Will Our Generation Speak? I highly encourage you all to read this book! An excellent guide to witnessing for sure!
I imagined myself as a spectator watching a scene unfold before my eyes. First, I saw a man who was helping others-yet not simply in the way that any man might help someone else. This was much different. It was as if tenderness and kindness were just flowing out of him. I could tell He was a good man-GOOD in a way that I had never seen before. Every single thing He did was good. His face was so pure. I had never seen honesty like that, never seen love like that. It's like I finally knew what love was-now that I saw Him. All I wanted to do was to keep watching Him because everything He did was so amazing. Even the simple, normal acts of service that He was doing-I was astonished by them . . . by Him, I mean. The way He spoke. . . I could just tell He was right, that He spoke the truth, that everything He said was right by definition. And the way He looked at people. I wished He would look at me, but He never did. I was just a spectator. But I knew I would never forget this goodness that I had seen. I was almost as if I was in a daze, not quite able to comprehend it, stunned that this kind of righteousness could even exist. I wanted to just keep watching Him. I felt that I would be content if I could simply watch Him for the rest of my life.
But then suddenly the scene changed before my eyes. I didn't want to believe what I was seeing. People were looking at Him with angry stares. It was more then mere anger; it was rage. He was looking back at them with such. . . such. . . I don't even know the word. . . it was as if He was on a totally different playing field. There was such tenderness in His eyes. A touch of sorrow, an ocean of love. Their rage turned into vehement shouting and accusations, and then I began to watch the most horrible scene of my life. The whips they were holding were cruel and the scourging unbearable to watch. But how could this be? He was so good, so pure, so tender. He was the best person I had ever known. This must stop. I tried to yell out for someone to help, for someone to stop this. But I realized, again, I was only a spectator. Lash after lash. Blow after blow. I couldn't look-especially because it was Him. It was the worst possible injustice I could imagine. This could not be happening. It had to stop. It had to! But it didn't. On and on it went. Blood and bruises and jeers. And then I caught a glimpse of His face again. The same goodness and tenderness I had seen before were still there. But I almost hated to see it this time. It just made the whole scene worse. The forgiveness, the love. It was all so unfair. He was so. . . so good. It only got worse. A cross. Nails through His hands. Nails through His feet. Agony. People laughing. Laughing? I stared in disbelief. This must stop. Please, someone stop this. I cried out to God to bring deliverance, to bring justice. But then-horror of horrors- I could not, could not believe what happened next. God, the Father, held a rod as well. It was much bigger than the others, and much worse. It was a rod that symbolized the stroke of justice-the wrath of God for the sins of the world. No! Please, no! This is Your beloved One. This is Your Son! The One in whom is all Your delight. Please, don't! . . . But then- there was darkness.
Horrified, I imagined the "rod of justice" coming down on the only One who did not deserve it. I imagined the Son being broken and crushed-yet with love and forgiveness and tenderness still flowing from Him. How could it be that God would forsake Him? How could He be pleased to crush Him?
The darkness covered all the land, and I could no longer see His face. But I heard His anguished cry: "My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?" And in those dark moments I realized that the suffering I could not see was far worse than what I could.
Stunned and traumatized, I stepped back. I forced myself to breathe. I tried not to comprehend what I had just seen: One so deserving of glory and praise, yet receiving punishment. I'm not sure how long it was before I realized that I was holding something: I also had a whip in my hand. It was then I understood that my hand also was on the rod that fell on Him. Was I responsible? For this? I realized that I had not been merely a spectator.
At last it was over. It was finished. It-is-finished, for all eternity! It is done! God the Gather has seen the anguish of His soul and has been satisfied. Never would I have dreamed that justice would have been this costly. How vast is the extent of my sin-that this was the price. And how immeasurable the extent of His love-that this much He would pay.