I wrote this one year ago. Good Friday. I wanted to share it again, because I suspect I will go through much the same thinking and feelings every year. The things I write on my confession will change, but the reality of a God who saves never will.
A year ago I went to a Maundy Thursday service. I found it almost unbearable, and left it unable to speak. I drove home sobbing and sat in the driveway whilst my body shook uncontrollably as the tears and grief overtook me. Good Friday was a terrible day. Easter Saturday a day of desolation and I was desperate for Easter Sunday to come.
On the Thursday evening as I sat in the service I felt more powerfully than I had ever felt before, that I was the disciple who slept in Gethsemane; I was the disciple who repeatedly denied all knowledge of Jesus by the fire in the courtyard ; it was my sin and deceit and disobedience and selfishness that he was choosing to die for. That he was doing that even whilst I was hedging my bets and keeping some selfish sinfulness running alongside the part of…
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