On this Good Friday, as I consider the lifeless body of Jesus sprawled out and sagging across rough-hewn planks of cedar, his suffering seems appropriate for the season.
Called for, even. Necessary.
Sometimes, in our modern American comfort, in our State Fair variety bliss, in our cornfields of gold familiarity, we think of Jesus’ suffering as too much.
Excessive. Exaggerated.
For what did this man die? Is God so malicious? Must he mishandle his own Son with such brutality?
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