No Turning Back(Darrell Case) I should have known it would happen. But then we can’t undo the past. Can we. How did it happen? When did the thought first enter my mind? Could I pinpoint a time? A day? No, I think not. When I was little and I did things, I shouldn’t. At 2 or 3, I enjoyed spilling the water pot. I can still remember laughing as my mother ran to save as much as possible. When she turned her back. I did it again. It became a game with me. Finally, my father hung the pot from a rope on the ceiling of our small house.

As I got older, I stole from the neighbors. Small things to begin with. One time I hid a crippled man’s crutch just to watch him hobble around. There were five of us, about the same age, six or seven. We made fun of him and mocked his tears. I remember imitating him, acting as if my feet were turned in and my legs wouldn’t hold me. All the other boys followed my lead. Our laugher attracted others. Frist children then adults. He braced himself against the wall of the potter’s house, his eyes overflowing with tears.

The villagers gathered around to see what was going on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turned to see my father carrying the cripple man’s crutch. Approaching, He gave it back to the man. The man smiled, thanking him. My father looked at me with sad eyes. I felt no fear, only anger. I was so mad at him I didn’t speak to him for three days. How dare he stop our fun? He never chastised me. If he had, it might have stopped me on my progression toward hell.

As I got older, I progressed in the world of thievery. I went from stealing fruit from the vendor to items of monetary value. I stole anything I could sell. My family lived in constant poverty. Anything my parents had of value I took. Until all my mother and father possessed were the very clothes they wore.

On the Sabbath, my friends and I would get drunk on fermented wine. To me, the Sabbath was just another day. My mother and father travelled to the temple. They prayed earnestly for me. Many times they returned to find me lying drunk on the floor of our hut. As the years passed, I sank lower and lower.

Then a ray of hope. Rumors spread in our village of a man some were calling the Messiah. The hero coming to conquer Rome and free Israel. I always thought it a wonderful bedtime story for children. Many nights while drinking, my friends and I discussed this. One of the older women of the village spoke of the coins, Christ carried in a bag. She said Jesus was wealthy.

Now, as the leader of our gang of thieves, my friends and I devised a plan. I would tell this Jesus I was the keeper of numbers for a man who imported goods. One of my associates would pose as my wealthy employer. I warned him not to overplay his hand. The role he played was perfect. He suggested I become Jesus’ band’s treasurer. Christ looked at me with those penetrating eyes. It was as if He was searching my very soul.

I turned away; sure he knew my alternative motive. To my surprise, he smiled. It was like the sun shining through thick, dark clouds. “Yes, we need such a one as you.” He said. So, I became the keeper of the bag of coins.

I soon found out Jesus was far from wealthy. There never seemed to be much in the bag, yet there was always enough. Does that make sense?

When Jesus would ask me to pay for a loaf of bread, fish, or give a few coins to give to a beggar, I tried to explain to Him there was nothing in the bag. Smiling, He asks me to look again. Time and again I reached into what I believed to be an empty bag, only for my fingers to close around coins I knew were not there minutes before. And each time there was just enough to pay for what He required.

A miracle? Perhaps. Or some trickery? Yet as I followed Him, I saw miracles on one could explain. The blind saw the cripple walked, and the dead raised. My companions kept demanding for me to seal more from the bag, yet when I tried, there were only a few coins. I took what I dared. Yet as I said before, were was always enough to pay for our needs.

One day, well over 5,000 men, women, and children gathered to hear Jesus speak. It went on for hours. They hung on his every word. Finally, the others came to Him asking Him to send them away. My heart almost stopped when I thought He was going to ask me to go buy for them. That morning I took from the bag half its contents. I would have put the coins back, but I had given them to one of my band stationed in the crowd. Instead, a little boy of 11or12 approached the disciples. He offered his lunch to Christ. I almost laughed out loud at the ludicrous idea. It was barely enough for the child. I was starving and would gladly have stolen his lunch if I could have gotten away with it. Christ’s eyes swept the crowd. They settled on me.

Again, those eyes. I felt as if of Christ searched my very soul. Turning away, He smiled. “Make the people set down.” He said in a gentle voice. Then He prayed. It was as if He was speaking to God Himself. Then the magic happened. He poured the fish and bread into a larger basket. It just kept coming. The more He poured, the more there was. He filled one basket, then two. The people gathered around, watching. The more He took from the basket, the more there was. Bread and pieces of fish appeared out of thin air. I lost two gang members that day. They became followers of Christ. At the end of the meal, we took up 12 extra baskets. The disciples joyfully took all 12 to the boy’s house and presented them to his mother. She wept as she told us she had given the last of their food to her son that morning. I left with her thank you ring in my ears.

Did I feel the tug to become one of his followers? Sure, I did. But the pull of those coins juggling in my in the bag were too strong. I became a master at explaining why there were so few. I almost lost it when He raised Lazarus from the dead. How could that be explained? Even his own sisters said Lazarus had been dead four days. Four days. Can you imagine that?

Still, I wouldn’t believe. Others did. Hundreds did. The blind saw the cripple walked. I become more and more uncomfortable. Just being around Him and the others was agonizing. As we came near the city. On a hill overlooking Jerusalem, He wept. Big tears rolling down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. I drew near to hear what he said. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!”

