They stood, shadowy figures, emaciated, bleeding, dripping wet. Chained together amidst the dusty streets. Innumerable.
In the distance a man walked toward them. Humble, simple, with rugged hands and blue-collar arms. I could see the desire in his eyes. A longing that held the weight of a thousands stories.
He was coming to collect something of His own.
We stood, as broken creatures gazing upon this man. Hardly daring to look upwards toward those eyes. We lived in squalor. Shame. Poverty. And the most haunting scent lingered in the air upon us. Death.
Some hurled insults. Some gawked. Some wept. Most stared, shocked, dismayed, picking at trash in the sand. Bits of garbage and scantily clad bones seemed to bring pathetic amounts of joy.
Morsels of decay were the only treats they knew.
Holding the chain, with gnarled fist and rotten grin, stood the great accuser. To some he seemed an angel of light. To others a shattered soul, a violation of nature, an abomination of desolate places.
The accuser stood elated, slithering about as a frantic ringmaster.
“It’s you again, carpenter. I have for you the most damaged of goods!”
I saw the man of trade begin to cry.
If anything the great juxtaposition of the two was an immemorial spectacle. A perverted Disney musical. A sad swan song for the human race. The accuser inspected the wares.
“This one here, a young man of 37. He is covered in the filth of sleepless dim-lit nights. Pornography, lust. What sweet cargo. He will pay anything to get another fix.”
As the accuser spoke on he lifted dirty fingers to touch the face of a young girl.
“And she, she was broken long ago. Dragged out to California. Some days she lives as pixels, some nights she is flesh, yet she is always another strange mans depravity.”
He moved on even more excited. A 52 year old man in a business suit stood and shivered underneath the cold grasp of his master.
“Oh, and oh sweet Immanuel, here, here is one! Years ago he thought he was worthless. His father held him down and told him how unwanted a child really was. And as he spent years finding peace and solace in accepting that he is unloved, invaluable. His addiction to pain, led to alcohol, led to sex, led to the typical life. He wanted more. He found that in children.”
It was unbearable.
For hours I looked on. Each story building up to a point. The accuser talked of each one of us. Some stories terrible, some not so. Yet they all were tales of defeat, darkness, sin, evil, death.
Divorce. Pedophilia. Abortion. Rape. Murder. Abuse. Drugs. Thievery. Unfaithfulness. Slander. Hate. Genocide.
As the Carpenter wept, I could see it. The weight pressing upon His shoulders.
We were not strangers. He knew each story deeper then the Accuser himself. Each rejection, pain, and sorrow. The Carpenter had felt it. For every person on that chain bore His image. He had laughed with them as children. Formed them in the womb. The Ancient of Days had lived next to them. Years ago though, the chained and accursed decided it would be better to live under bondage than the love of the Carpenter.
I had. We all had.
The deciever would writhe with glee as he often turned and yelled, “WHO would buy THESE?”
Then laughter would follow. An exquisite delight found in the celebration of loss. The Accuser felt victorious. Everything the Carpenter had built stood, broken, cursed, marred, ashamed.
Embracing Accusations – Shane and Shane
Finally Yeshua opened His mouth.
“I AM HE.”
I can only describe it as planets colliding, mountains trembling, rivers crashing. Whatever power was in this man pushed the Accuser back, yet of all the audacious things this Devil could do, the boldest would follow.
“And with what would a pathetic man of trade like you purchase them for? They are mine. They are my damaged goods. I will drag them to hell. I will give them the justice I know they deserve. I will give them a bath in fire. I will bury them. They are mine. THEY ARE MINE.”
Through tears Yeshua spoke with a voice of rushing waters.
“Blood.”
The Accuser grinned, “Let us measure the blood then, perhaps this will be fun!”
And Yeshua. He stood there. Bearing the full weight and betrayal as we all walked forward at the command of the Accuser.
I can scarcely bring words to what happened afterward. This man of love, with fire in His eyes and joy in His footsteps was lead to a block.
