In the morning light I crept along these streets. They were my Via Dolorosa, in a way my own personal Stations of the Cross. More than ever, today, and in this life where God's presence is so painfully felt, so inexplicably absent, so mercifully known, I wanted to honor this memory of his sacrifice for us, this defining moment of all time when the weight of the world was placed upon him, and He bore it. I crumble at the slightest pressure. But he bore it like a damned victor, and the damning couldn't get him down. As I walked the streets, remembering, I couldn't help but be lifted to praise. My God, my God. You were so forsaken, and so in our forsakenness we are anything but lost.
I thought of forgiveness and how I bristle to give it when I'm hurt. When someone I love spurns me, rejects me, dismisses and ignores me, I crumble inside, and steel up on the outside, trying to move on and get away from the hurt. But not Jesus. The victor over the harshest rejection, the bitterest betrayal, He walks this Via Dolorosa before me and bids me follow with confidence, with rejoicing everyday that my yolk is easy and my burden is light. I washed the thought over in my mind again and again. In his death, the weight of the world is lifted square off my shoulders. How am I anything but burning with grateful wonder, and letting forgiveness roll over me into folds at the feet of anyone who needs it.
And all the concerns I face, the troubles that swirl, the sacrifices I'm afraid to make... he walks this Via Dolorosa before me and bids me follow with confidence, with rejoicing everyday that my yolk is easy and my burden is light. The weight of the world is squarely on his shoulders. And he bears it like a damned victor. I crumble, but he raises hell and how am I anything but willing to walk the road he calls me to walk on.