Warning:
This blog contains descriptions of blood.
Do not read if you are squeamish or disturbed about this kind of thing.
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.
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.
