It’s Wednesday. The middle of Holy Week. I’ve hardly noticed, except for this twitching desire to write something that reflects the mystery of that journey to the cross. In random moments I think, ‘
What would it have been like to be there?
To have seen Jesus teaching in the synagogue, healing on the streets, crying over the city…what would have been like to see his face?
To hear his voice?’
I want to know Jesus.
My present reality has very little dust to drag my feet in, no Seder to prepare, no foreign occupation. My present reality is comfortable and confused with failure hanging by a thread over head.
I want to see his face.
I try to remind myself that each day is a chance to start new, that this failure hanging by a thread is not real. But, redemption is real.
There is no need to try to save myself, to out-perform the past or the future or the person next to me.
Jesus is real.
Today.
I don’t have to wait until Sunday for ressurection life. I have it now.
And yet, I live feeling covered in a cloud, but unlike Moses’ that gave him the face of an angel mine hovers impeding the way. I can’t see through its thickness. I think I know, but I don’t. I grapple for truth, some sure foundation.
I know what it is. It’s that ugly self creeping up on me, trying to take me back down the paths that have long been closed. It ties its ugly lies around my wrist and slithers on the path encircling my ankle. I swat the tightness. I know this is death coming back. I know it’s trying to tell me “This is the way. Walk in it.”
Lies. I know it.
But death? It’s so much easier than life.
Why is that? Why is this path to life so hard? The dying, the confessing…the ‘I can’t do it by myself!’ Why is it so hard for an independent perfectionist like me?
Death. It’s easy. You just have to say yes.
Give in a little here and a little there. And, “Tada!” You’ve been captured.
But life is truly a fight. This I know well. It’s a hard trudge, uphill to the holy city.
I say I want sanctification. I say I want to know Jesus, to see his face, but I look over my shoulder to the dark valley below and it looks so nice. Comfortable. There’s no giving up there.
It’s have all you want with no consequence! Except, you know…the end. The place where you stand face to face with the Savior King and say, “My way is better than yours. I really lived it up…had whatever I wanted when I wanted it. Will you let me into your kingdom?”
I don’t want to be the person who looks Jesus in the face and says, “I know you sacrificed for me and all. That was pretty generous, but…you see, I really liked to do my own thing. I’m sure you understand.”
Oh, he’ll understand. He’ll understand that death caught me tight in its talons, seduced me with words of freedom and filled my throat with pleasures leaving me to drown under its weight.
Death is easy. It asks no sacrifice.
But life is the hard way. Life asks much. It’s death and death again. But through this crazy life-death, Jesus is made real in me. In you. In us.
It is His stripes that heal my broken soul on this midweek day of a holiest week. His stripes heal today.
As this perfectionist marches to Easter, I’m giving up this solitary life…for the umpteenth time and I’ll likely give it up a million more before I see Jesus, before I hold his hand and touch his face.
I’m giving up my will for His. I’m giving up my foolish tangible comforts for the Spirit that is eternal comfort. I’m giving up fleeting entertainment for holiness that breeds life.
I’m turning my eyes back to face the rocky soil of the mountain and I’m climbing.
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