A Note from Laurie: I have always loved the book, “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers. His wife Biddy reportedly ensured her late husband’s words were published, albeit posthumously. I have been encouraged for decades by our friends and former church members to share some of the vignettes that Allen wrote every year during Lent to help us grasp, hear, feel, smell, touch, and experience the time of Christ, the world surrounding Jesus, during His journey to the cross. This is one of those stories, from the possible perspective of the carpenter who made the cross of Jesus.

From the time that I was a very young boy, I loved to work with my hands.  Creations of wood came so naturally to me that my little carved pieces became a part of my identity.  I developed a reputation for making perfectly shaped household utensils, smooth decorative items, and charming children’s toys.  Some people even called it my gift, and I knew that came with a responsibility.  If God had given me the gift, then I had to use it in ways that glorified Him.

My lifelong dream became reality when I opened my little carpentry shop in Jerusalem.  There was not a great deal of monetary reward in my trade, certainly not with my specializing in small objects, but I loved it nonetheless.  Eventually though, the financial demands of supporting a family forced me to rethink my career.  Handmade bowls and spoons do not pay the bills.  As with many things, survival became the more important choice over enjoyment.  I made the difficult decision to give up my intricate, small works of art to start making more lucrative products in a more viable niche market that could supply a steady stream of income.  I reluctantly realized that meant meeting the needs of, and selling items to, the patronizing, haughty Romans.

With their militaristic priorities, Romans were in constant need for spears, shields, and other tools of war.  Most contemptibly, Romans were keenly interested in procuring crosses, deplorable devices of death on which they hung their condemned prisoners.

Even though I dreaded affiliation with the ghastly enterprise of crucifixion, I nevertheless knew that I would have steady income if I simply justified my actions and betrayed my convictions. I did not see another alternative; I just hoped that God would forgive my misusing the gift He gave me.

My aversion notwithstanding, I reluctantly began making crosses for the Romans.  I resignedly rationalized my decision by reassuring myself that I had to feed my family, and theoretically, I was doing the world a favor.  Only the worst criminals would be sentenced to hang on one of my crosses, right?  Oh, we humans have such a way of justifying anything. 

My first order arrived a few days before Passover–two crosses, plus the possibility of one additional for a spare.  “Who knows when a last-minute name might be added to the execution list,” they mentioned, nonchalantly.  My instructions were straightforward.  The measurements and weight of the wood would always be the same, and each cross should be roughly cut.  Coarse knots and splintered edges were more desirable as to inflict more pain on the prisoner.  Since I specialized in small, smooth pieces, producing a rough, large cross was certainly not my forte.     

With all the pilgrims arriving for Passover, business would surely increase for all of us shopkeepers.  Now, with the addition of these crosses, this important week could simultaneously accelerate my business and relieve financial pressure.

I worked tirelessly, assisting my Jewish customers in selecting small household items, while understandably keeping my cross-making process in the back of the shop.  I could not risk any of my customers seeing the tortuous horrors I was building.  How devastating it would be if they found out that the same hands that had skillfully crafted their bowls and utensils, or toys for their children, had also built a cross on which some of our own people would be sentenced to die.

On Thursday evening at closing time, several Roman guards came to pick up my two newly finished crosses.  As they dragged the crosses away, I fleetingly wondered who would end up hanging on them.  No time to worry about such things, however, for I had a religious meal to attend.

On Friday morning, I was busily arranging all my wooden carvings in hopes of another robust business day.  Right before my store opened, however, the Roman soldiers came back to get one additional cross.  They had one more last-minute crucifixion.  I gave God thanks that I had finished the spare in time.

A couple of hours later, I heard a boisterous commotion in the street in front of my shop, undoubtedly a horrible Roman crucifixion underway.  Crucifixions passed by regularly, as my shop was on the road to Golgotha.  I never paid much attention, but I had a vested interest in the proceedings now.  I went out to critique my handiwork as the procession shoved forward, but the teeming crowds blocked me and obstructed my view.  Undeterred, I followed the procession all the way to the Hill of the Skull.  I needed firsthand confirmation that all was satisfactory to my customers, even if it meant a long trek.

When the crosses were hoisted towards the heavens, I could finally see my work.  I’m not sure what I expected from the experience, but I found no sense of satisfaction or accomplishment.  Instead, I was overwhelmed.  I was overcome with acute, relentless sadness.  My eyes were drawn to the man hanging in the middle.  There was a sign that identified him as Jesus.  I had heard stories about Him, that He was a miracle worker who always spoke about loving God and loving each other.  I couldn’t imagine why they were executing Him, of all people!  I felt such a dark, hollow emptiness that they were torturing Him with my cross.

Then, our eyes met.  I will never forget His eyes.  He looked at me like He knew me.  He knew my past, present, future. I instantly realized He also knew that I had made His cross, but He was forgiving me for it.  His were the eyes of pure love.  Distraught, I turned away.  I had to get away from this; I could not stand to watch another second.  I was causing Him this pain.  It was my cross on which He was hanging.

As I turned, Jesus cried out, “… Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing… (Luke 23:34).”  The problem was that I had subliminally known what I was doing, yet I did it anyway. Now I knew in full what I had done.  I was an accomplice to His murder.

I ran all the way to my store.  When I got there, I slammed the door shut.  I grabbed my hammer and started smashing every piece of wood that was to become a cross.  Roman contract or not, I had to get rid of all of it.  NOW.  Finally, after about an hour of weeping uncontrollably as I destroyed the cross pieces, it was finished.  Nothing was left to remind me of those crosses, nothing except the indelible mental image of Jesus.  On my cross.

Through the kaleidoscope of my tears, I saw a couple of small carvings scattered on the floor.  I bent over to pick them up, and I discovered that when I had flung one of the cross pieces, I had accidentally broken one of my most treasured pieces of art.  It was an intricately carved, precious lamb. 

I had broken the lamb with a cross.

• Monologues