Rain. Blessed rain.
I spent most of the morning escorting folks through the downpour into church. We had waited so long that most everyone was in a good mood, and it was contagious.
Settling into a pew, still a bit wet from sharing umbrellas, I read through the scriptures for the day. The Gospel recounted Jesus’ last words on the cross, one criminal mocking Him, the other asking to be remembered when Jesus comes into His Kingdom. “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,” and it was finished.
Glancing at my hands, the surrounding joy faded into an awkward silence. I was covered in black crud, undoubtedly from umbrellas that hadn’t seen rain in a really long time. But there was more there than soap and water could wash away.
Was I the mocking thief, or the begging thief, or one in the crowd shouting, “Crucify Him?” The dirt I saw behind the dirt told the story. My sin is why He was there.
Our communion wafers are thinly pressed into perfect circles, and before I receive it, I break it half. Jesus said to “do this in remembrance” and I remember He was broken for me.
A scene from Shakespeare came to mind where Lady Macbeth had urged her husband to kill the king. When her guilt took hold, she’d rub her hands trying to wash off blood that wasn’t there. She would cry, “Out, damned spot! Out I say.” The filth on my hands garnered a similar reaction.
A leftover drop of rain ran cold down my neck as Jesus said, “Truly I tell you. Today you will be with me in paradise.” Forgiven. Welcomed into Glory.
The dirt behind the dirt faded into blood that wasn’t really there… His blood. Cleansed. Washed white as snow.
The world will rub and rub, scrape and claw, but will never remove these blood stains. The ones that set me free.
Thank you, Jesus.
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