Mother, behold your son. Son, behold your mother--a Good Friday Meditation

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.  John 19:25-27

What was it like?  To see your firstborn on a cross? Making plans for your care with the last of his breath?  30 years ago, I had a baby boy, my firstborn.  Instantly, I loved him.  Did Mary feel that too?  What was she feeling as her son, just a little older than mine is now, died a horrific death as she watched, helpless? Reflecting on this passage, I put myself in her spot; I see the Lord Jesus as if he were my child. My baby. My heart.

I Carried You. I remember the night the angel told me I would carry the Son of God.  I was confused, scared... but satisfied.  What the angel said would happen.  I carried you in my womb and felt your kicks in my belly.  My body gave you life.

O God, my son, my precious one, hangs there naked, moaning. Do you hear him?  Are you carrying him now?

I Saw You Breathe. When you arrived on that starlit night, you took your first breath and let out a cry. Many nights after that, I would go in quietly just to see you breathe--your little chest rising and falling.  Then I would silently creep out, comforted by your abundant life.

O Lord, He is crying! His chest heaves as his life, my life, creeps out of him. Will he really breathe again?

I Held Your Hand. As a toddler, you would reach for me, chubby hands would hold my face.  I basked in your soft tenderness. After you played, I washed the dust out of the creases of those velvet hands. Oh that I might hold those bleeding hands now; that my kiss would make all well.

When they pierced his hands, Holy Father, the hammer resounded as if in victory. This is your son too, Lord. Why could it not be me?  

Your Hands Heal My Soul. But, it is with those same hands, now broken, that MY SOUL is tenderly healed.  My son, whose hands I held, bears the wrath of God for ME!.  It’s YOUR blood that washes away the dusty creases of my sin.

"My God, My God, why have you forsaken your Son? His suffering, his separation -- will bring salvation? But this way... this pain?"

Your Breath Gives Me Life. It is your body that breathes its last so that I will never die.  The warm breath I felt on my cheek now makes my chest rise and fall. When you silently creep out of this world, I gain abundant life. 

God, is this the sorrow you spoke of at first?  The sorrow I couldn’t see through the joy?  Please remind me that this is not the end.  He lived a life of perfection for you so he could die a death of ransom for me.

You Will Carry Me Home. It is You who carries me now.  What the angel said would happen.  When you were small I carried you, snuggled up close to my heart. Now I kick and cry but I cling to the hope of Shalom; I am confused and scared...but satisfied.  Your body gives me life.

I long to see you Lord, to join my son in forever. He will rise again, my Savior!  Bring shalom to greet us Lord; bring heaven to this broken place and peace to my broken heart. 

 

Make all things new!

Make all things new!

Make all things new!

The Gospel in 300 Words

Happy Resurrection Sunday!  Sometimes, on holy days such as this, we go through the motions of tradition without thoughtfully evaluating the meaning.  The gospel is only powerful to us if we truly understand what we have lost through sin and what we have gained through Christ.  So, to help us do that, here is...

The Gospel in 300 Words

God created the world perfectly. He also created people—his children! Though in communion with God, they didn’t trust he was good. When they disobeyed, sin entered the world.  This sin became part of man and permeated humanity with brokenness.  But God, truly good, was also just; he couldn’t tolerate sin. He sent these children away (though he spoke of a future Savior!).  Banned from their Eden home, and living in a world of brokeness, they were separated from their Father. It was as if God regretfully said, “I love you, but don’t come near.” These people, now sentenced to death, spent generations trying to mend the rift they had created: following laws God had given, making sacrifices to cover their sin, trying to be good enough. God required they be perfect to pay the price for sin; they knew they couldn’t succeed.  Then the unexpected appeared!  The promised Savior!  Jesus was born a baby but still fully God.  And because he was God, he was able to live the perfect life that God required…of us.  He fulfilled all the laws and became the One Perfect Sacrifice…for us.  He did this in our place…instead of us. Just as sin had come through one man, “so by the one man’s obedience…many will be made righteous.” He died on a cross…in our place.  At the moment of his death, the curtain of the temple was torn apart; as if God was saying, “Now, finally, come close.” When he rose from the dead, he defeated all sin for all time. But he didn’t just leave us sinless; he imputed his righteousness in us! Now this is the heart of the gospel: By his life, his death, and resurrection, he reconciled us back to God!

But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ.

Ephesians 2:13

The Broken Man (repost)

I originally published this in 2010, but thought it appropriate for Good Friday 2015 as well...

