were you there?

I love the Easter hymn, "Were You There?"  I love negro spirituals plus the images that come forward in the song are incredibly moving.  Although it's painfully sad, it ends with victory.

Whenever I listened to it, I thought I was the one singing the words, asking others if they were there, if they understood the significance, and wanting to see if they were moved by it all.  But I just noticed that the song keeps asking if someone was there when "they" did all these things to Jesus.  Who were "they?"

1st Stanza:  Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
2nd Stanza:  Were you there when they nailed Him to the tree?
3rd Stanza:  Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?

Who were the they?  How could they have been so awful to the kindest, most gentle man the world has ever known?  I could see that they had anger on their faces and hatred in their eyes for my Savior.  They were awful, horrible human beings with no souls.

But today, when the words were ringing through my head, I asked the question again, "Were you there...?"  And this time my heart replied.  "Yes, I was there."  I was there, but not as a witness.  

I was the one that crucified Him.  I was the one that nailed him to the tree.  And I was the one that laid Him in the tomb.

Then my heart broke and I started to cry.  It was me.  I was there.  Every time I reject Him, doubt Him, fear Him, abandon Him... I am hurting Him as much as those who drove the nails into His hands.  To consider myself more virtuous than those who held the hammer is to underestimate the value of Jesus' sacrifice on my behalf.

I think that so many of us distance ourselves from identifying with the physical murderers of Jesus and ask, "How could they do such a devastating thing?  What terrible people they were!  We would never do such a thing!"

And it's probably true.  Maybe we wouldn't have driven the actual spikes into Jesus' hand.  But if we are reading the Bible carefully, we'll see that it wasn't the pain of the crucifixion that killed Jesus.  It was the weight of our sins.  So we are, in fact, the ones that killed Him.

This is a humbling thought to consider but it brings, with it, a desire for repentance.  It draws me to my knees to the foot of the cross where I can bring all of me to Jesus and say, "It should have been me on that cross, instead of you.  What else can I give you to show you my broken heart?  Here, take all of me.  I lay it all down."

When I willingly put down my sinfulness, my hands are free to accept His gift.  I have the privilege to stand with the redeemed and witness not the crucifixion or the death but the victory, instead.  So when we get to the 4th stanza of the song, I'm no longer kneeling, but standing hand-in-hand with His other children and I can say, "Yes, I was there when God raised Him from the tomb!"  Everything Jesus experienced was on our behalf.  That was our death He died.  And when God raised Him up, He raised us up to new life as well.

Were you there for the whole song?  Please don't look at only the last stanza.  Although it is the cornerstone of our testimony, it cannot be sung without recognizing that we were also there for the previous stanzas.  Humility, repentance, offering ourselves, accepting Christ's sacrifice, and then experiencing the new life.  It's all part of the same package.  It's all part of the same song that we will sing for all eternity.

broken shells

This was a post I wrote almost 4 years ago.  I removed it from my blog a while ago although, now, I'm not sure why.  

Every time I walk the beach, just for fun, I search for very white rocks and shell pieces.  I often find a few standing out among the grays and browns of the rocks and sticks.  

Stark white pieces are few and far between.  That's what makes them special.  So I like to collect them and put them in a little bowl so I can look at them and enjoy them.

Today I sat down in a sheltered location among some logs.  All around my feet there were tons of tiny pieces of broken shells.  I picked up as many as I could but then I'd spot another one and another.  Every time I moved my foot, the rocks below my feet would shift and another few pieces of clean white shells would be exposed.

Sometimes my moments with God are like the white shells.  Little moments of beauty among the grays and browns of the day.  I hope I will be able to find that special place where the moments will be so great in number that my pockets will not be able to hold them all.   


On a separate note, I know the shells are broken.  But that's okay, because so am I.

Who is the Lamb?

As I was putting away my nativity today, wrapping each ceramic shepherd and angel in tissue paper, the last remaining items were baby Jesus and a lamb.  I wasn't really paying attention to my work since I was listening to some music while working and was caught up in the moment of the music.  But when I saw the baby and the lamb, my hands stopped working and I looked at the two fragile figurines sitting together in the empty stable.

The lamb and the baby that became the lamb.

One creature who was completely oblivious to the weight of the world's sins, and one Being who would carry the weight of the world's sins.

For the longest time I thought that the sacrificial lamb represented Jesus.  But I had a difficult time with that picture because in all the stories of the shepherd and the lambs, the lambs are the ignorant ones.  They are the ones always getting lost and completely unaware of the dangers that they step into.

I suppose it's because the Bible tells us that a "spotless" lamb had to be offered for the sacrifice and so we figure that must be like Jesus.  But there is nothing spotless in this world.  Everything has been touched by the hand of sin. Finding a spotless lamb would not even be possible. I'm guessing the priests found the most perfect lamb that they could. And that would just have to do.  But in all reality, there was nothing perfect.

