Is death. And we are all sinners and fall short. I fall short on a regular basis. Daily. Hourly, even. The miracle of it is that it’s okay.
It’s okay because the one perfect man to ever walk the earth paid the bill for me. And it was expensive. I cringe when I think of what he went through. Beaten and abused almost to the point of death before they ever nailed him to the cross. For me.
For inconsequential, far-from-perfect me. It weighs heavy on my heart.
This is the cornerstone of the Christian faith. Because on Sunday, Jesus breaks the rules. In truth, he’d been breaking them all along to the supreme annoyance of leaders of the time. He wasn’t supposed to heal people on the Sabbath. Or speak directly to the Samaritan woman. Dine with tax collectors and prostitutes (Bet the conversations were far more lively than at the Pharisee’s dinner).
And once he was dead, he was supposed to stay dead.
But Jesus isn’t much for the arbitrary rules. No, he gave Satan the finger and rose from the dead. And in the ultimate practical joke, paid all our debts too. He threw open the gates of Heaven to any who would accept the invitation. No velvet rope. No bouncer with a list. And yeah, the best party ever is going on there. No dress code. No magical words to recite.
He paid it. All anyone has to do is accept it.
What’s so good about Good Friday? Sunday is coming.