As I continue my Easter devotion, I pause at a line that feels heavier than I expected, “Then all the disciples deserted Him and fled.” (Matthew 26:56)
Not one.
All.
And I realize how easy it is for me to celebrate the finished work of the cross without sitting with the loneliness that preceded it. I love declaring, “It is finished.” I love claiming victory. I love praying from the place of resurrection power.
But before the public rejection by enemies… there was private abandonment by friends. Before the nails, there was desertion. Before the crown of thorns, there was betrayal. Before the cross, there was isolation. And somehow, that detail confronts me.
Because I see how quickly I can do two things at once: I can proclaim the finished work and yet still try to save myself through effort. I can thank Him for grace and still strive as though it depends on me. I can preach surrender and still chip away at what He already completed.
There is a subtle pride in thinking my striving adds something to what cost Him everything. The cost was high. Higher than I will ever fully comprehend.
He knew they would run. He knew the pain would come. He knew the Father’s will would demand everything. And He still chose obedience.
And here I am sometimes an ignorant beneficiary. Sometimes a proud beneficiary. Sometimes unaware of just how much has already been secured for me.
Tonight, I don’t want to just admire the cross. I want to enter into what it made accessible.
The finished work is not a slogan. It is an open door. If the cost was that high, then access must be that real.
Freedom from fear. Freedom from self-imposed limits. Freedom from cultural ceilings. Freedom from geographical restrictions. Freedom from educational insecurities. Freedom from internal narratives that say “not you.” The cross did not merely forgive me.
It positioned me.
So as I sleep tonight, my prayer is simple: Let the finished work finish its work in me. Let me enter into everything You paid for.
Not timidly.
Not partially.
Fully.
Wells of Wonder 