Good Friday

One hill.  Three crosses.  Three men, caught in the Roman justice system, hanging on them.

And the Roman empire knew how to conduct a crucifixion: a lingering death, designed not only to maximize suffering, but to completely humiliate at the same time.  Once on the cross, nails through the wrists and feet would have pierced major nerves causing immediate, severe, radiating pain through the arms and legs. More than likely, the weight of the body on the arms would have caused dislocation of the shoulders or elbows.   And that's merely the beginning.

From the start, any movement would cause pain.  Fresh wounds from the scourging would rub against the rough wood of the cross causing torment with each slight shift of the body.  Through most of the ordeal, the victim's weight would be on his feet with the chest leaning forward placing maximum strain on the arms and dislocated shoulders.  As the arms began to fatigue, the cramps would begin.  Muscles would begin to knot causing relentlessly deep, throbbing pain.

But it gets worse.  Whether by design or accident, the pain of crucifixion was maximized with every breath.  As mentioned, the victim would lean forward with his weight centered on his feet.  From this position, he would be able to inhale, but he was not able to exhale.  Even to get one little breath, the victim would have to struggle to raise himself on nail pierced feet just to expel the air in his lungs.  He would then slump forward again until the body demanded oxygen.  Every breath would be an exercise in excruciating pain reverberating through the whole body.

One hill.  Three crosses.  And three men hanging on them.

The men on the end crosses were convicted thief's.  The one hanging on the middle cross was slightly more controversial.  Jewish leaders considered him a blasphemer, a threat to their religion.  Roman leaders considered him an inconvenience.  The man himself claimed to be not only the long awaited Messiah, but the very Son of God.

Just a little side note.  The same choices are before us two thousand years later, for any who will consider him.  He either was a blasphemer, a man who will threaten the religious.  Or he's merely an inconvenience, something to explain away whenever we hear his name.  Or he was the Messiah, the Son of God.

The man on the middle cross, this Jesus, pushed himself up and exhaled.  He slumped forward, drew a breath and spoke.  He spoke to his Father on behalf of the Jewish and Roman leaders who had sentenced him to hang on that cross.  He spoke on behalf of the centurion's who had pounded in the spikes, and were now gambling for his clothes.  "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."

Through a fog of pain, one of the thief's listened in amazement.  Why isn't this man screaming his innocence? 

Why isn't he demanding justice or vengeance? 

Why, of all things, does he ask that God forgive those who have done these horrendous things to him? 

The thief, more than anyone on that hill, knew the agony the man on the middle cross is enduring.  And yet he sees the peace. 

He sees the acceptance. 

He sees the determination.

The thief considers the options that have faced every person since that horrendous Friday afternoon....that day when man destroyed the most beautiful and perfect thing to ever walk this earth.  He considers the options, and turns to Jesus with one humble request.  "Please remember me." 

He doesn't ask to be delivered from pain. 

He doesn't plead to live. 

He's not after wealth or prosperity or glory. 

He asks for one thing....only to be remembered.

One simple request.  And one marvelous response.  The Messiah turns to the man and, I believe, with compassion in his eyes speaks the words, "This day you will be with me in Paradise." 

A beautiful promise of forgiveness. 

A promise of hope and peace. 

A man who, by his own admission, was thoroughly guilty. A man with no redeeming quality in him, dares to utter one humble request.  But he utters it to the one with every redeeming quality.  With his final breaths he trusted the man on the middle cross, and that made all the difference.

That is the gospel in its most gruesome and beautiful form.  A horrendous death paving the way for a life of hope and purpose for those who consider the options and, like the thief on the cross, trust the crucified redeemer.

And, as we pause to remember the brutal death of the Messiah, we remember the fact that, "It's only Friday...Sunday's coming." 

Easter Thoughts

"I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast.  And when I run I feel His pleasure."  

