Category: Lent

Do Christians think Easter is still a big deal?

Published by Daniel on March 26, 2023

As I strolled down the seasonal aisle during my weekly grocery run, I stopped at the chocolate Easter bunnies, debating within the solid versus hollow bunny controversy.

Then something caught my eye.

Right next to the Easter bunnies, displayed in full glory, stood a chocolate cross.

This gave me pause.

I wasn’t sure what to think.

On one hand, I wanted to appreciate the acknowledgment of the spiritual aspect of Easter. On the other, I was unsettled by the thought of going into a diabetic coma after eating a chocolate molding of an ancient means of slow execution.

I actually don’t fault secular companies for trying to tap into a particular market. They don’t know the meaning of that symbol. They just see it perched on the top of a building or hung around a person’s neck and think: maybe they’ll buy this.

I mention the chocolate cross because it made me think of something else regarding the Christ-follower’s relationship to Easter.

Or more accurately, to Resurrection Sunday.

It seems that a lot—perhaps too many—of us Christians in America have a “been-there, done-that, got the tee-shirt.” At some point in our lives, we went forward, understood Jesus saved them from our sins, prayed the prayer, and moved forward with our lives.

We identify as Christians, often boldly so. We go to church on Sundays, tithe regularly, read the Bible sometimes, pray regularly, and “do for the least of these.”

Please don’t get me wrong: those are extremely important spiritual disciplines.

But often I feel like our passion—our fire—is missing. Do we really get excited about the Gospel did for us?

In a couple of weeks, while the rest of the world is celebrating Spring by mythical bunnies hiding colored eggs (and atheists think Christianity doesn’t make sense?!) and eating large portions of ham and scalloped potatoes, followers of Jesus will recognize the cross and resurrection of the Savior.

We prepare for it:

Invite family—check. Prepare our dinner—check. Don our Easter best—check. Go to church to give Jesus a “Yay, Jesus” for raising from the dead—check. Eat dinner—check.

Go to work on Monday.

But do we really get excited about Easter? Do we truly celebrate it? Does the anticipation light a fire in us—now, not just on Easter Sunday? Do we truly understand what Jesus did for us on that rugged cross? Or the power behind the empty tomb?

Or is it like the chocolate cross, where we acknowledge it, consume it, and move on with our lives?

Think about what those words “it is finished” mean. For the universe, for all the earth, for you and me.

When we read of the death of Jesus, we blow right over an obscure, yet very relevant detail:

At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. (Matthew 27:51-52)

Have you ever considered this? Upon the death of Jesus, the curtain in the temple, separating the whole world from God was torn in two.

The curtain mentioned separated the Most Holy Place from the rest on the world. Inside the Most Holy Place was the room that held the Ark of the Covenant. In this room was the presence of God in his holiness. Only one person—the high priest—was allowed into the Most Holy Place only once a year during Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, to sprinkle blood onto the altar.

The priest’s ritual was extremely rigid. A rope would be tied around the priest’s waist, because if he failed to follow the precise instructions, he would fall dead. If the rope slackened, others would have to pull out the body because no one else could go in to retrieve it.

Keep in mind, this rigidity wasn’t about God waiting for someone to screw up so he could zap them.

Instead, it had to do with unholiness (which humanity has become since Genesis 3) entering into holiness. The two cannot coexist, just like darkness is unable to coexist with light.

The latter will always overpower.

The pure holiness of God cannot coexist with a fallen humanity.

Thus, the separation.

This is the curtain that was torn in two. With the cross, God made a way to allow us into the presence of his holiness.

And to make sure humanity remembers that it is his, not our doing, Matthew noted that the curtain tore in two from the top down.

From heaven to earth.

Isn’t that a big deal? Isn’t that something worth celebrating and getting excited about?

The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ is the very foundation of our faith. The entire Old Testament points to this moment. Forty days after the resurrection, the once-cowering disciples boldly preached Christ in the very city in which Jesus died. The same high priests and the same Roman guards were still present.

After hearing Peter preaching the resurrected Jesus, all they needed to do was go to the tomb and produce the body and Christianity is chopped off at the ankles. Even Paul himself writes: “And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith.” (1 Corinthians 15:14)

Shouldn’t we celebrate that magnificent event? Not just with the obligatory Easter Sunday service but more like the recent Asbury University revival—twenty-four hours a day, non-stop.

Like Christmas, Easter should be celebrated leading into the day, on the day itself, and well into the rest of the year.

Be hungry.

