He Would Rather Go Through Hell For You
Than To Heaven Without You. . .
Is this really true? If it is, then I want to know you better. What does it mean that you died on the cross for me? Is there more to Easter than the Easter bunny and chocolate eggs? If you died for me, I’ve gotta find out more about you. Let me know you, let me walk in your sandals. . .”
It’s early in the final week. the props and players for Friday’s drama are in position. Six-inch spikes are in the bin. A cross-beam leans against a shed wall. Thorn limbs are wrapped around a trellis awaiting the weaving of a soldier’s fingers.
The players are nearing the stage. Pilate is concerned at the number of Passover pilgrims. Annas and Caiaphas are restless over a volatile Nazarene. Judas views his master with furtive eye. A centurion is available, awaiting the next crucifixions.
Players and props. Only this is no play, it’s a divine plan. A plan begun before Adam felt heaven’s breath and now all heaven waits and watches. All eyes are on one figure – the Nazarene.
Commonly clad. Uncommonly focused. Leaving Jericho and walking toward Jerusalem. He doesn’t chatter. He doesn’t pause. He is on a journey. His final journey.
Even the angels are silent. They know this is no ordinary walk. They know this is no ordinary week. For indeed on this week is the door of eternity.
When a man knows the end is near – only the important surfaces. Impending death distills the vital. The trivial is bypassed. The unnecessary is overlooked. That which is vital remains. So, if you would know Christ, ponder his final days.
He knew the end was near. He knew the finality of Friday. He read the last chapter before it was written and heard the final chorus before it was sung. As a result, the critical was centrifuged from the casual. Distilled truths taught. Deliberate deeds done. Each step calculated. Every act premeditated.
Knowing he had just one week with the disciples, what did Jesus tell them? Knowing it would be his last time in the temple, how did he act? Conscious that the last sand was slipping through the hour glass, what mattered?
Enter the holy week and observe.
Feel his passion. Laughing as children sing. Weeping as Jerusalem ignores. Scorning as priests accuse. Pleading as disciples sleep. Feeling sad as Pilate turns.
Sense his power. Blind eyes. . . seeing. Fruitless tree. . . withering. Money changers. . . scampering. Religious leader. . . cowering. Tomb. . . opening.
Hear his promise. Death has no power. Failure holds no prisoners. Fear has no control. For God has come,
Let’s follow Jesus on his final journey. For by observing his, we may learn how to make ours.
adapted from And the Angels Were Silent by Max Lucado