death march, careful to blend in with curious bystanders and not arouse the soldier’s suspicion. At one point, Jesus came within 15 feet of them. With the wood pressing down on his shoulder, Jesus turned his bloody head and looked straight at Jerry. A cold chill ran down Jerry’s spine as that gentle gaze once again seemed to penetrate his soul. Jesus paused for a moment, then said, “Jeremiah, believe in me.”

     The breath was sucked completely out of Jerry’s lungs. He stood there in shock as Jesus began to walk again. Benjamin turned to Jerry and said quietly, “Was he talking to you?”

     “I, uh, I don’t know,” Jerry stammered. “I, I think so. Maybe.”

     They continued to observe from a distance. The procession went out one of the city gates and followed a winding path down a steady incline and then upward to a small rocky hill. Jesus and two other men were stripped of their robes and nailed to their crosses. When Jesus’ cross was raised up into the air, Benjamin said flatly, “He’s as good a dead now. No one ever survives a Roman crucifixion.” Jerry could not remember feeling as sad as he did at that moment.

     As each torturous hour passed, Jerry was amazed that events were occurring just as his childhood catechism classes had described, and just as his wife Brenda had tried to explain on many occasions. Jerry cringed at the thought of how rudely and sarcastically he always responded whenever his wife tried to talk about her faith. All the while Benjamin fidgeted incessantly, baffled as to why Jerry wanted to stay and watch.

     Finally, when Jesus’ body was being taken down from the cross, dark clouds moved in and the wind picked up. Benjamin said, “OK, it’s over. Can we go now?”

     “Please, Benny,” Jerry replied, “I want to see exactly where they bury him.”

     “What in the world for?!” Benjamin said.

     “Just a hunch,” Jerry said quietly. “I’ll let you know for sure in a few days.”

     Careful to keep their distance, Jerry and Benjamin followed a small band of people to a nearby cemetery. The group consisted of an elderly, well-dressed man who led the way; two young men, apparently servants, who carried Jesus’ body; and about a half-dozen weeping women.

     The body was wrapped in strips of cloth and then placed inside a sizable hole dug into the side of a hill. Jerry looked around intently, noting various landmarks. Then the two servants struggled to roll a huge stone down a slight incline. The stone settled into place, completely blocking the opening. When a squad of Roman soldiers appeared, sent to seal and guard the gravesite, Benjamin grabbed Jerry’s arm. “That’s it,” he said. “We are leaving…now!”

     Daylight was fading fast. The two men walked away briskly, hoping to get back inside the city walls and reach the squalid boarding house before dark. Benjamin suggested a short cut. They would have to climb up some steep hills and rocks, but they could get to the gate much more quickly than following the meandering path. Jerry agreed and they set out.

     Short, gnarly trees poked out of the steep hill. Jerry and Benjamin grabbed the trunks and branches of these trees to assist their climb, especially when their sandals slipped on the loose dirt and gravel. When they were within 50 yards of the city gate, they climbed up to a small plateau and then walked around a massive boulder. Just as they reach the back side of the boulder, Jerry and Benjamin flinched and stopped short. They had almost walked directly into an unexpected object swaying gently in front of them. It was almost sundown and everything was in shadows. The two men stepped back and looked up to try and figure out what was in their path.

     Jerry blurted out, “It’s a man! Hanging from that tree!” The lifeless form was connected by a short rope, with one end around a low branch and the other end around his neck. The man’s feet dangled about four feet off the ground.

     Benjamin peered closely at the corpse and said, “It’s the Iscariot! It’s Simon’s friend Judas.”

     Jerry felt as if he was about to vomit. Except for wakes and funerals, he had never seen an actual dead body before. Now in the past few hours he had seen four, two of whom he felt like he had known personally.

     “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Benjamin said forcefully. The two men began to jog the final distance to the city gate. Jerry’s mind raced with a million thoughts. Yeah, that’s right, he thought, Judas committed suicide after betraying Jesus. Now I remember. The sadness he felt after watching Jesus die was now compounded by the sadness of finding Judas dead. Jerry also felt guilty. He had wanted to stop Judas from betraying Jesus, but because he didn’t know the details of that historic week he had been too late. They both would be alive if I had gotten to Judas in time, he thought. The next 2,000 years of history could’ve been so much different if I had stopped all this from happening.

