By Jack Wyman

Across the barren and rugged countryside they solemnly made their way.

Two robed men with full beards, the older man leading, silhouetted against the setting sun. The younger man led a goat by a rope. The goat followed submissively and silently. The men, too, were quiet.

Earlier that day these men had observed the annual ritual—fascinating in its symbolism, exacting in its detail, sacred in its meaning.

Aaron, Israel’s first high priest, had stood at the entrance of the tabernacle—the Tent of Meeting. On this holy Day of Atonement, the annual sin offering would be made. The people understood this had to be done precisely as God had commanded through Moses, their leader.

Two young goats had been brought before the assembly.

Lots had been cast.

To one goat fell the lot of being slaughtered for the blood offering that must be made for the sins of the people. To the other goat would fall the lot of being led away.

The people believed that this goat—the scapegoat—carried their sins. This was the symbolic transfer.

As Aaron, Moses’ brother, placed his hands on the goat’s head he had confessed “over it all the wickedness and rebellion of the Israelites—all their sins—and put them on the goat’s head. . . The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a solitary place; and the man shall release it in the desert” (Leviticus 16: 21-22).

This goat would carry the sins of the people to a lonely and forbidding place.

So now the men stopped and looked around. It was lonely—and barren—enough. It was getting dark. At the direction of the older man, the man leading the goat now gently removed the rope. Together, with raised voices and arms, they drove the goat away.

The frightened animal ran. Then the men turned and walked away, back to the village, back to their homes and families.

As they went, the goat stood and looked at them. It was only then—and once—that he bleated. The men did not look back, nor did the goat seek to follow. Instead, he walked on—alone—out into the darkening wilderness of the desert and his destiny of death.

These were the clear instructions of the Lord. By this, atonement was made for the sins of the people.

Not to a desert but to a garden they now came by night. In this hour the “power of darkness” would reign. The armed soldiers—a contingent of Romans along with temple guards—had been led by Judas to this place among the ancient olive trees. They carried blazing torches, lanterns, and weapons.

Here Jesus had earlier prostrated himself before the heavenly throne of glory and prayed to his Father to spare him the coming agony. To let this bitter cup pass from him. Knowing it was not to be, our Lord now stood calmly and firmly before his captors.

John records the exchange in the 18th chapter of his gospel (verses 4-8).

“Who are you looking for?” he asked the soldiers.

“Jesus of Nazareth”, they replied.

Without hesitation and never seeking to hide, Jesus answered: “I am he.”

The force of his simple words had the power, in that amazing moment of confrontation, to knock these soldiers to the ground. Then the one who would remain largely silent at his coming trial now spoke up for his friends.

“And since I am the one you want, let these others go.”

He spoke to defend his disciples. Though they had all pledged allegiance when caught up in the emotions of their loyalty, they now trembled in fear. Only Peter, still courageous, raised his sword and cut off a soldier’s ear. Soon they would all scatter. Before the sad dawn would break so would Peter. He would deny even knowing the man he once boldly confessed as the Messiah.

The soldiers tied Jesus up and “led him away” (John 18:12).

“Let these others go.”

 It was Jesus the soldiers had come for. It was Jesus they wanted. The disciples would flee. Jesus would be beaten, whipped and tortured. His disciples would hide. They would “go their way.” Jesus would be led “outside the city gates” (Hebrews 13:12) and there he would suffer and die.

For us all. The prophet Isaiah paints an eloquent and sobering portrait of the Atonement:

“Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows …” (Isaiah 53:4, emphasis added).

“Let these others go”.

“But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5, emphasis added).

“He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.”

“Let these others go”.

“All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all” (Isaiah 53:6, emphasis added).

Paul wrote:

“God made Christ, who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ” (II Corinthians 5:21, emphasis added).

You and I could never pay the debt of sin we owed to a holy and omnipotent God. Jesus owed nothing and yet he paid it all—and all to him we owe for our eternal salvation.

Condemned to die, we were set free. He took our place. Guilty, we were pardoned. Innocent, he was punished.

The crown of thorns was pressed down upon the noble brow of our scapegoat, who took upon himself the sins of a lost and fallen world.

Even now, in man’s obstinate and flailing rebellion, God’s love triumphs through the cross. On Mount Calvary, as the Prince of Glory died, he commanded death, Satan, sin and sorrow:

“Let these others go”.

Love so amazing, so divine.

The scapegoat, yes, but more:

“Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world” (John 1:29)

 “Let these others go”.

To order Jack Wyman’s book, “Everything Else: Stories of Life, Faith and Our World”, go to amazon.com, Christian Book Distributors or barnesandnoble.com. It is also available on Kindle and eBooks.

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