 "A certain man from Cyrene, Simon, the father of Alexander and Rufus, was passing by on his way in from the country, and they forced him to carry the cross." 

 Mark 15:21

“Abba! Abba! Take us to the city so that we can see all of the festival preparations!”

“And the people! Take us to see the people, too, please?”

“Yes, Alexander. Yes, Rufus. We will go soon. We will walk into the chaos of the Passover celebration! Have you some sandals to wear, Rufus? It is a long journey from Cyrene to Jerusalem.”

“Yes, I have them, Father, and I will not complain.”

“Let us go then, my sons, you must follow me closely. Stay by my side.”

It seems we have been walking for days. My legs are shorter than my brother’s and my father’s, so I must jog a little now and then to keep up with them. My sandals and my legs, covered with dust and dirt, look the same—gray. My mouth is so dry that I can’t spit; I wish I could spit since my mouth feels gray too. I want to ask my Abba when we will get there, but then I stop myself because I remember that I gave my word. I will not complain, and asking about getting there might sound like complaining. I want my Abba to be proud of me—to think I am a man.

Abba said to follow closely. I have not taken my eyes off of him. But now, I am distracted by the high voices I hear in the distance and I look farther ahead. I smell good smells too. I am hungry, but I will not complain. I think we are almost there.

Finally, we enter the village! Bright colors, strange sounds, dirty animals, rushing people! So much activity! But I will stay close. I must not take my eyes off of my father. He knows where we are going and I don’t want to get separated from him.

I see some soldiers with frowns on their faces. Beside them is a man. I think he is sick. Or maybe hurt. His clothes seem dirty and stiff—do they have blood on them? He is carrying a very big piece of timber, but it seems too heavy for him. He looks very tired. I think he has been beaten—see those gashes on his back? He is trying to carry the wood across his chest like he is carrying a baby. I guess it would probably hurt him to carry it on his bleeding shoulders. The log is so heavy, he is just shuffling along. He is not wearing sandals.

I cannot look away. I am supposed to keep my eyes on my father, but I must look at this man. I want to help him! Without asking, I rush into the road where he travels. The mean soldiers stop me and roughly push me aside. My father steps out to grab me, but the biggest soldier grabs him instead!

Alexander yells “Abba!” and starts to cry, but I watch in silence as they make my father take the big timber from the hurting man. I want my father to be proud of me and I do not cry. Now my father is carrying the heavy load. He carries it on his shoulders because they are not bleeding. The soldiers grab the broken man and they pull him quickly along. But he cannot move quickly. His head is down and he is moving slowly and sadly. My father cannot move quickly either and he is scared that he has lost us. I call out to him, “We are here! We will follow you!” and both of them look up—my Abba and the broken man. The broken man looks at me…he is crying… and now I cry.

There are so many people—throngs and throngs of people! Do they not see the broken man? Do they not see my Abba? I am still crying, but my brother is holding my hand. We make it to the top of the hill. It is ugly—this hill—it looks like a skull.

The soldiers take the log from my father and they lay it down beside the broken man who has fallen to the ground. Then, my father rushes back to us. I can smell his sweat as he pulls my brother and I into his scratchy cloak to shield us from the horror.

But I know what is happening. I can hear the hammer. They are pounding big nails into the broken man’s wrists. They are crucifying him. My father told me about crucifying—it is a punishment for criminals. But this broken man is not a criminal. I could tell this broken man was a good man because when he looked at me he cried.

My father is leading us away, but I look back. I see that the broken man has been put up on a cross—his wrists are still nailed to the log my father carried, and his feet are nailed to a post jutting from the ground. I know he is dying. The broken man is dying.

And I am sad. Somehow I know, my spirit has spoken, the broken man is dying for me.

“But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.”

Isaiah 53:5

Mary, Mother of Jesus

And now, the final story in my “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”...

 Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.   ~ John 19:25

O God!  He hangs there!  My baby hangs there!  He is crying Lord!  My baby is crying!  Your baby is crying!  Why God?!  Oh Why?  He is in pain! Why must my son, my beloved child suffer?  O Lord, why could it not be me?

I cannot help him.  He hangs there, my baby boy, in agony.  When they pierced his hands, I heard him moan. I know those hands they pierced with nails; wrinkled and red on the day He was born, chubby and velvety soft when He learned how to walk, calloused and rough as a young carpenter.  I held those hands as we strolled together into the village.  I washed those hands as the dust from the road gathered in their creases.  I felt those hands around me as He hugged my neck and touched my face. 

