A Thorn in His Brow

“Ouch, wait!  There is something hurting my foot.”

I brought the hiking crew to a sudden halt as I examined my river shoes.  Thinking it was a sharp rock, I shook my foot to force the pebble out one of the openings.  With a few more steps and a few more shakes it was obvious that the stone would not be deterred.  It was eager to take a bite out of my big toe.  Thankfully, we were nearing the cabin we occupied for this year’s Women’s Retreat and my momentary agony would be over as soon as I could free my foot from its prison.

After reaching our journey’s end and examining the perpetrator up close, I found it was not a rock at all.  It was a thorn.  And not just any thorn, but an industrial-size indestructible super-thorn.  It had pierced all the way through the sole of my shoe from the bottom, missing my toe by millimeters.  Only when my piggy began rubbing up against its sharp point did my foot begin to protest the intrusion.  Had it hit my toe directly, I would not have confused it with a stone but a spear.

After employing various tools to pry the monster out of its place, I could further analyze its menacing form.  At 3 centimeters long, its woody length unyielding to my best efforts to break it, the spike made a formidable opponent for my unsuspecting shoe.  I ran through my memory of the local plant life trying to pinpoint its origins.  And it occurred to me, thorns of this magnitude only appear during Easter celebrations.  If you have attended church services during the Easter season, you might have noticed a crown of thorns commonly used as Easter ornamentation to punctuate the suffering of Christ.   My mind immediately jumped to this image.  Now that I had the opportunity to study one of these thorns up close and experience its tenacity for myself, I realized with new understanding how terrible the reality of Christ’s experience must have been.

I heard myself eloquently exclaim, “If this thorn is like the ones they put on my Savior’s head, I’m going to be ticked.”

The damage such a nail-hard barb could cause to tender flesh seemed tangibly evident.  I winced at the thought of what it would be like for a wreath of these savage weapons to be crushed down around my forehead and ears.

As I contemplated a fraction of the misery Jesus must have endured, it occurred to me that the cause of His suffering resided in me.  It was my sin that put Him through the agony of that fateful day.  He wore the crown without comment, he withstood the pain without retaliation, because of the corrupt choices of my yesterdays, my today, and undoubtedly my tomorrows.  In essence, I am the thorn.

This brought the object I held in my hand into a new light.  No longer did it symbolize the evil of others.  It was an emblem of the deplorable darkness of my own heart.  I likened its rigid structure and sharp point to my stubborn and destructive pride.  I likened His torn and bleeding brow to the damage I unknowingly cause when I insist on doing things any way other than His.  Now, instead of being angry at the malicious offender, I was endeared to it.  The hardened spur represents who I am in my own strength.  And I hope this image will “spur” me on to surrender my life to Christ’s worthy hands daily, allowing His gentle manner to reign in me.