MY BOY
Last night in an attempt to keep myself company, since my
Larry is away from me for a while, I flipped through the channels until I came
to a movie about Jesus. This one was The Greatest Story Ever Told. Remembering I had seen it years ago, but
not recalling how I felt about it then, I gave it a shot. Right off the bat I
didn’t like it. The Jesus was all
dreamy-like. He floated when He walked;
His white toga never got soiled; His voice sounded other-worldly; He even
mounted the colt on Palm Sunday in a fakey, slow-motion fashion. I berated myself at first and decided I
should stick with it and quit being such a harsh judge of somebody’s noble
efforts to share the Master with the world via mass media. But finally I just couldn’t take another
frame of it, so I went back to flipping.
Next thing I knew, unsurprisingly, there He was again, this
being the Easter season. However, this
time everything was different. This was Mel Gibson’s The Passion of Christ, which I had also seen a few years ago when
it was first released. I definitely remembered how I had felt about this one,
and for that very reason, I came within a hair’s breadth of not stopping and
watching it again.
I recalled being in
the dark theater with a lot of other Christian friends, and how, at that time,
I was so glad it was dark, and that the place was crowded with folks. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see the
ugliness of my grimacing face and clenching jaws. I remembered my whole body being in an
incredible sense of muscular tension, every nerve alert and on edge as I
witnessed my Lord being flogged and otherwise tortured in a crueler fashion
than I had ever envisioned when reading the gospel accounts all the previous
years of my life. Whenever others have mentioned wanting to watch it again
every Easter since that year, I have instantly bowed out.
But last night I was
compelled stop and pay attention again, in spite of what my mind replayed for
me so instantly. The movie was already
at the most terrible part: the flogging before the walk to Golgotha on the Via
Dolorosa. My first emotional response was one I recall so vividly experiencing
before: I imagined that He was my Ben,
my boy! (Any mother who witnesses what Mary goes
through while watching her son in such bitter anguish must surely feel what I
was feeling.)
As the diabolical
cruelty escalated and left His blood in pools on the streets of Jerusalem, as
His eyes swelled shut, and His body grew almost unrecognizable from the
scourging, my body, too, was seized by such flooding emotions that I tensed and
trembled and cried out to God, finally covering my eyes and shaking my head to
remove my cowardly self from the harshness of this Reality that had delivered
me from certain hell into Hope and Joy and Daughter-ship. Twenty-five minutes
of this reality had worn me out. My body
shut down and fell in an exhausted sleep.
I awoke an hour later, feeling like a wimp, to the credits rolling.
I went to bed thinking about the contrast of my two viewing
experiences. I hadn’t been able to take seriously or respect the unbiblical
“Jesus” who fell terrifically short the Son of Man who has experienced this
life as a human; and yet, I didn’t have
the strength, the stomach, or the emotional fortitude to embrace the Whole
Truth of the Jesus who did not fall
short.
I have read some history
about crucifixion, and some medical reports, written by doctors, that aver that
whatever can be depicted on screen, even the extremely graphic Mel Gibson film,
will always necessarily be a watered –down version of the Real Thing Jesus
suffered on our behalf.
I am still shaken.
First thing this morning, a friend invited me to watch The Passion tonight. I declined, recounting for her my experience,
and she wisely reminded me that yes, the horrible Truth of “Good” Friday is
gut-wrenching, but when we dare to look it right in the face, it makes our Resurrection
Sunday communion ever the sweeter. Yes.
A blessed Resurrection Day to you all!
