The sun peeks shyly over the mountains, gives its wash of blushing rose to the sky and I am here, small whisper that I am under the unfathomable glory of God…I am here in the light of this new day and my heart, my light, my value lies in this: That God loved me, even when I turned my back on him, even when I failed him, even when I denied him.
When I was a child, I used to listen to the account of Christ’s last days read aloud in church, and in my mind I put myself into the scene…I was a face in that crowd, a voice in the din. My young self wanted to go back to those precious and ordained days, to re-write history. I wanted to shout out at the unfairness, I wanted to shake my fist at the men who wanted to kill Jesus…to kill Jesus! I wanted to convince the crowd, ask for Jesus to be set free, Barabbas be damned. My seven-year old self raged at the unfairness of it, cried with the injustice of it. I wanted to race the soldiers to the hill, tear the hammer from their hands, pull Jesus from the cross and bind his wounds.
I, like Peter, wanted to deny the unthinkable, revoke the incomprehensible truth…that this, even this, was God ordained. This blood had to be shed, these tears must fall.
As I grew older I realized the truth of it: That this soul is no different from those that shouted for his demise, that this voice would have just as easily shouted for the shedding of his blood, that these lips would have denied him three times, that these hands would have woven a crown of thorns and cast it at his feet. It is for my sins he did this work, for mine he took on this burden and for my own soul he became an object of wrath, so wretched that God himself could not look on him. This, for me. For me as well.
As the sun rises farther in the eastern sky and the crimson turns to gold I think of that kind of love and what it means, what it really means. I think of the things I do and the things I have done, the black marks and staggering lack of love where love should overflow and how I don’t deserve for anybody at all to love me the way He does. I think of the flesh and its weakness and how short I fall without Him, and of what He endured for my sake. And I think of how much more He loves me…that he ran to that hill, that he took the hammer and the nails and all that they meant. That he pulled me from the depths of my sin, rescued me from the cross I did deserve!
And my soul sits quiet within, stilled in the presence of incomprehensible love.
Photo art from The Big Box of Art