Monday, February 27, 2017

Paradox of the Cross

These days, leading to Good Friday and Easter, the old hymn, "The Old Rugged Cross", is a favorite among congregations. And, I often wonder if we really think about the words of the hymns we sing. I believe that the cross is a paradox. I mean, there is a truth that is either veiled, or easily passed over. We lift our voices and sing, "I will cherish the old rugged cross", "I will cling to the old rugged cross." Do we really mean, cling to the old rugged cross? What about, cherish, do we really, cherish?

There are few objects that I cherish. My girls gave me a carved stone elephant from Zimbabwe, as a birthday present. I cherish that because of my girls. It is something I hold close and it is very personal. A family heirloom, a fine piece of jewelry,these are items people might cherish. To cherish is to hold close, to gaze upon, understand it value and worth, not necessarily monetary worth. To cherish the cross is to get close and personal. Experiencing the value of the cross means you have come close. Close enough to become appalled at the site, the site of blood, discarded clothing and lives.

I used to find it repulsive thinking about clinging to the cross. What person today would want to place their hands, or worse, their arms and chest, against a post used to execute human beings. The upright of the executioners tool was used over and over until it rotted. The blood of countless bodies would have run down the post and become one with the fibers of the wood. To even think of clinging to such a horrific object should be repulsive. Now, add that our faith, our belief in Christ, centers on the cross. Some would think we are rather barbaric.

If you will come close to the cross with me, if you will be open and vulnerable, you will be able to sing the hymn with honesty and an experiential truth. In order to do that we must accept the horror and humiliation of the execution. Denial will cut short the transformation. Jesus Christ, the Begotten of the Father, the Second Person in the Trinity, the Word and character of God in the flesh, was executed at a time and place recorded in history. His death was real and it was his sacrifice for the sin of mankind. Again, look past the scene and believe that his death was for you.

As you are close to the cross, you must listen to the words of Jesus. He speaks words of forgiveness for his executioners. He speaks words of comfort to his mother and a dear friend. A man, hanging by his side hears words of comfort and life as his earthly life slips away. Listen, as he speaks with parched dry lips for a drink. In his final minutes he cries to his father during his darkest hour, life spent, body broken, blood out poured, he utters his final words and dies.

Standing close, the scene of the execution and the words spoken begin to transform sensitive and contrite hearts. The truth of his sacrifice becomes your truth, the truth of redemption's cost becomes your truth. Your spirit begins to understand that what took place was  for you. Soon, the scene of death and horror seems to fade and peace moves in your heart. With the peace comes new vision, a new eyesight that now looks at the cross and rejoices in the beauty.
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Thursday, February 23, 2017

Scars

The scars on feet and hand,
Visible across the land.

Did people notice  scars on His feet,
As He walked on the cold stone street?

As He raised His hands  high
Did scars find one's searching eye?

Did His brow show signs of thorn,
A cruel crown this King had borne?

For now, He is cloaked in Light,
He did cry, It is over, I've won the fight.

Transformed from signs of hate,
Scars will embrace as we pass His gate.

The hatred of men, shown one day,
In His kingdom banished, forever away.

Sunday, February 12, 2017

A Sweet Passing

Five generations together in a room, soon to experience a glimpse of eternity.
The saint of the family, the matriarch, is breathing her last air of confinement.
She has shared her heart, her life, and her last words with each.
Her white hair is a simple reflection of her soul, pure and unspoiled.
Her body bears the evidence of her years, yet her spirit bears the richness of life lived.
Life filled with children and chores, wonderment and worry.
Life full of images etched on every soul in that room.
Life of berry picking and shortcake, jumping grasshoppers and wild raspberries.
Children laughing and playing in the bathtub on a Saturday night,
in Sunday school the next morning, singing Jesus Loves Me This I Know For The Bible Tells Me So. Words sung a thousand times by the gathered in the room,
witnessed so many countless times by the life and love and sacrifice of the saint
soon to meet her God.
It is easy to notice her skin, thin as tissue paper, causes a hesitation to hug as firmly as deserved.
The scars are evident on her knees, of a trait passed on.
All mortal signs of life's days and years soon to be replaced by immortal
glory filled instruments of praise.
God's saint has been ready for this day for a long time, even yearning for its arrival.
As the months became years and frailty became reality, her spirit looked past the stars more and more, seeing the unseen.
For some around her now, life changed for a season.
A few short months of helping in the mundane requirements of everyday living.
Not work to be endured or a burden to bear, but an expression of love,
not ever to come close to filling up what was poured out for them.
Her breathing is very slow and shallow now, a sense of rest and contentment seems
to be filling the small room.
As she sleeps on her side, as she always did, her lungs are no longer filled
with the paltry air of the earth,
but with the celestial air of the heavens and her frail hand is held
by the One she so loved and longed to see.