It was a Good Friday

Since our church didn't hold a Good Friday service, but I had a great longing to linger at the cross with many fellow believers, I went looking for one. Thankfully, I didn't have to go far. Our sister church, Grace Community, held one I won't soon forget.

A video opened. One written word per slide, with the sound of a hammer banging each word like a nail into an unseen cross.

Anger.
Hatred.
Bitterness.
Murder.

A song interlude, which I could barely sing.
Then the sermon.

It seemed the message was aimed right at me. Pastor Matt started by asking a few questions akin to this: "Do you ever feel, that when it comes to measuring up, you are on probation with God? Or this: "I'm His child, but certainly not one of His favorite kids"?

He asked a few more, but I couldn't take them in. I kept thinking, "Yes, on probation. That's how I feel right now. I've been angry-- out of control. I have been ready to walk out on everything and everyone who's important to me because I have been such a screw-up. I had the perfect opportunity to invite my hair stylist to church today and I blew it. I've been in a desert (on a horse with no name) for who knows how long. Nothing from the Bible has lifted me lately, though I still read almost every morning. I even sinned against Paul and the kids before leaving the house tonight, trying to make Paul feel guilty for staying home and not leading our family to Good Friday service. I had told Sarah, who at 6:15 was coloring eggs with Joel and doubting she'd go to church. I told her she was putting a pagan practice over a sacred one." Sure, who'd WANT to go with me--me the manipulative, self-righteous, barking dog? Probation. Not one of His favorite kids. Probation. Not one of His favorite kids.

Another song interlude. Still I had little voice to join in.

I felt so condemned. Why did I come?

True desire to reflect on the Lord's crucifixion?

Or legalism?

After all, I reasoned, wasn't I better than everyone else in the world who chose to stay home? Better for sure than anyone dyeing Easter eggs as if the Easter Bunny had resurrected himself from the grave.
Wouldn't God look more favorably for not giving up on going to Good Friday service just because our own church wasn't having one? Wouldn't he smile bigger on me for the effort I put into traveling a half hour to church instead of zipping around the corner to the closest house of worship?

No.
No.
And again He said, "No."

My smug self-righteousness was nailed to the cross.
My holier-than-thou attitude made me shudder in my seat.
I don't have favorite kids, He spoke to me. You're all just as special as my firstborn son, Jesus.

I confess: I didn't listen word for word to Matt. I trailed off mentally at times from his message, but God had me hanging on to every word His Spirit was telling mine.

There is no probation in God's justice system. You're either a forgiven child of His and stand righteous and innocent, or you are an object of His wrath. Nothing in between. I knew I was not an object of His wrath, but how my thoughts had deceived me once again into believing I was on probation. Not one of His favorite kids. It's my personality. If only I didn't talk so much. It's my lack of self-control. If only I didn't run to the fridge for comfort instead of to Him. It's my scattered brain. If only I'd concentrate harder on the verses I read every morning. It's my anger. If only I wouldn't let people and things bother me, if only, if only, if only, if only.

Satan was on the attack as I lingered at the cross. Literally there was a seven-foot, plain, grey cross at the front of the auditorium. A focal point.

Another song. I was starting to find a voice to sing my thanks to God.

Forgiven. Paid for. In full.
My anger? Forgiven!
My lack of self-control? Forgiven!
My inattention to scripture? Forgiven!
My self-righteousness? Forgiven and hanging blood-stained on the cross. Filthy rags like the folded graveclothes left in the tomb.

I'm no better than anyone else, and I'm no worse than Jesus right now. I am every bit God's daughter as Jesus is His Son. Can it be? Yes!

The service closed with a poignant act following communion. I joined the believers who, row by row, went to the front of the auditorium, took communion, knelt for silent prayer, and then (believer or not) we each took a white index card and marker, signed our first name and taped it to the cross. I taped mine to the right side over Victoria's, beneath Joe's. By the end of the procession, the grey cross had turned white.

I was ready to sing. Still dabbing my eyes, but in thankfulness. I was not on probation. Never had been, never would be, despite my feelings.

Forgiven!