The charge hung above His bruised, bleeding head: King of the Jews. Crowds sat about, chatting, laughing, drinking, and mocking everything He had said. Four days earlier, these same people rejoiced at His entrance into the city. “Save us,” they cheered, throwing palm fronds and their cloaks into the road. “Save us!”1
In them, I see myself. In them, I see you.
Save us, indeed.
But reign over us? Never.
Enough opportunities in this world offer the first without demanding the second.
Jesus constantly drew lines in the sand, and it unnerved until it enraged. His claims to exclusivity and sovereignty threatens our way of life, view of the world, view of ourselves. To what end would we go to protect these things? To what end would we go to silence Him?
As it turns out: murder.
In 2016, I hated God but could not deny that He existed and controlled this world. Yet, the longer that I lived in “His world”, the more I wanted to get out of it. He had made it clear. It was His way or the highway (to Hell). And honestly, the latter was becoming more and more appealing to me. ‘Why would I want to spend another earthly moment–let alone an eternity–under the rule of someone who let suffering run rampant?’
Did I want Him to save me, protect me, heal me, free me? yes.
But do it when and how He saw fit, rather than in my way and my timing? To be expected to follow His rules instead of my own? Believe that which hurts rather than that which brings me comfort? Absolutely not.
If I had been in Jerusalem that day, I’d have wrapped my hands around His neck myself. ‘How dare He lay claim to authority over my life.’ I wished His voice, the voice of those who followed Him, and the turmoil in my conscience would die. I believed He was guilty, but since He had made Himself untouchable, it was my funeral that would be the consequence and the proof.
I wrote these words in my journal:
What happens if I do commit suicide, huh? This child that you claim to love so much will go to Hell because of what you put her through, oh ‘almighty and loving God.’
So here’s to you. This one is for you and your so-called love.
Me, February 2016
Wiping my fresh blood across the page, I made a testament and a seal. My suffering, my eternal damnation, my blood was on His hands. I wished He would go away from me, but since He wouldn’t, I would go away from Him.
Obviously, I was preserved from succeeding in taking my life. This simply served as more proof to me that He meddled in affairs where He was not wanted. But notably–in offering me a second, third, and fourth chance at life–He endured my abuses, wiped my spit off His face, and gave me that which was right, not just that which I demanded. He won me over by His mercy (which I had believed was cruelty), His grace (which I had believed was unjust), and His wisdom (which I had believed was self-serving).
To you, oh reader, I give you:
- The good news that He has already been condemned and killed, and so you don’t have to kill yourself.
- The (perhaps) unfortunate news that He came back to life and reigns still, proving His identity as the true God and rightful King.
- And the amazing news that He has for you both a great gift and no ill will.
It is true that all sin leads to death, but it does not need to lead to yours.
So self-assured in their judgment against Him, the crowd screamed, “His blood be on us and our children.”2 In accepting responsibility for His death, they teetered on the verge of the world’s most magnificent discovery:
His death, in our place. His blood, the testimony.
I’d sworn that my blood was on His hands. But now, by God’s perfect justice and grace, His is on mine.
JustAnotherWillow 