Broken For You
“This is my body, broken for you.”
I’ve heard this my whole life, from male pastors as they rip a piece of bread in two before serving communion.
It has always felt fairly civilized. It’s never felt graphic or violent or appeared physically painful for anyone involved, although it is sometimes emotionally or spiritually so if I’m tuned in enough.
As I prepared for giving birth, the whole idea of the ripping and tearing of bodies felt a lot closer to home, a lot more urgent and heartwrenching and tense. I researched the best exercises and products that might prevent my body from being torn apart while getting my baby to my arms.
Even before birth, my body and I did some things that weren’t so pleasant in preparation for this kiddo. My uterus grew to 500 times its normal size, which is both terrifying and fascinating. I ate things I didn’t want and didn’t eat things I really wanted. I vomited and gagged and cried, sometimes all at the same time. I huffed and puffed, chronically out of breath from the building of a person on top of my organs, so much that my dad on the other end of the phone asked, “What is that noise? Is that you breathing?”
I stretched, exercised, breathed. I hid some of my dearest clothing items away so that I wouldn’t feel so sad every time I saw them and remembered they wouldn’t fit around my big belly and strange body. Things were put in and on me that I won’t describe here - not all pleasant, but for the purpose of making sure the baby was safe and growing.
And all of this, knowing that it was a quite likely possibility that my body would be broken, ripped right open like communion bread, for this kid. I knew this was possible when we decided to try for a baby. I knew going into labor, into pregnancy, into marriage even that this could happen while really, really hoping it wouldn’t, that I’d be a magical exception.
Whether or not my body tore isn’t the point. The point is that I knew it could and chose to do this thing anyway — and it didn’t even save the world from sin. Instead, it brought another sinner into the world.
Imagine Jesus, fully God, fully man, wholly Good, having his body torn apart. Imagine him agreeing to live in a sad, broken place for 33 straight years knowing that the culmination would be a sad, broken - yet perfect - death.
Imagine him knowing this was coming, and then once it did, begging for it to be taken away — while still fully trusting the Father’s sovereignty.
Thinking of the death of Jesus shows me the extent to which I am not at all God. Obviously I’m not, but when two somewhat similar situations are side-by-side, the differences are striking. Humiliating, even.
Where Jesus was proud of his scars and showed them to those he loved as proof of that love, I impatiently had and still have questions like how long until my body heals? And when can I go running again? Not to mention having had many pain relief options during the process, which I enthusiastically embraced.
Where Jesus was the only one worthy of taking on our sin and dying his death, I joined a quite large cohort of humanity in giving birth and have been welcomed into a community of others who are familiar with my pain.
Where Jesus had to go find his people and convince those who loved him most dearly that this really happened, showing them the hurt in his body as proof, the ones who loved me most were waiting with baited breath to listen, cheer me on, commiserate, bring snacks, and love on our whole (now bigger!) family.
How can it be that I can go through a lesser experience with more intervention and support and yet be exponentially more whiny about it? How can it be that the work of Jesus was done so that I don’t have to pay for my own whininess, as well as actual sin?
Where Jesus was selflessly proud that he could give such a gift to us, I am selfishly proud that I am stronger than I thought I could be (completely forgetting that it is Christ in me that is strong, and not me at all). Jesus Christ certainly didn’t die to find out that he’s braver and more resilient than he’d ever known.
Where Jesus acted completely sacrificially, I got something I’ve wanted for my whole life out of this . And where Jesus’ event means I can now live, mine means that now another person is dependent on the death he already died.
I gave birth on Christmas Eve, when we celebrate Jesus entering the world with the knowledge that he would die. Did Mary think about these things?
Giving birth took the awe and wonder I felt at what God knew he was getting himself into from hypothetical to tangible, even a little visceral. Experiencing the smallest whiff of what it is to break so that another can live points me to how completely incapable I am at doing it in a godly way. It shows me just how much he loves me - and I am not cute and pure like a baby. I come into this situation stubborn and resentful of any taste of dependence.
If my body can be broken for someone I didn’t even know yet (and still barely — yet deeply — know), how much more does the God who made me and sees my nasty attitudes and ugly heart love me? This is the God who will never even be tempted to remind me how much he went through for me, how much inconvenience I have caused, how I really need to shape up and stop being so much of a problem. This is the God who is shalom, who doesn’t need my excuses or justifications. This is the God who breathes peace, who loves me when I’m scared of exploring the depths of what I don’t deserve.
He was broken willingly, died lovingly, rose gloriously, and loves perfectly.
His body, broken for me.
Love,
Lauralicious