The purpose of peoples' stories in the Bible is not primarily for history's sake. They are there so that we can better see how God works despite the brokenness and sinfulness of man. They are there so that we can better see that God uses the humble rather than the "righteous." They are there so that we can say, "That's me."
Reading the climax of the Passover, Jesus' death, and the resurrection, I asked myself, "Who do I identify with?"
I want to be Mary the sister of Lazarus, understanding the death that Jesus was about to die and pouring a year of my life's wages on his feet and wiping them with humility and godly sorrow.
I want to be the widow who gave everything she had in the offering box, bringing not only her two small copper coins to God, but her whole heart.
I want to be the criminal on the cross, recognizing that Jesus was the Son of God and pleading for mercy.
I want to be Mary Magdalene, recognizing Jesus' voice when he calls her name at the site of the empty tomb, then going in faith to tell the rest of the disciples that he is alive.
But the truth is, I would not have acted like these people.
No. Instead. . .
I am Judas, criticizing Mary for wasting money because my heart desires worldly possessions far more than the incomparable treasure of the eternal Jesus Christ.
I am the rich, who give just enough money in the offering box to look good and feel content with themselves, keeping not only a drastic amount of money-- but also their hearts-- tucked safely away inside their purses.
I am the brothers, questioning Jesus about who will be greatest in the Kingdom with pride and arrogance right before he is about the walk the road of obedience of dying a criminal's death -- the greatest act of humility that this world will ever see.
I am the disciples, sleeping in the garden while Jesus is sweating blood in distress because he is accepting the cup of wrath from the Father.
I am Peter, standing a matter of yards away from where Jesus is standing and is about to go into the counsel to receive judgment, and I flat out deny to be one of his disciples.
I am the crowd, yelling "Crucify him!" because it is the socially acceptable and conform thing to do.
I am the criminal on the cross who mockingly asked Jesus not for the salvation of the soul, but of the body.
I am Thomas, refusing to believe that Jesus could have the power to conquer sin and death and rise from the dead.
And this is the very reason why he--for the joy set before him-- endured the wrath of the Father who he had been in perfect communion with from eternity past. He accepted the cup so that he could be in perfect communion with sick, ungrateful, self-righteous rebels like me for eternity future.
I killed Jesus. But He willingly laid his life down.
It's this truth that has the power to change my cold stone heart into a heart of beating, alive flesh.
It's this truth that has the power to open my eyes to the glory of God and fall on my face at the foot of the cross in wonder.
It's this truth that has the power to transform my life from the likeness of a Pharisee into the likeness of my Savior -- the suffering servant.
