If Christ had to do that--die--really die--to fix me, then there must be something drastically wrong with who I am.
And He died, all right. I believe that. But because of me? Really?
The Bible, after all, says that I am made in the image of God, right? How messed up, then, can I be?
This is hard to understand. But until I do understand, really understand, this miserable necessity of Christ having to die because I am so broken, I can't understand anything else--not about God, not about me. So long as I hold onto even the smallest inkling that I might be OK just as I am, I cannot know God.
I don't like this idea. Not even a little.
I am good, and patient, and kind and all the rest. Most of the time. I am. I sometimes even look in the mirror and think, 'Hey, you're OK, girl.' But inevitably, just about then, I crash and burn. Anger, deception, and selfishness crowd out all the good stuff. Again.
And I see Him there--Jesus--hanging, bleeding, dying--saying nothing, saying everything.
Is He accusing me? No. But neither does he shrink from the truth like I do. He wears the truth. He carries it, lays down on it, and dies on it.
I am not OK. Not alone. Not without Him. Not ever.
He bore the punishment that makes us whole.--Isaiah 53:5
You were bought with a price--1 Corinthians 6:20