The Crushing That Brought Me Peace
As I reflect today on Good Friday, I can’t help but sit humbly in awe at the significance of this moment.
Not in a distant, historical way.
Not as something familiar that has lost its edge through repetition.
But as something that still carries weight.
Real weight.
Because this is not just a moment in time.
It is the moment where everything changed.
And the words that keep rising to the surface are these:
“But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.”
There is something about that passage that refuses to stay on the page.
It doesn’t read like poetry alone.
It reads like reality.
It forces you to slow down.
To stop.
To actually consider what is being said.
Pierced.
Crushed.
Chastisement.
Wounds.
These are not light words.
They are not symbolic in the way we sometimes reduce them.
They carry substance.
And when I sit with that really sit with itsomething shifts in me.
Because this was not random.
This was not accidental.
This was intentional.
There is also something that cannot be softened when we speak about this moment.
The cross was not symbolic in its execution.
It was not clean.
It was not distant.
It was a ghastly act of crucifixion.
A pure act of torture.
A method designed to humiliate, to break, and to fully expose the weight of suffering in the most physical and public way imaginable.
And yet, within that brutality… something far greater was taking place.
Because in that one divine moment—
the Son of God was not simply enduring pain.
He was being crushed.
Crushed for my sin.
For my shortcomings.
For my rebellion.
Not in abstraction.
Not in general terms.
But personally.
That reality cannot be avoided.
Sin is not light.
It is not neutral.
It carries consequence.
Separation.
Distance.
A fracture that humanity could not repair on its own.
And if that is the wage then something had to be paid.
And on this day… it was.
Not by us.
But by Christ.
And in that same moment
in what looked like defeat,
in what appeared to be weakness,
in what the world would have seen as the end—
something eternal was taking place.
The head of the serpent was crushed.
A victory hidden within suffering.
A triumph that did not look like triumph.
But was complete.
Because what was happening on the cross was not just the bearing of sin
it was the breaking of its power.
The undoing of what had been set in motion long before.
The beginning of restoration.
“He was pierced for our transgressions.”
That word our brings everything close.
Too close to ignore.
Because it means this was not just for humanity in general.
It was for me.
My sin.
My failure.
My wandering.
My attempts to carry life apart from God.
And as I reflect on my sins and shame…
I am not left in condemnation.
I am brought into humility.
Because the cross does not minimise sin.
It exposes it fully
and then deals with it completely.
“He was crushed for our iniquities.”
That word crushed carries a depth that cannot be reduced.
It speaks of weight fully absorbed.
Of judgment carried.
Of a burden that did not remain on us.
Because if it had
it would have destroyed us.
And in many ways, even the shadow of it still tries to.
Guilt.
Shame.
Regret.
These are not light things.
They shape identity.
They shape perception.
They shape how we move through life.
And yet, the cross meets every one of them.
“Upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace.”
Peace was not created by effort.
It was purchased.
Through suffering.
Through sacrifice.
Through a cost we could never pay.
And that is where grace becomes real.
Not theoretical.
But lived.
“And with his wounds we are healed.”
That line reaches deeper than surface-level understanding.
Because healing is not just about what is seen.
It reaches into what is carried.
And as I sit with that… I can’t separate it from my own life.
By His stripes, I am healed.
In the daily pain of my body.
In the history carried in my club feet.
In the emotional scars that remain beneath the surface.
In the places where my heart has been broken.
In the insecurities that still whisper.
In the shame that has tried to define me.
In the quiet weight of self-hate that I have had to confront.
In my darkest nights of the soul—
in the places where my mind has wrestled with despair,
where thoughts have turned heavy and suffocating,
where even the will to keep moving has felt distant
Jesus was not absent.
He was there.
He was crushed for that darkness.
He bore my suicidal ideations.
He carried my depression on that blood-stained cross.
The spilling of His divine blood
was not symbolic
it was substitution.
An eternal exchange.
His suffering…
for my freedom.
And even deeper
in the broken Sullivan bloodline that has shaped parts of my life in ways I am still learning to understand.
Patterns.
Wounds.
Things passed down seen and unseen.
And yet, the cross does not stop at the surface.
It reaches into the roots.
Because healing is not always the removal of pain.
Sometimes, it is the presence of God within it.
Sometimes, it is restoration unfolding slowly.
Identity being rebuilt.
Truth replacing what once held power.
And when I look through that lens
I can see that healing is already in motion.
Not because everything is resolved.
But because the foundation has already been laid.
Because by His stripes…
I am not bound to what came before me.
I am not defined by what tried to shape me.
I am being restored.
Good Friday does not allow us to treat sin lightly.
But it also does not leave us in it.
Because the response of God was not distance.
It was intervention.
Not rejection
but redemption.
And that is where the depth of this moment rests.
Not just in what we are saved from
but in what we are brought into.
Peace.
Restoration.
Relationship.
A life no longer built on striving
but on surrender.
And as I sit with this…
I don’t walk away with every answer.
But I walk away with something more important.
Clarity.
That I have not been left to carry what would have crushed me.
That weight has already been taken.
Already been absorbed.
Already been finished.
And what remains is not pressure
but grace.
And as this day comes to a close…
there is something I cannot ignore.
That even in the ordinary moments
in study,
in discipline,
in the quiet responsibilities of life—
this truth carries through.
Because what a powerful way to close out this day
submitting my second last assessment for King’s Bible College.
Not separate from this moment
but held within it.
Because even that is shaped by grace.
Not driven by striving.
Not built on pressure.
But grounded in what Christ has already done.
And in a quiet way…
it feels like alignment.
Learning.
Growing.
Being formed.
Not just academically
but spiritually.
And as everything settles…
there is only one place left to land.
Not in explanation.
Not in analysis.
But in thankfulness.
Deep thankfulness.
That I was not left in my sin.
That I was not left in my shame.
That I was not left to carry what would have destroyed me.
That in the most brutal, unimaginable moment in history
the Son of God was crushed…
so that I could be restored.
And as I sit with that
there are no words that fully hold it.
Only this:
Thank You.
For the cross.
For the weight You carried.
For the wounds that heal.
For the grace I did not earn.
For the peace that was purchased.
And for the reality…
that what was finished there
was enough.
And always will be.
About the Author
Dylan Verdun Sullivan is the founder of Refined by Fire Press and an Australian author indexed in the National Library. As a Level 7 Local Guide with over 1.2M views on Google Maps, he documents the intersection of faith, recovery, and the "light in the mundane."
- Read the Memoir: Kissed by Death on Amazon
- Explore the Journey: Follow Dylan on Google Maps
- Connect on Instagram: @porkysparadise
Comments
Post a Comment