O God!  Please comfort Him!  Please comfort your son!  I cannot protect him Lord!  My heart is being ripped from my chest because of His pain!  O God! O God! O God, can I touch Him?  Can I caress his face once more? 

I remember the night He was born.  I put my ear to his tiny chest to hear his heart beating.  It was steady and strong, just like a drum.  In the moonlight, I looked on this Miracle Baby that God have given me and I marveled at His perfection.  How could I love Someone so much so quickly?  I knew then that I wanted to protect Him forever.

I can’t get close to Him, Lord!  He is too high, too far away.  My arms can no longer embrace Him.  He is calling for you, do you hear?  My God, He thinks You have forsaken Him Lord!  Have you forsaken your only Son?  Have you forsaken my Baby Boy?  O God, I want to hold Him!  I have not forsaken my Son!  I will never stop loving my Son!  Does He know how much I love Him?  My spirit dies with Him, O God!

I remember the night the Spirit of God visited me and told me that I would bear God’s Son.  It was so magnificent!  So unbelievable!  So confusing!  Why would the Creator of all want me to carry His child?  Why a meager peasant girl?  But I did carry the Son of Man…in my womb, in my arms, in my heart.  I did carry Him, but I can no longer.  He hangs on that cross, torn and tortured.  I stand on this dirt, dying a different kind of death. Helpless.

Is He dead, my Lord?  Has He died?  I want to go to Him.  I want to listen for His breathing.  Is He still breathing Lord?  O God!  They have pierced His side!  They have damaged my Son again!  He is bleeding God!  Blood and water are pouring from His wound! 

Sometimes when He was a baby, and even when He was an older child, I would go in quietly and sit by His mat and watch His chest rise and fall.  I would listen for His rhythmic breaths.  Then I would silently creep out, comforted by the obvious life in my Child; peaceful because of my Child’s peacefulness. 

Is this the end?  Is my Baby boy gone forever?  Is He with You Lord?  He said He must first descend to Hell.  Is He there Lord?  Is this not Hell enough? Are you listening to me God?  What is happening to my Son?  Your Son?  Is He really bearing my sin?  Even my sin at this moment?  Is that why my perfect Son had to die, Father?  What is this accomplishing, this decimation of my Child?  What good is this, Lord?  Save your Son!  Save me God!

God told me He was to die.  He said my Son, His Son, was born to die, born for sorrow.  It didn’t seem real—the suffering, the sorrow, the dying.  It didn’t seem real when He told me that He was to die for me—my Son would be my Savior—my Son would bear all sin—even my sin.  My Son would take man’s curse upon Himself.  My Son would rise again.

Will He rise, my Lord?  Will my Son rise from the dead?  Is it real? He said He would conquer death.  How will He conquer death?  O Lord, take care of my Baby. My heart aches, my mind screams for justice.  Where is the justice Lord?  Why, God?  Why did you give me this burden? I am terrified my Lord.  I am terrified by your will.  What is your will, Lord?  Show me the way of your will. 

The hot sun had shown on my face.  But now it is dark.  So very dark.  It has happened.  I stand here helpless.  My Son hangs there limp and lifeless.  He is still my Baby.  I am still His mother.  How can I move from here?  My Baby hangs on a cross.  They have killed him.  They have killed me.  Everything is colorless.  Yet, I want to believe He will yet live.  The horror of this day makes me doubt. 

O God, sustain my spirit.  I commend it into your hands.  My baby has gone.  Please do not leave me, my Lord.  I need You my Lord, O God, I need You.  I am so confused, so very confused.  You hold my breath, my feeble breath in your hands, you keep my broken heart beating.  Only You can have a plan for this nightmare, my Lord. Only You can make Him live again.  Only you can make all things new. 

Yes, Lord.  Make all things new.

Make all things new.

Make all things new. 

Barabbas

This is my third story in my series, “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”

From Matthew 27…

But the chief priests and the elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas and to have Jesus executed.

“Which of the two do you want me to release to you?” asked the governor.

“Barabbas,” they answered.

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate asked.

They all answered, “Crucify him!”

“Why? What crime has he committed?” asked Pilate.

But they shouted all the louder, “Crucify him!”

When Pilate saw that he was getting nowhere, but that instead an uproar was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he said. “It is your responsibility!”

All the people answered, “His blood is on us and on our children!”

Then he released Barabbas to them. But he had Jesus flogged, and handed him over to be crucified.

