I don’t enjoy planks, but I do them anyway–because I am middle-aged and I need them.
They are so unpleasant that they always remind me of Jesus on the Cross all those merciless hours.
An eternity, really.
But today I was reminded of Byreon Hunter as well. What I wrote about him before seemed too insignificant to the task of grief for such a sweet little peanut.
His story seems to mirror the story of the victim in the parable of the good Samaritan.
Idolatrous culture, outcast guy, acts suspiciously like the peerless Storyteller.
We forget that to his listeners there was no such thing as a “good” Samaritan.
I personally think he was quite real. Which means so was the brutalized victim.
Make no mistake: no human punishment can ever atone or pay for doing that to a child. Ever.
But Jesus took every blow, every wound, all the pain.
He pays the whole price for our brutal rebellion, knowing we are all Samaritans without him.
To be a good Samaritan? That takes Jesus.
And the planks, those God-forsaken miserable planks…on the cross