My life has been a whirlwind of time consuming obligations lately and, unfortunately, that means I've had to put my blog on the back burner for a while. Writing has always been my way of processing my thoughts and fleshing out my ideas and opinions, so I have definitely not stopped writing. It's the editing and refining process that takes time and has just not been as important to me as the other things going on in my life. I'm learning that I am one of those people who likes to take on everything I can, and as a result I tend to get overwhelmed by the sheer weight of all the things that I get involved in. And I love it. But occassionally I have to shave off some of the less important things in my life in order to check my stress levels and keep from getting too burned out. In short, sometimes I have to come up and take a breath before I dive back in.
But for those of you who still follow this blog, I'm back! And hopefully for a while. I have a number of posts I've been working on for a while, so brace yourselves!
As for this week, I will keep it simple. I'm in the process of finishing up a book by Max Lucado that I have absolutely loved. It's a phenominal book that centers entirely around the crucifiction of Christ. If you are interested in reading this book you can find it here, or get ahold of me and I will find a way to get a copy of it into your hands.
As I was getting ready to write this post I also just finished reading through a particularly powerful section of the book that I wanted to share. In part two of the book Max Lucado examines the cross from the point of view of it's witnesses. The last of those witnesses that he discusses are what he calls "miniature messengers".
Here is that passage. Enjoy, and see you next tuesday!
"Tears.
Those tiny drops of humanity. Those round, wet
balls of fluid that tumble from our eyes, creep down our
cheeks, and splash on the floor of our hearts. They were
there that day. They are always present at such times. They
should be that’s their job. They are miniature messengers;
on call twenty-four hours a day to substitute for crippled
words. They drip, drop, and pour from the comer of our
souls, carrying with them the deepest emotions we pos-
sess. They tumble down our faces with announcements
that range from the most blissful joy to darkest despair.
The principle is simple; when words are most
empty, tears are most apt.
A tearstain on a letter says much more than the
sum of all its words. A tear falling on a casket says what a
spoken farewell never could. What summons a mother’s
compassion and concern more quickly than a tear on a
child’s cheek? What gives more support than a sympathe-
tic tear on the face of a friend?
Words failed the day the Savior was slain. They
failed miserably. What words could have been uttered?
What phrases could have possibly expressed the feelings
of those involved?
That task, my friend, was left for the tears.
What do you do when words won’t come? When
all the nouns and verbs lay deflated at your feet, with what
do you communicate? When even the loftiest statements
stumble, what do you do? Are you one of the fortunate
who isn’t ashamed to let a tear take over? Can you be so
happy that your eyes water and your throat swells? Can
you be so proud that your pupils blur and your vision mists?
And in sorrow, do you let your tears decompress
that tight chest and untie that knot in your throat?
Or do you reroute your tears and let them only
fall on the inside?
Not many of us are good at showing our feelings,
you know. Especially us fellows. Oh, we can yell and curse
and smoke, yessir! But tears? “Save those for the weak-
kneed and timid. I’ve got a world to conquer!”
We would do well, guys, to pause and look at the
tearstained faces that appear at the cross.
Peter. The burly fisherman. Strong enough to
yank a full net out of the sea. Brave enough to weather the
toughest storm. The man who only hours before had
bared his sword against the entire Roman guard. But now
look at him. Weeping, no . . . wailing. Huddled in a corner
with his face hidden in his calloused hands. Would a real
man be doing this? Admitting his fault? Confessing his
failure? Begging forgiveness? Or would a real man bottle
it up . . . justify it. . . rationalize it. . . keep a “stiff upper
lip” and stand his ground. Has Peter lost his manhood?
We know better, don’t we. Maybe he’s less a man of the
world, but less a man of God? No way.
And John, look at his tears. His face swollen with
sorrow as he stands eye-level with the bloody feet of his
Master. Is his emotion a lack of courage? Is his despair a
lack of guts?
And the tears of Jesus. They came in the garden.
I'm sure they came on the cross. Are they a sign of weak-
ness? Do those stains on his cheeks mean he had no fire in
his belly or grit in his gut?
Of course not.
Here’s the point. It’s not just tears that are the
issue, it’s what they represent. They represent the heart,
the spirit, and the soul of a person. To put a lock and key
on your emotions is to bury part of your Christ-likeness!
Especially when you come to Calvary.
You can’t go to the cross with just your head and
not your heart. It doesn’t work that way. Calvary is not a
mental trip. It’s not an intellectual exercise. It’s not a divine
calculation or a cold theological principle.
It's a heart-splitting hour of emotion.
Don’t walk away from it dry-eyed and unstirred.
Don’t just straighten your tie and clear your throat. Don’t
allow yourself to descend Calvary cool and collected.
Please . . . pause. Look again.
Those are nails in those hands.
That’s God on that cross.
It’s us who put him there.
Peter knew it. John knew it. Mary knew it.
They knew a great price was being paid. They
knew who really pierced his side. They also somehow
knew that history was being remade.
That’s why they wept.
They saw the Savior.
God, may we never be so “educated,” may we
never be so “mature,” may we never be so “religious” that
we can see your passion without tears."
- Max Lucado, No Wonder They Call Him the Savior
pg. 106-108
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