My dad killed Jesus…

Easter brings back some fond memories…I’m sure I’ll write about some of my other experiences behind the scenes of the local Easter pageant at some point. I took the girls last year and was surprised how much it had changed…but how much of it was just the same as I remembered it…Somewhere I think I could probably find the video spot…maybe…but I couldn’t help laughing today, Easter Sunday, as I thought about some of my memories of those days.

As a kid, Easter season was a family event…though honestly I really don’t remember my little sister being around much. When I was little, I remember going up Golgotha with my mom for the crucifixion of Christ…I was awed by the power of the Roman soldiers …I’m sure I should have been scared…I mean it isn’t every day you see Satan walking down the back hall, just out of makeup.

Honestly I loved being a part of that program…I was proud of all of my family for our participation…and I took great pride in advertising our involvement. Looking back I find it humorous…Mom was in the choir…I was in the children’s choir…my aunt sang a solo…and my dad killed Jesus…

Over the years of my childhood, Dad had several different parts he played…he helped me off the roof to be healed by Jesus…he ran spotlights…he helped one of the crucified criminals with the dry-ice machines…but the part I will never forget was the time my father was an executioner. It was severely ironic to see my father…one of the meekest men I know…pushing Jesus and the criminals through the crowds up Golgotha…and the dramatic silence of the first time the hammer struck the nail…

I admit…that it was a little shocking the first time I saw my dad crucify Christ. I knew that the crucifixion was fake…I watched it in practice year after year. I knew how the crosses were raised on hinges…but I didn’t know how the executioners made the nail-pounding sound so real. I got the chance at some point to see the block they used to simulate the nail strike that cued the crowd into silence (mostly).

I was struck by the symbolism of the event…that Christ died to cover our sins in his blood. But I couldn’t get over the irony that my dad was one of the guys that killed him. My dad is one of the most sensitive guys I know…and I love him for that (another article soon on that subject)…never could I ever have imagined Dad even playing that part.

Later in life I found the humor in it and loved the shock value when I'd say my dad played an executioner…and even now it makes me laugh. I was confused when Dad gave up that role in order to join the spotlighting team. But looking back I completely understand…how can you expect to be considered a good Christian and go to heaven when you make a habit out of killing Christ every year? I can only imagine the thought at the resurrection…”now I have to kill him again tomorrow…”

He is risen; He is risen indeed…in spite of my father…