They were coming towards me, the three Roman soldiers. The first one gloating, with a hateful twinkling his eyes, almost a demented look. I had seen that look when I drove out demons, so it wasn’t totally unexpected. The second guard, the one that kept shooting me those looks as they wove my crown. He looked so sad. He really didn’t want to be part of this, and I knew he was dreading what came next, maybe even more than I was. I met his eyes and tried to express my tenderness and understanding of his pain. The third one seemed uninterested and distracted. He was hardened by the years of cruelty he had seen inflicted, so this was no surprise to him, but he didn’t seem to care one way or another about what he knew was going to happen in the minutes to come. The senior officer, clearly the ringleader in this torture, was approaching me rapidly and it was he who held the crown of thorns. He looked at me with scorn and contempt as he got close, so close to me now that I could feel and smell his breath on my face. He was shorter than I, and it aggravated them that he had to stretch to place the crown on my head. He needed to get enough leverage to really drive the thorns into my skull.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, and I cried out in agony. Suddenly I realized something strange was happening to me—I could feel each individual thorn and each one carried its own hurt. The first thorn I felt was piercing my right temple, and the blood that ran from this wound flowed into my right eye, causing me to blink. This thorn was the pain of the denial of Peter and of others in a far distant future that would deny my calling. I longed to see Peter, to tell him I forgave him, but he was nowhere to be seen. I knew I wouldn’t see him for several days, that he was hiding in fear—of the Romans, of the Jews, and even of me. He was afraid for me to see him, so he stayed away.

The second thorn that I felt was right in the middle of my forehead, and the blood from that puncture tricked down the side of my nose and landed on my lips. This pain was the loss of my friend Judas and as the blood touched my lips, I thought about how we greeted each other when I last saw him—with the kiss—the kiss of betrayal. Judas was so distressed by his well-meaning betrayal that he had already hung himself, but I felt his kiss on my face, now covered with blood. Ah, Judas, my dear friend, I will see you in Paradise. The next thorn I felt was at the back of my head and caused blood to flow on my shoulder. This one was a pain of regret that soon my mother, Mary of Magdala, and the young man I had come to love so deeply, John, would be holding my dead shoulders as they took me down from the cross. This, perhaps, was the bitterest pain of all, because I didn’t want to see them hurt, any more than they wanted to watch my suffering. I was almost happy to feel the blood from that wound—it seemed, for a moment, like a healing pain.

Each subsequent thorn raised a new level of pain, and brought to mind a new hurt in my soul. The hurt of betrayal, denial, the hurt of love, the hurt of the unjustly condemned. I felt in the thorn on my left temple, the pain of so many that had gone before me, unjustly condemned to die. And this thorn brought with it the pain that so many after me would die unjustly—accused of crimes they didn’t commit, would die for the beliefs or for simply being the “other”—the one who was different in some way, the one who no one cared about, the innocent, and sometimes even the guilty whose sins had already been forgiven. And I knew there would be many unjustly condemned to die long after I left this earth.

There was a thorn over my left ear, that had been woven by the gentle one, I was sure, because that one drew no blood, and left me feeling hope and love towards the hands that wove it, reluctantly and sadly. I felt that empathy deep in my soul, and it gave me hope. One thorn had a particularly disturbing aspect to it. It seemed the thorn itself was in pain because humans had used God’s creation to make an instrument of torture. It reminded me that another of God’s beautiful natural creations, a tree, would soon be where I would meet my death. I realized that this was nothing new. Humans had been using nature to inflict harm on others since they were created, making instruments of torture and death from nature itself. And I wept a tear for that thorn and for all the Creators’ natural beauty that would be destroyed by humans in years to come, and would be used as instrument of war, not of peace and beauty.

Now another thorn began throbbing relentlessly. It was on my face—the face of a Jew. I realize this thorn represented the hate of those different from oneself. Although my own people, the Jews, had betrayed me, the Romans had always hated the Jews and took particular delight in crucifying those who were not Roman. They were believed to be inferior to the Romans in most Roman minds. And I knew this too would not end with my death but would be carried on for generations to come. That somehow humans could not realize that God created all peoples, and each soul reflected the Creator. I did not hate the Romans; they were part of my destiny, but I wept for the future generations of people who would be hated because they were Jews, because their skin was a different color, because they worshiped differently from those in power, because they loved differently from those who hated them. Maybe it was hating, maybe it was fear, but it was not how we intended the world to live. That thorn brought me much pain.

Then, a small thorn caused me pain, knowing I was deserted by my friends. Loneliness washed over me. I had been baptized by my cousin, John and, at that time, love washed over me in unceasing waves. Now waves of loneliness overcame me. And I wept for those who lived their lives in loneliness. The lepers who were abandoned by their families and friends, the widow who had no one to care for her, the orphan so was left to find his or her own way in the world, the stranger in a foreign land. And again, I felt the deep hurt of knowing, even after the time I spent on earth trying to teach compassion, that this loneliness would always be a part of the human experience.

A deep thorn on the crown of pricked at me unceasingly—it was the thorn of political divisiveness that had caused this whole torture to come about. It went beyond the “differentness” of the Romans and the Jews. It was the abuse of power by both parties. The Jews: “We’ll show you to question the power of the scholars of the law and the seekers of the messiah that will come and save us from oppression. All you do is preach love—love your enemies, render unto Caesar—you are a traitor to your people.” The Romans— “These Jews have to be stopped from gaining political power—we have to kill all these so-called messiahs before they get out of hand.” They feared the Jews because they feared the God the Jews trusted and believed in.

A final thorn caused the blood to again fill my eyes. It was the thorn of despair. Not for myself, I knew this was part of the plan of salvation and I had to pay the price. But despair for the realization that while many lives would be changed because of the moment that was upon me, it was the despair of helplessness and of hopelessness that in many ways, things would not change. The political divisiveness, the fear and hatred of the “other,” the destruction of God’s creation, the loneliness brought about by an uncaring civilization, the pain of watching loved ones suffer, the betrayal and denial of friend against friend, and the pain of the unjustly accused. These would go on long after my pain ended. And for this I wept more than from the pain of the thorns. And my friend wept with me because she saw it all come to pass in generations to come.

This chapter from my book Crown of Thorns, 2ndEdition is especially meaningful as we approach the Passion of the Lord, you can pick up the book here