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Sunday mornings at church were full of familiar routines . . . and homilies quickly forgotten. The Jesus stories in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were familiar and my prayers, for the most part, were recited from memory and without much emotion. I would look at the stained glass images and pictures with wide but tearless eyes.

Once in a while, I would gaze at the cross that hung by the door in the bedroom I shared with my two sisters. It was white porcelain with gold swirls and gold edges. But for the most part, it went unnoticed.

When I couldn’t even write my name, I was taught the Apostles’ Creed and recited it in catechism class along with all the other children. “. . . He (Christ) suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. And the third day He rose again.” This was the cosmic drama that failed to move me. What in heaven’s name could ever be more exciting than this, the greatest story ever told? And yet the whole atmosphere in church, the candles, the incense, all the standing and sitting was nothing more than a yawn.

I am compelled to ask why? The Jesus of Scripture was never a dull man. His first miracle was at a wedding where He turned water into wine. He confronted the status quo and asked questions that couldn’t be sidestepped. He wasn’t impressed by wealth or power. He went to parties and hung out with people of questionable character. Children were drawn to Him, and the “common” people, often the best judges of character, gladly listened to Him.

I have recently concluded almost two years of study in the life of Jesus. There was never a dull moment, right up to the breathless account of the resurrection story. I pray it will not leave us unmoved.

I want to plead with every pastor in every pulpit: preach with the passion this message deserves! Tell me of His love. Tell me of His power. Tell me of His last night in the garden. Tell me how under the bright moon He fell to His knees beneath the olive trees. Tell me His blood and sweat fell in drops upon the dirt. Tell me how He cried and prayed to His Father. Tell me how His friends slept while He was in agony. Tell me again of the day Christ died as a Victim and three days later rose as the Victor.

Tell me again, and again, and again.

I must sing of it, read of it, meditate on it, gaze at paintings of it. We must carve it in the hard wood and stone of our unmoved hearts . . . until the apathy and familiarity and indifference that encases our souls gives way.

Centuries ago the prophet Ezekiel wrote these words of judgment upon a people that had refused to listen, refused to obey.

“You shall drink . . .

a cup that is deep and large . . .

for it contains much . . .

a cup of horror and desolation . . .

you shall drink it and drain it out . . .

and tear at your breasts.”

There was only One who could bear such pain and not be destroyed. The Father refused the prayer of the Eternal Son. The corridors of heaven were silent. His soul was crushed with grief to the point of death.

These words don’t sound like the words of any of the other gods. Call them unbelievable, call them shocking, call them the most devastating words you have ever heard. But whatever you think of those ancient words, if words mean anything at all, you certainly can’t think, like I did once, that they are a yawn.