Drake had seen his share of gruesome scenes in movies and video games, but nothing compared to this. The Bible didn’t go into detail about the crucifixion, but even the sound of the word denoted that it must have been a horrible way to die. Jesus was stripped of His clothing, nailed to a wooden, splintered cross, and then left there for the entire world to laugh at and humiliate. Even after crying out with thirst, the only thing the soldiers gave Him was wine vinegar fed to Him from a sponge. How inhumane. How inconsiderate. Drake honestly didn’t think he could treat his worst enemy this way.
Then, after all the torture, Jesus died. The great Hero of the world gave up His Spirit, as the Bible put it, for those who could care less about Him. Even though it was an expected ending, it enraged Drake. He would have rather read that Jesus called down fire from Heaven and vaporized them all where they stood. That was what he would have done if he had been in Jesus’ position. But an ending like this was simply unfathomable. Why would anyone do that?
Drake fingered the bookmark he was holding and noticed a beautiful picture of sheep in a field printed on it. Beneath the picture were the words, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep” (John 10:11 NIV).
Drake’s eyes gazed back up at the picture. He had just read that verse somewhere earlier, and now here it was again. He turned back to John chapter 10 and read it again for himself. Those were Jesus’ words. So that’s what He meant when He said…He knew He would die soon. He glanced down at the verse and read to himself, “I am the good shepherd; I know My sheep and My sheep know Me—just as the Father knows Me and I know the Father—and I lay down My life for the sheep. I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to My voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd,” (NIV).
Drake held his breath and thought, Could it be that when Jesus said He had other sheep that were not of His pen, He was referring to people who didn’t love Him?…People like me? He looked down at the bookmark again and found that the reference to John 3:16 was in parenthesis. With a new interest aroused in him, Drake quickly found the verse and read it aloud with a trembling voice, “For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
That wasn’t a misprint he had read; it clearly stated that whoever believed would be saved. Could that possibly include him?
Drake’s mind spun with questions he had never entertained. Honestly, he didn’t know if he was ready to think about such things. Life would be a whole lot simpler staying the way it was. Still, there would always be the nagging question…
A light tap on the door ruptured Drake’s thoughts. Not another one.
Surprisingly, it was a new face. “Not sleeping, are you, Mr. Pearson?” An elderly man in doctor garb decorated with credentials encased in glossy, plastic cases strode toward his bed with an outstretched hand. “Hello. My name is Dr. Paul Eerdman. Just wanted to check in and see how your recovery is coming along.”
“Are you the one who did surgery on my leg?”
“That’s me.”
“Thanks.” I think.
“I’m grateful the bullet did no life-threatening damage, though I imagine those words don’t help when your leg’s throbbing.”
“Not much. How does the inside of a leg look anyway?” The nausea was over now, so Drake figured he might as well ask.
The doctor chuckled. “A mass of muscle, tendons, and stringy veins…I just finished a cheeseburger and curly fries, so I’ll stop there with the details.”
“No cafeteria food for doctors, huh?”
Dr. Eerdman gave him a knowing look.
“I don’t blame you. They tried to make me eat some of their soup, but the noodles were decomposing in my bowl.”
The doctor laughed. “I’m glad to see you’re in high spirits.”
Drake tried to smile. I’m glad you think so.
Dr. Eerdman rose and shook Drake’s hand again. “Well, I’ll let you get back to resting. If you have any questions about your recovery, don’t hesitate to ask. That’s why I’m here.”
“Thanks. I’ve appreciated the company.”
The doctor stopped when he caught a glance of the Bible lying next to Drake. “Good reading choice.”
Drake looked at the Bible. “A friend left it.” It felt like a blow to the gut to downplay his true emotions. If there was ever anyone to answer his questions, it was this man. Ask him. That’s why he’s here.
“Talk to you later, Mr. Pearson.”
Drake wasn’t sure what he was searching for or if he would find it, but he had so many questions he needed answered that to pass up this chance would be mental suicide. On the flip side, finding out could prove even worse. Without giving it another thought, he dared to take the step. “Wait.”
Dr. Eerdman turned.
Drake stared down at the Bible and had to coerce the words from his mouth. “There is one more question.”
Chapter
18
APPALLING REALITY
Dr. Eerdman rolled a padded stool next to Drake’s bed. “I’m listening.”
“I don’t really know if you can answer my question or not. See, it’s not about me. It’s about someone else.”
“Well, I can certainly try,” Dr. Eerdman said. “What’s your question?”
Drake lightly touched Andrew’s leather-bound Bible. “I wanna know what a crucifixion is. What it means. I mean, I know what the definition is and all, but I want to know what really happened.” Those words sounded so strange coming from his mouth. For now, he could pass it off as the medicine in his body. He felt anything but himself; fatigue had visibly taken its toll, added to the string of events that seemed to last more like a lifetime than a week. God was just a fleeting form of escape for him right now. Soon, this temporary phase of insanity would pass and he would go on with life as he always had.
