This was the wasteland, a domain of desolation as far as the eye could see. I had dwelt in this land for as long as I could remember. I was alone, but my memory still retained a frozen glimpse of the faces of people who had been my travelling companions at one time or another. They had fallen in beside me, seeking my company, until they could no longer keep pace with me. At that point, they fell by the wayside, disappearing into the mists of time. Now I was a solitary wayfarer, steadfastly carrying on in my quest for . . . for what?
That was the question that had plagued me from the beginning. I could still recall the voices of my friends asking me, "What is it you're searching for?" I did not yet have the answer, although I knew in my heart that there must be one. In the depths of my being was an intangible something that drove me onward, awakening a voracious thirst within my soul. Ah, water . . . the very thought of its refreshing coolness was a taunt to my parched throat. The distinction between the physical and the spiritual was becoming blurred, for I thirsted in a way that was strangely more than physical.
Dark, foreboding clouds, obscured the sunlight and seemed to mimic the restlessness in my heart. As I pondered them, I recalled fleeting moments in the past when a ray of light had managed to slice its way through to the ground below. And I remembered thinking that this light had been a sign from Him, the Source of all things.
All things? Somehow, I could not imagine that the wasteland had been His doing. And yet, how had it originated? Who else had the ability to create? And who would want to create this? The answer I received was rather unsettling; my heart told me that somehow I was responsible for the abominable predicament I found myself in. But how had I caused this?
Despair began to set in; an oppressive burden of emptiness fell upon me. I sensed keenly the difference between truly living and merely existing. My existence upon this earth seemed devoid of any meaning. The flame of hope was dying. I trudged on.
Suddenly, there came a voice inside my head: "Look up."
I could not determine the source of the voice, but it spoke with authority and I felt compelled to obey. Looking up, I saw a ray of light piercing the dense cloud. I squinted, then turned my face away from the brightness. The brilliant light passed over me and moved forward until it stopped on a hill a short distance away.
"Run!" the voice commanded. Now I recognized its origin; it was the Creator. I hastened to obey, dashing off towards the light.
As I approached, it became apparent that the beam was illuminating a particular object on top of the hill. As I closed the gap between myself and the light, the object took on a definite shape: a cross. And something--I could not tell what--was dangling from it.
Another dozen steps brought into focus a sight for which I was not prepared; I saw a man hanging upon the cross, wracked with pain. I came to an abrupt halt, my eyes riveted to the gory spectacle before me.
As I stared, the Creator said inside my head: "Come near to Me."
What?! My mind reeled in confusion. Tearing my eyes away from the pitiful figure on the cross, I gazed up at the clouds in bewilderment. "How can I come near to You when I can't even see You?"
Suddenly, my eyes were drawn back to the tortured man on the cross. I noticed then that there were huge spikes in His hands and feet, blood oozing steadily from the wounds. Upon His brow, He wore a crown of thorns, which dug into His scalp and sent rivulets of blood streaming down over the swollen purple lumps on His face. Then through that hideous mask of blood and bruises, His eyes met mine and gripped me so intensely that I could not move from where I stood. His eyes pierced my very soul, seeking to communicate something to me. Simultaneously, the Creator's voice said a second time, "Come near to Me."
I inhaled sharply, gasping in horror at the ultimate paradox: The Creator and the crucified were one and the same. I could not comprehend this, so I simply flung myself forward, fell to my knees and wrapped my weary arms around the base of the cross.
With my face to the ground, I became acutely aware of the God-man's utter holiness and purity-- contrasted with my filth and degradation. A new and terrible conviction was impressed upon me: the realization that it was my own evil which had put Him on this cross. The Creator had somehow become a victim of the wasteland--a wasteland I myself had caused to exist.
The tears welled up in my eyes as I sobbed, "Oh, Lord, what have I done to You?" I did not dare to look up into His holy eyes as those words of guilt fell from my lips. I expected Him to reject me, but instead I felt a wave of divine love washing over me. My sins were upon Him, but His love was upon me.
I felt a wetness on my hands. Lifting my eyes, I saw drops of His blood trickling over my fingers and down my arms. Something made me look up, and a drop of blood splashed upon my forehead. I hugged the cross tighter still as the gentleness of His voice sang in my ears once again: "My child, you are cleansed."
The healing power of His love poured over me, and I let the tears flow freely, for they were no longer tears of sorrow, but of joy. I knelt there a while longer, basking in the glow of His forgiveness, soaking up His love like a helpless little child. My sins were gone.
Then I opened my eyes; the cross and my Saviour had disappeared. Yet I could still sense His presence in and around me. I heard His voice say, "If you are thirsty, come to Me and drink. Whoever believes in Me, streams of living water will flow from within him."
I looked up and saw that I was kneeling on the bank of a river. I bent forward and drank from its clear, cool waters. My thirst was quenched, my soul satisified--and the wasteland was no more.
Andy Doerksen lives in Langley, B.C.