It was the smell that bothered him the most—the smell of the moist earthen walls, the stench of his un-bathed cell mates, the putridity of the decomposing excrement.  The odor had invaded his pores in the last three weeks since his imprisonment.  In this damp, dark dungeon grew mold and mania…and evil.

The night had been restless.  The moaning and cursing from the others made sleep elusive, and his eyes felt the heaviness of the morning’s exhaustion.  Not sure he could bear another hopeless day in the bowels of the earth, he again began rehearsing his crime in his head; he had murdered another…was it worth it?  Was his vengeance satisfactory enough to warrant the execution that awaited him?  Remorse steadily made its way into his scattered brain and seized his thoughts, breaking him of all pride.  Barabbas cried.  The hot tears ran quickly, drawing clean lines on his dirty cheeks –making his countenance a reflection of the bars that surrounded his body. 

“That one!”  His ruminations interrupted by voices outside the cell, Barabbas looked up.  He saw them there, dressed in all their shiny Roman finery –the servants of Pilate.  The rusted iron door swung open with a mournful creak and they grabbed him.  The hand upon him was warm . A fleeting memory of his mother, leading him by the hand, came to mind and he wished for her, her comfort, her serenity.  He knew the place where they were leading him now was a place of horror—not a place of love—was it a proper place for a criminal like him?  Was it a place for anyone?

With bare feet chained, he stumbled into the day, eyes assaulted by harsh unfamiliar sunlight, and was forced by his captors to climb the crumbling stone steps which led to the upper terrace of Pilate’s quarters.  Why were they taking him there?  Wasn’t Golgatha away, beyond these ornamented walls?  Didn’t his death on a cross mean separation, sacrifice, and humiliation?  Why would he be entering into the presence of a king? 

Why were all the people there?  Standing in the courtyard looking like a thousand hungry souls?  Did the presence of his highness not make them tremble, as it did him?—a million tiny goose bumps forming under his dirty, matted hair.  Who was this other rebel here?  His face seemed unaffected by the guilt of his past; His eyes, clear and calm…and something else; innocent? 

Wait!  Was it Passover?  Was that the reason for the swarming mass of humanity?  No wonder the throngs strained to hear Pilate.  There was a custom at Passover in which the Roman governor would release a prisoner of the crowd’s choice. He remembered this now! He remembered being there, in this very courtyard as a youngster, with his family, when a man—a prisoner like himself—was absolved of his guilt!  And now he was here.  He was the prisoner.  And now some child was watching him…and deciding if he lived or died.  How did his life get here?  What kind of man had he become?  Would it be him?  Would they release him?  Would grace be his?  

But what about the other guy?  Why was He here?  What was His crime?  Was the name of the man really Jesus?  His name was Jesus too—Jesus Barabbas.  They kept yelling “Jesus!” and “Crucify him!”  Which one were they talking about? What had Pilate asked of them? Who was the target of their hatred?  Maybe they would kill the other Jesus—maybe they would crucify Him in place of Barabbas!  Maybe Barabbas would get to live!  Maybe he could live a new life!  A joyful life!  A life of freedom forever! 

A cold palm grabbed his bicep and pulled Barabbas to the front with Jesus—A king on one side of him, a mere man on the other-- the criminal stood leg to leg with the one who held life or death in his hands. 

“Which of these two do you want me to release to you?”, the voice next to him screamed out. 

“Barabbas!”  They were yelling his name!  They wanted to free him!  He wasn’t going to die!

“What shall I do then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” 

He is called “Messiah”?  The “Messiah”?  Does this man really think He is God’s Savior?  Then Heaven save Him now.  Maybe His death will satisfy this wrath.  

“Crucify him!”  He heard them hiss below. 

Pilate hesitated, then questioned, “Why?  What crime has he committed?”

“Crucify him!” Their retort was deafening, condemning. 

With that, Pilate shrugged, thrust his arms into the ivory water bowl, and with dripping hands, pronounced his sentence, “I am innocent of this man’s blood!  It is your responsibility!”

“His blood is on us and our children!”

Abruptly, Pilate released his grip on Barabbas.  He was free. His shackles were unfettered.   And Jesus—the other Jesus—was handed over to the hungry crowds so they could whip Him, strip Him, and crucify Him upon a cross. 

The other Jesus was quiet now, not weeping, but somehow serene,  facing eternity.  As they led the Accused away, Barabbas felt a pang of guilt—the same guilt that had been transferred to the body of Another…the same guilt that killed a Man Who had become his Substitute…the same guilt that a Savior's blood would wash clean.  Barabbas would now live.  And this Man, this Jesus, this Deliverer would die in his place. 