     Once inside the city gate they hurried to the run-down boarding house. The city was pitch black and eerily silent. None of the other zealots were in the room. Benjamin wondered where everyone was. He became agitated at Jerry for making them spend the whole afternoon watching Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. “Maybe they all left the city,” Benjamin said. “Maybe the Romans have decided to arrest all the Zealots. Maybe they want to crucify all of us, too! Maybe we missed our chance to get out of here safely with Simon and the others. Jeremiah, you have put us in grave danger!”

     “No, wait a minute,” Jerry said defensively. “I don’t think the Romans want to arrest anyone else.”

     “How do you know?” Benjamin demanded.

     Jerry paused. How do I know? he asked himself silently. He strained to remember any details. “Well,” he finally said, “It wasn’t really the Romans, it was the high priest and the other religious leaders. They only wanted to get Jesus. And now I think, um, I think they’re satisfied.”

     “I hope you’re right,” Benjamin grumbled as he lay down on his straw bed. He blew out the oil lamp and the room went dark. “But I know one thing,” Benjamin added. “We have to get out of this city as soon as possible. We have to meet up with Simon and Barabbas and the others and plan our next move. And we have to do it away from Jerusalem. This place is too dangerous.”

     Jerry lay on his straw bed staring straight up at the ceiling. He felt exhausted, but the events of the day continued to race through his mind. He kept seeing Jesus’ penetrating eyes and hearing his voice say, “Jeremiah, believe in me.” Jerry didn’t feel like he would ever fall asleep. But he knew he needed to rest up for the next day, which would be a very challenging day. And Jerry’s biggest challenge would be how to convince Benjamin to stay in Jerusalem for yet another night and then return to the same cemetery on Sunday morning. 

July Is Beach Season! Yippee!

Hooray! It’s July and my family wants to take me to the beach! I know it’s time to visit the shore because it’s been over nine months since I’ve had any skin irritations. But now it’s finally summer, so let’s go to the beach! Yippee!

Here is how much my skin enjoys going to the beach, starting from the top and working down.

Head — about five years ago I was outside doing some yard work, and I had large amounts of sunblock on my face and neck, but later that evening the top of my head was in pain. I couldn’t understand why, and then my wife said, “Your bald spot is sunburned.” My bald spot? I didn’t even know I HAD a bald spot. I can’t see the top of my head. Why didn’t someone tell me? That’s like letting me walk around all day with a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth. As the TV public service announcement says: “Friends don’t let friends be oblivious to bald spots.”

Neck — I’ve never lived any further south than Connecticut, but the shade of crimson my neck turns when I just THINK about going outside on a sunny day qualifies me as an honorary member of the Sons of the Confederacy.

Torso — This is the safest part of my body because I never, ever take my shirt off at the beach, even when frolicking in the surf or taking a shower. With my shirt off, I look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy’s twin brother, except a tad whiter (and wider). Another reason why I leave my shirt on is because it’s not right for a middle-aged man to cause little children to cry.

Nether regions — This is another area of my body that is not in danger of getting sunburned, but that’s not to say it’s free from the joys of beach-induced skin irritation. The mesh lining inside a man’s bathing suit has been specially designed by NASA to capture and retain the maximum quantity of salt, sand, and seaweed. It’s an amazing achievement of science. Walking around the beach all day with a bathing suit filled with abrasive compounds is one of the highlights of summer. Sometimes during the winter, when I wistfully long for the warmth of July, I’ll sprinkle some salt, sand, and soggy lettuce into a pair of jockey shorts, and then walk around the house until I’m thoroughly chaffed. Mmm, delightful!

Legs — No matter how many quarts of sunblock I apply to my legs, I always seem to miss a spot on the back of my knee. So by 5 p.m., that one little spot feels like it was pressed against a waffle iron. Also, the legs are the part of the body targeted most often by mosquitos, sand fleas, and those cuddly green-headed horse flies.

Feet — If you wear socks and shoes every day for months on end, the bottom of your feet become as tender as a piece of veal. This means if you walk barefoot on plush carpeting, it will hurt. And if you walk barefoot on hot sand, pebbles, and shells, the pain will cause your feet to file a lawsuit against you for cruel and unusual punishment. This is why I have to wear socks and sneakers when I go to the beach. Combined with the floppy hat, baggy shirt, and gallons of sunblock, the socks and sneakers are the crowning touch, which is why I’ve won the Beach Dork of the Year award seven years in a row.  

