Song:
When I survey the wondrous cross.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iK8kYlBn_qI
Rufus’ Story.
Rufus is an ex-soldier in his middle sixties. He is of medium build, upright and trim. He is a widower living alone with a sad, indrawn expression. A lonely man with many memories, he has the slow speech of a man silent by habit for long periods. A well respected figure in his village.
“This little village is a nice place to live. People in the main mind their own business. A man earns his own living, does his job, and is left alone. I’m a sort of celebrity for something I’m ashamed of; for something I’d rather forget; and the village knows it, and doesn’t mention it. We are all Christians in the village. Me too. But twenty years ago, when they crucified Jesus, no one was. Well, there was no such thing. I was told that you went to hear him, and he gave you a simple way of looking at things. Food for thought. It was after he was dead that the disciples really began to work at making what he’d said into a religion. Terrible death he had.
People say that he knew what was going to happen; that it was all in the scriptures. That he was a prophecy come true. Well, maybe. But I’m sure there was nothing in the scriptures about how we dressed him up and made fun of him and how we jeered at him and insulted him. All right, soldiers can get rough-- especially with a convicted law-breaker, but we were really rough. I wish to God I could say I hadn’t joined in. But I did. I don’t know who first thought of dressing Jesus up to look like a king, but it seemed very funny at the time. None of our platoon was at the sort of trial they gave him. All we knew was that he was a trouble-maker who’d gone around saying he was King of the Jews. We knew very little. We were a Roman garrison. Our orders came from Pilate. Pontius Pilate. The orders were clear. A scourging and crucify him with two other criminals.
Not many people have ever seen a Roman punishment scourge. It’s one of the worst whips ever invented. It can kill a man. It’s designed to break skin and wrap round and tear. I’ve been asked why scourge a man who’s going to be killed the same morning. Well, it wasn’t the first time-- and Pilate was hard. Also he was fed up with the whole business. I didn’t do the whipping, a great big sergeant from Syria dis that, but I put the robe on. One of the lads found it somewhere. A purple robe, to make Jesus look like a King. When we put it on him, he looked like a corpse. He was naked, and that sergeant knew his job. Jesus could hardly stand. His back was like raw meat. I often dream of it. One of the boys had made a crown of twisted-together thorn stalks and he forced it down on Jesus’s head. More blood. Then we stood him on a vegetable basket and marched round him and bowed and saluted and shouted in his face—and when his head dropped, we slapped it up again. We gave him a big onion for an orb and a twig for a sceptre and we spat at him and laughed till we were weak. Till we cried.
I’ve cried many times since. In my sleep mostly. I can’t say that the shame began straight away, it didn’t. As a soldier you do many things that you wouldn’t in civilian life. But out of the service, by yourself, with time to look back, you see things differently. About eight years ago, when I’d been demobbed about a year, I met Peter the fisherman, who made me a Christian. I was in bad way and told him all about that night and my shame. Peter listened and than said, ‘I know about shame. On that night he was a stranger to you, a nothing, to be made sport of. On that night I’d known him three years and believed him to be the Son of God. I was his first follower and his friend. Yet on that night, in fear, I denied that I knew him. Three times.’
Song:
O the bitter shame and sorrow.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJsworzQj4E
I think Peter said it to comfort me. It did, a bit. But not much. Nothing does very much. You know, I haven’t talked about that night for years. I think of it often; I dream about it, but I don’t often talk about it. It’s strange how talking about it somehow loosens the memory. All sorts of other things come back. As I told you, my feeling of shame about joining in that night didn’t begin until some time after. We were a rough lot. We were Roman occupation troops and we regarded the convicted prisoner as fair game. It broke the monotony.
So did a crucifixion. We didn’t like the job but if we were detailed that was it. Our duties were clear. There were regulations; a rulebook. The crosses were ordered three at a time—because normally three criminals were done together. There used to be a joke, made first I was told by Pilate. Seems he said ‘Do ‘em in threes, nice company for each other.’ It’s possible; he was a cruel, hard man, was Pilate, with jokes to match. The criminal carried his own cross, or at least dragged it with the cross bar over his shoulder. Very heavy the crosses were. A long, up-and-down winding route would be worked out, so that as many people as possible would see the prisoner would see the prisoner and read his crime, written on a board and carried by the lead corporal. Jesus’s board just said ‘King of the Jews’. Another Pilate joke. When the Jewish elders asked him to change it, he refused and got very nasty.
Jesus was too weak to carry his cross. Not surprising, he’d been flogged half to death, so we pressed into service a man in the crowd. It was regulations; he couldn’t refuse. There were regulations for everything. The distance apart of the crosses, the nailing of the hands and feet, the periods of watch, the crowd control, everything. There were also certain perks. Extra pay, extra drink ration—it could be a bloody business, the nailing part—and extra leave the following week. Also, we were entitled to the clothes and possessions of the prisoners. We would settle who got what by casting lots or gambling. Jesus had no possessions, and his clothes and sandals were poor stuff. We did better out of the two criminals we hung with him. They made a lot of noise those two, shouting and screaming, sometimes sensibly, sometimes like crazy or drunk men.
Song:
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLJ0IjLAmOA
There were always women who offered drugged wine to those on the cross. Sisters of mercy. It was allowed in regulations. Jesus refused. He didn’t say much. At one point I think he said a few words of comfort to the fellow on his left. There were some women a little way off who seemed to know him. None of his disciples or followers was there. They were all lying low, in hiding, out of sight. We put the three prisoners up at nine in the morning. Fine sunny morning. But at noon the sun went in and it got darker and darker. And very still and close. Most unusual. Frightening. Never before or since. At about three o’clock all three had been quiet for some time. They’d been up six hours. Suddenly Jesus raised his head and looked into the sky. I was quite near. Then he shouted at the top of his voice. His face was alight, his voice and body full of power. It was impossible. The crowd, in the weird twilight, were scared and nervous. My mates moved in a bit. Then Jesus shouted again, with the same lift of his head, the same power. ‘It is finished!’ he shouted. He died magnificently. I’ve never seen anything like it. One of then things that got him hung was saying that he was the Son of God. At that moment I believed he was. I’ve believed it ever since.”
“Rufus” taken from “The Book of witnesses” David Kossoff.
Published by Fount Paperbacks 1978.
Song:
Jesus is King.
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