Again, Barabbas cried.  Grateful, humble, forgiven.

And Jesus the Christ, died.  Obedient, rejected, forsaken

And death was defeated forever.

The High Priest’s Servant

This is my second story in the series, “Ignored Characters from the Easter Story”.  Enjoy.

From Luke 22...

While he was still speaking a crowd came up, and the man who was called Judas, one of the Twelve, was leading them. He approached Jesus to kiss him, but Jesus asked him, “Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?”

When Jesus’ followers saw what was going to happen, they said, “Lord, should we strike with our swords?” And one of them struck the servant of the high priest, cutting off his right ear.

But Jesus answered,“No more of this!” And he touched the man’s ear and healed him.

Curse those thorn bushes! How long must I walk through this dark, wet forest? My legs are being torn to shreds trying to find my way! There is no moon tonight. It is a very silent night indeed. A man named Judas is leading us through this thickness. His torchlight keeps flickering as he slinks through the trees like a snake; in fact, he reminds me of a snake…dark, sneaky, slippery. We are searching for that man…what is his name? Jesus? Yes. He claims to be the Son of the Most High God! Ha! Who does he think he is?! Blasphemer! What kind of leader has a follower who betrays him for money? A false one! Yes. A false one. We shall see what kind of man he is.

I trudge on, squinting in front of me, groping for the light ahead, the sweat from my brow makes my eyes burn. My mouth is parched; I can barely swallow. The stench of angry men—men on a mission—reaches my nostrils. All I can hear is sandaled feet crunching upon wet gravel…moving, moving…when will we stop moving? I must keep in step with the High Priest. By now, he is likely spewing venom. He will not give his power to that false prophet “king”!

I see the torch clearly now. Judas has stopped. Why have we stopped? Have we found the criminal? He sees him! Judas tells us that he will give his master a kiss. That is how we will know him. Taking a deep breath, then letting out a resigned sigh, Judas goes forth. His hands are shaking. Before he reaches him, the man, Jesus, stops and stares. His eyes display the excruciating pain of the imminent rejection. How can he know already that this disciple is a traitor? “Judas, would you betray the Son of Man with a kiss?” Judas reels back—almost as if he has been slapped—the kiss unfinished but the deal done. Suddenly, there is commotion amongst Jesus’ followers. I move to front as I hear the rustling of metal. I also raise my sword. I am ready; adrenaline is charging through my veins! I see the unmistakable swoosh of a weapon in the corner of my eye! What is happening here? I thought this man was peaceful!

In an instant, I feel cold metal against my head! My ear! My ear has been cut off! My ear has been cut off! It is lying at my feet. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness closes in around me. Spinning. In and out. Can you hear me? My shoulder receives the rush of blood. If I could just lift my hand to stop the bleeding...oh my head…dizziness…falling…my body hits the ground hard. Everything fades.

What is happening? Who is this man helping me to my feet? I feel as if I have just awakened. I am so confused. I touch my spinning, dust-covered, blood-plastered head. Wait--no blood. My ear is intact. My shoulder is dry. I am standing. I am whole. Was it all a dream? No. Everyone is as they were. Everyone is staring at me. Everyone—including Him—the One who calls Himself the Son of God.

“What did he do?” I ask the High Priest? No one speaks. He has healed my ear! It is soft and cool. A sword had removed it and he touched it and restored my ear! He made me whole again! I am living! He has given me life!

Still they cuff him and seize him. They will still arrest him. My right hand is still on my ear.

He has the power to heal? Could he really be a king? Could he really be Messiah?

I hear him speak softly as we walk. He is not resisting. “When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness.”

Am I a part of this darkness? Have I been the deceived one? Does this man know the way to the light? Is He the Light? Has my restored ear changed my eyes?

I must follow. I must follow him. My heart beats quickly. I am convinced He is Who He says He is. What have I been doing?

I yearn for truth. I yearn for light. He is the Light. I know this now. What am I doing? He really is the Lord! He really is the Lord!

Oh, my Lord! My Lord! Your hands touched my ear but saved my soul.

Will your blood be spilled for me?

The Colt

For Holy Week, I gave myself the task of writing character sketches of the "ignored" characters of the Easter story. And though it may seem a strange way to start, I focus on the colt that Jesus rode on Palm Sunday for our story today. Remember, creative exercises are good for my brain.  Judge lightly.