                                          Eric Liddell (Chariots of Fire)

That quote has stuck in my mind since I first saw the movie in 1981, particularly the last sentence, "And when I run I feel his pleasure."  To be clear, I am not built for running.  I am especially not built for running fast.  Truth be told, I am built much more like an old work horse than anything resembling a thoroughbred.  But I do like to run, and I have for most of my life.  It is true that I feel closest to God when I am out running with my dogs.  Or, short of that, when I am walking them along the Kettle River.  I can feel close to God when I'm in church to be sure.  I can feel close to him when I'm studying at my desk as well.  But truly, nothing compares to the closeness I feel when I am jogging down some dirt road, or walking in the woods.  For some reason, in those times I do feel his pleasure.

Well, I was walking my dogs, Abby and Hunter, along the river the other day.  Enjoying the beauty.  Talking to the Father.  Thinking about life.  About half way through the walk, I noticed that Abby was in the river, and she was struggling.  When I got down to where she was, I could tell that something was preventing her from getting out of the water, but I couldn't tell what it was.  As I grabbed her and tried pulling her out, she yelped and retreated to deeper water.  Since I am a tad slow mentally as well as physically, it took me a minute or two to realize that she had stepped on a beaver trap.  The weight attached to the trap wouldn't allow her to move, and since any movement caused pain, Abby was content not to move.  I did what I had to do.  I grabbed the wire attaching the trap to the shore, and began to pull the trap and Abby to me.  It hurt her, to be sure, but it was the only way to set her free.  Once I had her and the trap on the shore, I opened the jaws and pulled her out.  Fortunately, she had only caught her paw in the trap, and after running on three legs for awhile decided that there really wasn't enough damage not to run on all four.

On the walk back to the car, I reflected on Abby's little accident.  It occurred to me that way back in the Garden of Eden, a similar thing happened to Eve.  The enemy set a trap by saying, "You surely will not die!  For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."  We all know the story from Sunday School.  Eve stepped into the trap, and ate the fruit that God had forbidden them from eating.  When Eve brought the fruit to Adam, the first man could tell his wife had changed.  Adam had a choice.  He could refuse to eat the fruit, and keep the close fellowship he had with the Creator, or he could eat the fruit and become like his wife.  He looked at his wife, ate the fruit and walked into the trap.

That really is what Easter is all about.  The Creator's creation was trapped.  And the Creator came to set his creation free.  Ever since the first trap in the special garden, men and women have been stepping into traps set by the enemy, and ever since that time the Father has been working to set them free.

To be completely honest, I have stepped into a few traps myself.  Some of them I have seen, and some of them I haven't.  But regardless, just like I saw Abby's struggle, the Father sees mine.  He comes to where I'm at, draws me to himself and sets me free.  And just like with Abby, sometimes the extraction process can be painful, but the Father remains determined....and faithful.... and trustworthy.  And in the end, He sets me free.  Free to walk with him, and to fellowship with him.  And free to feel his pleasure when I run.   

The Armor

The nondescript village sat deep in the foothills of a lesser known mountain range seldom mentioned in history.  Records of the twelfth century seem to have neglected and, some would say, even ignored any contribution this little hamlet may have had on the advancement of the kingdom surrounding it.  To be sure, it was an isolated place on the banks of a beautiful river which wandered rather aimlessly from a towering neighboring mountain.  Any casual observer, strolling through this village, would have been impressed with the tidiness of the dwellings as well as the orderliness in which they were arranged.  Modest huts, some made of wood and others made of stone, neatly lined the trail that led through the center the town.  Had the observer spent any amount of time with the residents, he would have found them to be kind to one another, leery of strangers and persistent as they went about their daily activities.

A word must be said regarding the average day in this village.  There were, without a doubt, a variety of things that needed to be done every day just to provide for the survival of the community.  Of course, there were also daily rituals required to keep the area neat and orderly and the population well fed..  Over the years the villagers had become adept at quickly doing the mundane things of life so that they could concentrate on their passion.  Yes, everyone in the village shared an obsession. They would rise early to complete the required demands of they day so that they could spend any remaining time doing what they loved most.  Making armor.  And could these people make armor.  Helmets, breastplates, gauntlets and everything else necessary to clothe a knight.  They would also make shields, axes and swords as well as a variety of other forms of weaponry.