Not just for a chocolate cross.

But for one who overcame death.

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“Hosanna!”: The presidential election, terrorism, and the state of the world

Published by Daniel on March 23, 2016

Last Saturday in Arizona, protesters tried to silence a presidential candidate while supporters retaliated with fisticuffs.

Hours later, on Palm Sunday, Christians commemorated Jesus’s kingly entrance into Jerusalem.

The next day, in Brussels, terrorist attacks killed over 30 people and injured at least 200 more.

This year has been that kind of surreal.

The elections, the unrest, the terror—all of this craziness makes me feel overwhelmed. Overwhelmed and afraid.

I can’t quite describe my feelings, but they include anger, horror, frustration, numbness, bewilderment and more, depending on what’s in the news each day.

I am distressed and heartbroken over the terrorism, crying out to God for the victims. But I can’t stop it. So I focus on something closer to home: election year, and how our next president might respond to terrorism and all of the other problems facing us, both here and abroad.

Yet it unnerves me to think who We, the people may choose as our next president. I am so un-thrilled by the choices that if I had to vote today, I couldn’t, even while holding my nose. I simply cannot shake the feeling that we are preparing to elect a dictator—because that’s what we seem to want.

I say this because I see a trend of feverish devotion, with several candidates being exalted to nearly messianic status. I understand that in a democratic republic, researching the candidates and trying to support the best one is a good thing. But where is the line between “support” and “worship”?

I’m not sure, but I think we border on worship when we defend our candidates by…

-shouting down or cold-cocking the opposition.

-attacking other candidates’ shortcomings while giving our own candidate a pass for the same offenses.

-name-calling and bullying anyone who dares to question our candidate.

-insisting that our candidate is the only one who has the answers.

All of these could fit the definition of “worship.”

It’s funny how history repeats itself.

In 2008 we elected a president based on a promise of “hope and change”—yet the world is still divided, hate-filled, and violent. Now we are preparing to elect one based on promises of “revolution” or “national greatness.” More and more these days, we seem to believe that the right person will be able to solve everything, and ring in utopia. Yet in truth, any president is lucky to fulfill maybe five percent, at most, of everything promised on the campaign trail (because our laws clearly define what a president can and cannot do—thank goodness for the Constitution’s “division of powers”!). In fact, no matter how great their desire, vision, and ability, none of these leaders will ever be able to save us—as a nation, or as individuals.

It has never happened, and it never will.

Well, except once.

Jesus arrived in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, things were much the same as they are today. Then, as now, people felt a sense of political unrest and unhappiness with the government (and it was a government of brutal Roman occupiers, not their own self-government). Then, as now, many of Jesus’s followers were seeking a social revolution instead of a spiritual one. Then, as now, they despaired when their leader didn’t do what they wanted. And then, as now, people feared forces beyond their control and longed for a messiah to deliver them.

Yet Jesus came in riding into town not on a white steed, like a military hero, but on a humble donkey.

And crowds of Jews spread palm branches before him and cried, “Hosanna!”—a rich, ancient word that we now use only on Palm Sunday. But I’m thinking we should revive it, because its meaning is, “Lord, save us!” (Psalm 118:25)—an urgent and desperate cry for deliverance.

The people were quoting this word from the Psalms. They weren’t welcoming Jesus into their city; they were pleading for divine rescue—as at Passover when God rescued their ancestors from slavery in Egypt, and as at Calvary when he rescued humanity from sin. No one knew it yet, but Jesus was coming to completely and finally answer the cries of “Hosanna.” He was coming to rescue us all.

Ironically, those cries for rescue would be answered just days later, after these same crowds turned on Jesus and demanded his death—the very death which would save the world.

If only they had known.

And now, during this holy Passion Week, we need saving more than ever. We see Americans attacking one another, a capital city recovering from fatal bombings, and a world possibly inching closer to the next great war.

None of this is exactly new (we’ve seen it all before), but it still feels so chaotic, so desperate, so uncertain. I simply do not have answers—nor, despite the politicians’ promises, does anyone else.

I’ve lived long enough to realize that we will never be rescued by anyone on the ballot.

And at that realization, my spirit cries, “Hosanna! Lord, save us!”

Only one Messiah has sacrificed himself for us, instead of for his own political ends. Only one Messiah possesses all of the power, authority, and credentials required to save us.

There is only one Savior.

And he is not currently running for President.

Embracing surrender

Published by Daniel on April 3, 2015

Do you know that old song, “I Surrender All”?

