Feel the wounds.

Imagine with me.

You cast your eyes at the ground, because lifting them higher just brings you shame. You try to block out the cries of his mother, which only remind you of the past 24 hours. Finally, after gaining the courage to glance up again, you make eye contact with the man who has willingly walked up this hill...to Golgotha...to his own death. His gaze doesn't scream condemnation, though, it whispers love. His eyes don't judge, but instead forgive.

But you don't want any part of it. Not because you don't believe that the man on the cross is indeed God, but because you don't believe that the man on the cross should, could, or would forgive you. Instead of walking closer to speak to him, to apologize to him, to explain your shame...you turn. You continue staring at the rocks beneath your feet as you follow the path that leads down the mountain, reminiscing in your mind about the stuff that you've done the past day. The sight of the blood that stained the rocks beneath your feet, the blood that the innocent "criminal" shed as he struggled up the hill, sting you, as if somehow you feel the pain that he feels.

As you walk through the streets of town alone, you see up ahead the entrance to Pilate's court, where Jesus was put on a trial. The angry cries for Barabbas' release still ring in your ears, but what can be heard even more clearly is your own voice, screaming for the punishment of this man. What made so much sense earlier that day seems ludicrous now, and as you wipe away your tears angrily, you can't stop thinking over and over about your own worthlessness. There is no possible way that the man, whose death you shouted for could possibly speak to you, let alone love you.

Still thinking about the mistakes you've made, you head home, attempting to distance yourself, (at least physically) from your past mistakes, and more importantly, from the man that seems to remind you of everything wrong with yourself. As you enter your front doorway and slip off your sandals, your guilt comes rushing back. The secret sins of your past are whispered quietly in your ear as you lay down on the mat. There is no part of me that is good, you think, as you drift off to sleep.

The next couple days pass, but not without the thought of what you had caused. The death of an innocent man, the one who was going to bring peace and rule as the greatest king, was because of you. It's hard to find hope when you feel like you've killed hope.

As you go about working in your home as a carpenter, mind still racing, you hear a knock. You look up...and see the same loving eyes as you saw three days prior. You begin to feel light-headed, unsure if you're in a dream or have been possessed by a demon. How in the world is he alive? How am I seeing a ghost? And why is he standing in my home? you wonder. Still ashamed, you look at the floor and mutter "Um...I don't know what to say. Why'd you come here? I mean...you don't want to know what I've done the past few days."

"I do know what you've done," the man says, as your shame and guilt begin to flood back, "but that is exactly why I've come here."

And still staring at the dirt floor, you see two feet come into your view...two pierced feet. You feel a hand touch your shoulder, which propels you to bring your eyes once again to gaze at the man's face. You see the pierced forehead, the scars of a crown that mocked this true King. Then,

"And you are why this," he says, as he touches the hole in one of his hands, "happened... Not because you cried for my death. But because your heart cried for life. So life, abundant life, is what I gave you."

So you reach out. You feel the wounds. You look at him again. And this time? The shame has left, replaced with love.

* * * * * *

I feel like that's me a lot of the time. Replace that with a modern context...sure, I didn't call for Jesus' death. But I also sometimes don't act like I desperately wanted Him to live, either. And as I realize my own faults, my own sinfulness? I turn and walk. Away from the Cross. Away from the place I need to go. Away from the only way that this brokenness can begin to get fixed.

Nooooo...God surely can't handle my pride issues. He surely can't handle the problem of lust. He surely can't deal with the fact that many days I spend more time sending emails than I spend with Him.

Or can He?

Maybe Easter is more than just a good story. Maybe Easter is more than just three days worth. Maybe the best part of Easter is that He comes searching for each and every one of us after we retreat from Him.

If it's my sin that keep me from Him, then I want to give every one of those crappy, horrible, disgusting, filthy problems I have...I'm pretty sure He can handle it.