A place of writing and reflection…
This week as many of you may know is what we as Christians refer to as “The Passion Week“. This is the week Christ march triumphantly into Jerusalem at the time of the Jewish Passover, was betrayed by a disciple, crucified and rose three days later.
You may think it strange.
At Christmas we celebrate His birth—a tiny little infant as we all start out—born not in a hospital, not even a hotel, but a feeding trough for animals. At Easter, we celebrate His death and Resurrection.
A bit morbid, eh? To celebrate someone’s death? Some think so but lets try to explain this in a different way. I’ll use an example I adapted from my sister-in-law:
All over the world a terrible blood disease broke out. No one knew where it came from and no one knew how to stop it. Everywhere people were dying from it. Doctors tried all sorts of drugs—even quarantine—but none of it worked. As soon as a person contracted the mystery illness they had only a few days at best. Then there was the disease’s ability to quickly spread as it was highly contagious. Even the best doctors and nurses were not immune to it’s touch as they attempted to treat the sick.
Everyday the news and papers were filled with more reports of the monstrosity’s victims. Children, officials, celebrities, and presidents were taken one by one with out discrimination for race, position or gender.
Some panicked and lodged themselves in their basements only to contract the disease and die alone. Some threw those sick out of the cities hoping to rid themselves of infection only for the cycle to continue. As the body count rose others began to refer to it as the “Second Black Plague“.
You yourself was trying to keep clean of the trouble. The plague had taken several of your good friends. Most of your neighborhood carried the air of a ghost town with the exception of the cries of those grieving.
But there was one person you knew who had not contracted the illness.
He was neighbor—or at least thats what you remembered. The two of you use to hang out as kids. Now he went up and down the street visiting the homes of the sick encouraging them to have hope—that there was a cure.
Who is this guy? What’s more was that no matter how many infected homes he visited, he never got sick—not once.
Doctors heard the rumors and called him to see them. They ran several tests; the results of all baffled them. His blood carried some type of antibody that fought off vicious disease.
Astounded, doctors started looking for others with the same antibody but found none. Perplexed, they tried to create their own just like the one found in your neighbor’s blood. In this they failed as well. The weak imitation of the antibody could only extend the life of a victim a few more days at best.
When your neighbor’s blood was finally tested on an infected person, the antibodies attacked the disease and after a few hours had almost completely rid the patient of the curse!
The media was clamoring.
Only a handful of patients had received treatments but were already walking around. More so was the fact that with the antibody a person’s body could also fight off re-infection when the disease was reintroduced!
People were groping at the chance to get even just a little portion of the antibody, but the doctors were doing their best to protect their new find. They were unwilling to put your neighbor’s life at risk for the sake of all the people.
Still the people pressed, as did the media.
Unbeknown to the doctors, however, a group of officials came in the midst of their lab work and captured your neighbor. The kidnappers even went so far as to make a public spectacle of it all.
They took him to the capital—to the square and had him beaten so he could not resist. Yet he made no attempt to fight them. You watched as they strung him up on a telephone pole with a mysterious machine down below and waited.
Your neighbor, now weak and beaten looked out to all those present.
The police tried to keep order everyone torn between rescuing the man or letting him hang there.
Then, without warning he died.
His body trembled for a moment as a heart attack took his life—then he was gone.
Everyone stared afraid to say a word, but the officials took him down to their machine. There they drained his body of its blood and gave portions of it to different doctors who were then to treat the infected with it.
Some people flocked for the cure. Others turned aside trying to find another way. Those who did receive it were cured. Those who didn’t still had the risk of catching the horrid disease.
The original doctors, grieved to see their miracle patient now dead set up a public memorial. All those who received the treatments were encouraged to attend—but few went.
You stood there baffled as you watched the insignificant few wonder in, glance around and leave—not paying one bit of attention to you neighbor. A few stayed giving thanks for the cure despite the circumstances.
His body had long since disappeared, but the cure was still available and the memorial open.
You, yourself, had been offered the cure. Would you take it? If you did, would you go to the memorial?
Copyright The Faithbook 2012