I stood next to the cross. I had just done my job. As the frenzy of the crowd evaporates, the anger of the Pharisees turns to quiet shame, and the horror of his followers becomes reality - I stand frozen.
I have nailed many criminals to pieces of wood. I have used my training on torture, my experience as a solider, and my pride as a Roman. The trio has grown in my spirit until I am little more than a machine that is released on the deserving scum that has infected our culture with crime.
But, the events of this day are different. They've had many of the same actions, but somehow they are ending in such a different way. I feel no satisfaction this time. I can't find justice in the air. It seems that if the world had it to do over they would have done it differently... at least I would have.
So, now I stand at the feet of the "criminal" Jesus. I have heard his last words that were void of bitterness. I have watched as sincere followers wept at the dashing of their hopes and the brutal treatment of the one they loved.
I'm trying to remember - what was the crime again? Why did I do what I just did?
It's my job.
Our culture must be protected from...
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I looked to see where a voice came from, who had whispered in my soul? There are many people near by, but none close enough to whisper into my soul.
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I find myself looking to the man I have executed. Instead of feeling manly and powerful I am aware of how small and weak I am. What if I didn't take his life? What if he gave it to me? Why would he do that? I have weapons and strength, yet I am completely powerless. Somehow the dead man is stronger than the live one.
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I don't know why, I don't understand how, I'm not sure how this changes anything, but in ways I have a hunch today changes everything. I have no care of who hears it. I've got to say it. I'm not even sure what this means but, "Surely this man was the Son of God."
Grateful for Friday, Waiting For Sunday,
Pastor Dave
I have nailed many criminals to pieces of wood. I have used my training on torture, my experience as a solider, and my pride as a Roman. The trio has grown in my spirit until I am little more than a machine that is released on the deserving scum that has infected our culture with crime.
But, the events of this day are different. They've had many of the same actions, but somehow they are ending in such a different way. I feel no satisfaction this time. I can't find justice in the air. It seems that if the world had it to do over they would have done it differently... at least I would have.
So, now I stand at the feet of the "criminal" Jesus. I have heard his last words that were void of bitterness. I have watched as sincere followers wept at the dashing of their hopes and the brutal treatment of the one they loved.
I'm trying to remember - what was the crime again? Why did I do what I just did?
It's my job.
Our culture must be protected from...
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I looked to see where a voice came from, who had whispered in my soul? There are many people near by, but none close enough to whisper into my soul.
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I find myself looking to the man I have executed. Instead of feeling manly and powerful I am aware of how small and weak I am. What if I didn't take his life? What if he gave it to me? Why would he do that? I have weapons and strength, yet I am completely powerless. Somehow the dead man is stronger than the live one.
"The blood that runs by your feet is for you."
I don't know why, I don't understand how, I'm not sure how this changes anything, but in ways I have a hunch today changes everything. I have no care of who hears it. I've got to say it. I'm not even sure what this means but, "Surely this man was the Son of God."
Grateful for Friday, Waiting For Sunday,
Pastor Dave
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