|
Written by By TaNoah Morgan, Editor
|
|
Saturday, 02 April 2011 22:57 |
|
If only he’d been a wimp.
It’s almost never that you hear a woman with that expression. But I feel with the sisters who feel tired, worn out, worn down and just plain pooped.
How many times have I been to church this week? How many Sundays early in the morning? How long have I labored with kids? How many too-late dinners? How many long nights?
All this tiredness. All this fussiness and head-holding. Huffing and rolling my eyes.
And there he is up on that cross.
Why is he there? Doesn’t he know how many people could care less? Why does he bother? Why couldn’t he have been a wimp?
It might have given me an excuse. If he had just gone home and quit, maybe I could “lay my religion down” the next time somebody got under my skin.
If he hadn’t been so silent before his tormentors, maybe I could speak my mind when I wanted to. If he’d just let the flesh win, just once, I could give up on my commitment and stop fighting all the time.
I could give up. I could decide not to go on. I could just quit.
But Jesus is still there. Dying. Silent. Hanging on a cross of shame for me.
He keeps laying His life down, drop by bloody drop. Fighting. Obedient. Determined to the very end to do everything God asked of Him.
He didn’t give up.
Now there are no excuses, and neither can I.
What’s another early Sunday morning?
|
