Jesus, Can I Hold You?

Our relationship would never be the same. I was sure of it.

Somewhere, at that foot of that cross, it hit me. Finally.

The earth shook beneath me, blasting me higher, deeper, and closer; a place where I grasped it for the very first time.

I had come to worship, to honor Jesus with a few minutes of my time, a task honorably placed at the top of every good Christian’s ‘to-do’ list, especially during the week of Easter.

So, how did I spend my entire life completely missing the point?

My relationship with Jesus went as far back as I could remember. I adored the abra-cadabra Jesus, the one who calmed the storm and spoke in riddles to mask his heavenly side. He chose when and where to reveal his power, keeping it boiling beneath the surface, like a rumbling volcano. Such power is what initially drew me to Him.

I knew the story, often reciting it from childhood memory to anyone who asked. He was innocent, but his enemies killed him anyway, not sure what to do someone whose motives were so pure.

I had seen the movies, paying full price at the theater, sending the clear signal to Hollywood that He belonged on the big screen. I was clearly an official member of the Fan Club.

But my focus was always on His power, the fact that He could have stopped it all, at any moment, if He had chosen to do so.

Or maybe my focus was really on myself as I called out “Hold me, Jesus” at the first sign of any pain or trouble. A Savior on standby, ready to come to the rescue. Like Superman, minus the tights and phone booth. My Jesus had my back, no matter what.

And I loved him for it.

So, how is it that could have forgotten about the man?

My Jesus, the man. In order to rescue all of us, it required him to become one of us.

The whip that tore into his flesh. The crown of thorns that mocked him. The nails that destroyed him. The cross that he was forced to carry, knowing it would eventually kill him.

The truth is that the nails weren’t really needed. He would have stayed there willingly, on his own. He was powerful enough to do so.

But instead, he allowed them to destroy my best friend. My Jesus, the man.

And I loved him for it.

It was in that moment that for the first time, I wondered what I could do for Him. Rather  than providing a list of things He could do for me, like ordering off a drive-thru menu, I crawled to the foot of the cross and invited him to lay his head in my lap.

“Jesus, I am so sorry. Can I hold you?”

His eyes met mine, and he crawled to me with his last ounce of strength.

And together, we wept.

With a loud cry, Jesus breathed his last breath. Mark 15:37  NIV