The Long Silence – a playlet

At the end of time, billions of people were scattered on a great plain before God’s throne. Most shrank back from the brilliant light before them. But some groups near the front talked heatedly – not with cringing shame, but with belligerence.

“How dare He judge us after what we’ve been through? How can God know about suffering?” snapped a pert young brunette. She ripped open her sleeve to reveal a tattooed number from a Nazi concentration camp. “We endured terror… beatings… torture… death!”

In another group an African American boy lowered his collar. “What about this?” he demanded, showing an ugly rope burn. “Lynched… for no crime but being black!”

In another crowd, a pregnant South African schoolgirl with sullen eyes spoke up. “Why should I suffer?” she murmured, “I was raped. This wasn’t my fault.”

Far out across the plain there were hundreds of such groups. Each had a complaint against God for the evil and suffering that he had permitted in his world. How lucky God was to live in heaven where all was sweetness and light, where there was no weeping or fear, no hunger or hatred. What did God know of all that man had been forced to endure in this world? God leads a pretty sheltered life, they said.

So each of these groups sent forth a leader, chosen because he had suffered most: a Jew, a Russian peasant, a Japanese survivor of Hiroshima, an AIDS victim, a horribly crippled arthritic, a thalidomide child. In the center of the plain they came together and consulted with each other. At last they were ready to present their case. It was rather clever.

Before God could be qualified to be their judge, he must endure what they had endured. Their decision was that God should be sentenced to live on earth – as a man!

“Let him be born a Jew. Let the legitimacy of his birth be doubted. Give him a work so difficult that even his family will think him out of his mind when he tries to do it. Let him be betrayed by his closest friends. Let him face false charges, be tried by a prejudiced jury and convicted by a corrupt judge. Let him be tortured.

“At last, let him see what it means to be utterly alone. Then let him die. Let him die so that there can be no doubt that he died. Let there be a great host of witnesses to confirm it.”

As each leader announced his portion of the sentence, loud murmurs of approval went up from the throng of people assembled.

And then, when the last person had finished pronouncing sentence, there was a long silence. No one uttered another word. No one moved. For suddenly, everyone understood that God had already served this sentence.

The prophet Isaiah said “He was despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not. Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.”

The author of Hebrews assures us: “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are — yet was without sin.” (Heb. 4:14-15)

During the days of Jesus’ life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears to the one who could save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission. Although he was a son, he learned obedience from what he suffered and, once made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him. (Heb. 5:7-10)

After the Resurrection, Jesus encountered several of his disciples. But Thomas was not there. He hadn’t seen him yet. And he said ““Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it.”

One week later, Jesus came to Thomas and said ““Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.”

When you get to heaven, be sure to look at his hands. You will see scars. The scars are what link Jesus with us. The scars tell us that he really did suffer; that he really did die.

There was an English poet named Edward Shillito He had been a soldier who had fought in the trenches of World War One. He came out of that experience shattered by the horrors he had witnessed. As a Christian, he found comfort in the fact that Jesus was able to show his disciples the scars of his crucifixion. And he wrote this poem, called Jesus of the Scars.

Jesus of the Scars

By Edward Shillito

If we have never sought, we seek thee now;

Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;

We must have sight of thorn-marks on thy brow,

We must have thee, O Jesus of the scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;

In all the universe we have no place.

Our wounds are hurting us; where is thy balm?

Lord Jesus, by thy scars we know thy grace.

If, when the doors are shut, thou drawest near,

Only reveal those hands, that side of thine;

We know today what wounds are, have no fear;

Show us thy scars, we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong; but thou wast weak;

They rode, but thou didst stumble to a throne;

But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,

And not a god has wounds, but thou alone.