Six Hours One Friday Read online

  “You have a son.” She raises her head just enough to see the red infant cradled in the broad palms of the physician.

  Delighted with his task, the doctor cleans the eyes and smiles as he watches them fight to open. The child, freshly welcomed from the womb, is returned to his mother.

  The next house he visits is quiet. Outside the bedroom a white-haired wife sits. Inside is the frail frame of her husband, hot with fever. Nothing can be done. The doctor is helpless as the man takes his last breath. It’s deep—his bony, bare chest rises. His mouth opens wide, so wide that his lips whiten. Then he dies.

  The same hands that cleansed the eyes of the infant now close the eyes of the dead. All during a period of six hours on one Friday.

  He fights off the questions. He hasn’t time to hear them today. But they are stubborn and demand to be heard.

  Why heal the sick only to postpone death?

  Why give strength only to see it ebb away?

  Why be born and then begin to die?

  Who points the crooked finger at death’s next victim?

  Who is this one that with such regular randomness separates soul from body?

  He shrugs and places the sheet over the ashening face.

  Six hours, one Friday.

  To the casual observer the six hours are mundane. A shepherd with his sheep, a housewife with her thoughts, a doctor with his patients. But to the handful of awestruck witnesses, the most maddening of miracles is occurring.

  God is on a cross. The Creator of the universe is being executed.

  Spit and blood are caked to his cheeks, and his lips are cracked and swollen. Thorns rip his scalp. His lungs scream with pain. His legs knot with cramps. Taut nerves threaten to snap as pain twangs her morbid melody. Yet death is not ready. And there is no one to save him, for he is sacrificing himself.

  It is no normal six hours . . . it is no normal Friday.

  Far worse than the breaking of his body is the shredding of his heart.

  His own countrymen clamored for his death.

  His own disciple planted the kiss of betrayal.

  His own friends ran for cover.

  And now his own Father is beginning to turn his back on him, leaving him alone.

  A witness could not help but ask: Jesus, do you give no thought to saving yourself? What keeps you there? What holds you to the cross? Nails don’t hold gods to trees. What makes you stay?

  The shepherd stands staring at the now blackened sky. Only seconds before he had stared at the sun. Now there is no sun.

  The air is cool. The sky is black. No thunder. No lightning. No clouds. The sheep are restless. The feeling is eerie. The shepherd stands alone, wondering and listening.

  What is this hellish darkness? What is this mysterious eclipse? What has happened to the light?

  There is a scream in the distance. The shepherd turns toward Jerusalem.

  A soldier, unaware that his impulse is part of a divine plan, plunges the spear into the side. The blood of the Lamb of God comes forth and cleanses.

  The woman has scarcely lit the lamp when her husband rushes in the door. The reflection of the lamp’s flame dances wildly in his wide eyes. “The temple curtain . . . ,” he begins breathlessly, “torn! Ripped in two from top to bottom!”

  The black angel hovers over the One on the center cross.

  No delegation for this death, no demon for this duty. Satan has reserved this task for himself. Gleefully he passes his hand of death over these eyes of life.

  But just when the last breath escapes, the war begins.

  The pit of the earth rumbles. The young physician nearly loses his balance.

  It is an earthquake—a rock-splitting rumble. A stampedelike vibration, as if prison doors have been opened and the captives are thundering to freedom. The doctor fights to keep his balance as he hurries back to the room of the one who has just died.

  The body is gone.

  Six hours. One Friday.

  Let me ask you a question: What do you do with that day in history? What do you do with its claims?

  If it really happened . . . if God did commandeer his own crucifixion . . . if he did turn his back on his own Son . . . if he did storm Satan’s gate, then those six hours that Friday were packed with tragic triumph. If that was God on that cross, then the hill called Skull is granite studded with stakes to which you can anchor.

  Those six hours were no normal six hours. They were the most critical hours in history. For during those six hours on that Friday, God embedded in the earth three anchor points sturdy enough to withstand any hurricane.

  ANCHOR POINT #1—My life is not futile. This rock secures the hull of your heart. Its sole function is to give you something which you can grip when facing the surging tides of futility and relativism. It’s a firm grasp on the conviction that there is truth. Someone is in control and you have a purpose.

  ANCHOR POINT #2—My failures are not fatal. It’s not that he loves what you did, but he loves who you are. You are his. The One who has the right to condemn you provided the way to acquit you. You make mistakes. God doesn’t. And he made you.

