At A Loss
Read John 19:17-37.
This morning, a woman a few places ahead of me left her phone on the counter. As of this writing, she has not yet returned to claim it. I don't know the level of your addiction to these little blocks of circuits and wires, but I do know if I get too far away from mine, I turn around to figure out where I left it...pretty quickly. (Yes, I should be in counseling for technology addiction.) When I lose things, I'm fairly quickly aware of it.
Loss dominates much of our lives, and not just with physical items. In this season of March Madness, we're focused on wins and losses. Or when we don't know what to say or do, we often say we're "at a loss." When someone is grieving, we try to empathize with them and apologize for their loss. Loss is a part of life.
So we come to the cross, and we stand in front of this Jesus, who carried the instrument of his death to the place where he would be killed, and we watch as his lifeblood literally drains from his body. What more can be said that hasn't already been said in 2,000 years of Christian history? We try to explain it, we try to theorize about it, we try to rationalize it, but in reality, if we truly take in the scene in front of us, especially as John presents it to us, we are at a loss as to what, exactly, is happening there.
An innocent man is dying. The world has lost a teacher, healer, hero. But there is more than a simple death, a routine execution, happening on that cross. In some way that we are at a loss to truly understand or explain, Jesus is dying to redeem the world. He is taking on himself all the sins of the world that have been or ever will be. For twenty-five years I've tried to explain it, on Good Friday and at other times, and I've essentially failed—as we all do. Because what we're meant to do is stand in awe, gaze at the cross, and respond in gratitude. Whatever is happening, however he is doing it, Jesus on the cross is the only hope we have for being saved from our sin and healed from our brokenness.
I'm at a loss—I have no words. I stand in awe and I worship. Thanks be to God for the cross!
This morning, a woman a few places ahead of me left her phone on the counter. As of this writing, she has not yet returned to claim it. I don't know the level of your addiction to these little blocks of circuits and wires, but I do know if I get too far away from mine, I turn around to figure out where I left it...pretty quickly. (Yes, I should be in counseling for technology addiction.) When I lose things, I'm fairly quickly aware of it.
Loss dominates much of our lives, and not just with physical items. In this season of March Madness, we're focused on wins and losses. Or when we don't know what to say or do, we often say we're "at a loss." When someone is grieving, we try to empathize with them and apologize for their loss. Loss is a part of life.
So we come to the cross, and we stand in front of this Jesus, who carried the instrument of his death to the place where he would be killed, and we watch as his lifeblood literally drains from his body. What more can be said that hasn't already been said in 2,000 years of Christian history? We try to explain it, we try to theorize about it, we try to rationalize it, but in reality, if we truly take in the scene in front of us, especially as John presents it to us, we are at a loss as to what, exactly, is happening there.
An innocent man is dying. The world has lost a teacher, healer, hero. But there is more than a simple death, a routine execution, happening on that cross. In some way that we are at a loss to truly understand or explain, Jesus is dying to redeem the world. He is taking on himself all the sins of the world that have been or ever will be. For twenty-five years I've tried to explain it, on Good Friday and at other times, and I've essentially failed—as we all do. Because what we're meant to do is stand in awe, gaze at the cross, and respond in gratitude. Whatever is happening, however he is doing it, Jesus on the cross is the only hope we have for being saved from our sin and healed from our brokenness.
I'm at a loss—I have no words. I stand in awe and I worship. Thanks be to God for the cross!
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