Broken: A Good Friday Reflection


The plate moved my way to begin yet another Communion.
I grabbed the body and the blood from the gold platter as it floated past me.
Well…what I mean is I grabbed the Wine and the Bread.
Who am I kidding?
I grabbed the juicy juice and the oyster cracker and began to examine my heart.

I knew what these items in my hands represented. I knew the importance of remembering.

But goodness it sure can be hard to find meaning in an undersized cup of sugar water and a cracker best partnered with Chicken Noodle Soup.

To be honest, I had always struggled with it.
This idea of eating and drinking to remember what Jesus did on the cross.
I knew what it was supposed to mean.
As a pastor I even explained to others what the elements meant.
But often I felt a disconnect;  a separation between what Jesus did for me and what I was doing to remember him.

One day this all changed.

One Sunday morning I was part of the worship team.
When the plate came to me I struggled to juggle my itty bitty cup, my tiny cracker and my microphone. I pictured myself dropping Jesus’ blood all over our wonderful maroon church carpet (which maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing!) so I decided to readjust.

It was in the process of switching things around when something happened.

In my attempt to lessen my load I had forgotten about the small cracker tucked in the palm of my hand.
I opened my hand to see my cracker…
Broken. Crushed. Turned to dust.

My knees grew weak and I started to sob.

As I looked down on my crushed cracker the reality of what Jesus really did for me hit me like a wave.

The little body of my cracker had only felt the weight of my hand and it was unrecognizable to me.

How much more was Jesus broken for us?


I think the reason I had a hard time connecting, as I’m sure many people do, is because as a culture I don’t believe we really know what broken is or what brokenness looks like.

When I got online today to write I saw that it had embarrassingly been over two weeks since I last wrote a blog post.
I felt ashamed and I immedietley heard myself make an excuse.
“Don’t worry about it Hannah. It’s been a really tough month. You’ve been sick. You’ve been tired. You’ve felt pretty broken these last few weeks.”

Then the reality of that broken cracker;
| my saviors tattered body |
hit me once again.

I don’t have the faintest idea what it means to be broken.

Sure I have had bad days.
I’ve been hurt before.
I’ve been sick and tired before.
I’ve felt pain.

But I don’t understand brokenness.

If you break down the definition of “Brokenness” here is what you get:

1. Violently separated into parts
2. Damaged or altered by breaking
3. Violated by transgression
4. Made weak or infirm
5. Subdued completely
6. Crushed
7. Cut off


We may FEEL so broken that we don’t think we can even go on.
We may FEEL so broken that we wonder where God is.
But the truth is, we are hardly acquainted with it.

None of us truly understand living a life where we are “violated by transgression.” We have never truly been “violently separated into parts” or “completely separated”.

Someone has known it for us all along.

Isaiah 53: 4-5, 7 says this:
“It was our weaknesses that He carried; it was our sorrows that weighed Him down. And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God for His own sins!
But He was wounded and crushed for our sins.
He was beaten that we might have peace.
He was whipped and we were healed!
He was oppressed and treated harshly, yet He never said a word.”

The bad days we have had are nothing.
The sickness we face are nothing.
The brokenness and loneliness that we have experienced are nothing.

No matter what happens in this life, I am never broken because he was broken for me.

The Lover of my soul said “Your will be done” when He could have said, “Take this cup from me.”

The Lover of my soul was violated for my transgressions, made weak by my wanderings, cut off from my Father, and crushed for my sins.

He is my broken victor.

As for me . . .

I know nothing of brokenness.
And I have someone to thank for that.


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