Growing up I had a German shepherd named Casey. My dad bought her to protect us after he and my mom divorced; I was about five, I needed Casey. I would crawl inside her cage and lie down beside her, stroking her coarse black back and rubbing her soft brown ears. She followed me to the bus stop every morning and was there waiting for me when I came home from school. She was a classic German police dog—black saddle, golden-brown coat, tall pointed ears, a long nose, wiry hair and large black eyes. She was my dog, and I loved her deeply.
When Casey had puppies, she trusted me enough to let me crawl into the closet with her when they were born, to pat them and lie beside her while they nursed noisily. I can still feel their velvety noses and wrinkled faces on my finger tips. We had many animals growing up—lots of dogs—but Casey was different. In many ways, she was the perfect dog.
I was in middle school when she got sick. By then, I had started going out with friends and wasn’t giving her the attention I once had. One day my mom told me Casey had to be put down, and I flat-lined emotionally— I don’t know if that makes me heartless or just fiercely protective of my heart.
I will never forget the day she was taken to the vet. I had plans to go out, and rather than accept the invitation to go with her, I kept my frivolous plans with friends. I didn’t cry or say goodbye. I remember being frustrated because I was trying to get out the door and she was in my way. I spoke harshly to her—maybe even nudged her aside with my leg. “Get out of the way, Casey.” There was irritation and impatience in my voice.
That was the last time I saw her.
Sometimes, to let go of something we love, we disconnect emotionally. Otherwise, the pain would be unbearable. It’s almost as if we must despise its presence—diminish its worth—so that when it’s gone, we don’t fall apart, I wonder if, in some way, that is what the Priests and Jewish leaders did to Jesus.
From the beginning, God required a spotless, perfect lamb as an acceptable offering. At the first passover before leaving Egypt, God instructed Israel to take a perfect lamb and keep it for fourteen days then kill it and eat it—an ordinance meant to be celebrated every year. Can you imagine how difficult that must have been? To bring a lamb into your home, feed it, care for it, stroke it, maybe let your children play with it—and then slaughter it? Something has to harden in the human heart. Tenderness toward the lamb could threaten obedience. It would be easier to offer a lamb you didn’t love.
So when Jesus—the true and perfect Lamb—was healing the sick, loving the broken, teaching with authority and compassion, how could they not love him and not make Him king? How could they crucify a man like that? He lived among them. He grew up with them. He was their brother. He was morally upright, authoritative, gentle, and good.
He was perfect.
The only way they could fulfill the law—to kill Him instead of keep Him—was to hate Him. To harden their hearts. To plunge the knife into his neck.
Jesus did not die because He was guilty. Pilate said so. The disciples knew it. Even the criminal on the cross recognized it. Jesus died because He was worthy.
Sometimes love must be denied for sacrifice to be made. And sometimes, the only way to kill a lamb is to stop loving it.
In the end, it wasn’t that I lost Casey that hurts today- it was how I said goodbye.
But we learn and change and even heal from our past pains and sins. When the dog my children grew up with died, I did it differently. We had Brody for ten years. The night before, we called the children downstairs, and they loved and cuddled him. The next day, he died in my arms at the vet. I guess I learned something. Still, I carry a quiet ache over Casey not simply because I lost her, but because of how I reacted to those losses. That part of me was ugly and hard.
Even if the Jews had to harden their hearts in order to kill their perfect Lamb of God, it remains a black stain. they killed God but God wanted it. He arranged for it. He prescribed it. still no doubt It struck some of them for the rest of their lives—perhaps even to repentance and surrender. Maybe that is the point after all. They would not kill someone they saw as perfect; they had to hate Him first. They had to harden their hearts. And only after the blood was shed could they return soft and broken, able to receive the full weight and purpose of His offering—forgiveness for their ugliness.
Written by Kim Blenkhorn
My Faith Place 