Dream of January 22, 2017
I find myself semi-lucid in a moderately spacious room filled with chairs in which people are sitting. The chairs are in pairs, and I am to the right of Mami, near the front row. I try to hush Mami when she protests loudly about something. She doesn’t seem to believe me, or understand, what I told her—that we are actually witnessing a part of Christ’s crucifixion. It’s like a dream, but it isn’t, and it’s not a scene from a movie re-playing in 3-D either, because we are actually there, seeing and experiencing it as it happened and is happening, as if we are viewing it through a portal in time.
As I explain this to Mami again quickly, she settles down even as I realize I don’t care what anyone thinks about Mami and I talking openly and passionately, instead of timidly blending in; it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks, the only important, and amazing, thing is what is happening, and that we have been brought to this uniquely special experience…
I see Jesus, a young, dark-haired man whose cleanly handsome and utterly kind, patient face is imprinted on my memory even though I only glimpse him for a few seconds. He is busy helping the slaves who have been employed to help the soldiers crucify him. The slaves are moving toward the audience, and the front rows, where they rummage through a series of glimmering gold, green and red boxes like oversized square Christmas ornaments. These boxes, I see clearly from my position, contain black nails of varying sizes, and other metal objects needed for the gruesome task at hand. Jesus is actually helping them procure the right nails.
I watch the scene, dismayed, and marveling at the same time. It hits me how long this process is taking as I experience, firsthand, the unwavering strength and fortitude Jesus displayed—is displaying—throughout the entire ordeal, which is taking much longer than I realized it had. I’m astonished with what equanimity he can endure having so much time to despair and to dread. Instead, He is helping those who are helping to crucify him! And I can sense the slaves are also beginning to feel a bit guilty about this, beginning to question why they are helping to kill this man. But they have no choice; they are only slaves.
I remember seeing Christ for just a few seconds, yet I am aware of His presence the entire time, and His face is imprinted on my heart—so sweet, so loving, so patient, his expression coolly reserved but at the same time also infinitely warm. I can’t understand why special nails are required, and can hardly believe how many different kinds of nails—along with a few special bolts and screws—are contained in these paradoxically lovely Christmas-present-type boxes, which are not merely in front of the audience, but mixed in with the front rows of spectators.
Regarding the Christmas ornament like boxes filled with black nails scattered among the feet of the audience – Each one of us crucifies Christ inside us in different ways. We each contribute nails to His crucifixion—our own particular weaknesses which prevent Him from fully resurrecting and living in our souls. And His patience with us is endless, unwavering, as he helps us pinpoint which nails are the ones we need to find in the gift of our salvation and bring to Him, so we can end the painful process of dying to our sinful, and helplessly weak nature, so He might rise and live forever inside us. It is really the death of our own self we prolong as Christ gently helps us discover what causes us the most pain, what weaknesses penetrate our being like nails, as He helps us pinpoint them, confront them, suffer them consciously, and be reborn.