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

Some words are so powerful that we shy away from them.  Our voices get soft to the point of whispering when we speak specific phrases for the first time.  We avoid them until we have the strength to say them out loud.  When we do, mountains move.  We are changed in those split seconds.

I just returned from visiting my childhood home in upstate New York.  I slept in my old bedroom, a privilege few are afforded at my age.  So much of life was experienced in that house.  I was thirty years old when my mother died of cancer.  I was there visiting and can remember walking upstairs to say goodbye just minutes after she passed.  Even though I saw death up close, I shied away from words associated with death.  

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 blank and stoic exterior melted. 

This morning, while talking with Jesus, I said, “Thank you for dying for me.”  I realized that I said it way too easily, like a cliché.  Familiar from childhood.  Familiar from hymns and pulpits.  Familiar as well-worn nursery rhymes.  Should this phrase not have caused more of a reaction?

Religious language can sit so comfortably on my tongue.  God wants to shake it loose from stoic mental crevices. His death is not just part of ancient history.  It is part of my personal history.  There was once a moment when it became real.  The love that propelled Him to the cross penetrated my heart to the point of repentance and gratitude.  It still can and it still should.

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