Immersing ourselves in Maria Valtorta’s account of the crucifixion of Christ, I think of the time I nailed Jesus to the cross. Years ago my aunt and uncle were driving me to their place in Milwaukee for their daughter’s wedding. At one point they asked me what I thought of Jesus. I hesitated for only a brief moment and answered, “He’s just not that inspiring.”
He’s just not that inspiring.
Selfish! Possibly the most selfish words that ever came out of my mouth, as if someone is not worth paying attention to let alone glorifying, if he/she does nothing for my own creativity. And God, what a lie! The Trinity has been the driving force in all of my writings for the past seven years (this incident was six and a half years ago) not even to mention what it’s done for my spiritual life and salvation. Was I aware of the lie as I told these relatives, whom I knew to be humanists, if not downright disbelieving in a Higher Power altogether?
I believed in God at this point but was still so confused as to what He was doing with my life, and Jesus? Was Jesus really God? Those were the days that I would dream of Jesus and he would approach me, asking for a kiss on the cheek, but I would deny him. I craved God but only on my terms. I knew humility only as a far-off word and certainly not one to approach or to let inhabit and transform my being.
But now, seeing the long square nails pierce the Savior’s wrists and the holes that stretch from his agonizing position on the cross, I feel remorse from those words with which I responded to my aunt and uncle. With those prideful words I was there at Golgotha hurling stones and insults at the One Who loves me most.
© 2015, Amaya Engleking