Perfume Coated Sin

As I opened up to Matthew 16:24-26,  I saw the words "Take Up Your Cross and Follow Jesus". I knew where this was going. I knew why we were standing in an empty warehouse. I knew we were going to make our crosses, carry them, and ponder the meaning of the cross. As Dr. Dangaran continued to read the passage, I let my mind wander into rebellion. I had done this before, I knew the moral of the story and didn't feel like doing it all again.

Will you still let me speak to you, Jess?

Those words pounded through my ears. I had a choice. A choice to go through the motions of the project or to choose to allow the Holy Spirit to speak to me as I did the project. As conviction set in, I asked the Holy Spirit to change the state of my heart to a posture of receptivity. As I collected my wood to make my cross, I stared at it imagining what I could do to make a really cool looking cross. I measured, cut, and began to assemble my perfectly symmetrical cross. I searched through the bin of screws and nails to find four that were as close to identical as possible. I assembled my perfect cross and admired how aesthetically appealing it was, until I noticed the tiniest split in my wood. My perfect cross now had this tiny blemish that was screaming its imperfections at me. I began to problem solve. Maybe I can take it apart? Maybe there's some extra wood and I can make a new one? Maybe I can cut it down smaller and cut out the split part? Maybe I can...

Jess, why are you trying to make your sin look pretty?

Ouch. The reality of the words of the Holy Spirit sunk deep into my heart. I couldn't even muster up excuses, I was stunned by the conviction that was residing in my soul. I stared at my perfectly measured cross and felt sick to my stomach. It was a replica of my life. After spending 23 years of my life listening to people speak of the cross and sacrifice Jesus made, I was inclined to do what I could to "clean up" the reputation of the cross. I felt the need to take it into my owns hands by admitting my sin, but making it seem like the not-so-bad kind of sin. I realized I felt guilty that Jesus died for my sin, my mistakes, my flaws. Not only did He die; He was tortured, ridiculed, and murdered for things I had done. I took the hammer and began slugging my cross. Fragments of wood went flying everywhere and my fingers were impaled with splinters. I stared at my mangled cross as my soul quietly whispered, "I'm sorry".  Sorry for downsizing the reality of the cross. Sorry for spraying perfume over my foul sin. Sorry for attempting to beautify the weight of the sacrifice of my beloved Savior. Then my sorry's transferred into thankfulness. Thankfulness that I didn't have to carry the weight of my sin.

For me, the "Carrying Your Cross" activity ended there in the warehouse. As I have carried my cross, I haven't really processed much more than what happened in the warehouse. I've primarily been revisiting my interaction with the Holy Spirit as I destroyed my "perfect" cross. In the process of un-perfecting my cross, I pinched myself and got a blood blister on my finger. The past few days this blister has been a reminder of the blemish of sin that stepped into humanity. But, as I have looked at this blemish on my finger, I've been able to hold onto my cross and remember the price that has been paid. I've been reminded that sin isn't pretty. Yet, through the blood of Jesus Christ on the cross, I have been reconciled to my Creator and I have been named spotless, blameless, holy.

With that, I can rejoice.