Use your imagination as we enter into Jerusalem...

  

Matthew 21...As they approached Jerusalem and came to Bethpage on the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, "Go to the village ahead of you, and at once you will find a donkey tied there, with her colt by her.  Untie them and bring them to me.  If anyone says anything to you, say that the Lord needs them, and he will send them right away"...

Laboring to carry his Rider towards Jerusalem, the colt stopped and started, braying unhappily.  If the animal had known that he carried a King upon his back, his step would have been lighter, easier, quicker to please.  Yet, the beast stumbled on, unaware of the honor given, knowing not that his Creator sat upon him.

As they entered into the city, the rush of people, the waving of palm branches, the shouting of the villagers frightened the colt, yet the Wise Rider still urged him on;

This One who rode him was kind.

Traveling onward, he felt the Kind Man’s hands upon his sweat-covered neck, and he lifted his head to receive the welcome caress;

This One who rode him was gentle.

Stepping across the coat-strewn road, the donkey yielded to the soft words of the Gentle-man as He quietly commanded “Stop”.  Amidst voices, “Hosanna!” “God, save us!” he felt his Rider descend. 

And now, this Man, this Master, was leading him through streets of the burgeoning town. 

Who was this Man they honored here? 

Who was this Grace-full Leader? 

Could He be of Majesty? 

Could He be a King? 

Kings were not gentle, nor humble.  This Man was both of these.  Kings sat upon horses and chariots; this Man, upon unsaddled beast. Kings spoke with volume, conceit; this Man was serene in His power.  Kings wore fine robes and crowns on their heads, this Man, just a coat and His tears.

Today, now, greatly admired, this Man would soon be rejected. The tears of this sorrow fell freely.

And the colt, un-tethered, un-hindered--now honored—bowed down to show his respect.  This Man who had chosen to ride like the lowly had come from on High to save those He loved.  But love is not what He found. 

The colt sauntered steady and the Servant climbed on him.  This Man he now wanted to please.  The step of this donkey was now firmer, now quicker, now prouder—all now without complaint.  His job was important, so worthy, so awesome…

 For he carried the King of all Kings!

Just As He Said!

After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men.

The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said.

Matthew 28:1-10

Have a joyous Easter!

His Wounds Have Paid my Ransom

We sang this at church tonight…and I wept.  God has made this wretch—me—His treasure.  How unthinkable that He would die on the cross for me while I stood and scoffed…it was MY sin that left Him there until IT was accomplished.

IT, His acts of suffering, separating from His Father, DYING, made this life—this wretch-turned-treasure life--possible for the entire human race. 

Salvation cost me so little because it cost God so much.  His wounds have paid my ransom…

 

How deep the Father's love for us,
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His treasure
How great the pain of searing loss,
The Father turns His face away
As wounds which mar the chosen One,
Bring many sons to glory
Behold the Man upon a cross,
My sin upon His shoulders
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice,
Call out among the scoffers
It was my sin that left Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished
I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection
Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom

words by Stuart Townend

Click on the link above to listen to this powerful song.

Hooked on Jesus

I just realized it today—the third day of this Holy Week.  As I was sitting in my chair writing in my journal about Lent—normally my favorite season--not affecting me much this year, God spoke.  And He brought to mind a memory.

One time when Cole was just a little boy—probably 5 or so—he was watching TV when a “Hooked on Phonics” commercial came into view.  After he listened to their pitch, he turned around and yelled toward the kitchen, “Hey Mom, only one phone call and I could be reading in 4 weeks!”

What makes this memory funny is that Cole really believed that if I made one phone call and we spent the required 20 minutes a day on this program, he would immediately become a speedy reader. And God, being the gentle, loving Father that He is, made me laugh at that remembrance before I grieved over my neglect of Him (God, not Cole) lately.  Here’s my side of our conversation:

I just realized what I have been doing to You and why I haven’t been receiving much revelation from You.  I have been trying to spend the least amount of time with you that I can and still stay connected.  I have been acting like you are a “Hooked on Phonics” program or one of those “only 6 minutes a day” fitness programs that we both know don’t work.  I have been treating You as just another project to check off my list and feel good about.  No wonder I feel as if our relationship has gotten surfacey of late.  It’s because I have not allowed you to be first and foremost in my life.  I have not spent time—lots of precious time--investing in Who you are; learning how valuable You are.  And because of that, You have not been able to change me into who You want me to be.  No wonder this Lenten season has not been powerful to me.  I have acted as if I have no time for You.  I have treated You as an intrusion and not the King that You are.  Forgive me Lord Jesus for not believing that I really need You.