So, the beach season is finally here! I’ve got my hat, shirt, sneakers, bathing suit, and 55-gallon drum of sunblock ready to go. When do we leave?

Trusting God Is Hard

In the Gospel reading for the weekend of July 11/12, Jesus sent His twelve disciples out, two-by-two, to preach in the surrounding villages. Scripture explains, “He instructed them to take nothing for the journey but a walking stick—no food, no sack, no money.”

How strange. Jesus sent them out on an important mission without any supplies at all. If I had been one of the Twelve, I would have complained, “Hey Jesus, how do you expect us to be successful if we go wandering out there without any food or money or important stuff?”

At minimum, I would require: cash, credit cards, snacks, sunglasses, bug spray, bottled water, snacks, road maps, iPhone, flashlights, first aid kit, snacks, raincoat, umbrella, toothbrush, extra clothing, GPS, batteries, laptop computer, and just in case, extra snacks. And of course, if we were going to be away overnight, I would need a lot MORE stuff.

What was Jesus thinking sending those guys out with nothing but the tunic on their backs? It’s almost as if He was expecting them to trust in God for all their needs. What a weird concept. Trust in God? Who does that nowadays?

Oh sure, we believe in God…most of the time. And we trust in God to meet our needs…in an abstract, general sort of way. We know that when we’re 90 years old and on our deathbed, we’ll be able to look back on our lives and say, “Yep, God took care of me and helped me through the tough times.”

Yes, we trust in God, generally speaking, but what about the real world? What about today, tomorrow, and next week? There are real problems to deal with here. The mortgage is due, the job is stressful, the car is making a funny noise, the teenager kids have green hair and half a hardware store piercing their various body parts, and a sharp pain just below the ribcage keeps waking you up in the middle of the night. You know what I mean, real problems.

Certainly we can’t get all silly and spiritual and pretend like we can trust in God to deal with real here-and-now problems, can we? After all, doesn’t the Bible say that God helps those who help themselves? (Well, actually, the Bible says nothing of the sort. I did a computer word search. It ain’t in there.)

One of the main themes of Scripture is that God helps those who are helpless and who trust totally in Him. This is a completely foreign concept to modern Americans. We need to be in control and have all the bases covered. Apparently, trusting God wasn’t a problem for Jesus’ disciples since they went out on their merry way—without ANY supplies—and had a very successful journey preaching in the countryside.

So what is Jesus trying to tell us this week, sending the guys out two-by-two but without any supplies? It’s simple: we must trust in God and assist one another. He didn’t send them out alone. He sent them out in pairs so they could help and encourage each other.

This is the exact opposite of what we do. We don’t trust in God and we depend only on ourselves: the quintessentially American “Lone Ranger, John Wayne, I did it my way” mindset.  

One of the mottos of Alcoholics Anonymous is, “Let go and let God.” One of the hardest things in the world is to admit we can’t do everything ourselves and we need God’s help. But if we are able to take Jesus at His word and trust in Him for everything—even the here-and-now everyday stuff—our lives will be transformed and our journey will be successful.

And it probably couldn’t hurt to bring along a few extra snacks.

4th of July!

Have fun.

Be safe.

God bless America!

The ‘Wait, What?!’ of the Week, July 3, 2015

The cable television network TV Land just announced it no longer will air re-runs of “The Dukes of Hazzard.” The reason cited is because the famous souped-up Dodge Charger, known as the “General Lee,” has the Confederate flag painted on the roof.

Wait. What?! You mean they’re not pulling the program because it was the dumbest show ever produced in the history of television, but rather because of brief images of the Confederate flag? Wow, that is some hyper-sensitive, politically correct, over-reaction going on in the corporate offices of TV Land.

Yes, I get it that the Confederate flag is considered a symbol of racism and hatred to a lot of people. And yeah, that demon-possessed jerk who murdered people in the South Carolina church was photographed holding a Confederate flag. (He also was photographed burning an American flag while wearing a Gold’s Gym shirt. Is Gold’s Gym now a symbol of racism, too?)

