I Needed a Savior

This is a fictional story that I wrote in thinking about what it truly would have been like to be a person who lived at the same time as Jesus and watched his life and death unfold.  

I had known of him for many years.  I even remember my father, a faithful Jewish leader, casting aside rumors from about 30 years ago.  At that time, there were stories about a baby who was born by a virgin and would come to save us, who would finally be the King that the Jewish people were looking for.  There was a woman named Anna, who saw him in the temple and said so.  She was a faithful woman and people trusted her.  But then, nothing happened.  This boy, he was raised by common parents, and the last I heard before a few years ago, was that he was training to be a carpenter.  A wood worker?  He wasn’t even training to become a religious teacher – like all of the boys who wanted to tell people about the Scriptures and God.  Surely, the rumors weren’t true.  I was just a little girl when I first heard those rumors, and I decided that they must not have been much of anything.  So as time went on, my father and mother arranged for me to marry a nice Jewish boy.  We were 16 when we got married.  I remember a few times in the next year, I would see that young Jewish man travel with his family to Jerusalem for Passover.  Even though he didn’t know me, I kind of wanted to keep track of him.  Just in case the rumors were true … but of course they couldn’t be.  A Jewish man from Galilee who was a carpenter – how could he save us? 

My husband and I, we have had many children.  Even now, my youngest is just a babe and I carry her everywhere with me.   She is probably my last child, and I treasure her.  She is my gift from God.  Recently, things have started to heat up in Jerusalem.  Apparently, Jesus is doing more than just being a carpenter now.  I’ve started to hear stories, and I don’t know what to believe.  There are rumors that he is healing people, that those who were blind can see, and those who were crippled can walk.  I know it seems impossible, but I even heard that he raised  a man from the dead.  How can that be? 

My husband doesn’t think any of the rumors are true, but when I see my father, he doesn’t say much.  He refuses to deny them, but I think he’s scared to talk about them at all.  I mean, is this even possible?  But as time goes on, I’m just confused.  He touches unclean people – people the Law says we can’t – and shares that we are to love our enemies.  I thought we were supposed to overthrow our enemies in Rome and now he’s telling us to love them?  I don’t get it.  But still, there’s something different.  He’s not rambling like a crazy person – I’ve heard him speak once.  He speaks with power, but with kindness.  And when I heard him speak, he spoke all about what God’s kingdom was like, like he has personally seen where God sits and knows all things.  He speaks in a way that just makes you want to trust him. 

Last week, he rode into Jerusalem and people adored him.  It was like an impromptu parade for him and the people were going crazy.  When I heard the cheering, I thought – well, maybe this is it.  Maybe the rumors are true and our king is going to take the place he deserves. 

At Passover tonight, my husband shared about how God saved us from Egypt by sacrificing the first born child of the Egyptians.  How we were saved by spreading the blood of a lamb on our doors.  God saved us, but would he save us again?  Were his promises really true?  I couldn’t help but think about these things as I rocked my sweet girl in the middle of the night.  When would we really be free?  When would the promised Messiah come?  And as I was thinking that, there was a commotion down the street.  I looked out and saw torches coming down from the Mount of Olives.  There was a crowd of angry men heading to the synagogue, and as I stepped out my front door for a better view, my eyes locked with his for just a moment.  Jesus. They were taking him away.  Handcuffed.  I tried to put my baby back to sleep, but she just fussed.  So we sat all night – listening to the sounds from down the street.  I heard voices making accusations, and lots of commotion in the courtyard outside the synagogue.  It became silent, and I thought they had settled the dispute until the entire mob passed my home – they were on the way to Pilate.  I don’t know what happened there, but as morning rose, there was a strange air in the city.   

Something was not right.  I walked outside to see the mob forming a path to Golgotha.  No.  It couldn’t be.  But it was.  They had decided to execute Jesus.  I knew my husband wouldn’t approve, but I had to go.  I swaddled our baby, and headed to the path.  I was there just in time to see him pass, and the bottom fell out of my stomach.  I guess that I truly believed he was the Messiah.  I wanted to believe he was one who would save us.  I wanted to believe that he was the one who really did miracles.  But how could  a Savior die?  How could our King be crucified?  He was sentenced to the death of criminals.  I continued to follow the crowd, and as I did, holding my baby tighter and tighter, I saw them put the nails in his hands.  I saw them twist the crown of thorns onto his head, and then I saw them lift the cross up.  Many people came and went through the next hours, but I saw a group of people right in front of the cross who refused to leave.  His followers.  Among them, Mary – that woman who was a sinner, but started following him, John, who stopped being a fisherman in order to be his disciple, and his mother, the one who had wrapped him up all those years ago.  They were firmly planted before the cross, crying and praying.  I couldn’t move.  I stayed, and I saw him take his last breath six hours later.  At that point, I knew somehow.  

 Jesus had died for me.  I hadn’t asked him to.  But he had died because I needed a Savior.