Why I Do What I Do

Not long after giving my heart to Christ, I read for the first time the story of his crucifixion. I was absolutely amazed as it unfolded because as I read along, I placed the whole story in the context of him suffering just for me. After reading only a few passages, to the part where Jesus prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, I paused to reflect. It boggled my mind that he would pray all night long. So I asked out loud, mostly to myself, “Why would he do that for somebody like me?” Shortly, I read on about how he was put under arrest by the religious leaders. It was incredible to me that they mocked him for claiming to be God, spit on him, and then beat him with their fists. I read further.

After they tired of taking out their hatred on him, they turned him over to the Romans to finish what they did not have the guts to do, kill him. He was tried, found innocent, and, amazingly, tortured anyway. Soldiers mocked and humiliated him some more and then stripped off his clothes and brutally flogged him. At this point in the story I stopped reading. I couldn’t believe it. Here was the Son of God being mercilessly beaten with a whip for a sinner such as I. What made this part of the story even more astounding was that I associated it with my experience of being “tanked” in the burn center.

Twice a day for two weeks I was lowered into a Hubbard tank, a whirlpool contraption designed to aid in the debridement of burned tissue. Once in the tank, a couple of orderlies would take scalpels and surgical scissors and slice away my dead, burned skin. They had to cut down to viable tissue so that surgeons would have a living base on which to graft new skin. I was not put out for these procedures. I lay there fully awake while my skin was systematically peeled off of my body.

There is no way to adequately describe that kind of pain, though, Christ understood it. And that is what I was thinking as I thought about him being flogged. It must have felt like he was literally being skinned alive. As I contemplated this, I was overwhelmed with the thought that he was skinned alive for me, for my sins. I slowly read on.

After thrashing him, they pounded a crown of thorns on his head with a mock scepter. Then, they laid him on a wooden cross, spread out his arms, and nailed him to it using spikes substantial enough to hold him in place. Beaten half to death and bleeding, he was hoisted skyward to hang there until he died. I could not stop asking why. Over and over again I asked the Lord why he would go through all of that for somebody like me? After questioning him for some time, I finally just quietly sat there. He answered me. Not in an audible way but inwardly. I clearly heard him say, “Because I love you.” No other explanation was needed.

That answer is why I minister to Native Americans. God loves them. Unconditionally. There is nothing they have done that he can’t forgive and no problem he can’t help them overcome. I know. He has helped me overcome alcohol and drug abuse, third degree burns over sixty percent of my body, and hepatitis C Virus. I have been where many Native Americans are. Like me, God has a plan for their lives. I help them find it.