And God’s side of the conversation pretty much went like this:

Yep. You’re right.  You make time for what you think is important.  I am God and there is no other.

Sometimes, I talk a lot more than He does.

But even when He is a God of few words, they’re always right words.  And I need to listen…‘cause being hooked on Jesus takes a whole lot more than 20 minutes a day.

It takes my whole life.

I am God, and there is no other;
   I am God, and there is none like me.
I make known the end from the beginning,
   from ancient times, what is still to come.
I say: My purpose will stand,
   and I will do all that I please.

Isaiah 46:9-10

Free Way

When my friend, Kim, and I attended a conference in Illinois last week, we discovered something:  tollways!

It’s not that we didn’t know about tollways, it’s just that Iowa doesn’t have them, and to us, they were unfamiliar. We decided that Illinois was a pretty decent state because they didn’t even arrest us for missing the first one.  It was an honest mistake—really; first because we didn’t understand that we had to pull off and pay, and second because we got up SUPER early on Friday morning and drove in pelting rain and lightening. 

In Iowa, we have freeways, which are, well, free.  On freeways, one can drive for miles and miles without stopping (provided they did not go for the Big Gulp at the last Quik Trip). This seamless traveling provides for a pleasant journey.

In Illinois, Kim and I found out that we had to pull over to a toll booth every so many miles and fork out $.30, $.90 or even $1.90.  The toll- takers never looked happy (I’ll bet their job takes a toll on them—get it—a toll?) and I was actually glad when certain signs said the next booth would be unmanned.  On these unmanned booths, you just threw in some change and drove on. I wondered how fast I could  drive through those and still hit the coin catcher, but I figured we had beat the odds once with our negligent tolling, so I decided not to experiment. It all seemed pretty inefficient to me—not to mention, bad for the gas mileage—this stopping and starting—and just as I was beginning to feel smug about my own toll booth-less Iowa, God shared some truth with me.

He said, “I paid your toll, you know.  That’s why you have a free way.”

And I knew He wasn’t talking about Iowa roads; He was talking about my salvation.

It’s true.  In the Old Testament, the godly had to continually sacrifice something living to “cover” their sin.  Romans 6:23 says “For the wages of sin is death”.  The “wages” or “toll” that these people had to pay involved sacrificing a perfect animal again and again. This method of temporary sin “removal” was time consuming and cumbersome—kind of like us stopping at all the toll booths.

But when Christ came, He was the perfect “lamb” of God and His death on the cross not only covered our sin, but took it away completely so we could be freed from continual sacrifices.  In essence, He created a Free Way for us to travel—no more stopping to pay for our sin. 

Though we once traveled upon a tollway, through Christ, we now have a new way—a free way—because He is the only Way to God.

Hallelujah!  You never know what you might learn on a road trip to Chicago in the rain.

For Christ died for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.

1 Peter 3:18

For Real

I read this dialogue by J.I Packer today and found it fascinating.  Maybe you will too.

“Without forfeiting or reducing either His divine identity or His divine powers, in full and exact obedience to the Father’s will throughout, and through the enabling agency of the Holy Spirit at every turn, the second person of the Godhead, the Son of God who is God the Son, became a fetus growing in Mary’s womb; was born and nursed like any other baby; passed through infancy, boyhood, and adolescence into manhood; knew from the first moment of his self-awareness as a newborn that He was the Father’s son, who would always know and must always do what the Father directed, and did so unfailingly, blended meekness with majesty, seriousness with joyousness, satirical humor with sensitive gentleness, forthrightness against sin with vulnerable love to sinners in a unique perfection of character; modeled wisdom and humility, self-control and integrity, independence in the face of men and prayerful dependence on his Father, in a way and to a degree never seen or imagined before; and finally endured six hours of supreme agony on the cross, giving His life a ransom for many, bearing away the sin of the world, undergoing the Godforsakeness that we sinners deserved.  Then His resurrection displayed His divinity and demonstrated His victory to His disciples, who from then on linked Him with the Father in their worship and prayers.”

After reading that, I began to meditate on the realness of Jesus.  Here are my thoughts:

Jesus was truly God and truly man.  He had complete moral perfection and symmetry of character, yet He understood our weaknesses because He lived here, with us, in this very broken place.  He was God with skin on. 

