When Easter Got Personal
Its that time of year when Christians pay extra close attention to the life of Jesus. Its the 'Holy Week'. For so much of my life this was simply at time of routine observance. Like all good Christian kids, I grew up hearing the crucifixion and resurrection stories and observing the day as a special day. However, five years ago this observance took on new meaning for me. Its when it became personal. I realized the depth of Christ's suffering and, most importantly, that I had played a role in all of it.
I was 21 years old. I was wrestling with the extent of God's forgiveness. I was tortured by the fact that I had willingly, even blatantly, chosen sin over the biblical values I had been taught growing up. Although I knew Jesus had died for those sins, I somehow couldn't rest with that. Because even while I was sinning, I knew He had died for me and I had chosen to sin based on the knowledge that I could be forgiven someday. Basically, I had used His very death as a ticket to cheap pleasure. To me, that felt like a whole new level of sin (if there were such a thing as levels of sin). It was so gross to me that I had been capable of that. After pouring out my frustration one day to a trusted leader in my life, he explained to me that one way I could look at it is that it was not only for my sins that Jesus had died, but that I was the one who hammered in the nails. I was the one who spit in His face. I was the one who mocked Him. Each time I chose to knowingly and blatantly commit an act of sin, I drove another nail in. I spat a little harder. I yelled insults a little louder.
Somehow that awful awful mental picture connected to me, and I knew in that instant that was exactly what I had done. Not only did He die for sins that I was born doing, but He died for the ones that I purposefully chose to commit against Him. He lay there, watching me pound those nails into his hands and feet, and then - promptly forgave me and gave his very life for my sake. I was completely broken in that moment, and yet filled with a glorious sense of awe. I had caught my first glimpse of what it really meant to be redeemed.
I still get weak when I think about the magnitude of that kind of love. I have never felt so unworthy, yet so grateful.
I was 21 years old. I was wrestling with the extent of God's forgiveness. I was tortured by the fact that I had willingly, even blatantly, chosen sin over the biblical values I had been taught growing up. Although I knew Jesus had died for those sins, I somehow couldn't rest with that. Because even while I was sinning, I knew He had died for me and I had chosen to sin based on the knowledge that I could be forgiven someday. Basically, I had used His very death as a ticket to cheap pleasure. To me, that felt like a whole new level of sin (if there were such a thing as levels of sin). It was so gross to me that I had been capable of that. After pouring out my frustration one day to a trusted leader in my life, he explained to me that one way I could look at it is that it was not only for my sins that Jesus had died, but that I was the one who hammered in the nails. I was the one who spit in His face. I was the one who mocked Him. Each time I chose to knowingly and blatantly commit an act of sin, I drove another nail in. I spat a little harder. I yelled insults a little louder.
Somehow that awful awful mental picture connected to me, and I knew in that instant that was exactly what I had done. Not only did He die for sins that I was born doing, but He died for the ones that I purposefully chose to commit against Him. He lay there, watching me pound those nails into his hands and feet, and then - promptly forgave me and gave his very life for my sake. I was completely broken in that moment, and yet filled with a glorious sense of awe. I had caught my first glimpse of what it really meant to be redeemed.
I still get weak when I think about the magnitude of that kind of love. I have never felt so unworthy, yet so grateful.
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