  ANCHOR POINT #3—My death is not final. There is one more stone to which you should tie. It’s large. It’s round. And it’s heavy. It blocked the door of a grave. It wasn’t big enough though. The tomb that it sealed was the tomb of a transient. He only went in to prove he could come out. And on the way out he took the stone with him and turned it into an anchor point. He dropped it deep into the uncharted waters of death. Tie to his rock, and the typhoon of the tomb becomes a spring breeze on Easter Sunday.

  There they are. Three anchor points. The anchor points of the cross.

  Oh, by the way, Hurricane David never made it to Miami. Thirty minutes off the coast he decided to bear north. The worst damage my boat suffered were some rope burns inflicted by her overzealous crew.

  I hope your hurricane misses you too. But in case it doesn’t, take the sailor’s advice. “Anchor deep, say a prayer, and hold on.” And don’t be surprised if Someone walks across the water to give you a hand.

  ANCHOR POINT 1

  MY LIFE IS NOT FUTILE

  CHAPTER 2

  GOD’S FORMULA FOR FATIGUE

  It’s late. It’s past the bedtime hour. They think I’m studying. They think I think they’re going to sleep. I know better. Too many giggles. Too many whispers. Too many trips to the closet to get another doll. Too many dashes in the dark to trade pillows.

  It’s late. It’s time for little girls to be going to sleep. But for four-year-old Jenna and two-year-old Andrea, sleep is the last item on their list of things to do.

  Here’s the list.

  Andrea still needs to flip on her back and let her feet hang out the crib a bit.

  Jenna will fluff her pillow, then fluff her pillow, and, well, it still needs a little fluffing.

  Andrea will scoot from one side of the bed to the other.

  Jenna has yet to count her fingers in a whisper and pump her make-believe bicycle.

  And before sleep settles over them, more juice will be requested, another song will be sung, and a story will be told.

  I love it. It’s a game. The contestants? Childhood joy and sleepy eyes. The name of the game? Catch-me-if-you-can.

  Sleep is determined to bring the day to a close, and joy is determined to stretch the day out as long as possible. One last enchanted kingdom. One last giggle. One last game.

  Maybe you are like that. Maybe, if you had your way, your day would never end. Every moment demands to be savored. You resist sleep as long as possible because you love being awake so much. If you are like that, congratulations. If not, welcome to the majority.

  Most of us have learned another way of going to bed, haven’t we? It’s called crash and burn. Life is so full of games that the last thing we want is another one as we are trying to sleep. So, for most of us, it’s good-bye world, hello pillow. Sleep, for many, is not a robber but a refuge—eight hours of relief for our woun
ded souls.

  And if you are kept awake, it’s not by counting your fingers but by counting your debts, tasks, or even your tears.

  You are tired.

  You are weary.

  Weary of being slapped by the waves of broken dreams.

  Weary of being stepped on and run over in the endless marathon to the top.

  Weary of trusting in someone only to have that trust returned in an envelope with no return address.

  Weary of staring into the future and seeing only futility.

  What steals our childhood zeal? For a child, the possibilities are limitless.

  Then weariness finds us. Sesame Street gets traffic-jammed. Dreams of Peter Pan are buried with Grandpa. And Star Trek’s endless horizon gets hidden behind smog and skyscrapers.

  What is the source of such weariness? What are the names of these burdens?

  In this book we are looking at three. Futility, failure, and finality. The three Fs on the human report card. The three burdens that are too big for any back, too heavy for any biceps. Three burdens that no man can carry alone.

  Let’s look at futility. Few things can weary you more than the fast pace of the human race. Too many sprints for success. Too many laps in the gray-flannel fast lane. Too many nine-to-five masquerade parties. Too many days of doing whatever it takes eventually take their toll. You are left gasping for air, holding your sides on the side of the track.

  And it isn’t the late-night reports or countless airports that sap your strength as much as it is the question you dare not admit you are asking yourself. Is it worth it? When I get what I want, will it be worth the price I paid?

  Perhaps those were the thoughts of a San Antonio lawyer I read about recently. Successful, well paid, with a new wife and a remodeled house. But apparently it wasn’t enough. One day he came home, took a gun out of his vault, climbed into a sleeping bag, and took his life. His note to his bride read, “It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s just that I’m tired and I want to rest.”

