Our Scarred Captain
With the advantage of history behind us, we can see the beauty of Christ-crucified. What wonders He opened up to the world, what glory to watch death die on that mountain. Yet, if we were to be there on that afternoon, with the sun bearing down on our shoulders, could we have watched? If we would have been there on that day, the world we so hoped was coming true, would have been smashed. If we would have been there on that day, we would have seen a man in pieces, a man weeping, a man gasping for breath. If we’d only substitute Jesus’ body for our spouse’s or worse—our child’s, we’d see the horror they saw. We’d feel the tearing grief they felt. It was not glorious, it was gruesome. It was not beautiful it was barbarous. It was not heaven it was hell. Let us see Him this way, let us feel His mother’s grief, let us feel His friends inexplicable terror—when we see it’s horror, then, and only then, do we perceive it’s significance. God has chosen not to eliminate suffering, but to suffer with us.