April 6, 2004

'Passion'ate Musings

	So, I went and saw 'The Passion of the Christ' tonight.  You know, that 
'horrible, violent movie' that Mel Gibson put out awhile ago.  You would have 
thought a religious zealot like myself would have been falling all over myself 
trying to force my way into the theatre, but no. It took a considerable amount 
of self-motivation and pep-talks to get myself into the theatre tonight.  It's 
weird, everyone in my church was telling me how I had to see this movie, and I 
was not interested in the least.  I mean, I was raised in the church and we 
studied this stuff all the time.  The nails in the hands, the long road to 
Calvary, the three falls, the condemnation by Pontius Pilate...  I've heard 
about it so much that the idea of seeing it seemed redundant to me.  I know what 
Jesus did for me.  How could I not, right?

	I feel so fricking arrogant when I think of my attitude even earlier 
today.  I thought I knew.  I thought it was enough.  I was wrong.

	Don't get me wrong.  It's not the violence that got to me, not in the way 
one would think it would.  Honestly, there's about as much bloodshed and gore in 
'Fist of the North Star' or any similar anime.  Heck, even 'Kill Bill Vol 1' had 
that level of violence in it, and I didn't hear about people picketing that 
movies.  Of course, I'm not always so aware of those kinds of things so...

	It's the fact that some poor person actually went through that ordeal...  
No, that's not even it.  My Savior, my lord, my Brother went through more 
violence than that movie could ever possibly portray without the actor dying.  
The Bible said that they scourged Him until the bones of His back showed.  The 
thorns in that crown were a few INCHES thick - not those little cutesy ones on 
the roses today.  I could go on, but the point is this, He went through much 
worse than that, and He did it all for me.

	I can honestly say I have never cried through a movie before.  I've seen 
tear-jerkers a plenty.  And yeah, the waterworks are apt to fall when I do, but 
that's not what I'm talking about.  From the moment they started slapping Jesus 
around in front of the Sanhedrin I was lost.  I couldn't stop crying.  Two main 
thoughts were battling in my head.  The first ran along the lines of 'why?  why 
did You take all of that?  You could have walked away from the pain and no one 
could have held it against You...  You're doing all of this, and for who?  These 
miserable peons that are beating You and hurting You...'  That part of me just 
wanted it to stop.  I wanted Him to make it stop.  In fact, I wanted to just 
leave and call this whole night a failed experiment in endurance.

	Then there was that other train of thought.  'Do You really love me, silly 
little me, THAT much?'  The wonderful thing about my faith is that it's so very 
personal to me.  I've always been of the belief that even if I had been the only 
one in need of redemption, Jesus still would have endured suffering and death.  
He would have done all of that, not just because He loved the whole world so 
much, but because He cared for each individual soul on the planet, even me.  The 
part of me that's always been gun-ho about this aspect of my faith was sobbing 
with relief that His love was so great that He would die for me.  

	It's one thing to read about the Passion.  It's one thing to attend 
services and 'relive it'.  It's one thing to use imagine it, even if your 
imagination is as graphic as mine.  But... but to see it.  To sit down and see 
how He bled and feared and fell and hurt and forgave, even in dying...  To see 
Him think of so many, touch and change so many lives even in the midst of His 
own personal trials...  To see Him thinking of His mother when He was minutes 
from His own death...  It's awesome to behold.  It's terrible.  And it would be 
the easiest thing in the world to fall into the trap of guilt and despair 
because of it.

 Emotion sucks like that sometimes.  It took me to the very end of the credits 
to get myself up and out of the theatre to the bathroom to clean myself up.  I 
went alone, walked to and from the theatre.  And I must say, I wasn't that much 
of a mess after I saw the African-American wax museum.  Those that know me best 
understand what a statement that is.  I could not get myself to stop crying.  My 
whole brain felt like someone drop-kicked it a few times and then poured 
hydrochloric acid over it and let it sit in the sun for a few days before slow-
roasting it.  Depression and guilt over being grateful for such a sacrifice 
plagued me.  

	During the Eucharistic Liturgy of a Catholic mass, when the priest blesses 
the bread and wine and says what Jesus said the night He was betrayed, there's 
always a pause.  In that pause I would always whisper to myself 'mea culpa, mea 
culpa, maxi mea culpa...  (my fault, my fault, completely my fault) I accept my 
part in Your death, Jesus.  I thank You for Your sacrifice'.  Pretty empty words 
when you're faced with the true horror of the crucifixion.  Mean those words 
with all your heart and soul all you want, they still ring hollow when said in 
the face of something so terrible.  He shouldn't have cared that much.  He 
shouldn't have done it.  And how do you respond to something like that anyway?  
More importantly, how do you face the One that went through so much just so that 
not a single person that ever lived or ever would live would miss out on the 
opportunity to spend eternity in the presence of the Lord?

	The answer came from of my best friend.  When I finally managed to get 
myself home, my brain had already considered and rejected several people that I 
could probably call to talk about this movie and my mixed reaction to it.  In 
the end I decided that I was going to take some tylenol (crying always gives me 
the most frightful headaches), and go to bed.  I just happened to have a message 
on my answering machine.  I wasn't going to call him, I really wasn't.  I dump 
on the poor guy enough as it is after all.

	Funny how my fingers were already dialing his number even as I told myself 
these things.

	We talked, I cried, I told him how I felt, he told me his reaction to the 
movie...  That sort of thing.  But when I asked the two 'how' questions I asked 
myself all the way home, he gave me an answer that made it all better.  See, 
what my state of mind was blinding me to is the fact that I can't 'repay' the 
Lord for all or even most of what He's done for me.  There's nothing I could 
give Him that would balance the cosmic scales.  I can only be grateful and never 
take it for granted.  I can only offer Him my life and hope that He'll use me in 
someone's life.  Maybe help them to see it, get it, and understand how much love 
there is in the Father...

	The Passion made me love the Lord more.  It gave me a deeper understanding 
of the lengths He went to for the simple - and seemingly laughable - reason that 
He wanted me in His family so very badly.  I want to help others see that as 
well.  I mean, I've been on both sides of the coin.  No, I don't have some 
druggie/prostitute story in my past that brought me to God.  There was just an 
emptiness in my life.  I couldn't figure out what it was that was missing, why I 
was so damn lonely as a matter of course.  Then I asked Christ into my heart and 
everything changed.  I'm still trying to figure out the in's and out's of what I 
believe, but for the first time in my life, I know I'm on the right track.  I 
think that's why I'm writing this now.  I want to be used.  I want to help.  But 
right now, I mostly just want God to know how much I appreciate what He did for 
me.

Lady Senie [CreatorAtWork@yahoo.com]