He died for all, so that they who live might no longer live for themselves, but for Him who died and rose again on their behalf.   2 Corinthians 5:15

Do you know that some words are so powerful that we shy away from them?  It’s true. Our voices get soft to the point of whispering when we speak specific phrases for the first time.  Words that are associated with atrocities and tragedies, the stuff that hell unleashes on earth, are avoided until we have the strength to say them out loud.  When we do, mountains move.  We are changed in those split seconds.

I was thirty years old when my mother died of cancer.  When telling someone that she was gone, I would use every descriptor except the word ‘died.’  I would say that she passed away or that she went home to be with Jesus.  It wasn’t until a year later that I finally admitted, ‘My mother died.’  As soon as I said the words, I sank into a chair and sobbed.  My ability to grieve was no longer stuck.  My blank and stoic exterior melted. 

Yesterday, I was driving down a back road and was thanking Jesus for various things as they came to mind.  I said, “Thank you for dying for me.”  I realized that I said it way too easily.  They were spoken like a cliché.  Familiar from childhood.  Familiar from hymns and pulpits.  Familiar as well-worn nursery rhymes.  I was upset and began to ask myself, ‘Should this phrase not cause similar reactions as when I spoke about the death of my mother?’  

I went to bed thinking about the religious language that sits so comfortably inside us.  God wants to shake it loose from stoic mental crevices. His death is not just part of ancient history.  It is part of our personal history.  Was there not a moment when it became real?  Didn’t the love that propelled Him to the cross penetrate our hearts to the point of repentance and gratitude?  It still can.

Resurrect the language of the Gospel until it has full effect in us.  Amen