I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me. (Gal 2:20)
I picked up the weight of the world and carried it on my shoulders. Depression. Anxiety. Confusion. Deceit. Everything done to man and done by man has become part of me. I am bitter, unhappy, unkind.
I saw sin and ran after it, giving into temptations painted gaudy colors, juggling them alongside a revised version of morality. Righteousness is adaptable. What was wrong, isn’t. What wasn’t acceptable, is.
Let’s change the rules to gild the new pro forma. Everything fits if you cram yourself into it far enough. You need only close your eyes and ignore any unusual discomfort. It’ll disappear after a while.
Might as well enjoy ourselves while a silent God reclines on His throne, twiddling His thumbs.
Except everything I’ve gained is a mirage, and this freedom I’ve embraced smells a lot like death. Looks a lot like prison bars. A tiny cell. A putrid rat hole with a bucket for a latrine and grave clothes to wrap myself in.
By kicking at the walls around me, I’ve broken my spirit. By closing my eyes, I’ve rolled in the filth of condemnation. But it felt good. But it looked good. But they said I could. But they called it “love.”
But God is deaf and dumb and stupid.
My fist raised, I shake it at the sky, unable to see further than the ceiling. “God, if you’re out there, why didn’t you stop me, pull me back, rein me in?”
I want an answer, a clash, a thunderclap. Lightning and wind carrying the voice of the Almighty. I feel justified in my accusations.
But instead, the door opens and the guards lead me out. Dead man walking.
Bloodied pride, injured feelings, every guilt and immorality I’ve renamed is open for display, and there in front of me, at the end of the path, stands my execution.
This is the end. I blew it. I am regretful. I look up, my throat tight, prepared to accept my fate.
I startle. This cross has been used already. Someone died here and bled out on the ground beneath my feet. Worse, He carried the weight of my actions on His shoulders.
Repentant. Weakened through willful starvation, I fall, face forward, in the muck. I have that Man’s blood on me now, in my eyes, my ears. It’s coating my hands.
My airways close. My heartbeat stops. I lie inert, unmoving.
Yet, there falls a gentle rain, washing my failures away. A heavenly wind blows, filling my lungs again. My eyes open to a golden future, a new beginning.
I died. But I live. As a new man. My hand in His, the Savior who died for me, my feet guided by His loving Words onto a prosperous path toward a celestial tomorrow.
Suzanne D. Williams, Author