Line upon Line

Adapted from a talk given in a sacrament meeting on Palm Sunday.

I’ve spent the last 50 years trying to get to know Jesus. We have the greatest tools: scriptures, prayer, living prophets. Have you ever wanted to have a vision, yourself? What were people doing when they’ve had visions: they asked great questions and pondered the Savior and His atonement, and even imagining His presence. Will you imagine with me?

I want to take you back, before this world was, to a conversation you had with your Heavenly Parents, Parents who are pure light, who love you more than words. They ask you, “What is wanted? What do you really want?”

“Father, I want to be with you! I want to be like you!”

“Oh good! That’s what I want, too!”

“How do we do that?” you asked.

“My child, I’m going to make a game world called “Minefield” where everything will break. Your body will break. Your mind will probably fail you at some point, your heart will break, and your faith might even break. Your memory of this conversation will be no more than a whisper.” 

Do you think you said, “This sounds amazing! When do I start?”

No. At this point, you’re feeling pretty raw, hopeless, asking, “Is there no other way?”

“My child, everything will break. But I will come and offer healing for it all. Right in the meridian, or middle of it all, I’ll send my Son to fix all the brokenness. All of it—for those who will accept it.”

“So I’m in this game world – how many lives do I get?”

“One.”

“I get one life? One shot?”

“Yes, one.” 

“But I’ll fail. I won’t remember you – Everything will be breaking – I’ll be breaking! I’m going to fail!”

“How about this: When you feel ready, I’ll make a promise with you, give you the name of Jesus, and make you whole. I’ll even send my second in command, the Holy Ghost, to be with you always.”

“Oh good! Then I’ll be done with the game?” 

“No.” 

“But, Father, I’ll keep failing because I’ll keep forgetting you!” 

“I know. Once a week, I will sit with you, and break bread and drink with you so you can remember my Son. And I’ll wash and anoint you as often as you fall. I’ll even make a covering for you to wear to remember Jesus’ name. 

I’ll have a home on earth with 2 altars in it: One where you promise to give everything you have to me, and another where I promise to give everything I have to you. I’ll give you signs and tokens that point you to Jesus and His sacrifice for you. Then, at the end, I will personally take you by the hand and bring you through the veil, back into my presence. Then, together, we will partake of eternal life and exaltation.”

Now, I share that story because I know what that ‘Minefield’ feels like. I have stood in the hospital room with a 14-year-old son burned by fireworks, and I have sat in the quiet of an empty room praying for children who have walked away from their covenants. I know that in this life, ‘everything breaks.’ But because I know that in breaking, I have had to find the Healer. And that Healer is why we are here today. 

Today we begin the most sacred week in human history. It began with “Hosannas” and palm branches strewn in the dusty streets of Jerusalem. But we know—that the path led from the cheers of the crowd to the solitude of a garden, the rending of a veil, which represents Jesus Christ, and ultimately, the breathtaking triumph of an empty tomb.

The Garden and the Altar

When we speak of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we are speaking of an act so expansive it defies the limits of our vocabulary. But for a moment, I want to speak of the cost. We sometimes skip too quickly to the “Alleluia” without lingering long enough at the “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani” which is: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

In Gethsemane—a garden that mirrors Eden where the Fall began—the Savior of the world stepped into a darkness that was not His own. He took upon Himself the staggering, crushing weight of every sin, every sorrow, and every bitter disappointment. He knelt at the ultimate altar of sacrifice, offering not the blood of lambs or goats, but His own life’s blood. He bled at every pore—not from a physical illness, but from a spiritual pressure so immense that the human frame could scarcely endure it.

He stood in a solitude we will never have to face, precisely because He faced it. He was abandoned so that you and I would never, ever have to be.

Passing Through the Veil

Then came Friday. We call it “Good Friday,” though at the time, it must have seemed like the catastrophic end of everything. They watched the Light of the World go dark. But as the Savior drew His last breath, something miraculous happened in the temple: the veil was rent in twain from the top to the bottom.

That was no mere architectural accident. It was a profound, cosmic declaration that because of the Lamb of God, the way back into the presence of the Father—the Holy of Holies—was now open to every son and daughter of God. 

He became the divine co-signer of our souls, the One who put His own life up as collateral to ensure that every promise made to us by the Father would be kept, regardless of our own bankruptcy. He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life; no man or woman comes back to the Father but by Him. He has invited us to be clothed in His righteousness, to wear white robes of His holy priesthood because He wore reminding red robes.

The Power to Bind and Loose

If Gethsemane and Calvary were the payment for our debts, the Resurrection was the receipt, written in the indelible ink of an empty sepulcher. Because He rose, the grave has no victory.

The Resurrection is not just a metaphor; it is a literal, physical reality. Because of Him, the sealing power of the holy priesthood is not just a nice idea—it is an eternal law. Because of that empty tomb, the mother who has buried a child will hold that child again. The husband and wife who have been “bound on earth” by the power of God will find that they are “bound in heaven.” No grave can hold what God has sealed, and no death can permanently sever the hearts of those who have entered into His holy order.

To the One Who Struggles

Now, I know there are some of you sitting here today who feel that the Atonement is a grand plan for “everyone else,” but perhaps not for you. You feel your mistakes are too repetitive or your heart too weary for grace to reach.

To you, I say with all the fervor of my soul: Please, do not believe that. Do not suggest that the reach of the Almighty is shorter than your mistakes. The Atonement is not a prize for the perfect; it is the provision for the penitent. He isn’t waiting for you to get “better” before He helps you; He is waiting to help you so that you can get better. He wants to lead you by the hand through every veil of doubt and every gate of despair.

My Witness

I close with my own witness. I know Him. I know that Jesus is the Christ. His relentless redemptiveness exceeds our recurring wrongs. I know that on that first Easter morning, when Mary Magdalene stood weeping and heard her name spoken by a familiar, beloved voice, the future of the entire human family was rewritten.

He lives! He is a resurrected, glorified Being with a heart of infinite compassion.

Let us remember the covenants we have made and the promises He has kept. May we walk through this week with awe for the One who died that we might live, and who rose that we might never truly die. In the sacred name of Him who is the Resurrection and the Life, even Jesus Christ, amen.