Who Killed Jesus? | #MyFridayStory №392
If you can’t recognise that you killed Jesus — or at the very least could have — you’ll never understand what you owe Him.
I remember asking my older brother, a theologian who’d spent over ten years studying ancient Greek, Hebrew, and the Scriptures, why the Jewish nation never accepted Jesus as the Messiah. I mean, of all people, surely the ones steeped in the Torah and chosen by God would’ve been first to fall at His feet?
His answer was both simple and profound.
“Imagine being accused of killing the Messiah,” he said. “You would deny and deflect. It’s too heavy a truth to carry. That kind of guilt — how do you live with it? How do you make it up to humanity, or even to God? Owning that would leave a mark not just on you, but on your children and their children. Forever.”
And then he added something that shifted my understanding:
“Jesus didn’t just come to bring a message. He was the message. When He came, Heaven touched Earth. The kingdom of God wasn’t a future hope anymore — it was present. Right here. In Him.”
“Thy kingdom come,” he explained, wasn’t just poetic language. It was literal. The divine and human collided in Jesus — and through Him, we were offered a glimpse of Heaven on Earth. An invitation to step into it — not by effort or lineage, not by heritage or rule-following, but by surrender.
That offer was made to everyone — Jew and Gentile. Rich and poor. Guilty and ashamed.
And still, many didn’t recognise Him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
But the truth remains.
Jesus didn’t just die because of a political system, a jealous priesthood, or a Roman governor’s cowardice. That’s only the surface.
So, who did kill Jesus?
It’s a loaded question.
Ask around and you’ll hear all sorts of answers.
The Jewish religious leaders.
The Roman Empire.
Pilate.
The angry crowd shouting, “Crucify Him!”
Judas Iscariot.
Some will say it was God’s will.
Others will say it was prophecy. Destiny. Inevitable.
And yes — those are all partly true.
But here’s the part that’s much harder to admit:
I killed Jesus.
Not with nails or spears. I wasn’t there in flesh.
But spiritually? Morally?
I was right there.
Every time I lie.
Every time I choose pride over humility.
Every time I harden my heart instead of forgiving.
Every time I worship my comfort, my image, my status above Him.
Every time I say, “I’ll do it my way.”
Every moment of selfishness, jealousy, laziness, indifference.
It all adds weight to that cross.
And if I can’t own that — if I can’t recognise that I’m guilty, or at least capable of it — then I’ll never fully grasp what He did for me.
Because here’s the thing:
You can’t receive grace until you realise you need it.
You can’t be found until you know you’re lost.
You can’t be made whole until you admit you’re broken.
The cross isn’t just a symbol of pain. It’s a mirror.
A brutal, honest, beautiful mirror.
It shows us the worst in humanity — and the very best of God.
And He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t retaliate.
He didn’t defend Himself.
He opened His arms.
And He died — for the very people who put Him there.
For me.
For you.
That’s not weakness. That’s power.
That’s radical, redemptive love.
So yes, ask the question.
Sit with it.
Who killed Jesus?
And be brave enough to say, “I did.”
Only then — when you feel the weight of that truth — will you begin to understand the freedom He offers.
Only then will grace feel like the miracle it is.
Thanks for reading.🙏
If this story stirred something in you — if you feel both guilty and redeemed — I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments or messages.
Happy Women’s Month to every Mother, Daughter, Aunty, Granddaughter, Cousin, Sister, Grandmother, and Sister-in-law in Mzansi.
You are seen, you are loved, and you matter.
Until next week,
Have a wonderful weekend. And remember — be generous.😊
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