I am the thief. The one who mocked Jesus, “If you are so great, get yourself out of this mess. And get me out, too.” My eyes are fastened to my own circumstances. I beg him to set me free from my own consequences. I expect him to do it.

I am the soldier. Gambling for his clothes. Give me his covering. Give me his mantle. Give me his garment. I want a piece of him, but not he himself. Not the nakedness he is offering. Not the vulnerability. Not the humility he demonstrates. I roll the dice to avoid it.

I am Barabbas. A murderer. A rebel. I haven’t murdered anyone or rebelled…except in my heart. The depth of the heart is full of all manner of thoughts and feelings, that if carried to conclusion, would land me in prison. Others may not see these things about me, but God sees it all.

I am the crowd. “Crucify him! Crucify him!” I am fickle. One minute I praise him, the next I am shouting against him. When he doesn’t meet my need, or take my side, or fix my life, I resent him. My smile and faith statements do not cover my wounded heart, when I question his intentions. “If you won’t make everything right, what good are you?”

I am the disciples. Running. Hiding. Denying. The fear of rejection causes me to withdraw. “Weren’t you with him? Didn’t you know him?” I did, however now it isn’t convenient. It is scary to claim him. It is a fool’s errand to associate myself. The world is against him and instead of standing for him, I run.

And yet…he took the lashes. He bore the weight of the tree upon his back. He sweat drops of blood. He wore the crown of thorns. He begged for the cup to pass. It did not pass. He drank it all. For me. For you. The thief. The murderer. The mocker. The unfaithful. He cleansed the words of my mouth, spoken in arrogance. He walked up the hill with my assumptions, my self-righteousness, my judgements, and my dirty rags. They were the nails that pierced his hands and feet.

How do I repay this monumental gift? I pick it all back up. Everything I put upon him to carry. Instead of remembering the depth of what he freed me from, instead of being on my face in grateful surrender, I stand again on my own two feet. As if somehow, I deserve to be here telling the world how it should run. The truth is…all is grace. All is mercy. None of which I deserve. Any standing I do is only by the merits of his sacrifice.

I tend to run past Good Friday. Quickly. I want to get to Sunday. But, maybe what I need, is to spend a little more time with my masks down and my heart splayed open. My mess. Maybe it is what the world needs right now. Each of us taking stock of what lives within our hearts. Surrendering again. Remembering our place. Remembering the desperation when in need of rescue. Releasing control. Revisiting the amazing grace that set us free. Facing the humility that brought us to him in the first place. We offer nothing. He offers everything. That is the message of Good Friday.