I planned to leave, however, before I could we entered Jerusalem with Him riding on a colt. I questioned James about how much the donkey cost. He smiled and said it cost nothing. I couldn’t believe that everything cost something.

As we entered Jerusalem, the smiling, cheering crowd lined both sides of the street waving palm branches. Crying, “Hosanna to the Son of David: Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.”

I lagged behind, hoping none of my victims noticed me. later in the temple a poor Widow give two mites in the offering box. Christ said she had given more than the rich because she gave all she had. I hung back, hiding behind His followers, hoping she didn’t notice me. I had stolen from her before.

The Passover meal was coming. I took from the bag as much as I dared. I heard the high priest offered a king’s ransom for this preacher. My mind was so confused I couldn’t sleep.

At the Passover meal, Christ said to me. “What you are going to do, do it quickly.” the others thought he meant pay for the room. But I, in my heart, knew what He meant.

Leaving the upper room, I ran through the streets like a madman. Soon I came to the high priest’s home. I knew the servant guarding the door. I ask to see the high priest. He told me to go away, but I insisted. Finally, he sighed and told a small boy standing beside him to go fetch the man. The high priest came out the door with robes flying. Indigently, he demanded to know why the guard interrupted him.

When he saw me, his manner changed. “Come in come in.” he said, smiling. As I entered the door, he put his hand on my back. The print of his fingers still burns into my flesh. It feels it like a burn from boiling water. They were waiting for me. Gathered around a great table in the hall. I named my price for betraying The Son of God. They laughed and offered me the price of a slave. Thirty pieces of silver. Angrily, I said no. The high priest rose and called one of his servants. A young girl.

“Take him out.” he said resuming his seat.

“Alright, give me the money,” I retorted. I had come this far; I would not leave without getting paid something. If only a prentice. He waved to a man seated beside him. I held out my hand. Opening the bag, the man counted out thirty pieces of sliver. “Lead us to him.” The high priest said.Could I tell you about that night? The betrayal, the kiss, the arrest. Time and again, I wanted to turn back. As I kissed his cheek, he called me friend. That word struck my heart like a dagger.

I sunk back into the shadows, watching. Maybe, just maybe, they would beat him, warn him, and let him go. Always the impetus one Peter swung a sword at the servant’s head. All he ended up doing was cutting off the man’s ear. The servant screamed, grabbing the side of his head, blood running between his fingers. Stepping forward, Christ lay a hand on Peter’s arm. Then, bending down, he picked up the severed ear. Gently he pulled servant’s hand away from the side of his head. He murmured something. It sounded like he said, “It will be alright.” But I couldn’t be sure. Christ took His hand away. The man reached up, feeling his ear. Then, smiling, he held out his hand, looking at it in wonder. There was not a trace of blood on his head or his fingers.

“Trickery.” The captain shouted. “Bring him.”

Chained by legs and arms, they drug Christ through the streets. I followed far back, hoping against hope they would scourge him, then let him go. I felt sick to my stomach. He had called me a friend.

Hearing a noise, I looked over my shoulder. Peter, I must not let him see me. I ducked into an alley and waited until he passed by.

I lay down in the rough alley way to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes; I saw His eyes filled with love and companion. I thought of going to my parent’s home, but what would I say? Would they believe me or would they think I was lying again? So, I spent the night shivering and shaking, but not from the weather.  

In the morning, they sent him to Pilate. The high priest sent rabble rousers among the people. They became a mob demanding the death of Christ. Too late, it was too late. I wanted to pull it all back, but it was too late. I rushed behind a wall and vomited. I yes, I had betrayed the Son of God. An hour later, I still stood by the wall, the world swimming before my eyes. Still sick to my stomach. I heard them coming.

A sea of people stampeded by me. I grab the arm of one man and demanded to know about Christ. Breathlessly, he said with a big smile. “They’re going to crucify him.” Another wave of sickness hit me. I let go of him. He hurried after the throng. I tried to find a place to set down. There was none. I was caught up with the crowd. We rushed through the streets. They swept me along to Calvary.

I heard the hammer blows before I saw him. A soldier stood by ready to hold Christ’s arm for the spike. Unnecessary. Through his fingers trembled Christ lay his arm unmoving while they drove the nail through his hand. I tried to hide among the laughing, jeering mob, but his eyes found me. Eyes full of compassion, love, and something else. Forgiveness. I wanted Jesus to hate me, to curse me, not to love me. I wandered away from that horrible scene.

Finding the high priest, I threw the 30 pieces of sliver at him. He brought up his arm to protect his face. The coins fell harmlessly at his feet. This money I had coveted, this sliver I had longed now meant nothing to me. Turning, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, not knowing nor caring where I was going. I can still hear the high priest’s laughter, his true accusations calling after me “traitor.” In case I didn’t hear him the first time, he repeated and kept repeating that hateful word. I ran through the streets like a lunatic with his words echoing in my ears. “Traitor, traitor, traitor.”

I hid in a cave outside the city and thought of my life. I had accomplished nothing. If only I could live my life over again. If only. But I can’t. Tears streamed down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, making small puddles in the mud at my feet. In selling Christ, I sold myself. For what? For 30 pieces of silver. The price of a slave. So, as the noose tightens around my neck, I know there is no turning back.

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