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 In the Olive Press

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Jak Hardy
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PostSubject: In the Olive Press   Thu Feb 09, 2012 4:42 am

Flaming torches, resembling fireflies, drew nearer, advancing closer to the grove yet He was unfazed by them. Contrarily, the prayer grew in strength and the words of which He spoke increased in urgency, “Father! My God, take this cup of suffering from me! I am afraid Father, give me strength. Let Your will come to fruition.”

Beads of blood consumed His abundant sweat, trickling down His now trembling body. Under indescribable compression, not unlike the olives that had predeceased Him, the Man continued to cry out to the person He called ‘Father’ in the midst of the grove that was Gethsemane. He could remember how Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Zacharias would bring them here as children. They'd play games like ‘Capture the Flag.’ This time, the Man would capture it once and for all. He knew that His Father would not change His mind, a truth for which He was grateful. This chalice- this goblet of suffering He knew would serve as a trophy cup; a representation of the victory that He was about to proclaim and eternally secure. The threatening rattle of swords in their sheathes and the crescendo of nervous, determined soldiers was a terrifying tune. It was the song of deicide and it was drawing to a climax. As though lightning had surged through Him, the Man felt within Him a strong, almost divine courage. He lifted His head and saw the soldiers in close proximity. He arose, feeling the power leave Him. His Father could no longer dwell within Him now. The weight of sin was on His shoulders and His demise was the only way to discard it. He took a small step forward in an immense pain that was inconceivable, the blood falling off of Him like ruby jewels. They were the products of pressure; beautiful and invictus stones that would become the crystals of royalty and eternal perfection. They would become the stones that adorn our crowns of salvation.

Swiftly, as the rhythm of heavy footsteps finally reached them, the disciples awoke. The small batallion was only metres away, their eyes transfixed on the One set apart. Only two of His loyal followers ran to His aid. The rest escaped. The rest abandoned Him. The truth is, humanity could do nothing in their own power to save themselves. He knew what He to do. Though He adored these two followers’ passionate, loving and loyal hearts, He commanded them to lower their arms.

“What is it that you seek?” He demanded of the soldiers, His authority intentionally and expectedly hidden behind a tone of anxiety and anguish.

The groups’ response was contrary, “Jesus of Nazareth.”

In a silence that crept around the garden, deafeningly, painfully, Judas hesitantly but surely made his way to the Man’s presence. Shafts of moonlight pierced the canopy, revealing the arachnid webs that were magnifcently weaving across the night sky.The moon- reflecting the sun that sailed so high distant in the universe. It was an illustration of His royal deity. It was an image of His awesome power. It was God encouraging Him, even though He couldn’t be there.

Quickly, in fluid motion, Judas who was once a student leaned forward and placed his parted lips of the Man’s cheek. A glorious moment- to kiss the King of the Universe, but in this instance, one engulfed by the darkness of selfish ambition, of materialistic motivation. It was satan himself, mockingly kissing Jesus for what he believed to be the last time. Sorrow and darkness entered Judas' being as God took his spirit away. Demonic power forced out the Teacher’s power and wisdom- that which had been imparted had been taken away and his entire internality became the essence of death and hopelessness. Eternal spirituality became vain and temporary carnality. Bowing his head in shame and guilt; in pain and in regret, Iscariot made His way back, the next question resounding and tormenting His cold, ice-glazed heart.

The Man cried out, “Judas, you chose to betray the Son of Man- Me, your Husband with a kiss?”
The Man was filled with compassionate disappointment, not anger, for He knew what Judas was about to do to show remorse.

The betrayer turned on his heel, yearning for an escape, setting foot quickly down the dirt covered paved road. The Via Celebratio, as it was called. The Way of Celebration was now the way of a coward. The same road that they would walk to the Temple was the same road on which Judas ran from God's presence. It was on the same road that he made his final decision. Judas was apalled at what he had just done. And so where the voices in his head. These were the ambassador’s of hell, trying to convince him to take a one-way trip for eternity.The coldness of his innermost being was too much. He had just sent his deliverer- the only person that ever really believed in him and the only paternal figure who encouraged him to endeavour, to achieve, to live with hope and faith- this same Man he had just sent to be killed.

He ran across the city, toppling people over unconsciously. He had his mind set on what he was going to do. Judas reached the gate of the Temple and stumbled over the threshold of the Court. He looked at the chief priests and scribes.

“You sick God-killers. Making me do the dirty work! I don’t want your money! You disgust me. I just sent an innocent prophet to death and you tricked me into it! You selfish, proud, arrogant bastards.” He spat profanely, throwing the monetary reward across the dust covered ground. The thirty silver coins thst bounced musically across the floor were the bells of the Pharisee-dictated synagogue and an alarm for the war that had just been won. He turned and ran back out of the door. As he exited, he noticed something on the ground. It was writing. Writing in the dust. On it was written “I am the innocent man slain…” Judas yelped and ran. He ran fast. He ran as though death were chasing him, though either way, death was about to win. If only he had stopped to read the rest of the text: “… for the sins of the world. I am victory. I am God.” He ran to a small paddock, under a tree where the he, Man and His other followers would gather. Tears streamed down his face like the River Jordan. Parallel, he too was about to lead into the Dead Sea. Judas climbed the tree, his hands shaking and blood pumping at a rate unimaginable. He fixed the rope to a branch, tightened with a loop at the end. It was time. It was time to leave. He cried “Sorry ABBA!” and dropped, the sound of his neck cracking like a moan of defeat. The darkness had stolen his soul and swept it away in a chorus of icy deicide.
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bewhary
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PostSubject: Re: In the Olive Press   Thu Feb 09, 2012 3:12 pm

WOW! This was so powerful. It brought a tear to my eye as I envisioned this scene... Much like what was written in the Bible, but in a more profound way. It definitely brings home the truth of what Jesus went through...all for us... Thank you so much for sharing!

Praise God Blue

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Lora
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PostSubject: Re: In the Olive Press   Thu Feb 09, 2012 6:08 pm

You are a master at really bringing out little details and moments in time and embellishing them with metaphor and heart stirring meaning. Awesome work!

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PostSubject: Re: In the Olive Press   Thu Feb 09, 2012 6:37 pm

i'm usually too stunned by your writing to comment...it is inspired for certain!

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In the Olive Press
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