All to Jesus I surrender,
All to Him I freely give.
I will ever love and trust Him,
In His presence daily live.
I surrender all,
I surrender all,
All to thee, my precious Savior,
I surrender all.

As Lent comes to a close, I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “surrender,” and what it means to truly surrender my life to Jesus.

More accurately, I have been trying hard not to think about it.

But the harder I try to ignore it, the louder it repeats in my head: surrender.

What does it mean to surrender? The dictionary says “surrender” means “give up.” But give up what?

I think surrender means giving up three things: pride, freedom, and control—even control over one’s own life.

In military terms, surrender can be an act of cowardice. For dedicated soldiers on mission, surrender is not an option—because it means the loss of those three things, and also possible death to the physical body.

In spiritual terms, however, surrender can be an act of trust. For dedicated Christians on mission, surrender is the only option—precisely because it does mean the loss of those three things, and also certain death—in this case, to the sin nature.

I’ll be perfectly honest: I am great at the act of surrender. I surrender to worry. I surrender to anxiety. I surrender to my flesh, my ego, and my emotions.

In fact, I can surrender to almost anything except God.

But look at Jesus. According to Scripture, on the last night before his death he does nothing but surrender.

First, on his last night with the disciples, he kneels to wash their stinky feet (John 13). It’s mind-blowing—the Creator of the universe, disrobing and performing the lowliest, filthiest act of service.

Next, he surrenders his freedom. Facing arrest, torture, and execution, he prays in agony for another solution, even sweating drops of blood through his skin (Luke 22:44). Yet he ends with: “…not as I will, but as you will.” (Matthew 26:39, 42). As I’ve tried to make that my daily prayer, I’ve found that almost immediately I start adding qualifiers: “Your will be done, Lord – but I would really appreciate it if you would…” Giving up one’s freedom to the will of God can be much, much harder than it looks.

Finally, Jesus surrenders control. Without resisting, he allows himself to be taken captive and subjected to a series of impromptu trials, a brutal flogging, and death on a cross.

That ugly, blood-stained, wooden behemoth of a cross.

In Philippians 2:6-8, Paul quotes a first-century hymn describing this voluntary transition from glory to servanthood:

[Jesus], being in very nature God,

did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing

by taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
by becoming obedient to death—
even death on a cross!

Jesus’ surrender to crucifixion forces me to rethink my own issues with surrender. He gave up everything to win the battle against sin and death. Sometimes I can barely win the battle against a Snickers bar. Oddly, I’m willing to surrender to Jesus for salvation, but not for the daily details of my life. For that, I surrender only part.

Jesus alone surrendered all.

So what can we do to move toward surrender? Here is what I think, and try to do – better on some days than others.

Understand the reasons behind the resistance. Instead of just confessing areas of known resistance, go deeper and examine what drives them. For instance, since publishing my first book I worry about whether people will like it or buy it, and whether I have any more good ideas in me. These are areas over which I have little control—yet I still worry. So I have to ask, what exactly do I fear? I admit I fear failure—but exactly what kind? Or maybe I’m afraid God will leave me stranded—but in what specific ways? Am I afraid I might end up alone and in poverty, or what? I think we should examine and question each worry and fear to find its driving motivation, because I believe those underlying motivations are where Jesus wants to set us free.
Focus on the cross. Our struggle to surrender to Jesus is one of the very reasons he was nailed to that cross. It always happens: five minutes after I say, “Yes, Lord, I surrender,” something comes along that causes worry. And then I surrender to that, instead of to God. I give in to my anxiety. But the cross is for everything—our yielded parts, and our unyielded parts too. If we don’t get that, we will beat ourselves up every single time we fail to surrender. Without the cross, we might as well quit before we blow it again.
Remember that the initial surrender to Christ is a good enough start. If you are a Christian, you have said “yes” to Jesus Christ. That is a huge start, and it is a big deal—even if you, like me, tend to keep worrying and trying to control the uncontrollable. Once we’ve said “yes” to the cross, Jesus graciously keeps working with us in each problem area of surrender, no matter how much we resist.

The thought of deeper surrender to Jesus has really been a battle within me during this season of Lent. But I think the fact that I can’t get it out of my mind is proof that it’s an area Jesus wants to enter.

In fact, the above passage from Philippians ends with this promise that he himself will help me to obey:

“Therefore, my dear friends…continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purpose.” (Philippians 2:12-13)

So once again, I look to the cross this Holy Week and nail my struggle onto its blood-stained wood. Today, I am surrendering everything I can. Tomorrow, he’ll invite me to go deeper and then, as scripture promises, help me to follow.

