Dear Jesus,
This year I am struck by all the competing theories of your atonement as I scroll through my Facebook feed. Your people are in disarray, all believing different things, each staking their claim on one piece of the truth. I am also struck by how little capacity I have for such debates this year. It is overwhelming to process. It wearies me. I think that certainty is the luxury of people who have not yet been rampaged by life. I no longer have a place for it; it doesn’t fit.
So I come to your Cross on this dark day of remembrance, more full of mystery than ever before. I sit with you in the dark, thinking how often you too have sat with me in my darkness. I wonder what it all means, but for now I’m satisfied believing that you somehow lead us out of the darkness and into the light.
And I offer up a broken “thank you.” It is my offering. Maybe it’s not enough, too lukewarm, not on fire. But I believe you accept it, just as I believe you accept all of us who offer up broken thank-you’s, absent of certainty, yet still certain of your goodness.
Thank you, Jesus.
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