They brought him to the Sanhedrin accusing him of many things but could convict him only of being himself. Only when he acknowledged his identity did they condemn him to death. Accepting himself, saying yes and allowing himself to be the Christ, was the crime. It was what cost his life, but it was worth the price. It was better than the other choice, the denial of his person. Had he said, "No, that's not me. I said a lot of things, but not that, and anyone who says it's me has not been paying attention," he could have walked away, right back into obscurity and leaving the message behind. The Pharisees could have had a press conference and they might have shared the podium, but it wasn't that way.
His friend who had followed was asked a similar question. He was also accused of his identity, but said no. He denied himself by denying his relationship with Jesus. He got to walk away, but had to do so in tears.
My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
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