He arrived in history to the world He created, but the world rejected this very real, God-man with skin on.  They beat and bruised Him until his real skin came off and His real bones were broken.  This very real God-man died a very real and very painful death for our very real offenses and His very real red blood was shed for our sins.  He then descended into a very real Hell because this is where we were destined to go—without His very real, and very loving sacrifice. He really arose and conquered real death and then he ascended back to His real home—we would have been able to see Him going with our very real eyes had we been there.  But we weren’t, so we have to believe what the gospels say is true.

Do you believe it?  He lived and breathed and died—in this world—so we could live in a new world—Heaven—with Him someday. 

And He’s coming back again.  For real.

Believe it.

 

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,
   did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing,
   taking the very nature of a servant,
   being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
   he humbled himself
   and became obedient to death—
      even death on a cross!

Philippians 2:5-8

Because He Lives

He is Risen! 

May His new Life be part of your life today.

Here is a old song with timeless words; let them tell you the Truth this Easter.

Because He Lives

God sent His son, they called Him Jesus.

He came to love, heal, and forgive.

He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, All fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

How sweet to hold a newborn baby,
And feel the pride and joy he gives.

But greater still the calm assurance,
This child can face uncertain days because He lives.

 

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.

Because He lives, All fear is gone.

Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living just because He lives.

 

And then one day I'll cross the river,
I'll fight life's final war with pain.

And then as death gives way to victory,
I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives.

 

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.
Because He lives, All fear is gone!

Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living just because He lives!

Words by Bill & Gloria Gaither

Believe

Oh Jesus!

My Jesus!  You are He, that baby in my arms…

When I first held you--carefully, nervously--on that night of your birth, I pondered your perfect nose…your little fists…your tiny toes…your lusty cries--the life that came from my body.

How could I have fathomed the agony of watching you beaten, and bruised, and crucified like a thief--my firstborn, my heart?  Your cries pierced my soul, and as your blood drained, so did my hope. I can give you life no longer.

God has promised you that. God has promised me that. Do I believe Him? 

Where are you now, my Jesus? Descending into Hell?  Are you taking even my horrors, my brokenness, my failures upon you?  I am so sorry, my Son…my Savior.  I wish I could have taken your place; but I am not stain-less, nor spot-less, nor whole.  You are all of these. You were necessary. Now you are gone—from me, for me.

God has said you will rise again—to new Life. God says I will have new Life in You. Do I believe Him?

Your Father God forewarned me of yesterday.  He sent you to die…but it is I who helped to give you life, Jesus. Suffering seemed so far away on that first night. You were my son, too. I ache for you.  He said your shed blood would be the final sacrifice—once for all. 

God has promised that you will defeat death.  God has promised me eternal life.  Do I believe Him?

God has spoken of joy in the morning. but this night is very long—so long. I will not sleep, nor have I since you died, my Love.  My child, I wait for you.  I need you.  Be my Comforter.

He has said you will ascend to your heavenly home—so I can truly go Home. Do I believe Him?

I want to.

I wait. I hope. I pray. I cry.

Breathe again, my child; for me…for all.  God has spoken.

I believe Him.

 

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
    the Maker of heaven and earth,
    and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
    born of the virgin Mary,
    suffered under Pontius Pilate,
    was crucified, dead, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day He arose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,
    and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
    from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
    the holy catholic church;
    the communion of saints;
    the forgiveness of sins;
    the resurrection of the body;
    and the life everlasting.

Amen.

The Apostles’ Creed

Were You There?

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree?
Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree?

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?
Oh! Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

I remember singing this old Negro Spiritual as a child.  What would it have been like if I had been at the foot of the cross watching my Jesus die? 

Would I, through my tears, have watched him breathe His last—willing Him to breathe just one more time?  Would my body have ached, knowing that His pain was unbearable?  Would I have been the one to offer Him something to numb his anguish and assuage his thirst?  Would the blood from His wounds have flowed upon me?

Would the echo of the hammer that was used to nail his wrists, assault my ears with its incessant ring, ring, ring? Would I see His body sag, unable to hold His weight, as they raised His criminal’s cross? Would I hear him gasp as He held my sin?

Would I stand crying as His lifeless body was laid in a tomb—a wealthy stranger’s tomb?  Would I look at the darkness around me and feel my darkness within?  Would I understand that my Jesus died my death for me?

Would I stay, and wait, for His promise of Resurrection?  Would I believe He could do what He said?  Would I recognize my risen Lord as He promised me new Life in Him?

Sometimes this causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?