It’s two days before Christmas and we are reading about Easter.

But let’s me more accurate, shall we? It is two days before many people celebrate the birth of Jesus and we are reading about his death. In Matthew 27:33-50, we are reading about his death.

We use religious shorthand – Christmas, Easter –  to stand for the celebrations that formed around these two events. But the shorthand covers the actual physical events. A baby was born. That hurts. A man was crucified. Arguably, that hurts more. Both involve waves of pain, gushes of blood. At each you hear great gasps for breath, cries for relief. Often, sedatives are offered and are occasionally denied. Both are messy.

But then, when we think of implications, the two diverge. The birth is usually about hope, about new life, about dreams and growth and change and a future. A crucifixion, never so.  Crucifixions are about punishment, protection, purifying the land of another villain, another insurrectionist, another crook. Every mother prays her child ends up good; every executioner knows some mother’s prayers were unanswered.

Until this particular day, cross, executioner, crucifixion, dying man. On this day, with people looking on and all the usual gore, something began to look like a birth. Buried in blood, hope hid. Dreams died, yes, but only for those who thought they knew the story. For the rest, unknowing, unsuspecting, a future was in the process of being born. This death was planned to provide life, on the other side, mind you.

In time (less than three days), the separation from God part of death was going to disappear. The despair and dread, defeated.

Death still hurts, but this particular death looks almost exactly like a birth. Or maybe it just allows new birth.

But in the middle? It hurt like hell.