My city is home to several megachurches. That earns us our share of negative publicity, but it also means we have opportunities to attend world-class events. Braden and I went to one of these on Friday night, New Life Church’s production of The Thorn. Kevin and I went to it 12 years ago, when I was pregnant with Braden, and as Jesus’ blood splattered on us, I remember thinking, “I will never take my child to this.”
But there I was, sitting with him on Friday night, front and center, inches away from Jesus as he carried his cross, his skin ripped and bleeding. Braden and I clung to each other through most of the performance. It’s a sensory marvel—much more Cirque du Soleil than 12 years ago—but very intense. I’m not sure if it was Braden clinging to me or the other way around. I started crying at the story of creation and continued right through the resurrection.
I cried over the great love Jesus showed, especially to little children. I cried at the miracles, especially at the blind man, who had lived in darkness every day of his life, opening his eyes for the first time to see the face of his creator and savior. I wept over Judas’s decision to betray his friend Jesus. You could see his regret, almost feel his remorse as he embraced Jesus in the garden, guards in tow. And the most poignant scene was one I don’t think much about—Barabbas, in chains and sentenced to death, being set free because Jesus took his place. He was the first to understand that miraculous exchange. I wonder what the rest of his life was like?
I’ve not seen The Passion of the Christ. I’ve basically been too scared. I hate watching torture scenes—Braveheart made me nauseous—and I hate being disturbed. The portrayal I saw Friday night was definitely disturbing, especially when I recognize that it happened for my own sake. But that’s the reason I need to watch it. I need to be disturbed. I need to understand how great is my sin, how deeply it separated me from God, and how great is the payment for it. If I’m not disturbed, then I miss the point of Easter.
But the tears didn’t come because I was disturbed; they came because I was sorry. And thankful. And profoundly moved. Despite the layers of busyness, distraction, sin, and self-sufficiency that I allow to build up within me, despite the familiarity to the point of nearly taking it all for granted, I am still deeply moved and affected by Jesus’ life and death. There is a holy and just God who sent His only son to die for me. As I watched the story play out with my only son, I felt the cost in a new way. I felt Easter.
