Deciphering life’s questions and problems is what we do every day. Most have something better to do or we think we do. Pursuing our own dreams or desires won’t make them disappear.
We build mountains out of molehills and exercise the art of exaggerating our misfortunes. But do we really understand sacrifice? Do we honestly know what it feels like to hurt beyond comprehension?
I doubt it. Don’t think so. How could we?
This time of year brings home to roost with me the Cross of Christ. It wrenches my mind so much I fast something for Lent and I am not Catholic.
Over the years I spent qualifying myself as one who in this category used Analysis Paralysis to understand it all. This is not my normal learning process but for some reason the need to analyze and reason it became a walk-through delivery.
The Via Dolorosa was forever etched in my memory.
The crowd is a perpetual clanging symbol only making noise.
As he stumbles by I cry out, “please! Let me help him!”
“At least let me carry his robe! It would lessen the load!”
No one hears me. Anger and retaliation take over.
Maybe if I drag out my Dirty Harry AK 47 and start shooting at some Roman soldiers and egotistical Pharisees I might get their attention.
How can you crucify an innocent man? Do you have any idea who he is?
My broken heart wants to take the wood-splintered cross and chop it up into little pieces so I can burn it.
Selfishness bends my ear as I thank God he never chose me to be his mother or sister.
He sweat blood. His body became unrecognizable from repeated beatings and whippings. Carrying his cross was so inhumane it sent him into a state of shock. He was a barely-walking dead man waiting for his death.
He was thirsty, exhausted, human flesh.
It is a much too grievous and heinous crime to paint with words not to mention how my soul refuses to send him back by reliving it on a blog post.
Our basket-cased sufferings, whines and complaints have no business spewing forth from our emotionally depressed lives. We have no idea what suffering is.
At the end of the Via Dolorosa I stand observing the sacrifice of one who would never have allowed me to stop him from the worst death ever recorded.
“I must go and do this for you,” he would cry out.
As I slide down a dirty, rock wall on this road that is forever colored with his blood, tears gush as my heart aches because I hung him on that cross as much as those cruel, hate-filled soldiers did.
As the thunder roared, lightning lit up a dark sky, the earth shook; and I heard him whisper to my heart,
“This is Friday, but Sunday is coming.”