My brother announced to my dad that he wanted to marry his girlfriend. I was only eight and even I knew that my brother was too young to be married. His voice booming, my dad said, “Are you willing to die for her?” Hastily, my brother answered yes. My dad stood to his feet, threw out his chest and held his head high. He positioned himself in front of the couch where my mom was seated – his back to her. I could see the concern in her eyes and I can still see her holding her breath. My father, even louder, said, “Imagine if someone were going to shoot her – would you stand in front of her and take that bullet? Would you die for her?” My brother hung his head, paused, and confessed that he would not. My dad, still standing at attention in front of my mother said, “I would. I would take that bullet for your momma and I would die for her because I love her. If you aren’t willing to do the same, then you don’t love her.” Decades later this exchange is engraved upon my mind in vivid detail – I can almost still see the shooter as my father stood in front of my mother.
As I think about the act of sacrifice that Jesus, the Son of God, endured, it strikes me how much He must have loved us as he wept in the garden, as he prayed to the Father not to have to show this display of affection for his people, as he endured the unspeakable torture, and as he walked to the hill at Calvary. As I picture Jesus hanging on that cross, dying for my sins, for nothing he did, but everything I did, and everything I still do, I am overwhelmed by just how much I am loved. The love my earthly father described is nothing compared to the love Jesus loved me with on that day almost two thousand years ago.