Enounter at Golgotha – Stories from the Life of Jesus

Stories from the Life of Jesus

Encounter at Golgotha

The sawdust in Elian’s shop no longer carried the clean, sharp scent of cedar or cypress; it smelled of scorched pine and desperation. He wiped a grimy hand across his brow, leaving a streak of grey ash. Before him sat the dwindling stack of “uprights”—rough-hewn beams that were the bread and butter of his grim trade.

The Romans had become terrifyingly efficient, and that efficiency was gutting his margins. With the zealot uprisings and the Passover crowds surging, the demand for timber had tripled. He’d been forced to source inferior, knotty pine from the scrublands north of Jerusalem. Longinus, the centurion with a face like scarred leather and a temper to match, had already threatened to withhold payment—or worse—if another cross-arm snapped under the weight of a struggling wretch.

“Load them!” Elian barked at his two laborers, standing in the middle of his work area, scratching idly at a tingling spot on his inner wrist. “Golgotha doesn’t wait for late deliveries, and Longinus has a short fuse today.”

As he hoisted a beam, a sharp pain shot through his left arm, reminding him of the secret he carried beneath his tunic. A patch of skin—white, numb, and scaly—that had been spreading for months. He lived in a state of constant, icy terror, certain it was the beginning of leprosy. If the Romans found out, they’d burn his shop; if the priests found out, they’d cast him out of the city gates to rot in the caves. He felt as hollow and doomed as the wood he sold.

A short while later, as the cart groaned up the rocky spine of the hill, Elian felt the familiar knot of irritation tightening in his gut. He hated the logistics of execution days. He was numb to the dying; it was the crowds he loathed. Today, the air was thick with a chaotic mass of wailing women, mocking priests, and the heat of a unwashed, fear ridden, anxious bodies.

“About time, wood-cutter,” Longinus spat, his hand resting on the hilt of his gladius. Longinus was in charge of the execution squad and for as often as he was on duty, it seemed enjoyed the cruelty. He stepped over a tangled coil of hemp rope, his eyes narrow.

“The pilgrim traffic is a nightmare, Centurion,” Elian countered, gesturing to the cart. “Twelve beams. That should see you through the weekend.”

Longinus didn’t waste breath on a reply. He signaled his men, who hauled the first three sets of timber from the stack. Elian watched with detachment, and familiarity to the process. He noticed the man being rough handed onto the center cross—a figure more like a bruised poet than a revolutionary. Must be the one from Galilee, Elian thought. Just another agitator who had poked the Roman hive and was now feeling the sting. He wondered briefly if the man’s soul felt as decayed as Elian’s own skin.

Elian began unloading the remaining lumber, stacking the heavy beams for the next scheduled execution. He tried to tune out the rhythmic, metallic thud-thud-thud of the hammers and the cries of the condemned, a sound that usually acted as his signal to leave. But today, the air felt heavy and stagnant, like the oppressive stillness before a desert gale.

 

He paused, leaning his weight against a fresh beam, and looked up. The Galilean was already raised. He wasn’t screaming or cursing his mother’s womb like the thieves on either side of him. He was speaking into the wind.

“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

Elian frowned. It was a bizarre thing to say to the men who had just driven iron through your wrists. As the afternoon light shifted into a sickly, bruised purple, the contractor found himself moving closer, drawn by an invisible, gravitational pull.

He was standing near the foot of the center cross when a Roman soldier shoved past him to win a wager over a discarded, robe of one of the offenders. Dirty and blood spattered it still looked like it had been an expensive garment at one time. The soldier swung at Elian, the force of the blow sent him stumbling forward. In that moment, a heavy drop of dark, warm blood fell from the man’s pierced feet, splashing directly onto Elian’s inner forearm, right atop the scaly, white patch of his secret shame.

Elian recoiled, his face contorting in disgust. He reached for his rag to scrub the stain away, but his eyes caught on the skin beneath. As he wiped the blood away, his breath hitched in his throat.

The white patch wasn’t just clean; it was gone. In its place was fresh, supple skin, pink and healthy as a newborn’s. He rubbed it, gasping as he felt the sharp, electric tingle of restored nerves. But it wasn’t just the skin. A strange, warm sensation washed through his chest, as if a layer of spiritual rot—the bitterness of his trade, the hardness of his heart—was being peeled away alongside the disease. The leprosy of his soul was receding with the leprosy of his flesh.

Desperate and forgetting his place, Elian lunged forward. He reached out and frantically grabbed the armored forearm of one of the soldiers standing guard. “The man!” Elian cried, his voice high and cracked. “What is his name? Who is he?”

The soldier, startled by the contractor’s sudden aggression, didn’t hesitate. He swung a heavy, gauntleted fist, striking Elian square across the face. The wood-cutter spun and hit the dirt, the copper taste of blood filling his mouth instantly.

Elian leaped back to his feet, his hand clamped over a bleeding lip and the jarring ache of loose teeth. A second soldier let out a harsh, mocking laugh at the sight of the dazed contractor.

“His name is Jesus,” the soldier sneered, leaning on his spear. “The ‘King’ of the Jews. Not that it matters to a dog like you—the felon will be carrion before the sun sets. Now get back to your lumber!”

Elian stood frozen, the name ringing in his ears. He looked back up at the cross. The man—Jesus—looked down. His eyes were not clouded by the haze of death, but filled with a terrifying, radiant clarity. He spoke again, his voice rasping but firm, directed at a young man standing with a grieving woman nearby.

“Behold, thy mother.”

Elian watched as the young man, whom someone nearby whispered was named John, gently took the woman by the arm. They began to descend the hill, their faces etched with a grief that looked like love.

Suddenly the sky went black as midnight, and the earth beneath Elian’s boots shuddered. He turned to look at Longinus, who looked uncharacteristically baffled, muttering something that sounded like “Son of God.”

But Elian was already moving. He didn’t care about his cart, his lumber, or the payment. The man’s blood had touched his “death,” and the death had vanished. More than the skin, he felt a lightness he hadn’t known since childhood, an inner scouring that made him feel unworthy to even stand on the same hill.

He pushed through the retreating, panicked crowd, his eyes fixed on the back of John’s cloak. He reached the bottom of the hill, where the young man and black robed older woman were retreating away from the scene. Breathless, his hand still gripping the wrist where the decay had been washed away.

“Wait!” Elian called out, his voice cracking through his swollen lip. “Please, wait!”

John turned, his expression weary but kind. Elian caught up to them, his chest heaving. He held out his arm, showing them the miracle. “That man… Jesus,” Elian whispered. He explained the blotch that had haunted his life and how it was suddenly gone. “It is not just my skin,” he added, his voice trembling. “I feel… something… Inside. Who is he? Why did his blood do this to a man who sold the wood for his death?”

John and Mary looked back at him with a compassion that momentarily surpassed their grief. John invited Elian to walk along with them. “Jesus,” Elian whispered to himself, the name acting as a final balm to his spirit. “Jesus.”

He followed them into the city, leaving the wood-cutter he used to be behind on the hill.