The doctor adjusted his glasses and said, “You’re a Christian too, huh?” Before Drake had the chance to protest, he continued. “As a doctor and a Christian, years ago I decided to do some extensive research about crucifixions and found them to be rather…how should I say this? Horribly inhuman? You can choose your own description of it if you’re sure you want to know what it entails.” A grave expression darkened his countenance. The unsteady flickering from the fluorescent light above accentuated the shadows of wrinkles etched across his forehead.
“I remember the first time I studied it,” he said softly. “It was hard. I cried for days.”
Drake raised an eyebrow.
“No, seriously,” the doctor said. “I had always known what Christ did for me, but at the same time, I really didn’t know. And because I didn’t know, I couldn’t truly appreciate it. The cross represented everything horrible and sickening that man could devise, and when I learned that my Lord had to go through that, it was…” He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. “…it was difficult to accept.” He paused, allowing that weight to settle. What was coming next was the hardest climb. “Crucifixion was a common type of punishment in the heathen nations, so the details are pretty graphic. That is, if you still want me to tell you.”
Drake forced himself to nod. The urge to hear the truth felt like gravity. He couldn’t make himself understand why he should care about any of this; it was like something deeper was reaching out, begging him to listen. “Just tell me. I wanna know every detail. I know this may sound like a strange request, but I need to know.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.”
Dr. Eerdman sucked in a breath of air as if he were testing his lungs on a spirometer. “OK, then.” He wrinkled his brow as if trying to remember—and possibly because it was a disturbing topic for him to discuss. “Crucifixion was regarded as the most horrible form of death, usually reserved for only the worst criminals. The punishment began by scourging—another word for whipping, only this was much worse. The Roman
whip was a heavy mass of strips of cord, each piece dangling with toothed fragments of metal or bone. Anything to create the maximum amount of agony. The back was the part most bloodied by the whip, but some Romans went beyond cruelty and beat their prisoners in the hands, face, and belly, until almost no piece of flesh remained untouched by their whip.”
Drake absorbed the words, almost guiltily. It pained him to hear something so gruesome, even if he did choose not to believe it. But it seemed so real and alive the way Dr. Eerdman presented it. He was so focused on his statements that even wasting time to blink was out of the question. All of his descriptions were built detail upon detail, as if he had gone through this single event a million times in his head. Maybe he had. He was devoted to what he believed—Drake credited him with that much—even if that belief did happen to be a scarred, torn fragment of the life of a man who gave so much for seemingly so little.
“Because of this treatment,” Dr. Eerdman continued, “the victim usually died tied to the whipping post before ever making it to the crucifixion site. But if the victim was able to survive, he was then forced to carry his own cross to the place where he would be executed. It was normally just outside the city, but even a short walk was enough to make the victim collapse. After being stripped of all his clothing, the victim was sometimes given a drink of vinegar before he was nailed to the cross.”
“Why vinegar?” Drake said.
“Because it contained other ingredients that helped deaden the pain.”
“Oh,” Drake said, knowing that even if Jesus had been given the strongest pain medicine, it would have been insignificant compared to the agony He must have endured.
“You sure you want me to continue?” Dr. Eerdman asked concernedly, seeing how pale Drake’s cheeks were getting.
Everything the doctor had already told him was enough information to make Drake want to throw up for a week, but what he had heard was only part of what had happened. “Yes,” he answered, almost gagging. “I want to know.”
“If you insist. Upon arriving at the place of execution, the person’s arms were then stretched along wooden crossbeams, and either at the center of the palms or clean through the wrist, a thick, blunt nail was driven through each hand and into the cross with a mallet. After that—”
“After that?” Drake gasped. “What could be any worse than that?”
Dr. Eerdman pursed his lips. He could get into serious trouble for sending a recovery patient back into shock. “There’s still a lot more left.”
Drake let his head sink into his pillow and closed his eyes, not wanting the doctor to see that tears were already beginning to form in his eyes. “Go ahead,” he mumbled. “I’m listening.”
“Then, through either each foot separately or both feet at once, a thick, blunt nail was hammered to tear its way through muscle and veins until it was driven deep enough to penetrate the cross on the other side. From there, the cross was raised and allowed to fall in place into a narrow hole in the ground. As the cross plunged into the hole and came to a sudden halt, the already lacerated tendons were further torn as the weight of the man’s body jerked downward, causing the nerves to throb with incessant agony. This position made every slight movement extremely painful and caused the victim to push up every few seconds just to do the once simple task of exhaling.
“The victim was in constant torment as he waited for death—if only death would come. Because of the numerous lacerations on the body, inflammation by exposure to the sun’s heat made the slashed flesh burn. The arteries, particularly in the head and stomach, became swollen with an over-abundance of blood. There was also dizziness, a high fever, and horrific cramps. He experienced all this in front of the crowds that formed to watch the most revolting death imaginable.
“Often several hours passed before the victim finally died. Death was sometimes rushed by breaking the victim’s legs or delivering a solid blow under the armpit. But they didn’t break Jesus. He died at the power of His own words.”
Drake didn’t know what to say. He lifted his eyes to meet the doctor’s and said in a quivering voice, “Thank you. You’ve answered all my questions.”
