I did not write the following but am changed by it. It is from the sermon notes that Rick Gamache, Senior Pastor of Sovereign Grace Fellowship gave on Good Friday in 2007. I was not there and only heard it online today. This is not his entire sermon but a few parts that spoke to me. Following the passages that rocked me, I will give a link that you may have the privilege to listen as well.
A CRUCIFIXION NARRATIVE
Jesus fell on his face in prayer. He tasted the dirt as he fought for the eternal destinies of his eleven sleeping sheep a stone’s throw away.
“Let the cup pass, daddy,” he cried. “If possible, let the cup pass!”
The Father gazed at his Son. The Son stared back knowingly.
“Your will be done, Father,” whispered the Son.
And the Father held out the cup and Jesus peered in. What he saw there flung him into the throes of agony. He pressed his forehead deep into the dirt, which softened into mud when mingled with his tears. Jesus felt several small explosions of pain underneath the skin on his face. His tiny capillaries in the sweat glands burst under the stress and blood flowed through his pours. It dropped into his eyes. And it stung.
Jesus lifted his head to the sky and cried out, “I will drink from this cup. I will drink from this cup that your glory may be vindicated and my name may be glorified. And so that the sheep you have given me will see our glory and enjoy. I will drink on behalf of our rescue mission.”
Just then, through blurry eyes, Jesus saw the line of torches slithering like a snake up the hill to the garden. The mob arrived. Judas kissed. Friends fled. Soldiers arrested. And Jesus’ world became a swirl of torment and mockery.
...
Jesus was stripped and his hands were tied above his head to a post. A large, shirtless Roman legionnaire stepped toward Jesus fondling a short whip. Several heavy, leather thongs hung off the handle weighed down by the small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. The muscles in the legionnaire’s back and arms bulged as he brought down the heavy whip with full force again and again across Jesus’ shoulders and back and buttocks and legs.
The Jews would have been more merciful—no more than thirty-nine lashes. The Romans extended no such mercy. And the balls of lead yielded large deep bruises. Then the bruises were eventually broken open by the endless blows. The thongs cut through the skin and then they cut deeper into muscles. From behind, Jesus no longer looked human. His skin hung in long, bloody ribbons of tissue.
Fearing they had gone too far and killed Jesus before it was time, the soldiers cut him loose. He fell in an unconscious heap at their feet.
As Jesus came to he was forced to stand. A purple robe, not his own, was wrapped around him and clung to his open wounds. They made him hold a stick—a mock scepter. Now the King of the Jews needed a crown. One of the Romans picked up a thorn branch from a pile of firewood and braided it into a circle. Never did thorns compose so rich a crown— or so painful a crown. Another soldier took the mock scepter from Jesus’ hand and beat the crown into his skull. Bloody sweat blinded him. And his stinging eyes momentarily took his mind off the pain in his back.
But then the purple robe was torn from Jesus. And ribbons of flesh that had adhered to the cloth were ripped off with its removal. Each wound had a voice to shriek its pain. And Jesus collapsed again.
...
At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the pain. He hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the Father.
...
The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will go. The soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him. It is the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again and the centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts the hammer.
...
Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median nerves in his arms that are now working perfectly. The pain shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the crossbeam is set in place.
...
His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet are extended, toes down. A spike is driven through the arch of each. His knees are bent.
Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated back—searing agony.
Quickly waves of cramps overtake him. Deep, throbbing pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push himself up and his knees buckle.
He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale, but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in order to breathe and in order to speak.
He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes. He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”
...
It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken. Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar face of a woman. A new pain grips him—greater pain than all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his mother. She’s sobbing so hard her breathing is as labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman, woman.” He looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind Mary supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your son.”
A CRUCIFIXION NARRATIVE
Jesus fell on his face in prayer. He tasted the dirt as he fought for the eternal destinies of his eleven sleeping sheep a stone’s throw away.
“Let the cup pass, daddy,” he cried. “If possible, let the cup pass!”
The Father gazed at his Son. The Son stared back knowingly.
“Your will be done, Father,” whispered the Son.
And the Father held out the cup and Jesus peered in. What he saw there flung him into the throes of agony. He pressed his forehead deep into the dirt, which softened into mud when mingled with his tears. Jesus felt several small explosions of pain underneath the skin on his face. His tiny capillaries in the sweat glands burst under the stress and blood flowed through his pours. It dropped into his eyes. And it stung.
Jesus lifted his head to the sky and cried out, “I will drink from this cup. I will drink from this cup that your glory may be vindicated and my name may be glorified. And so that the sheep you have given me will see our glory and enjoy. I will drink on behalf of our rescue mission.”
Just then, through blurry eyes, Jesus saw the line of torches slithering like a snake up the hill to the garden. The mob arrived. Judas kissed. Friends fled. Soldiers arrested. And Jesus’ world became a swirl of torment and mockery.
...
Jesus was stripped and his hands were tied above his head to a post. A large, shirtless Roman legionnaire stepped toward Jesus fondling a short whip. Several heavy, leather thongs hung off the handle weighed down by the small balls of lead attached near the ends of each. The muscles in the legionnaire’s back and arms bulged as he brought down the heavy whip with full force again and again across Jesus’ shoulders and back and buttocks and legs.
The Jews would have been more merciful—no more than thirty-nine lashes. The Romans extended no such mercy. And the balls of lead yielded large deep bruises. Then the bruises were eventually broken open by the endless blows. The thongs cut through the skin and then they cut deeper into muscles. From behind, Jesus no longer looked human. His skin hung in long, bloody ribbons of tissue.
Fearing they had gone too far and killed Jesus before it was time, the soldiers cut him loose. He fell in an unconscious heap at their feet.
As Jesus came to he was forced to stand. A purple robe, not his own, was wrapped around him and clung to his open wounds. They made him hold a stick—a mock scepter. Now the King of the Jews needed a crown. One of the Romans picked up a thorn branch from a pile of firewood and braided it into a circle. Never did thorns compose so rich a crown— or so painful a crown. Another soldier took the mock scepter from Jesus’ hand and beat the crown into his skull. Bloody sweat blinded him. And his stinging eyes momentarily took his mind off the pain in his back.
But then the purple robe was torn from Jesus. And ribbons of flesh that had adhered to the cloth were ripped off with its removal. Each wound had a voice to shriek its pain. And Jesus collapsed again.
...
At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the pain. He hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the Father.
...
The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will go. The soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him. It is the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again and the centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts the hammer.
...
Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median nerves in his arms that are now working perfectly. The pain shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the crossbeam is set in place.
...
His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet are extended, toes down. A spike is driven through the arch of each. His knees are bent.
Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated back—searing agony.
Quickly waves of cramps overtake him. Deep, throbbing pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push himself up and his knees buckle.
He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale, but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in order to breathe and in order to speak.
He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes. He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”
...
It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken. Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar face of a woman. A new pain grips him—greater pain than all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his mother. She’s sobbing so hard her breathing is as labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman, woman.” He looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind Mary supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your son.”
The above is but a sampling of what is in the following audio that you can and should hear. There are so many gripping visual details in this narrative but one thing that captured me was that in His pain and inconceivable agony, Jesus was consoling others. He was already dying for our eternal salvation but even amid all that was going on, it was His dear sheep that were His concern.
THAT is the God I serve... the God I could NEVER deserve...
the God who chose me.
Happy Good Friday Everyone!
CRUCIFIXION NARRATIVE AUDIO BY RICK GAMACHE
THAT is the God I serve... the God I could NEVER deserve...
the God who chose me.
Happy Good Friday Everyone!
CRUCIFIXION NARRATIVE AUDIO BY RICK GAMACHE
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