The Wonder of Knowing

My dog does not know that it is Good Friday.

She does not know that some 2000 years ago, the One who will wipe away every tear from our eyes wept tears of agony in the garden of Gethsemene.
She does not know that the One who spoke the trees into being, who knew when the seedling started to grow which would become his cross, allowed himself to be nailed to those beams.
She does not know that the One who is Living Water hung on a cross and suffered thirst.
She does not have a clue that the Author of Life laid down his life, and died.
She does not know that the One who owns the cattle on a thousand hills was laid in a borrowed tomb.
She does not know that he did it for me.

She does not know any of that.  To her, today is a day like any other, a day in which she is more interested in her bowlful of kibble than in thinking about Good Friday.

Of course she doesn't know.  She's just a dog.

But I know.

And it gives me pause.  How sad it is to not know!  How horribly small and sad to be more interested in a bowl full of kibble than in the fact that, some 2000 years ago, heaven and earth trembled in horror as the Holy One hung on that tree.  And how unbelievably rich, how magnificent it is that I do know.

Because I didn't always know.  Fifteen years ago, on Good Friday, I did not know.

But unlike the dog, I didn't have the luxury of oblivion.  I was very aware that this wonderful, cosmic shift was happening,  and I was excluded.  Oh, I knew the facts.  I suppose at some level I even believed the facts.  But I did not know that Good Friday was for me.  I was quite sure that it wasn't for me.  I felt like I was the one dying that night.  This grand, glorious play was unfolding before my eyes, but I had no part in it.  No part in God's design.

On Saturday, it was as though I was lying in that tomb.  Numb.  Cold.  My heart felt lifeless, and without hope.  How could God ever want me?  I wanted so badly to know that Easter had happened for me, but hope eluded me.  But then, somehow, late on that Saturday night and into the early hours of Sunday morning, the Finder of Lost Sheep sought me out.  The Healer came into the room of a dead little girl, and said, "Little girl, I say to you, get up."  Jesus loves me -- he who died heaven's gates to open wide.  He washed away my sin and let this little child come in.

When I woke up on Easter morning, I knew.  I knew that he was alive.  And for the first time in my life, I knew that I was alive.  I knew that Easter had happened for me.  The magnititude of that knowledge has never stopped bursting my heart.  I remember not knowing.  I remember knowing for the first time.  I know that knowing . . . knowing is such a precious gift.  "Christ died to save sinners -- of which I am the worst."

My dog does not know that today is Good Friday.

But I do.

And knowing, I am overwhelmed with gratutide.

"Alas! and did my Saviour bleed, and did my Sovereign die?

Would he devote that sacred head for sinners such as I?

Was it for crimes that I have done he groaned upon that tree?

Amazing pity!  Grace unknown! And love beyond degree!

Well might the sun in darkness hide, and shut its glories in,

When God, the Mighty Maker, died for his own creatures' sin.

Thus might I hide my blushing face while his dear cross appears;

Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, and melt mine eyes to tears.

But drops of tears can ne'er repay the debt of love I owe

Here, Lord, I give myself away -- 'tis all that I can do."