How could Jesus represent a dumb animal?

Well...He can't.

So every time they made a sacrifice to God for their sins, they did their best to offer up the most innocent thing they could find.  But in spite of all their efforts, their sins were not washed away.  Instead, the stains of the blood, from the sacrifice, only deepened as they added one sacrifice after another to that cold, stone alter.  Because there is nothing we can do, no "perfect" offering we can offer, no sinless act we can sacrifice, that would wipe the slate clean.

And that's when Jesus came down, picked up the not-quite-perfect lamb with his gentle hands, and laid Himself down on that alter and said, "Sacrifice me instead."  And so we did.  We raised the knife with our own hands of sin and brought it down into the heart of perfection and spotless beauty.

The Bible says that we are all part of a holy priesthood.  The priest's job was to kill the lamb for the sake of our sins and we - each of us - have done that.  When we accept our imperfect nature, when we acknowledge that we are ignorant and foolish and prone to getting lost, when we recognize that we're no different than a stupid animal, we place that on the alter.  And then Jesus steps up, removes our sinfulness and takes our place.

But He can't do that unless we give it up to Him.  We need to recognize who we really are and who He really is.  We are that lamb, nuzzling beside him in the stable, completely unaware of our impending fate, until He stands up and takes our place.

The lamb is dumb.  One of the dumbest farm animals, actually.  And yet, every time we look at the lamb in the context of the Spirit, we see the Son of God.

When Jesus became a human, He did not reduce Himself and give up His status in Heaven.  He elevated us.

There is this overwhelming urge inside my spirit to bow down and worship Him when I try to wrap my head around this insanity.  How can Someone love me this much?  I can't even comprehend that kind of love.

When I ponder these things, how can I continue to doubt that my life is in His hands?  And yet I do.  Almost every day.  I doubt and I fear and I wonder if He's near.

There are so many stories and references in the Bible to Jesus as the Shepherd. How could I have missed it?  I am that lamb.  And He is my Shepherd.  And there is nothing He won't do to protect me.  He would even lay down His own life for mine.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want...

life blood

Warning: 

This blog contains descriptions of blood.  

Do not read if you are squeamish or disturbed about this kind of thing.

When God commanded the Israelites to start making sacrifices, He did it so that it would be a constant reminder that, "without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sins."  (Hebrews 9:22).  The slaughter of the innocent lamb was to be a foreshadowing of Christ's sacrifice.

We are fortunate to live during this period of history when we no longer have to kill innocent animals since Jesus already paid the ultimate sacrifice. We don't need to watch the blood run out of an animal, and onto the ground, to truly grasp Christ's love for us.

Yet, today, my mind was drawn to Christ's sacrifice more vividly than it has ever been. 

The kids and I decided that we would raise our own Thanksgiving turkey this year, in a happy, healthy environment, fed only natural, antibiotic-free food and then processed in a humane and careful manner.

Our turkey had a good life, plenty of room to roam and was very docile and sweet.  But then came the time of the end...

I administered the fatal blow and watched with a gut-wrenching sadness how the blood drained from it's body.  Having never done such a thing before, I could hardly watch.  The other mother that was with me stood outside the coop and whispered, "The blood that was shed for you..."

I turned back and looked at the bird again and the old system of sacrifices suddenly came alive.  Priests had to do this kind of work daily!  And it was not a clean task.  There was so much blood.  It poured down the sides of the alter and puddled at the bottom.

I suppose that people would get somewhat desensitized after so many sacrifices. But the horror and the stench of death just had to leave at least some kind of impact on the people, especially on the priests.

I always thought that the priests were like the royalty of the group, with their fancy robes, and their important jobs and getting paid by the people.  But if you've never killed an animal, let me just educate you on something: it's a nasty job that leaves it's mark.  The odor of the animal stays on your hands and in your nose for hours.  The blood-splattered clothes need to be removed and washed carefully and the workspace needs to be rinsed down and disinfected very diligently.  So I guess the priests were not the "elite" of the Israelite group. They were the grunt workers. 

Peter tells us that we are a royal priesthood too.  And that we're especially chosen for this task.  (1 Peter 2:9).  We're the ones that have to do the dirty work, apparently.  We're the ones that have a first-hand look at the consequences of sin because ours are the hands that are stained with innocent blood.  Having the knowledge of the significance of Christ's sacrifice opens our eyes to the ugly truth of sin.

I think too often we gloss over the reality of the sacrifice and we look at pictures of Jesus on the cross with one or two streams of blood painted delicately along his hands or feet.  We don't want to frighten people with the reality because it might be too traumatic so we smooth over the ugliness.  Many pictures are just a silhouette of Jesus on the cross and some have absolutely no blood on them at all.  But it is His blood that saves us and I don't think He wants to keep that on the down-low.  Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness.