Beaten.
Beaten until blood and bone peaked out. Flesh torn. A man practically flayed alive. Marred beyond recognition. For hours we spit on Him. We laughed. We swore. We beat Him.
We pulled out His hair. We pulled out His beard. We mocked.
I don’t know if we could control ourselves. Yet I know we did wrong. We were slaves. Slaves to the Accuser.
Before we finished, he was unrecognizable. This marred form. This man of love was lead to a cross. Nails as long as rail road spikes were hammered into ankle and forearm.
And as He stood upon that cross He yelled with a voice that cracked open the hardest of hearts and broke the stone faced wretches around Him.
“Father! Forgive them, for they know not what they do!”
As the sky blackened, the Carpenter faded from this earth.
…
Little Stranger – Peter Bradley Adams
Yesterday our coach Jay began to speak over us of redemption. The story of a God who walked amidst the tax collectors and whores. He stood on dusty roads and came to collect His children. I was really struck by the whole thought.
Redemption is a process coined in buying a slave.
We were bought out of slavery. And it cost Him so much.
No money could pay for us. We cost blood. We cost pain and tears and sweat. We cost so much.
It’s so easy to forget that story. Some days I look at my old chains and try to refit them upon me. I adore my shackles even though I say that I loathe them.
This last month I saw poverty, I walked among the strip and saw the hollow stares of foreign men who buy women, I saw the beautiful hearts of street kids reaching to kids around them. I have more stories then words.
I want to write you about those experiences. But some of it is rough, raw, tough. Sometimes I am praying for men who sicken me, people I wish were behind bars, or worse. Yet as God has moved my heart to soften, grow, and billow. I have grown in both love and justice.
To understand why I am reaching out to the unlovable and the vile. Why I am toiling to rescue the abused, and to rescue the abuser, you need to understand redemption.
I’m not writing to be cheesy or overly dramatic. I just… am realizing the story of Jesus is epic. It is beautiful. It involves saving the wretched and turning them beautiful. The hardest part about that is…
Some people are so wretched that I hardly can fathom them being bought out of death and sin. Redeemed.
I’m not talking of murders or perverts. I mean myself. So often I feel like damaged goods. I feel as if buying me and cleaning me and loving me is more a work of foolishness then a blessed decision from the very God of this universe. I would delve into that sad self-deprecatory doctrine too.
“Maybe if I feel guilty enough. I will pay for my own sins. He’ll know I’m really sorry. I’ll be forgiven.” I would put myself through my own purgatory.
And that makes me so scared. Because sometimes it is hard to believe I was purchased. When sin is so great and the accusations so bitter-sweet.
Yet I know, I KNOW, Jesus has purchased me. I have been paid for. I no longer need to turn to fear, performance, pain, or a lack of self-worth. I am a child of the King.
He has come to give us life and life abundant. To free us and make us fully known and more like Him.
I am adopted into the family of God, and more then that, I am a new creation. Fully beloved. Fully forgiven. Fully purchased.
Oh Jesus.
I am so grateful for you. I don’t understand why you would pay for me. I don’t understand that all. I don’t understand why I was something of value to you. Yet I am so beloved. I am delighted in. Adored. And I accept that. Please take this heart. Bind it to you. Put it close. And never ever let me leave.
…
Three days passed. Eventually the Carpenter came back. Yet He glowed and shimmered beyond the very sun.
“I love you so much my children. I have paid for you. You are mine.”
With that, our chains loosened.
Many stood speechless. Some took mere hours to break free. Some weeks. Some never did. A few never availed themselves to the freedom available. Others though, others… looked as if they took the first long breath of clean air in quite a long time. And for the first time, they looked hopeful.
It has been years since that time. I was clothed in the whitest of robes. The Carpenter took me and washed my feet, put oil on my wounds, and brought me home.
I am no longer damaged goods. I am no longer damaged. I am merely good.