It's what these people did, don't you see.  For generation after generation, the people of this village spent their days designing and molding some truly beautiful armor and, if they would admit it, they were proud of the wonderful pieces neatly displayed outside of their tiny wooden and stone houses.  When they weren't making the armor or polishing it, for each piece would be polished daily, they spent their time discussing how the armor might be used.  They would imagine battles that would be fought, and victories that would be won with their truly splendid armor.

There was, indeed, a question that the villagers would not allow to come into focus in their minds.  While the armor did look magnificent, and while it was unquestionably beautiful and always well polished, it really had never been tested in battle.  Without a doubt, there had been opportunity, for the kingdom was constantly under attack.  But, sadly, the village was wary of allowing any of its people or armor to leave and do battle for the kingdom.  The possibility of the swords becoming dented or scratched was a concern as was the thought of the well maintained helmets and breastplates losing the sheen that can only come from decades of dedicated furbishing.  Since the village was inconsequential in kingdom warfare, the enemy never attacked and the warriors of the kingdom had little reason to pass through.  And so, the people of the village passed their time buffing their armament and discussing battle logistics.

One day, a form appeared on the horizon opposite the mountain.  A lone man slowly walking toward the isolated village.  His image was indistinct in the distance as the inhabitants of the village cautiously peered from the doorways of the small wood and stone huts.  Visitors to the area were practically nonexistent, and so the townspeople watched the approaching figure guardedly.

As the figure drew closer, it became clear that the man was a knight just recent from battle.  He approached the edge of the village with his helmet cradled in his left arm as his sword swung from his belt beneath his right.  His path took him down the trail through the middle of the town as he made his way toward the river at the foot of the mountain.  From behind closed doors, the villagers stared at the figure with the grey, grizzled hair, and several weeks worth of beard on his face.  Although weak, he carried himself with determination as he made his way between the houses.  The warrior's mind was filled with memories of substantial kingdom victories as well as remembrances of crushing defeats.  He saw the doors of the houses move ever so slightly, and knew his movements were being studied.  He saw the magnificently shining armor outside of the houses, but their beauty did not seem to move him.  So he walked toward the river, aware of staring eyes, mindful of subdued whispers, but indifferent to any of it.  The warrior was wise enough to know what was being said, but old enough not to care.

Once he had reached the river side of the town, the villagers slowly made their way outside and filled the trail behind him.  He was some distance away, but still they spoke in low tones.  They spoke despairingly of the huge gouges in his breastplate, and the dents in his helmet.  As they spoke, they could be seen pointing to the armor proudly displayed outside of their wooden and stone houses.  They compared the brightness of their armor to the dingy, soot covered and grungy armor worn by the stranger.  Smiles and snickers were common as they contrasted his beat up sword and pitted shield with the masterpieces in their yards.  And for the villagers, it was a glorious night.  They spoke late into the night about the neglected armor the stranger wore, and they laughed at his tattered weaponry.  They speculated at the battles he must of lost, and shook their heads in disdain at the defeats he must have so foolishly suffered.  At long last they slept.  They slept knowing that their armor would never be as dingy as that of the stranger who passed through that day.  And they slept reassured in their minds that they would have been victorious in the battles in which the passing warrior had suffered defeat.

The warrior slept too.  He slept next to the river with his breastplate as a pillow, and his sword at his side.  He slept dreaming of the battles to come, and victories won for the kingdom.  And the warrior slept well.         

     

“Isn't it weird that the mighty army of the children of God – shod with faith, shielded by righteousness, and armed with the Word of God – spends the vast majority of its time either polishing its armor or fighting with one another?” - Mike Warnke