Easter Morning

It is Easter morning, and I am slowly sipping a cup of hot chai while David is in the kitchen slaving over cinnamon rolls. Oh yeah, he's better. After three days Jesus rose from the dead, and after three rounds of antibiotics, David is (finally!) well. So much to celebrate--not that the two events are equal in impact.

I have been trying for three days to write some profound post about Good Friday or Easter, but anything I write seems to belittle the events I so eagerly long to describe. Human history hinges on that moment in time, when the perfect God of the universe gave Himself as a sacrifice for the sins of the world. He conquered death, and shares that victory with all who believe. Big stuff. And I only have small words. But still, I am deeply grateful.

I watched a montage of scenes from the Passion of the Christ last night, and wept through the whole thing. I have been crying a lot lately, so that was not so weird. But as I cried, I tried to analyze why the tears were falling. I have always known what Jesus did for me on the cross. I am disgusted with the brutality, and grieved that my sins were the cause of it. But I think what really gets me is that fact that when I watch scenes from that movie, I cannot help but realize that I am watching the one that I love die. Not some historical figure with whom I have no personal attachment. MY Jesus. It is a story that is both historically accurate and presently significant. Personally significant. By His stripes I am healed. With each crack of the whip I am keenly aware that His death is saving me. And when that tomb is empty I am reminded that I, too, will live forever with Him. The Passion of the Christ is a movie about Jesus--but it is also a movie about me--it is the true story of how my Hero came to my rescue. You may not see my face in the movie--but I'm in it, and so are you. We are the very ones He came to save.

So no words I say will do Him justice. I'll thank Him with my life.

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