Nothing Clean

There is nothing clean about the cross.

We cleaned it up. 
Polished it.  
Shrunk it down to something that fits. 
comfortably  
around our necks.

Gold-plated execution.  
Sterilized suffering.  
A symbol we glance at. 
without feeling. 
its weight.  

But the cross was not safe.

It was not gentle.
It was not poetic.

It was brutal.

Before there were nails
there was a whip —
leather laced with bone and metal
ripping flesh open
until muscle answered the air.

Before there was a crown in paintings
there were thorns
driven — not placed —
into His scalp.

Before we called it salvation
Rome called it execution.

Nails.
Hammered.
Through living tissue.

Pinning the Creator of nerves
to wood
He created.

And crucifixion did not kill quickly.

It suffocated.

Slowly.

Every breath
was a decision.

To inhale
He had to rise.

To rise
He had to push
His torn back
against splintered beams
and lift His body
against iron
driven through hands and feet.

Pain with every inhale.
Agony with every exhale.

This
is what sin costs.

Sin is not small.
Not cute.
Not a personality flaw.

Sin is cosmic treason
against a holy God.

We call it mistakes.
He calls it rebellion.

And a holy God
cannot pretend
rebellion
doesn’t exist.

Epistle to the Hebrews says,
“Without the shedding of blood
there is no remission.”

Forgiveness is not free.

It is paid for.

And the currency
is blood.

If sin were minor
a lecture would have worked.

If sin were manageable
self-help would have saved us.

If sin were fixable
God would have sent advice.

But He didn’t send advice.

Gospel of John tells us,
“For God so loved the world
that He gave…”

He gave.

Not an angel.
Not a prophet.
Not a second chance.

His Son.

And Jesus was not cornered.

He saw every lie
before it was spoken.
Every act of hatred
before it burned.
Every secret
we hoped darkness would hide.

He saw it all.

And still
He chose
the cross.

Do not tell me
nails held Him there.

Love held Him there.

Love for the guilty.
Love for the defiant.
Love for the ones who would mock Him.
Love for you.
Love for me.

Justice demanded payment.

Mercy stepped forward.

And Jesus became the bridge
spanning the canyon
between sinful man
and a holy God.

The cross screams something
we do not want to hear:

Sin is so serious
it required the death
of the Son of God.

And love is so powerful
He was willing
to die.

You cannot stare at that
and stay casual.

You cannot look at torn flesh
and call sin harmless.

The cross exposes
the horror of our rebellion
and the depth
of His mercy.

And here is the part
we try to soften:

The cross demands a response.

It is not decoration.
It is invitation.

It is not background.
It is verdict.

He made a way
where there was no way.

But a gift must be received.

Forgiveness — complete.
Not partial.
Not probationary.
Paid in full.

But not forced.

And the same cross that saves
will stand one day
as witness
against those
who refused it.

But listen —

The story does not end
with a body
on wood.

The breath that stopped
started again.

The grave that closed
could not keep Him.

The cross shows the cost.

The empty tomb shows the victory.

There is nothing clean
about the cross.

It is bloody.
Violent.
Unsettling.

But there is nothing more beautiful.

Because in that brutality
is mercy.

In that suffering
is salvation.

In that death
is life.

So do not polish it.

Do not shrink it.

Stand before it.

Feel its weight.

And decide. 

A decision that will not come easily,

Contemplate it carefully,

For it will determine your eternal destiny.