To Kill A King ~ The Story of the Crucifixion {PART I}

*The following is the beginning section of a narrative I wrote for my Christian Perspectives course last semester. It is a literary adaptation of John 18-19. I will add more periodically, so stay tuned!*

By the dim glow of the moon, wiry branches wrote shadows on the ground of the olive grove. They were abstract, shaped like claws, ready to break the skin of its prey. Some branches had fallen from the heights; they cracked and crumbled under the weight of the men and their sandals. Jesus walked closely to his disciples, his friends, through the maze of trees until they reached a small clearing. They sat down to rest. Jesus was silent, even though he sensed the questions these companions of his wanted to ask. He knew they were restless, confused, trying to cultivate some logical conclusion, some comfort out of his already known destiny.

The words flew around, echoing against the walls of his own mind, and in the eyes of these men; the men who had become like his own flesh and blood, close to him like brothers. Jesus felt it in his soul, that his life’s purpose was to die. He wanted to hold on, to wait it out. Did it really have to be this way, the pain before the glory?

Suddenly, in the distance, a ball of fire appeared to be slowly moving toward them. It was a different kind of illumination, different from the moon… warmer, but also echoing with shouts of lies and betrayal. As they came closer, Jesus could feel knots in his stomach form. Judas was in the lead. The one he had called… he had called him a friend. Jesus knew that it was meant to be this way, but in that moment, his heart broke.

Behind Judas was a group of people, different kinds of people: soldiers, some religious officials, and, of course, a few of those Pharisees. In each of their hands, they held torches, lanterns, and weapons, as if they expected Jesus to put up a fight, or to push away the cup his Father had given him.

Jesus rose and met them where they were, knowing what would result. Looking into the eyes of Judas, Jesus saw nothing but the reflection of bouncing flames against the light of the moon.

Jesus was the first to speak: “Who is it you want?”

The men’s faces washed over with smug satisfaction. “Jesus of Nazareth,” one of them snarled.

Jesus felt conviction and courage rise up inside of him like a fire: “I am he.”

They were startled, and fell backwards towards the ground as if they needed to run and hide.

He asked them again, as if to make a point: Who are you looking for, really? Their reply was the same as before.

Without a waver in his voice, Jesus said firmly, “I told you that I am he. If you are looking for me, then let these men go.” He wanted to protect his own.

Simon Peter, feeling the need to protect also, drew out his sword, and in a wave of fury, slashed off the ear of Malchus, the servant of the high priest. The man dropped to his knees, grasping the wound and feeling frequent rushes of blood leaving his body, slipping through his fingers.
Jesus’ gaze shot toward Peter, and demanded he put away the weapon: “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

And, with that, they bound Jesus with rope and took him away, pulling and pushing him along the path out of the forest.