my dawg, Shane

Five years ago, I was in Iraq. It was as a member of the Iraq Peace Team, living in the middle of the "shock-and-awe" bombing of Baghdad -- some of the scariest days of my life. As Easter approached, we walked through the Lenten season with brothers and sisters in Iraq. One night I had a terrible dream, and I wrote about it in my journal. As I re-read it this season I found it as timely an image as five years back, and I decided not to doctor it up or try to polish it – but just to include the recollection of that dream as it is in my journal.

Sometimes it is hard to sleep -- so many thoughts. A bomber flew over. I looked up and could see, "U.S. Air Force" on it. I tried to think only of Jesus – the beautiful Lover of Nazareth. The other night I dreamed of Jesus. At first I could only see his back, somehow I knew it was him. His large, strong back was shirtless (and not as fair-skinned as I had once thought!). He was stooped over on all fours as if he were cradling something on the ground. I wondered what it was, so I tried to get a better glance.

A little head popped out from beneath his arm, giggling hysterically. Then another squirmed out from the other side. And another. How many were there?! Still kneeling on all fours with his arms spread wide, Jesus frantically tried to keep them gathered beneath him, as if he knew danger was looming. There were hundreds of little faces [Author's note: Jesus was gigantic, not to scale. I know it's weird; it's a dream.] So there was this huge Jesus, sprawled out above all the children. He looked like a kid frantically trying to keep a litter of young puppies from scattering.

And then there was a loud crack. Out of nowhere a whip struck Jesus on his back. He yelled in pain. Then again – the skin ripped open. And again. The children began to cry. A few young stragglers ducked safely under Jesus' chest with the others. As the whip continued to strike him, rocks began to fall from the sky like hailstones – pounding on his back and bouncing off. The children huddled beneath him, sobbing. His body convulsed in agony, but he never loosened his grip on the little ones below. As the rocks kept falling, something else started to drop from the sky. These objects looked similar to the rocks, but when they hit his back they did not bounce off like the rocks had. They sunk into his skin ... and then they exploded, tearing huge holes into his back, one after another. His bones became exposed, and soon his body stopped moving. Blood poured off his sides and rained down on the children.

STOP! STOP! In the name of God, stop. I could not wake up. The holes continued to tear into his flesh until the body barely resembled anything human. Then, at last, there was silence. Stillness. Slowly, the children began to stir. They crept timidly from beneath the rubble, covered with blood ... but alive. And I awoke ... sweating, panting, but alive.

After I had that dream, I remember going to a worship service, one of the most powerful services I've ever attended. There were thousands of Christians from all over the Middle East gathered just before Easter. We sang "Amazing Grace" in Arabic. We said the Lord's Prayer together in all kinds of different tongues. Then the bishops read a statement addressed to Muslims, which read: "We believe that you are created in the image of God and we love you." It was pregnant with hope. Afterward I confessed to one of the bishops that I was surprised to see so many Christians in Iraq. He looked at me blankly and said gently, "Yes, my friend. This is where Christianity began. You did not invent it in America. You have only domesticated it. Go back and tell the church in America that we are praying for them … to be the body of Christ, to embody the gospel of Jesus." His words still echo in my soul.

May we remember this Easter season -- that it may be Friday, but Sunday is coming. Death may be all around us, but in the end resurrection triumphs. Another little one clinging to Jesus.

Shane Claiborne is the author of Jesus for President, a Red Letter Christian, and a founding partner of The Simple Way community, a radical faith community that lives among and serves the homeless in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia.