Historians are divided on who killed Christ.
The Jews argue their innocence.
Pilate washed his hands of the affair!
No one will admit killing Jesus Christ!
Do you know who killed your Savior?
BETWEEN thirty and forty Mongolian pack animals, under the control of no less than twenty Burmese, labored to cover the last hundred rugged miles between Tengchung and Mandalay.
The sun pushed lazily over the horizon, that morning in 1943, casting eerie shadows in the mountain foliage. The pack train disappeared in the heavy thicket, then reappeared in an open stretch of continuous sunlight.
It was a beautiful, clear, sunlit day — a day worth living!
Mountain birds in search of grubs, insects and the delicacies of sustenance permeated the air with cheerful, spontaneous song. The air was clear and crisp. A blue sky, a wisp of white cloud framed the rugged mountain peaks of the Himalayas, accenting the mighty Irrawaddy River.
Life had meaning and purpose. Here was a place of peace in a war-torn world!
The elderly, graying pack-master casually spoke to his weary companions about home, their wives and children. Home was a small village of thatch-roofed huts near Tengchung, China, on the Burmese border. Not much in Western terms, but to these happy Burmese it was home, a place to work, love and rest from their labor.
The pack train moved southward. Thoughts turned to the strange war that had brought them food and money — it was a war they little understood. The Japanese needed rice for their troops stationed in Mandalay. They paid fantastic prices for delivery of the rice. Two previous trips to Mandalay by the pack train had provided more wealth for their families than any living villager had dreamed possible. The supply job meant full stomachs and prosperity. It meant happiness for the families left behind in the little village near Tengchung.
Order of the Day
Hundreds of miles to the east — but only a few minutes by air — quite a different scene was taking place. A group of young, spirited fighter pilots were engaged in conversation awaiting orders from Kunming — the mission assignment of the day!
Their job was to protect the "hump" route. They were to search out and prevent all movement of supplies to the Japanese.
Outside the pilot ready room stood an array of shark-nosed fighters glistening in the bright sun. Deadly fifty-caliber machine guns protruded from their wing tips, ready to inflict a volley of death and ruin on the triggered command of the pilot.
As they waited for orders, the pilots talked about home. It sure would be great to see a traffic light, to drive down Main Street — eat a thick, juicy steak and sleep in a bed that had a mattress. A year and a half was a long time away from home!
Discussions drifted to Dad and Mom, to the girl back home, to the wives and children who were waiting for Dad to return from war.
Theirs was a fast-moving life — a life that all too often ended in violent death! Privately, each wondered if he would ever see home again!
Sudden Destruction
Several hours passed. The sun rose higher in the sky. The early morning chill changed to warmth and then it became very hot. Beads of perspiration trickled down the foreheads of the Burmese. The shaggy coats of the pack animals turned a dark, sweaty brown and black from prolonged exertion and heat. The sacks of rice grew heavier as the day wore on.
Rounding a bend in the trail the elderly pack-master noticed four specks on the horizon. The pack train moved on, gradually descending into an open stretch of twisting mountain trail.
Glancing again over his right shoulder the pack-master watched the four specks grow. There was no doubt now, they were some type of aircraft that seemed to be headed north. Then all of a sudden they veered right, heading toward the pack train!
The clatter of the horses' hooves dimmed and finally was lost in the heavy sound of powerful engines. No doubt now — they were coming his way — in fact, they were going to pass directly overhead.
He smiled, thought again of how good life really was and of home and his wife. He waved — then in an instant of horror he knew something was desperately wrong!
The high-flying fighters were in a dive. They were diving directly into the pack train as if to split it wide open. The drone of their engines was now a thunderous roar, an angry whine! Six bright red flames of fire flashed before his eyes — then silence!
Behind the Guns
The lead pilot peered down the electric gun sight of his deadly weapon of destruction. The pack train moved into position "center." The range was right — he instantly squeezed the trigger. The fighter shuddered in response to guns and bullets. A lethal barrage of lead was on its way! Then horrified, the pilot pressed the throttle mike button crying out to his wingmen — "My God, don't shoot, don't shoot!" — But it was too late! The ground was already red, streams of blood flowed from man and beast alike — DEATH WAS EVERYWHERE!
At the last instant, after squeezing the trigger, the lead pilot had seen a little, old, white-haired man wearing a smile, waving — all perfectly framed in his gun sight! But it was too late to prevent the reality of war, the slaughter of helpless victims.
I was that lead pilot!
I was the pilot of the lead plane — I killed the little old Burmese with the graying hair along with his companions and a good part of the pack train.
Just as surely as I killed that little old Burmese — the men and horses of that pack train — I KILLED JESUS CHRIST — AND JUST AS SURELY, SO DID YOU!
A startling experience and a startling statement! Yet it is easily proven that you killed Christ as surely as if your hands were on the spear that pierced His side. This article gives the proof — proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that each one of us and you in particular killed your Savior! You need to understand this truth and comprehend what kind of a Savior you killed. You need to know what He sacrificed for you and for me!