A perspective greater than terror

Published by Daniel on March 3, 2015

Last month we learned of a Jordanian pilot being burned alive and twenty-one Egyptian Christians being beheaded. In light of these horrors, I was flooded with anger, disgust, and heartbreak – natural responses to unspeakable acts. On top of this chaos was the painful suggestion that we shouldn’t feel such emotions, because other atrocities were committed in the name of Christ several decades or centuries ago.

I’m not saying old atrocities don’t matter. What I am saying is that these new atrocities are here and now, and the pain and horror are fresh and real. How is it helpful to debate historical events when we are in the middle of new terrorist slaughters day by day? Such debates will not stop the terror, nor will they help the victims that are being added with each new incident.

I think the crux of my overwhelming emotions was that I just don’t know what to do. How do I, as a follower of Jesus, respond to these terrible crises so far away—yet somehow so close? There seems to be no human solution to the violence, because violence tends to bring on more violence in our world’s economy of revenge. But on the other hand, doing nothing also seems to bring on more violence, because there is no pushback to check it.

Right after the beheadings, my daily scripture reading resonated amazingly with my feelings of frustration:

Your foes roared in the place where you met with us;
they set up their standards as signs.
They behaved like men wielding axes
to cut through a thicket of trees.
They smashed all the carved paneling
with their axes and hatchets.
They burned your sanctuary to the ground;
they defiled the dwelling place of your Name.
They said in their hearts, “We will crush them completely!”
They burned every place where God was worshiped in the land.
We are given no miraculous signs;
no prophets are left,
and none of us knows how long this will be.
How long will the enemy mock you, O God?
Will the foe revile your name forever?
Why do you hold back your hand, your right hand?
Take it from the folds of your garment and destroy them!
(Psalm 74:4-11)

This psalm was likely written in the context of the destruction of the temple by Nebuchadnezzar around 586 B.C. The author’s horror and confusion echo my own. Mass murder and brutality rage all around him, and God seems to be doing nothing about it.

The psalmist and I agree: Surely God sees the senseless violence; surely he could fix the problem. Together, we beg for divine intervention: Why doesn’t God stop the evil? Why doesn’t he unleash hellfire and brimstone in swift, sure judgment on this wicked world? (As I wish for this, I forget of course that if he did so, I myself would also be included in the judgment.)

Quite frankly, that was the direction my heart wanted to go. As in Revelation 19, I wanted to see Jesus, the Lord of Lords, galloping in with eyes of fire to confront the killers. I wanted justice—fast and brutal—poured down on the murderers of those twenty-one brothers in Christ, the Jordanian pilot, and the scores of other men, women, and children slaughtered in the name of a hijacked religion.

However, the psalmist’s next thought was so striking that it set me back on my heels:

But you, O God, are my king from of old;
you bring salvation upon the earth. (v. 12)

In the next verses (13-17), the writer goes on to praise God for his absolute sovereignty over the seas, the beasts, the rivers, the heavens, and the seasons.

In this psalm, there is no transition at all between challenging the inaction of God and praising that very same God. It seems an odd juxtaposition. On top of the old question of why God holds back judgment, I now have new questions: Why doesn’t the psalmist continue to hold God’s feet to the fire, so to speak? Why change direction and start praising God instead?

As verse 12 so eloquently reveals, for all of these questions the answer is the same: although God is a God of judgment, he is also a God of salvation. His highest purpose is to bring salvation to every corner of the whole earth.

In my anger and helplessness, I am forced to widen my scope.

Once again, I think of those twenty-one brothers in Jesus, kneeling on the beach, preparing to have their throats slit and their blood flow into the water. They are not victims; they are martyrs—a word which means “witnesses”—bearing witness to the Savior of this dark world. In the video of their executions, their last words were declarations that Jesus is Lord.

Jesus said, “But I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all men to myself” (John 12:32). There was far more courage in those Christ-followers facing death with Jesus’ name on their lips, than in those who stood over them holding the knives. Is it naïve—or even offensive—to think that this scene, horrific as it was, may be less about Allah’s vengeance than about God’s salvation?

Like the psalmist’s, my focus is taking a sharp, unexpected turn. Though the questions and confusion are real, we must lift up Jesus—like those twenty-one witnesses now in his arms—and pray for the Middle East to be flooded with something new: not horror and heartbreak, but salvation.

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