If God is Love, He is, by definition, something more than mere kindness. And it appears, from all the records, that though He has often rebuked us and condemned us, He has never regarded us with contempt. He has paid us the intolerable compliment of loving us, in the deepest, most tragic, most inexorable sense.— CS Lewis, The Problem of Pain
To love and forgive is painful for us. But I often forget that it is deadly to God.
In a sense, Nietzsche was right: God died; and we have killed Him. I have taken him and nailed him to a cross and he bore the punishment that I rightfully deserved. What terrifying love is that which would make a cosmic king lay down his life for the murderer that I am? And what stupefying joy it is that he has risen and conquered death? And how utterly bewildering that the object of his affection is me? ME? Me the coward? The liar, hypocrite, bigoted, petty, unkind ME?? If this is a lie, it is a frightening lie. But if it were true, it is infinitely more terrifying to behold. Because this means my life is no longer my own—it was bought at a monstrous price—with the life of a God. Who loved me enough to think it a worthy exchange.
