Burning

For if they do this when the wood is green, what will happen when it is dry?
—Jesus, Luke 23.31

Final things are on my mind. Last words matter.

Here, just before he is crucified, Jesus is speaking metaphorically—no surprise—making reference to the destruction that is coming. He is the green wood; this much is clear. But whether the dry wood that is to burn is that of the disciples or that of Jerusalem at the hands of the Romans doesn’t really matter. It’s not even important that the destruction may well be not just from the Romans but from God.

What matters is this. At our worst moments, when we’ve hurt someone deeply—perhaps we’ve betrayed a trust, or maybe it was a white lie that got out of control, or even a cruel remark spoken with more anger than compassion—it is here that we confront the seedy “dry wood” underside of human nature. We are able to hurt each other. And we do. We are able to wound. And we do. We can even destroy.

As much as I want to believe in our essential goodness, created as we are in the image of God, I also know we are sinful, falling short of God’s glory. I don’t like to talk about sin, think about sin, or even for the most part acknowledge sin in myself or anyone else. But it’s there. And it has the ability to burn even the greenest wood, even the most immune, the most innocent, the most pure.

What will my last words be tonight? Will I light a fire, falsely accuse, deny, or hammer a nail? By Easter morning—dare I hope?—perhaps the embers will cool. Perhaps my life and yours will be redeemed, and we can bear witness to the goodness of the coming reign of God.

Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.