I love to read the gospels from time to time. I love to read Jesus' words, think about them, understand new things. It makes my heart incredibly light. But I always seem to trail off at the end of chapter 25. He separates the sheep and the goats, and I think, "That is enough."
Rarely can I bring myself to read the crucifixion. And I've never rejoiced in the story or given a sincere thank you. All these years later, in my heart I'm like Peter, rebuking the Lord, "This should not have happened to you." In a small way I'm glad to find I genuinely care about the man Jesus. But I'm horrified to find I can't accept the very story my faith is founded on.
I love him as I love myself. Somewhere along the way, I promised myself I would not suffer. I call for twelve legions of angels, and when they fail to show up, I draw my sword. But it's not Peter I see in the mirror anymore; it's a Roman soldier, spitting on and brutalizing whatever threatens me. Amidst the darkness and the earthquakes, I realize what I've branded as evil and crucified surely was the Son of God.
So I'll find away to say thank you, in words and deeds.
Your Servant,
BJ
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