I’ve always had trouble accepting the idea that Jesus died on the cross for my salvation. I’m sure I wouldn’t have let him suffer that torturous death if I’d havd any say in the matter. I understand the resurrection as his way of demonstrating that life is eternal. But couldn’t he have died quietly in his sleep before returning in his glorified body? Was all that blood and pain absolutely necessary?

I think that one reason most of us get more excited about Christmas than we do about Easter is that Christmas is the celebration of the birth of a sweet, innocent baby, while Easter follows that horrible, agonizing death. Yet it was on Christmas, many years ago, that a loved one gave his blood for my sake. The sacrifice was on a much smaller scale than the one Jesus made, but as I look back on it, that experience helps me to comprehend the purpose behind Jesus Christ’s decision to be crucified for us.

It was 1979. I was working as an editorial assistant at a Southern Baptist publishing house, while my husband, Mark, attended the surgeon’s assistant program in Birmingham, Alabama. I planned to work as a free-lance writer after Mark graduated and got a job. Meanwhile, I spent my free time pecking out stories on a manual typewriter. Someday I planned to buy an electric typewriter, but I was earning just enough money to cover our living expenses and Mark’s tuition, so the new typewriter would have to wait. Our parents paid our airfare so that we could visit them on Long Island and in New Jersey for the holidays, and we forewarned our families that our presence would be our presents!

Earlier that year Mark had told me that he’d been stuck with a dirty needle while doing one of his hospital rotations. There was some danger of infection, so he’d been going to the lab for blood tests every couple of weeks for several months. Being totally ignorant of medical matters, this didn’t concern me, and it was far from my mind on Christmas morning as we opened gifts with Mark’s parents and his sister. When the last package had been unwrapped, Mark presented me with a card on which he’d written: “This coupon is good for one Smith Corona electric typewriter, compliments of the plasmapheresis bank.”

I had no idea what plasmapheresis was, so my first reaction was one of bewilderment. Mark explained that he had not been stuck with a dirty needle, but that all the holes in his arm had been due to plasma donations he’d made in order to earn money for an electric typewriter. “I didn’t want you to know, because I didn’t think you’d let me do it,” he said. “The needle they use for plasma donations is a lot bigger than what they use for regular blood donations.”

Mark was right. I would not have wanted him to undergo all those painful donations for a typewriter! But I knew he had done it, not because I had to have the typewriter right away (which I didn’t), but because he wanted to demonstrate his love for me in a tangible way. I hugged him, and as I absorbed the significance of his sacrifice, tears welled in my eyes. No, Mark’s sacrifice can’t compare to what Jesus suffered for us, but his action helps me to understand Christ’s sacrifice. Mark donated his blood plasma without my knowledge because he knew I would protest if he told me about it. None of us would have asked Jesus to let himself be crucified for our sakes, just as his disciples did not ask him to, and would have prevented it if it had been in their power to do so. Mark chose to do what he did in order to give me a wonderful Christmas surprise. Jesus chose to die, to teach us about salvation, whether we wanted him to or not, because he knew it was the best way to demonstrate the eternalness of lilfe. I have to accept his gift, just as I accepted Mark’s, because he offers it in love — and I would never reject a gift of love.

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