I prefer the view expressed by Professor Mike Adams, a genuine redneck from Mississippi, who now teaches at a college in North Carolina. He writes, “Personally, I think people who display the Confederate flag are jackasses. That's why I don't favor banning individual ownership of the Confederate flag. I like to know where the jackasses are so I can avoid them. If any leftists are reading this and applauding, you might want to hold your applause. My reasoning also applies to COEXIST stickers.”

Another TV show that prominently featured the Confederate flag was Ken Burns’ award-winning documentary, “The Civil War.” Who knew the gentle and ultra-progressive Mr. Burns was actually an evil racist? I guess that series will never air again on PBS, and Ken Burns will be whisked away to a re-education camp to purge his bitter heart of hatred.

John Schneider, one of the stars of “The Dukes of Hazzard,” offered this response after learning the show was being yanked from the air: “Come on, TV Land, can’t we all just watch TV?” 

Not a bad idea.

‘Attitude of Gratitude’ observation for Thursday afternoon

I am grateful to be an American. As the long holiday weekend begins, celebrating our nation’s Independence Day, it’s good to remember that freedom is not free, and liberty is NOT the normal condition of mankind. Throughout human history, tyranny, oppression, and slavery have been much more commonplace. The freedom we currently enjoy is not guaranteed. In fact, one could make a persuasive argument that our liberty has never been more at risk than it is today. This is a time to thank God for the blessings He has bestowed on this nation, and to humbly ask Him to continue to bless us, to keep us ever vigilant, and to instill in us courage to sacrifice for the cause of liberty. God bless America!

40th High School Reunion! So Soon?

My 40th high school reunion is in a couple weeks. How can that be? The year 1975 wasn’t all that long ago. Let me do the math: 2015 minus 1975 equals — oh wow, it IS 40 years. I guess time flies when you’re having fun. Or at least it flies when you’re not paying attention.

I’m trying to complete the official reunion “questionnaire.” They want to know what I’ve been doing for the last four decades. Frankly, I’d also like to know what I’ve been doing for the last four decades. Again, that “not paying attention” thing rears its ugly head.

The “Facts & Figures” section is fairly clear-cut. College degree(s), if any. Marriage(s), if any. Children and grandchildren. States or foreign countries lived in. Social Security and bank account numbers. Huh? Oh, my mistake. That was the Internet scam email I received the other day. (But I sure fooled them. Instead of giving them my SS and bank account numbers, I gave them my WIFE’S account numbers. So there!)

The next section is “Memories.” What do you remember most about high school? It was so long ago I don’t remember much, except the multiple concussions I received playing football. That could explain the “not paying attention” aspect of the last four decades.

The final section is a bit trickier: “Milestones & Achievements.” Hmm, do I tell the truth, which is pretty boring? Or do I treat this reunion questionnaire as if it’s Facebook?  (Or as I like to call that social media phenomenon: “Look-at-me!-Look-at-me!-Look-at-me-dammit!-book.”)

It is rather convenient that we now live in an era where the truth is whatever we claim it is. So, for example, when I describe personal milestones, claiming that my humor column is syndicated in 500 newspapers is pretty much the same thing as wishing it appeared in more than the current two newspapers, right? And claiming that my suspense novel is being made into a Hollywood movie is pretty much the same thing as hoping that one day Steven Spielberg appears at my front door and says, “Bill, I’ve just GOT to have the rights to your book! Name your price!” It could happen. I mean, Spielberg might be one of the nine people who purchased the book on Kindle.

Maybe I’ll just go with the plain truth: marrying my high school sweetheart in 1982 brought tears to my eyes. Then I cried a couple years later when our first daughter was born. I also cried when that miraculous event caused me to become an ex-atheist. A little later I cried when the ball went through Buckner’s legs. The next year I cried when our second daughter was born. Then I went through a fairly stable period emotionally, but broke down again when Foulke got the last out and the Red Sox finally won the World Series. And just a couple months ago I cried when we made our last mortgage payment.

My most interesting achievement, however, cannot be captured on a questionnaire. I will be attending the 40th reunion party with a genuine trophy wife on my arm. You know what I mean: the kind of gorgeous woman who causes everyone to whisper, “Wow, he must be rich!”

In this instance, my trophy wife also happens to be the high school sweetheart I married in ‘82. But amazingly, while the rest of us look like we are definitely in our late 50s, my darling bride and mother of our kids looks like she’s about 35, tops. 

It should be a fun evening. I know I’ll cry. I just hope I pay attention.