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A Death Worth Celebrating

This weekend, all Christendom will gather to celebrate the events of the Passion. Celebrate? Hmm . . . Jesus’ death is the only death I know of that we truly celebrate. We certainly do not feel an air of celebratory joy when a loved one passes. Sure, we speak about the celebration of their lives and whatnot—and I truly believe we mean it. However, there is still a mourning that occurs within us because of our loss.

Mourning. There certainly was real mourning about ten thousand Sunday mornings ago. Certainty of the Messiah’s identity was as dead as that mauled man’s body lying tightly wrapped in a Pharisee’s tomb. How odd that Jesus would be honored in death with a proper burial at the hands of a member of the very religious sect that killed Him.

I suppose this is still true of us today! The death of Jesus points out the irony of our sin—that it was our trespasses that put Him there. It buries a seed of life in the tomb of our pharisaical hearts. Three days of germination saw the King emerge and the tomb emptied of the death—and that same resurrection power still empties us of death today.

Thus, we celebrate death—not for the loss, but rather for our immeasurable gain! Ah, but only because we know the rest of the story that the original disciples did not yet grasp. Our hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but their foresight was a blinded darkness. Poor souls. On their worst day—Good Friday—they had no clue that an infinitely Better Sunday was only days away. A day of redemption. Renewal. Resurrection. But it came—He came back to life. We came to life.

All because of a death worth celebrating.


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