I Am The One Who Crucified Him

As I meditated this Lent, yet again, on the sorrowful mysteries of the rosary, the image of Christ’s bloody body came to my mind again and again. There was the scourging, ripping the skin of the most sacred Body of Christ, the Precious Blood spattering on the ground. As I thought of the crown of thorns tearing into the head of our precious Lord a certain indignation arose in me.

How could these Roman soldiers have done that? Here was the most perfect man who had ever and will ever live. He was a man of pure love, a man who had never harmed anyone. In his compassion, he had miraculously healed thousands of people. Even if they had not understood the concept of Messiah, even if they did not know he was the Son of God, how could these soldiers have been so cruel, so sadistic to this man of unfathomable grace.

Then I came to the stark and chilling realization that I am the one who crucified Jesus. The Roman soldiers did not know what I know. They lived in a horribly violent world. They may have even thought they were doing their jobs, administering justice. Their culpability is not what mine is. Jesus himself said that they knew not what they were doing.

I know who the Messiah is. I know that he is Love itself. I know that he is the Son of God who died for my sins. For MY sins.

I tore the skin off my beloved Jesus. I pressed the thorn into his head that dripped blood onto his face. I drove the nails.

When I think little of my sins, I am the one ignoring his pain. When I choose my desires over the Lord’s, I am the one who draws his blood. When I sin against charity, when my pride rears its ugly head, I am the one who is crucifying my Lord.

He died for my sins. May I never again say that phrase without the profound recognition of what it means. I am the one who crucified Him.