The Soldier: Encounters With Christ

Soldier's Woe

"Surely this man was the son of God!"

- Mark 15:39

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I AM A SOLDIER.

A good soldier.

But looking at my hands now, I see the stain of innocent blood. Blood that won't wash away, though I've scrubbed at it furiously. I look at my reflection and I see the truth of what I've done—and the consequences. I see it in the eyes of the other soldiers. We all know what we did, but no one dares speak it aloud. Perhaps we've convinced ourselves that if no one admits this unspeakable act, then we are not truly guilty and won't be held accountable when that dreaded moment of judgment is thrust upon us.

I have stood in this doorway every night since that night and studied the distant dark and smoldering horizon. I still find it hard to believe that we didn't know. How could we not know? Looking back on it now, I see it so clearly.

And I hear it...the silence.

Dead silence where there should have been shouting, accusations, cursing.

But silence was all we'd received. That should have told us, but we—like everyone else—had been caught up in the frenzy. We were madmen that night, driven forward by the encompassing multitudes that would not have allowed us to stop had we wanted to.

But we hadn't wanted to.

And we didn't.

Now the multitudes go on with their lives as if it is over. But it is not over. Not for us.

It will never be over.

Tonight, I watch the horizon again, perhaps seeking a redemption that will never come. I cannot ask for redemption, though some believe it is attainable. There are rumors drifting about. Quiet, excited whispers that have the whole place in an uproar. I watch my fellow soldiers' faces flicker with hope. They hunger for redemption as deeply as I do. I don't try to dissuade them from seeking it, let them have their hope. But as for myself, I won't leave this doorway to go and see if the rumors are true. I think it would be harder for me if they were. I could not bear to face such a reality, though I knew from that very night that it would come to this.

Soldier after soldier slowly stumbles out of the doorway around me. Some bump me as they go by, but no one invites me to go along. Each man is buried within his own personal torment, as I am, and seeks only one thing. I long to go with them, but I can't.

Finally, I leave the doorway and descend the steps. I'm not drunk tonight as I have been the previous nights. I haven't had a single drink. No one has. And I don't want one, which is why I leave. But I don't follow the others; I just walk through the night, hoping for the darkness to swallow me up.

As I walk, I think about the other man, the one who realized his error long before we ever did. He is dead now, by his own hand. I can't help but wonder how many of us will come to the same end when the knowledge of what we've done becomes too unbearable. For me, that is already the case. But I won't take my own life. Death scares me more than life now, though it didn't use to.

The hill looms before me. The same hill I climbed just three nights ago. But tonight, I hesitate at its base, recalling too vividly the events surrounding that first climb. My ears continue to ring with the jeering crowd as clearly as if they still surrounded me. Occasionally, below the shouts and cries, I hear soft weeping. I understand it now, though I didn't then.