A Broken Mending

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I make the familiar turn, and there he is walking down the street with those hallow eyes and meth pocked skin. It was last Holy Week when he came to our doors crying out coming off a high with fresh cigarette burns on his young suntanned skin.

Broken.

I pick up my phone and flip screens to see the latest news updates. A president and a porn star battling it out. Refugees with no welcome. Innocents murdered by bullets and bombs.

Broken.

I think about the stories of those whose lives cross with my own. Cancers attacking. Marriages threatened by divorce. Mental illness crippling and stigma isolating. Deployments with no end in sight. Uncertainty looming.

Broken.

I examine my own heart. Things done. Things left undone.

Broken.

Psalm 51 is my cry: “Have mercy…Create in me a pure heart…My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise” (NIV). 

Then, I’m drawn to the simple scene on a holy day. A loaf of bread. A glass of wine. A group of friends. The one they follow holds up the unleavened. It cracks. “This is my body given for you.”

Broken.

Whips slash. Spit flies. Thorns dig  into flesh. Blood spills. “Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani,” he wails between painful breaths. The one who left divine glory and entered brokenness to be broken hangs from a cross.

A battle of eternal proportions wages on for the souls of the broken masses. All seems lost as a mother cries and rooster crows. The sky goes dark. A curtain tears. The words of the ancient prophets come true in a broken mending. “By His wounds we are healed” as love “raises up the broken to life.”

 

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