I hadn't seen The Passion of the Christ for several years. Ten, in fact. I was one of thousands who watched it when it first came out in movie theaters. It moved me then, but I think I was so overwhelmed I didn't really know what to do with it all.
Our church showed it this Good Friday. I didn't attend, but posts on social media proved it had the same effect on some that it did on me all those years ago. It moved people. Some to tears. Some to silent astonishment. It was truly a fitting way to begin Easter weekend, to make it all very real.
Easter came. It was a lovely day. There was a record crowd at church. The music was lively. The atmosphere was electric. Folks met Jesus for the first time.
Then Monday came. Then Tuesday. Today.
I was flipping through the channels late tonight, and saw that The Passion of the Christ was showing on TV. I had missed some of it, but I decided to watch anyway.
I remember being unable to fix my eyes on the cruelty of the scourging the first time I watched. I had to look away again.
I remember weeping when Mary and the other woman came along afterward and soaked up Jesus' blood after the crowd had left the scourging area. I wept again.
I remember crying like a baby when Jesus fell with the cross, and the scene flashed back to when He was a little boy and had fallen. I cried again.
But this time, something was more real for me. I was sitting in my rocking chair, and I looked to my left, to where my couch was. And I spoke, barely audible because of my tears. But as if to Jesus sitting right there on my couch, I apologized.
I told Him I was sorry for any of the times when I had lived my life in a way that took for granted the price He paid for my salvation. I apologized for ever thinking, even if just for a moment, that my salvation was so easily earned.
I don't want to lose that. I want Easter to stay.
Thank You, my precious Savior.
©2014 Wendi Miller
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"It needs a rewrite if Jesus isn't the hero."