As I looked at the beautiful stylized gold-colored cross on the back wall of a church sanctuary one Sunday morning, I thought how clean, how neat, how spotless, how sanitized, how painless it looks. Blood-free.
The Holy Spirit began speaking to me, as he often does when I’m meditating on something.
“Try seeing an electric chair fastened to that wall,” he said. “Visualize a hangman’s noose, or a guillotine blade.”
I thought about those things for a moment, seeing them clean and empty.
“Now try seeing one of those being used, smell the odor of burning flesh or the gush of bright red blood.”
It took a while for me to get those images out of my mind, as the congregation sang “At the foot of the cross.”
Most believers in this country don’t seem to mind it too much, standing at the foot of a pristine, blood-less cross affixed to a sanctuary wall.
I’m not sure we would have been able to stand at the foot of the real one, knowing the only reason he was there, was us.
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