Despite my faults, he stands with open arms

I did that to him. I’m at fault here. Like all of those men 2,000 years ago, I am the one to blame. I’m the one who put him through all of it. 

I watched the Passion of Christ for the first time on Good Friday this year. With every brutal slash Christ was given and every bit of blood that trickled down his broken body, I couldn’t help but cringe inside. It wasn’t an easy watch — hence why, at 21, I had yet to see the movie.

It wasn’t hard to watch simply because of the violence and gore, but because I know that this story is real — and it’s my fault.

This has been something I’ve come back to time and time again during Lent; the idea that I was the one to put Christ on the cross. The paradox, of course, is that he died on the cross for that same reason. 

And yet, I keep making mistakes.

I don’t listen to God, I get anxious when he doesn’t answer my questions when I want answers, I tell him that the pains of life are too much. I put him on that cross, he willingly died on the cross for me, and I still mess up. He gave his life for me and because of me, and I can hardly get through the day without doing something wrong.

But I can’t get caught up in this finger-pointing aimed towards myself. After all, that’s not why Christ died. It’s easy to get stuck in this cyclical habit of blaming myself for Christ’s suffering and lamenting in my own, while forgetting what comes soon after the pain of the cross. This gruesome death Christ endured for my sake came at a price. He went through unimaginable agony on this day.  And while I did my part in causing this suffering, it wasn’t all for naught.

Today, I felt his agony in the deepest, ugliest corners of my heart. I felt myself carrying his cross — not a cross that he carried 2,000 years ago — but one he’s carrying today, for the sake of you and me.

I might’ve put him on that cross and maybe I continually put him there when I make mistakes every single day of my life. But he also came off that cross for us, too. Unworthy as we might be, he gives and gives and gives without asking much in return. His new life is one we have yet to experience, but I’m sure it’ll be well worth the trials and storms we face here and now.

I can’t fathom his love. Love is messy. Love is scary. Love is painful. Love is beautiful.

Love is a lot of things, but it’s not resentful. Christ gave himself for us on the cross. The very least we can do is stop grumbling and complaining when things don’t go our way in life. Easier said than done? Absolutely. But I’d rather live a life of troubles knowing he’s pulling me through them, than getting caught up in the messiness of my own feebleness.