When the Sign is Crooked

I am home from Good Friday service, where all was dim in a minor key, and a rustic wooden cross stood lonely at the front of the room.  My son, this Boy Becoming Man, hung sign after sign on the cross:  wounded, betrayed, scorned, pierced.  The violins cried.  The choir sang dissonant chords .  By the middle of the service, the cross was full of harsh and scathing words and the mood was somber and hushed.

Then something strange happened.  My son and his friend were hanging the final sign:  It Is Finished.  In doing this, another sign was bumped so that it hung loosely from the crossbeam.  Suddenly, the symmetry was lost, and I had this urge to straighten it.  Were the boys really going to leave it dangling for the rest of the service?  How distracting.  It was as if this powerful, thought-provoking, noble symbol of our faith had become like a picture frame hung askew, where all you notice is the crookedness despite the beautiful art. 


Rejected....that's what the sign read. 


Slowly, I comprehended.  This cross was not meant to be a gleaming, aesthetically pleasing emblem of my faith.  It was a tool of torture and death, and I am glad for the awkwardness of it tonight, because now my mind's eye lingers on the sideways word:  rejected.  I am reminded of how often I reject Him and leave Him dangling.  He pursues me with Hosea's passion, yet I am fickle and flirtatious with the world.  This is the sin I nail to the cross.  Over and over.


In two days, the dreadful words will be replaced with songs of deliverance.  The reject will become the object of my praise, and all will be righted.  O glorious day!