Knowing how Jesus died does not make me love him more; knowing the extent of my sin does not make him love me less.
Reflecting on the heart-wrenching details of crucifixion compete with brief moments of joy I struggle to muster. Try as I may to deny it, I must forge through the pain to fully enter into the resurrection.
The darkness of a Good Friday triggers something deep within me, probably best left alone. Perhaps it is the momentary terror that I will end up back in my own tomb from which I was rescued long ago, when I was led out into the light of new life.
History is written, as the prophets foretold in the scriptures, giving us the image of a mother grieving at the foot of the cross where her son is dying. She does not forget how she did all she could to keep her baby boy alive in that manger, swaddling him with whatever cloths she could find. She recalls the time he ran off to teach in the temple, feeling proud of him once she knew he was safe. Her mother's heart breaks as she considers how she would have taken his place if only she could have.
On the third day, the tomb is empty, and Mary Magdalene hears her name spoken in the gentle way only her friend can say it. The truth is revealed to the friends of Jesus as the Spirit fills them.
Still, they will miss the twinkle in Jesus' eyes as he would laugh at a good joke around the table; the lightness of his steps as he danced at a wedding; the way he was never as concerned with who people were as he was with who they could become--if they would open their hearts to loving others.
Heroes often die at the end of a good story after laying down their lives for their friends. We want them to live on and grow old with us, but they save us, nevertheless.
What remains is an empty chair, stories to sustain us, and one less hug at the end of the evening. We rejoice in our eternal reality, though sensing profoundly the separation between what this life has to offer and what the next life promises. And yet, we go on, knowing we are loved.
Reflecting on the heart-wrenching details of crucifixion compete with brief moments of joy I struggle to muster. Try as I may to deny it, I must forge through the pain to fully enter into the resurrection.
The darkness of a Good Friday triggers something deep within me, probably best left alone. Perhaps it is the momentary terror that I will end up back in my own tomb from which I was rescued long ago, when I was led out into the light of new life.
History is written, as the prophets foretold in the scriptures, giving us the image of a mother grieving at the foot of the cross where her son is dying. She does not forget how she did all she could to keep her baby boy alive in that manger, swaddling him with whatever cloths she could find. She recalls the time he ran off to teach in the temple, feeling proud of him once she knew he was safe. Her mother's heart breaks as she considers how she would have taken his place if only she could have.
On the third day, the tomb is empty, and Mary Magdalene hears her name spoken in the gentle way only her friend can say it. The truth is revealed to the friends of Jesus as the Spirit fills them.
Still, they will miss the twinkle in Jesus' eyes as he would laugh at a good joke around the table; the lightness of his steps as he danced at a wedding; the way he was never as concerned with who people were as he was with who they could become--if they would open their hearts to loving others.
Heroes often die at the end of a good story after laying down their lives for their friends. We want them to live on and grow old with us, but they save us, nevertheless.
What remains is an empty chair, stories to sustain us, and one less hug at the end of the evening. We rejoice in our eternal reality, though sensing profoundly the separation between what this life has to offer and what the next life promises. And yet, we go on, knowing we are loved.
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