The $5 forsythia branches I bought at Sprouts look differently today than they did. When I bought them a month ago, the bony branches held canary-yellow flowers that sang bright and beautiful. But with time, the flowers are slowly shriveling and folding inward, giving way for new green growth.
In nature, isn’t there always a death of sorts before new life?
I don’t know why it’s so hard to accept that sacrifice comes before the growth.
Before the fruit.
I’ve always struggled a bit with Easter, and I thought this is because the sacrifice – the barbaric behavior that resulted in the bloody and broken body of Christ – makes me squirm. How could people treat someone like that? If I place myself inside that heartbreaking time and place, I want to believe I’m Mary Magdalene or one of the other mothers looking on helplessly in grief and horror. But I’ve discovered what really makes me uncomfortable is knowing I’m not those women at all. I’m one in the angry crowd who helped put Him on the cross. My sins are nails and thorns and choruses of crucify him.
I’m the one who’s bloody and broken who deserves the worst but receives the best. It just doesn’t sit well but a gift is a gift and I open my hands to receive it once again: With Jesus’ sacrifice, the knowledge of the incomparable vastness of God’s love for us.
“How do we measure the size of a fire? By the number of firefighters and fire engines sent to fight against it. How do we measure the seriousness of a medical condition? By the amount of risk the doctors take in prescribing dangerous antibiotics or surgical procedures. How do we measure the gravity of sin and the incomparable vastness of God’s love for us? By looking at the magnitude of what God has done for us in Jesus, who became like a common criminal for our sake and in our place.” ~Fleming Rutledge
And so Jesus is not left on the cross but lives and breathes in heaven. He lives and breathes in you. In me. We aren’t left to shrivel but alive to sing because we’re saved.
His sacrifice, our saving grace.
His sacrifice, our abundant growth.
And we look differently than we did.
Those tender, bright green shoots on the forsythia branches keep on reaching for the sky like there’s no other way to go.
May you and I walk light and free in the power of His resurrection knowing God loves you more than you’ll ever fathom.
Have a blessed Easter, friends.
Beth Williams says
April 13, 2017 at 8:31 pmKristen,
It is hard to imagine why Jesus would bear the wounds that I so deserve. How could He love me so? And yet He does it to prove His love for us. Easter is both a sad and happy time.
Right now that is how I’m feeling. Both melancholy and blessed You see my dad died March 15. I felt a sense of relief. Relief that he no longer had to suffer-the effect of aging-and that I no longer had to worry about what would happen next. I masked my pain by listening to Stephen C. Chapman songs like “Dive”, “Do Everything” and “Live Out Loud”. Now that Easter is here I feel a sense of sadness-that I can’t share this with my dad.
Blessings 🙂
Jenny C. says
April 26, 2017 at 11:43 pmBeth, I’m so sorry about your precious dad. My dad died on Easter Sunday, April 16th. My heart goes out to you. I’m so thankful we have Jesus to cling to and give us strength, for His victory over sin and death! God bless you.