Thread by @crazypastor

It was a hot and sultry day, the humidity moving through the weeping willows, covering everything in its tracks — slowing everything down.

If you were quiet, you might be able to hear faint, hushed tones down the dusty country road.

Some 10–15 people gathered in a circle beside a tree. They didn’t look like much. But there was a certain passion lying just beneath the surface.

Jesus sat his friends down one more time:

“The Son of Humanity, ben adam, will be sentenced to die by those who oppose our movement. They will torture him. It won’t be pretty.”

“Over my dead body,” said an angry-looking kid to his right.

“Yup. No way they’re taking you,” said a woman to his left.

“They will take him….” Jesus hesitated. “…they’ll take me. And you’ll betray me, just as our sacred stories say.”

“Nah.”

“Never.”

“We’re with you, rabbouni.”

Jesus was silent, shaking his head — mourning for the things about to happen, and the things that never would.

No sooner had this discussion ended that a bustling crowd approached in the distance.

It was comprised of mostly men, some carrying clubs, others holding burning torches — even though it was the middle of the day.

Many were wearing white hoods.

A pastor or two were in the mix, their silver crosses dangling from their necks.

They broke through the intimate circle. They already knew which one Jesus was. It didn’t take long.

Every single one of his followers deserted him and ran away.

bible.oremus.org/?ql=312524054

The crowd marched him to the small town just down the road. People were coming out of their houses, lining the streets.

Some were still in their Sunday best — worship had just finished at the local church on the hill.

If you didn’t know any better, you might think it was a Memorial Day parade. American flags fluttered in the hot summer sun.

“Teach that ni**er a lesson!” one woman screamed, her five year-old child silent in her arms.

A boy no more than ten years old, wearing a red vest tight around his body, pushed his way through the crowds and spit on him.

Others were emboldened by this act, and soon the crowd began throwing empty soda bottles at him. One older man put out his cigarette on his face.

Police watched from a distance.

“Alright, that’s enough, everyone,” said one of the sheriffs. “It’s time.”

They led him to a spot behind the church.

The scene was resplendent: blankets dotted the landscape, as the sun beamed down on grass greener and richer than any painting. A huge poplar tree threw its shade across the entire hillside.

Entire families began to take their spots on the grass, laying out dishes of creamed corn, pork chops, sweet tea.

The original crowd of mostly men dragged him through the pockets of people. They led him to the tree.

He mumbled through swollen lips. It sounded something like, “Forgive them. Please.”

A teenager brought the rope, while two men began castrating Jesus.

His full-throttle screams blew past the families enjoying their Sunday picnics, through the pastoral countryside, into eternity.

And then, suddenly, he was silent.

The local pastor got up while the beaten, bloodied, barely-alive man was strung up on the tree behind him.

Matches were lit.

“We are gathered here today by the grace of God,” the pastor intoned.

The body was engulfed in flames, hanging from the tree.

Strange fruit, swaying in the breeze.

— adapted from Jesus’ passion narrative as told by the Gospel of Mark (chapters 14–15)