I hesitated writing this book, because it may seem presumptuous to put thoughts into the mind of Jesus; but these words I write are the results of my prayerful conversations with Jesus. We each, in our own way, converse with him--if we listen. These are simply the thoughts I have on how Jesus may have felt during his final hours. Your thoughts and imaginings may be very different from mine. I invite you to open your heart, your mind, and your imagination to see what words and feelings he speaks to you. He may speak to you in very different ways, about different aspects of your life, about his love for you. Do not be afraid to listen to the thoughts and feelings he shares with you. A very wise spiritual guide told me that while the gospels tell us of Jesus’ actions and his words, they do not tell of us of his feelings. Perhaps this is for a reason. Perhaps even his closest friends didn’t know his feelings. No matter how well we know someone, we may never know their innermost feelings. But the more we know someone, the more we can sense their unspoken feelings. I believe that Jesus shares his feelings with us on a personal level if we get to know him and if we listen closely. 

A sample Chapter from the book follows:

Chapter One—Watching Them Weave the Crown of Thorns

I was slumped in the corner, trying to recover from being beaten over the course of the past several hours. I was unsure whether this brief respite was because they actually felt sorry for me, or if they just needed a break themselves. Perhaps being the one who inflicts the pain is exhausting too. 

Although I was not one of them, I understood these soldiers. They were like the tens of thousands of soldiers who went before them and the millions who would follow them—they were “only doing their job.” It was how many soldiers of the past, present, and future would justify their cruelty. 

Frankly, the Romans didn’t really care about me at all so what they were commanded to do didn’t really bother them; it was routine in their lives. They were accustomed to dealing with the many so-called messiahs that came before me. They expected me, like the others before me, to beg them to stop or perhaps to plead guilty to some manufactured crime that would still lead to death but perhaps shorten the torture. But I could sense that they just weren’t quite sure what to do with me. 

The only reason Rome got involved in this current dispute among the Jews is that the Jewish leaders had convinced the Roman governor I was a threat to Rome itself, claiming to be king. They didn’t understand that I was not interested in an earthly kingdom, in being worshipped by my followers as many of those who came before me were. I was simply doing what I was born to do. Perhaps not so unlike themselves. The Sanhedrin, the priests, and the elders were smart men. They knew that a threat to the power of Caesar was the only way they could convince the Romans to come in and take care of their problem--me!

As I lay in the corner, trying to regain a little strength before the next round of torture would start, my eye caught a small group of soldiers who had remained behind. Not to guard me, because they knew I was too beaten down to give them any trouble. But because one of them had come up with a plan that was his feeble attempt at ironic humor. “He claims he is a king, let’s make him a crown.” 

No crown of gold awaited me, I was sure! Their laughter at his idea hurt almost as much as the slapping and spitting of my own people. I could tolerate the pain, I knew it was coming, knew it was my destiny. But being betrayed and mocked, especially by my own people who had brought me here, hurt me deeply. 

These three Roman soldiers were now plotting their final mockery.  One of them had gone outside into the courtyard to find something appropriate from which to make my “crown.” He was excited when he came back inside with the stems of the thorniest plant he could find. “How fitting for this ‘king,’” he laughed.

And so, they sat at a small table along the wall opposite me, beginning the long, arduous process of weaving my crown of thorns. It was a painstaking task; they had to be careful not to prick themselves as they wove. More than once, I heard them swearing, sometimes under their breath, because they didn’t want their fellow soldiers to know they felt any pain. Roman soldiers were good at putting on a brave front. Sometimes, the leader in particular blurted out his epithets in a loud voice. I think he wanted me to know I was causing him pain! How ironic, because I knew what they were about to do to me. And yet, their pain troubled me. They knew not what they did.

There was one who caught my eye periodically and I could see he was in pain, not from the thorns, but from his guilt. I sensed something in him akin to pity, but it was more than that. It was more like empathy. Every time he felt the prick of a thorn--and I could tell by the jerk of his head and his gasping breath, when he had felt the sting of the thorn--he glanced at me, thinking, “Imagine what this will feel like we place it on this man’s head.” I knew he was regretting his part in this process, but he couldn’t back out—first, because he was the junior officer to the leader of this plot and would be punished for insubordination. Secondly, he was a brave soldier--he wasn’t supposed to feel any pity or remorse. He had been well trained to abolish any of those feelings from his mind. And so, he went on weaving, but slower than his companions, and still shooting those furtive glances toward me, almost as if to say, “I’m sorry.”

Once when he looked over, I looked directly in his eyes, and said to him with my eyes, which were clearer now after my brief rest, “I’m sorry too. I know this is painful for you.”

The other two seemed to enjoy their little plan, and maybe even the pricks of the thorns on their own hands, knowing it would be so much worse when it was roughly shoved into my skull.

They were almost finished now, and we all knew the rest of the guard would soon come back to resume their work. I closed my eyes, waiting for them to place the crown of thorns on my head. 

And, when I closed my eyes, I heard a voice singing to me from thousands of years in the future, “I Say Yes, My Lord.” I loved it when this voice sang to me. Not because I was an earthly king, about to be coronated with a crown of gold, and not because I was a God who demanded total obedience of his subjects. But because in the singing of that song, my people were saying yes to my crown of thorns, yes to my pain, yes to my glory, and yes to my joy!