Thursday, June 16, 2011

The Cross

I wrote this a couple of months ago, but found it today while looking for a different writing. I just read it and decided to post it. Upon reading it I realized that lightening didn't tear the curtain open, but kept it in because I like the way it sounds. And because I don't edit. :) It's pretty haunting, but so was the cross.

While reading it, think about how much God loves you. Just try for a second to even think about that. It's so hard for me sometimes, so incredibly hard to fathom that fact, but know that he is crazy about you. He is crazy about me. He is crazy about ALL of us. The ONLY reason he endured all of that is because of this crazy all-consuming never-ending outrageous maniacal love he has for us. That's where the beauty is.

Love to you. So much love.


            March 8, 2011
There was nothing beautiful about the Cross. The cross was bloody and battered. It was dirty and dripping in sweat and tears and drops of Christ’s body. We think of the Cross as a work of art. All magical and lovely. Surreal and dreamy. We picture it in paintings hanging in galleries around the world. We configure it into silver and gold pendants and we hang them around our necks or from our ears. We shape it out of bronze, carve it out of wood, and mold it out of clay and then we hang it on a wall and decorate our houses with it. But the cross is not beautiful. It is ugly and dark. It is haunting and horrific. It stands there, on a hill shaped like a skull, which in itself already is very frightening and it forebodes us. It mocks us. It laughs at us.
            Jesus being tortured on a cross is not beauty. It is pain and lies and mistakes and betrayal. It reveals to us just how ugly we are. Just how horrible this world is that it could take a man, flawless and wonderful. The one who created us and stars and the ground we stand on, and beat him, chain him, and hoist him onto an instrument of murder.
            I often forget about how horrific the Cross is. I try to think back to that moment. Try to put myself in the shoes of Jesus’ friends or his family or his mom. Laying there beneath the cross, staring up at my dear friend or my brother or my son being ripped apart and dying before my eyes. It must have been loud there, but also so quiet. I’m sure the loudness was deafening but the emptiness of it all probably stunned them all to silence. It must have been so hot there. Living in the desert. But then also so cold. They must have all had chills, the kind of chills you get when you see someone’s skin being torn off. The kind of chills I have never experienced but can only imagine. It must have smelled awful. The stench of blood mixed with sweat mixed with intestines mixed with urine mixed with feces mixed with flesh. It must have been so bright there. With flames burning all through the night as onlookers stood around and stared at Jesus for hours. But of course it was so dark. Dark as the midnight sky, but also dark as the deepest pits of Hell. I bet there were no stars out that night. As they all hid their faces in shame from the sight of their tortured Creator. I know it was storming because the Bible says that lightning came down and ripped the Temple Curtain. But was it raining? I doubt it because then Jesus wouldn’t have been so thirsty. So instead it was dry. It was loud. It was silent. It was hot. It was cold. It was bright. And it was so incredibly dark.
            I think about the pain in Mary’s heart. About the unfairness of it all. About the hurt she must have felt seeing her tiny baby boy hanging on a Cross. She must have been so angry. She must have been so sad. I wonder if Jesus spoke while he hung from there. I wonder if his family spoke to him. I wonder if they all just stood there, staring at him, stunned to silence. I think about the embarrassment of it all. The embarrassment of being naked in front of his mom. The embarrassment of not being able to go to the bathroom and eventually having to pee on himself. The embarrassment of being torn open. The embarrassment of wearing a fake crown. I think about the women who inevitably had a crush on him. And how they had to look at him now and their hearts broke more and more by the minute.
            I can’t imagine that sight. I can’t imagine that noise. I can’t imagine that smell. I can’t imagine being there. Seeing my Savior, my Creator, My Brother, My friend being tortured and ridiculed and murdered in front of my eyes. I can’t see it as Beautiful. I don’t think in that moment I would have thought, “This is beautiful, someone should make a painting out of this.” I would want to get that image out of my head. I would want to burn my eyes to never ever have to see that again. I’d want to never ever be reminded of that again.
            There’s nothing beautiful about the cross. The beauty came afterwards. The beauty came from an alive Jesus. A renewed Jesus. A free Jesus. A resurrected Jesus. The beauty came from seeing him, the One whom they’d all just seen a few days earlier gashed and bruised and covered in blood, now bonded and healed and completely clean. He was no longer hanging but walking. No longer crying but laughing. He was no longer defeated but empowered. He was no longer the brunt of the joke but the overcomer of all odds. He was no longer the victim but the Victorious One.  He was no longer looking death in the eye but instead offering everyone who saw him new Life. 

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