A crown fit for the King
I am digging in the dirt and planting in our backyard while attempting to watching the dogs and make sure they don't get into mischief. I search for them until I find them digging at the edge of our property. And I see it- right there in the thicket and shade are feet and feet of thorny shoots rising up from the ground and getting tangled in the trees above.
I have had the desire to make a crown of thorns as a tangible reminder of Jesus's sacrifice to keep for each Easter and these are perfect. I don't want a table set with pastel colors, plastic easter eggs, and chocolate bunnies. While I definitely do not condemn any of that, in fact, I am using easter eggs to retell the story of Christ tomorrow to the children at church, there becomes a point when we want more than just the eggs and bunnies.
I want the greusome. I want to see what He went through and feel the immense weight of His love that led Him to the cross.
I retrieve the clippers and start with a thick vine, but find it too hard to wrap in a circle so I cut the most tender shoots. I take them over to the side, kneel down, and begin to weave them together. Wind. Weave. Tuck. Clip.
Suddenly, I am overcome with grief. I am overcome with the realness of the Cross. I am struck by the thought of the one person who made this crown for Jesus, King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
Aaron is a few feet away and my voice breaks as I ask, "How could they do this to Him?"
How could he do this? How could He do this?
How could one man make a crown of thorns for mockery? How could one man wear the crown of thorns for love?
How did he do it? Did he wear thick gloves like I did? Did he carefully selected the most tender, green, and fresh vines with the longest thorns like I did? Did he reach up high like I did to gently clip them from their tangled ends interwoven with the trees above? Had he ever made a crown of thorns before? Did his heart beat like mine? Did he cry, rejoice, feel shame, desire revenge? Did he kneel in the soft earth like I did to meticulously weave and wind the thorny shoots into a circle? Was he proud of his finished work? Did he march triumphantly to Pilate with the crown of mockery in hand? Was he in the crowd of those who jeered and cried for Christ's blood to be spilled? Did he feel fear, shame, awe, wonder, or love when the temple curtain was torn when this man whom he mocked breathed his last breath and revealed the power in His death? Did he rejoice three days later when He rose from the grave? Did he weep knowing what his sin caused? Did he weep knowing that this man named Jesus loved him, knew him by name, and died for him?
Jesus went to the cross for me. Because He loved me, He died for me. And He is raised to life and sits in Heaven with God forever. He is standing and knocking at the door to come in with those who open it up to receive His gracious, glorious, weighty love.
It was indeed a crown fit for a king. The King. It did not come with jewels and glitter and gold. It came with anguish and blood and tears. He died to bring us life everlasting, so that we may wear be called children of God and receive an inheritance of love and not death.
HE IS NOT HERE, HE IS RISEN.
HE IS NOT WEARING A CROWN OF THORNS, BUT A CROWN OF LIFE.
I have had the desire to make a crown of thorns as a tangible reminder of Jesus's sacrifice to keep for each Easter and these are perfect. I don't want a table set with pastel colors, plastic easter eggs, and chocolate bunnies. While I definitely do not condemn any of that, in fact, I am using easter eggs to retell the story of Christ tomorrow to the children at church, there becomes a point when we want more than just the eggs and bunnies.
I want the greusome. I want to see what He went through and feel the immense weight of His love that led Him to the cross.
I retrieve the clippers and start with a thick vine, but find it too hard to wrap in a circle so I cut the most tender shoots. I take them over to the side, kneel down, and begin to weave them together. Wind. Weave. Tuck. Clip.
Suddenly, I am overcome with grief. I am overcome with the realness of the Cross. I am struck by the thought of the one person who made this crown for Jesus, King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
Aaron is a few feet away and my voice breaks as I ask, "How could they do this to Him?"
How could he do this? How could He do this?
How could one man make a crown of thorns for mockery? How could one man wear the crown of thorns for love?
How did he do it? Did he wear thick gloves like I did? Did he carefully selected the most tender, green, and fresh vines with the longest thorns like I did? Did he reach up high like I did to gently clip them from their tangled ends interwoven with the trees above? Had he ever made a crown of thorns before? Did his heart beat like mine? Did he cry, rejoice, feel shame, desire revenge? Did he kneel in the soft earth like I did to meticulously weave and wind the thorny shoots into a circle? Was he proud of his finished work? Did he march triumphantly to Pilate with the crown of mockery in hand? Was he in the crowd of those who jeered and cried for Christ's blood to be spilled? Did he feel fear, shame, awe, wonder, or love when the temple curtain was torn when this man whom he mocked breathed his last breath and revealed the power in His death? Did he rejoice three days later when He rose from the grave? Did he weep knowing what his sin caused? Did he weep knowing that this man named Jesus loved him, knew him by name, and died for him?
Jesus went to the cross for me. Because He loved me, He died for me. And He is raised to life and sits in Heaven with God forever. He is standing and knocking at the door to come in with those who open it up to receive His gracious, glorious, weighty love.
It was indeed a crown fit for a king. The King. It did not come with jewels and glitter and gold. It came with anguish and blood and tears. He died to bring us life everlasting, so that we may wear be called children of God and receive an inheritance of love and not death.
HE IS NOT HERE, HE IS RISEN.
HE IS NOT WEARING A CROWN OF THORNS, BUT A CROWN OF LIFE.
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