The doctor stood up brusquely, teary-eyed himself, and left the room.
Drake sat there in horror, trying to imagine how Jesus must have felt. One leg surgery was pushing his pain threshold; he couldn’t comprehend seeing his flesh lying on the ground after a brutal lashing and feeling his blood draining from multiple wounds. The doctor had certainly left out no details, just as he had asked him not to.
But how could words describe that kind of death? Words were just words, and even words had limited meanings. Was there a word stronger than pain? Could a word really describe how it feels when a rusty nail is pounded through the tendons of a person’s hands and feet? Can a word ever convey how it feels when pieces of serrated metal slashes the skin from a person’s back, legs, face? He had never heard about that part. Even in the churches he had been in, Jesus’ death had always been portrayed as something less than what it really was. No one would have wanted to see the true picture of Jesus. The naked, humiliated, bruised, swollen, beaten, and bloody part of Jesus.
Drake put a hand to his head and felt sweat seeping through his pores. No one had ever before taken the time to explain to him what Jesus’ death really meant. It wasn’t just a few whip marks on His back. It wasn’t just a handful of nails in a cross. It was the most horrible way a person could die, and yet Jesus chose to die that way.
Maybe Christians could find comfort in knowing that Jesus died for them and that they would gain entrance to Heaven one day, but to Drake, it did nothing but cut him deeper.
Drake gazed out the glowing window beside his bed and repeated to himself that something that happened thousands of years ago didn’t have anything to do with him today. History was like that—its memory may last, but it’s dead just the same.
I don’t want to think about it. He should be focusing on resting, not this. The nurses would have a fit if they knew this was going through his mind on top of the empty stomach they had already lectured. He needed to clear his mind and focus on himself. That’s right. Pull everything back into focus and realize you’re recovering from a bullet wound. There was no guilt in that. He owed it to himself to save this for another day. His recovery was number one…and the person who died for you ranks where? The more he thought about it, the sicker he felt.
Drake turned away from the window, away from the world, away from the sky that seemed to penetrate his being like searing eyes. He had to get out of here. This room was contaminated with something. He knew because he was certainly not himself. Maybe he could find a button to push somewhere that would give him enough medicine to knock him out for five or six hours.
Discolored, flashy images of whips and spikes toppled back into memory. An innocent face streaked by matted blood and spit contorted as another cluster of serrated bones and metal removed a chunk of flesh from His shoulder. Drake turned back to the window and breathed like he was going through trauma. Suck it up and be strong. You’re better than this.
The image flickered, then left his mind.
Drake squeezed Andrew’s Bible in an attempt to calm his shaking hands. If only someone had told him this sooner, maybe he could have gotten his life straight and accepted what Jesus had done for him. But it was too late now. His life was a wreck. Why would God ever want to take him like this? He had gone his own way and ruined his life. Who was he to think that Jesus, after all He had already done for him, should ever take him back? It simply wasn’t right. To ask such a thing would almost make him feel as if he were only putting Jesus through more pain.
Slowly, Drake lifted his eyes to Ronnie’s picture on the wall, past the people and the rainbow and…
Jesus loves you. Drake stared at the words—resolute to keep his eyes fixed there until the full depth of those words sank in. Why did You have to do that, Jesus? Can’t You see that I’m not worth it? he thought, almost angrily. Make it say
something else! His body heaved forward, and tears fell freely from his eyes now. He thought about the doctor’s words and all the sickening images of Jesus’ crucifixion.
Drake grabbed the pink tray beside his bed and threw up on it.
When supper was brought to him, Drake refused it.
“Are you sure you’re feeling OK?” one of the nurses said after cleaning the vomit tray. “I could bring you a popsicle. Grape or cherry?”
Drake set down his empty cup of Mountain Dew and said almost pleadingly, “Please, when can I get outta here?”
“A nurse will be on the way with your crutches shortly.” A knock came at the door. The nurse turned and smiled. “There she is now.”
Drake relaxed. Finally.
The nurse moved toward the door and opened it. “Oh, hello. I thought you were the nurse. Well, come right on in. I’m sure Mr. Pearson’ll enjoy the company.”
Drake craned his neck and saw Andrew and Ronnie standing in the hallway. “Don’t worry,” he said, letting his weary head fall back down on his firm, cool pillow. “I’m not asleep or anything. You can come in.”
Andrew walked in slowly behind Ronnie, who was already eyeing the tray of untouched food.
Drake took a carton of vanilla pudding from the tray and held it out. “Want it?” he said.
Ronnie moved toward it, then quickly drew back. “No, I shouldn’t. Go ahead.”
“I hate pudding and I hate vanilla even more. You might as well eat it.” He handed the pudding to Ronnie, along with a plastic spoon.
“How have you been?” Andrew said tentatively.
“’Bout the same,” Drake answered, carefully avoiding his IVs as he scratched a patch of dry skin on his hand. “Don’t know what the doctors are makin’ a big fuss of. It’s not like I can’t walk.”
“From what I hear, you’ll be getting your crutches soon.”
Broken Identity Page 22