"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoeverbelieves in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
You’ve got problems. And at times it seems like no one understands. But there’s someone who does. He’s been there…done that…and his love for you is difficult to imagine.
Picture yourself alone, praying for a friend. Your concern is so intense that your head begins to pound. Your blood pressure rises, and your hands begin to shake. Capillaries burst. Blood drips from your tear ducts and pores. And yet, despite your grief and turmoil, you remain in earnest prayer, your love for your friend so deep you are willing to give it all.
Suddenly a mob appears, carrying weapons and stainless steel chain. They lock you in shackles and force you to move, mocking you and striking you as they lead you away. They strip you of your clothing and bind you to a post. The wood is rough against your skin, a solid stump to which they tie your arms. Your muscles tighten. Your pulse races. You pant and cringe at the terror about to unfold.
Two men approach carrying gruesome whips. The tools are medieval and crude, with multiple leather thongs tipped by pieces of iron. They take turns beating you—over and over again—the cruel whips ripping at your skin until the flesh on your back, legs, chest and arms lies open in red, dripping stripes.
Someone cuts the bindings and you fall like a sack to the floor. Your breath comes in short labored gasps. Your skin oozes and burns. The damage is done, and from these injuries you will most likely die. You will enter a period of shock, and in time, unable to deal with the massive tissue damage and blood loss, you will slowly slip away. Your capillaries will clog. Your organ systems will fail. Death will be quiet and slow. But your punishment is not over; it has only just begun.
Your torturers force you to stand. They throw a robe across your back. The fabric soaks up your blood, and almost immediately clots begin to form. The threads intertwine with the raw bloody flesh, gluing the robe to your back and shoulders, the sleeves to your lacerated arms. Then comes your cap, a wicked ring of three-inch thorns that they thrust upon your head. The needle sharp points bite deep into your skin. One eye closes, gouged by a wayward thorn.
Next a wooden beam is dragged into the room, a ninety pound timber you can hardly manage to lift. They make you pick it up. Carry it outside. A crowd is waiting for you, a jeering angry mob. People spit at you as you pass. They curse and laugh and joke. You try your best to keep moving, but your weakened shoulders and legs cannot manage the load. Your knees buckle. The timber pushes you down, smashing your cheek into the grimy pavement, tearing your lips and nose.
“Get up,” someone shouts. “Let’s go!” But you can hardly move. Another man is chosen. They force him to carry your beam. You follow him up a long, steep hill, a tall rocky crag that resembles a bleached white skull. Exhausted and weary, you finally reach the top. They grab the robe and jerk it from your back. The clots rip away, the venous bleeding resumes, and what’s left of your precious life fluids drips to the dusty ground.
A pulverizing blow finds the small of your back. The wind is knocked from your lungs. You double over in pain. Then they throw you to the ground. They pull you onto the gnarly beam and pin your arms in place.
Clang!
A cold iron spike pierces the bones of your wrist. Blood spews. Your fingers grope madly at the air.
Clang!
A wave of inconceivable pain shoots up your arm and explodes at the base of your brain. The hammer rises and falls again. Another terrible clang!
Helpless, in agonizing pain, all you can do is watch as your other hand is nailed to the board. And then six sweaty men drag you across the ground, lift you into the air, and drop the beam onto the notch carved atop the post. And there you hang at the edge of the cliff, a piece of raw meat two feet above the ground. People crowd and poke you. The spikes crunch the bones in your wrists. The brutality is maddening, the effect beyond reason or hope. Rough hands grab your feet and legs. Bend your battered knees. “Pull his feet together,” one shouts. And two more spikes appear. Clang! Clang!
The pain is excruciating, the loneliness complete. Flies attack your bloody wounds, dogs nip at your feet. Your chest heaves spasmodically, a full breath is far from reach. Your lungs grow heavy and edematous, your breath becomes shallow and weak. Shock is the only thing keeping you alive, but soon your tortured heart fails. And just before you die you gaze down at your torturers, and the people all around.
“Father, forgive them,” you cry. “They know not what they do.”
*
Christ suffered an excruciating death, but did you realize he was not a helpless victim. As he hung upon that cross—nailed at the hands and feet, his lungs filling with water and blood, and his spirit slipping away—he could have called down an army of angels. Fought back. Easily won. But he chose to remain obedient, because he knew his Father’s plan of salvation. His free gift for you and for me. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”
You have tough problems, it’s true, but remember this—you also have a Savior who completely understands, and that night as he knelt in the garden in prayer, he was thinking of you. So trust him with your life. Pray for his help today. Jesus Christ has been there. Done that. And he did it all for you.