If we were to witness His sacrifice, with open eyes, we might be doubled over in disgust and ready to throw up.  I stood there, ready to fall apart and start crying as the turkey quickly stopped struggling and submitted to the unsympathetic hands of death.  His body was still warm, yet there was no fight left in him.  How much more devastating would it have been for me to see the life fade away from the only One that had never done anything but good?  To witness the lifeless hands of the One who reached for and tenderly picked up the fallen?  To see the blood dripping from the lips of the One who spoke only of His love for us?  What would I have felt if I saw His heart physically stop beating?  Would I have fainted?  Gotten sick?  Broken down in utter agony?

Can you take a moment to recognize the gruesome reality that Jesus suffered?  Of all the time periods in which He could have come to earth, He chose to arrive during a time when criminals were killed in the most inhumane ways possible.  Wouldn't it have been easier for him to come during the modern times with our silent injection killing?  Or He could have been hung?  Even a firing squad or a guillotine would have resulted in a faster death.  But that's not what He chose to do.  He showed up when He could be raised up on a hill and His blood could flow out of His body until it puddled to the ground and the dirt soaked it up.  For hours.  Nothing quick and relatively painless, like for my turkey.

I had the choice to slice the turkey's throat and let it bleed while it was still alive and the heart was still pumping.  Apparently, the blood drains faster and more thoroughly that way.  But I didn't have the heart to do that.  So I opted for the death blow and the slower draining process.

But that's not Jesus' way.  He chose the slowest, most painful way to die.  The method that would result in the most blood.

Why?  Because He was trying to drive a point home.  I think He was trying to make it real for us so that we wouldn't forget and then fall for the enemy's lies.

When I was 17, I suffered a skiing accident that resulted in a large crack in the back of my head. That morning, when my friend was trying to french-braid my hair, I had been talking to another friend on my right and my french-braid ended up lopsided.  The ski hit my head directly under the lopsided french braid.  The extra hair dampened the blow as did the strap from my ski goggles.  My white goggles were forever stained with blood after that accident.  Even though most people thought it was kind of gross, I kept using those goggles because every time I looked at the blood stain, I remembered how God protected me from something that could have been so much worse.
 
Today, after killing my innocent, docile turkey, my memory is stained with blood and every time I remember this experience, I can remember how Jesus protected me from something that could have been eternally worse by standing in between me and the blow that I deserved.

the greener grass

My little artist struck again today when she brought a handful of grass into the house.  (Read the ratty shoe post to see her other "this-is-beautiful" perspective.)

I was on the phone with the internet company when she came inside, excitedly, showing me her handful of grass, pulled up by the roots.  I was like, "Whoa!  Why are you bringing lawn grass into my living room?" The internet lady on the other end of the phone started laughing.  My little one, unhindered by my distress, held the exceptionally long grass carefully in her hands, tenderly stroking the long blades.  "Look how beautiful it is!  We need to put it in a vase!"

I was distracted since I was still on the service call with the Internet company and just kind of shooed her away with, "Maci, please take that grass back outside." She walked away and I continued my phone call.

After I ended my call, I went back to the kitchen to finish canning pears and I saw a drinking glass filled with water and stuffed full of the embarrassingly long backyard grass.  I just had to laugh.  I called Maci downstairs, held up the jar, smiled at her and asked her, "What do you see when you look at this?"

"I see a beautiful decoration!"  She exclaimed, accentuating the word beautiful.  She smiled and gently stroked the blades of grass again. "I put it in the water so that it could keep growing.  And it will get SO big and I can use it as a decoration in my room!"

I left the grass in the glass.  It's sitting on my counter as another reminder.  'Cause check this out:  When I'd go out to the backyard to tend to the chickens, I would see how long my grass was and I would feel overwhelmed because I'm having a bit of a hard time keeping up with the amount of housework I have right now.  I am embarrassed that my backyard grass is so long that I could weave a basket out of it or braid it into a climbing rope or something.  The length of the grass is a constant reminder to me that I am falling behind and makes me feel a bit like a failure.  But to the honest eyes of an innocent girl, the length of the grass is just, plain beautiful.

Her perspectives have not been tainted by the stresses and responsibilities of life.  For her, beauty is still beauty.  I do recall the Bible telling us to become like little children in order to enter the Kingdom of God.  (Matthew 18:2).  There are so many lessons we can learn from the perspective of children.  That one verse in Matthew is so loaded!  So today, I am reminded to admire the beauty that God affords me even amidst the consequences of my own neglect.

Now I'm not saying that neglecting my yard tasks is a good thing, obviously.  But I love how no matter how much I accomplish or how much I fail to accomplish, my God is always there, sprinkling little reminders of His love in my path.  And when I stop to look at it, my daughter is right, that grass is really beautiful!

I would love to someday have the eyes of a child that sees the hand of God in everything around me.