Many epic films have been made of biblical stories and the life of Christ—The Ten Commandments, Ben Hur, Jesus of Nazareth, and Quo Vadis, and now The Chosen, to name a few. Hollywood effects have made the Red Sea part and the waves form a giant wall of water for the cast of thousands to march to freedom from Pharaoh’s army. Technology has caused a river to turn to blood and leprosy to disappear.
But for me no film device has been as powerful as that used in the old black and white Cecil B. DeMille film King of Kings. Instead of casting an actor to portray Christ, the director chose to show only Jesus’ feet walking along the way. The cameras focused not on Jesus but on the faces of those who were affected by Him. Made before the days of “talking films,” the movie forced its audience to read on the screen what Jesus said, and then see the result of His words in the lives changed or the bodies healed.
I was a small child when I saw this film, yet I can remember scenes in detail: the face of the woman taken in adultery when her eyes met the Master; the way the crippled child looked when he felt strength flowing into his withered leg; the joy the ten lepers expressed when they peeled off the bandages that had held their rotting skin on their bones.
But movie depictions would pale in the reality of walking with the living Christ. What an experience it would have been to see Jesus as He walked the dusty streets of Nazareth, to sit near Him on the grassy slopes of Galilee and with our own ears hear Him say, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.... Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” To have Him take me by the hand and raise me to my feet as He spoke the words, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” To have Him touch our dead child and say, “She is only sleeping. Child, get up.” What an experience it would have been to say at the dinner table after such a day, “We’ve just seen this Jesus!”
But of all the encounters with the living, walking Christ of history, none would have been as amazing as those the disciples who loved Him best experienced the third day after the crucifixion. Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of Jesus, Martha and Mary of Bethany, Peter, John, Thomas ... on Friday they had stood at the foot of the cross. Every unbearable moment of that afternoon had been etched in their memory: the nails, the thud of the cross as it dropped into the hole the executioners had dug for it, the seven times Jesus had groaned out His last words. How could they ever forget the ugly, taunting remarks of the Romans? The contrast between the curses of one thief who died beside Him and the plea of another whose eyes met Jesus’s as He promised that that very day they would be together in paradise—these memories played back over and over again as these witnesses tried to sleep that Saturday night.
They had waited around—through the storm, through the eerie blackness of midday until evening when the soldiers came to confirm that the bodies were lifeless. It hadn’t been hard to take Jesus’ body down from the cross; the nails—from the rough treatment and the weight of His body—had torn large holes through His hands.
Joseph of Arimathea spoke to the soldiers and asked for permission to take Jesus’ body for burial in an unused grave on his property. By the time the body had been released and they’d carried it to the tomb, they had little time left before sundown, the beginning of Sabbath, to wash and wrap the body. There was no doubt that Jesus was dead. The gaping wounds, especially from the spear the soldiers had jabbed in His side, had released so much blood and body fluids that He looked shrunken and dehydrated.
How tenderly they must have washed His body, His words still echoing through their minds: “Take, eat; this is my body that is broken for you.” The night before they had thought that the bread and the wine and His words were only symbols as ancient as Moses.
Now they realized this was a new thing—this breaking of bread He had asked them to “do in remembrance” of Him. For His part, it was no symbol. His real body here in their hands was torn to pieces. For them, too, it would become more than a symbol; it would become a call to follow His example, even if it meant losing their lives.
That Sabbath eve they had gone their separate ways in silence. There was nothing to say. It seemed to be all over. They had walked an amazing journey with Him toward a promised kingdom that now seemed to lie shattered at their feet. Yet something unexplainable in their bones felt not like an end but a beginning. Perhaps they were in denial, yet there was a sense of hope in all the black hopelessness that no one could articulate—not to each other, not to themselves.
They would each tell a very personal account of those hours, for knowing Him was a personal experience, shared, yet uniquely their own. One thing for certain: No one could really see Him, or be seen by those eyes that seemed to look into one’s very soul, and ever be the same again.
Then, on that Easter morning, they found the tomb empty. Mary Magdalene had actually spoken to the living Christ, and they—Peter and John—ran to check out her story. Could it be true? They felt the gamut of emotions as they entered the garden of the tomb. They could see at once the open grave, the stone leaning to one side as if it had been shoved like a child’s toy out of someone’s way. And then they saw the figure clothed in white, sitting on the huge stone to the side of where they had laid their Lord’s body.
“Why do you look for life in the place of the dead? He is not here! He is risen! Look, this is where you laid Him!”
Their faces. What was in their faces? And how did they return to the other disciples? Whatever happened to them there and later when He appeared to them, charged them with a passion that still, two thousand years later, makes us believe their story.