  It is this weariness that makes the words of the carpenter so compelling. Listen to them. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”1

  Come to me. . . . The invitation is to come to him. Why him?

  He offers the invitation as a penniless rabbi in an oppressed nation. He has no political office, no connections with the authorities in Rome. He hasn’t written a best-seller or earned a diploma.

  Yet, he dares to look into the leathery faces of farmers and tired faces of housewives and offer rest. He looks into the disillusioned eyes of a preacher or two from Jerusalem. He gazes into the cynical stare of a banker and the hungry eyes of a bartender and makes this paradoxical promise: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”2

  The people came. They came out of the cul-de-sacs and office complexes of their day. They brought him the burdens of their existence, and he gave them not religion, not doctrine, not systems, but rest.

  As a result, they called him Lord.

  As a result, they called him Savior.

  Not so much because of what he said, but because of what he did.

  What he did on the cross during six hours, one Friday.

  On the following pages you will see several people. They may be new to you, or they may be old acquaintances. They have one thing in common—they came to Jesus weary with the futility of life. A rejected woman. A confused patriarch. Disoriented disciples. A discouraged missionary.

  They all found rest. They found anchor points for their storm-tossed souls. And they found that Jesus was the only man to walk God’s earth who claimed to have an answer for man’s burdens. “Come to me,” he invited them.

  My prayer is that you, too, will find rest. And that you will sleep like a baby.

  CHAPTER 3

  TWO TOMBSTONES

  I had driven by the place countless times. Daily I passed the small plot of land on the way to my office. Daily I told myself, Someday I need to stop there.

  Today, that “someday” came. I convinced a tight-fisted schedule to give me thirty minutes, and I drove in.

  The intersection appears no different from any other in San Antonio: a Burger King, a Rodeway Inn, a restaurant. But turn northwest, go under the cast-iron sign, and you will find yourself on an island of history that is holding its own against the river of progress.

  The name on the sign? Locke Hill Cemetery.

  As I parked, a darkened sky threatened rain. A lonely path invited me to walk through the two-hundred-plus tombstones. The fatherly oak trees arched above me, providing a ceiling for the solemn chambers. Tall grass, still wet from the morning dew, brushed my ankles.

  The tombstones, though weathered and chipped, were alive with yesterday.

  Ruhet in herrn accents the markers that bear names like Schmidt, Faustman, Grundmeyer, and Eckert.

  Ruth Lacey is buried there. Born in the days of Napoleon— 1807. Died over a century ago—1877.

  I stood on the same spot where a mother wept on a cold day some eight decades past. The tombstone read simply, “Baby Boldt— Born and died December 10, 1910.”

  Eighteen-year-old Harry Ferguson was laid to rest in 1883 under these words, “Sleep sweetly tired young pilgrim.” I wondered what wearied him so.

  Then I saw it. It was chiseled into a tombstone on the northern end of the cemetery. The stone marks the destination of the body of Grace Llewellen Smith. No date of birth is listed, no date of death. Just the names of her two husbands, and this epitaph:

  Sleeps, but rests not.

  Loved, but was loved not.

  Tried to please, but pleased not.

  Died as she lived—alone.

  Words of futility.

  I stared at the marker and wondered about Grace Llewellen Smith. I wondered about her life. I wondered if she’d written the words . . . or just lived them. I wondered if she deserved the pain. I wondered if she was bitter or beaten. I wondered if she was plain. I wondered if she was beautiful. I wondered why some lives are so fruitful while others are so futile.

  I caught myself wondering aloud, “Mrs. Smith, what broke your heart?”

  Raindrops smudged my ink as I copied the words.

  Loved, but was loved not . . .

  Long nights. Empty beds. Silence. No response to messages left. No return to letters written. No love exchanged for love given.

  Tried to please, but pleased not . . .

  I could hear the hatchet of disappointment.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” Chop.

  “You’ll never amount to anything.” Chop. Chop.

  “Why can’t you do anything right?” Chop, chop, chop.

  Died as she lived—alone.

  How many Grace Llewellen Smiths are there? How many people will die in the loneliness in which they are living? The homeless in Atlanta. The happy-hour hopper in L.A. A bag lady in Miami. The preacher in Nashville. Any person who doubts whether the world needs him. Any person who is convinced that no one really cares.

  Any person who has been given a ring, but never a heart; criticism, but never a chance; a bed, but never rest.

  These are the victims of futility.

  And unless someone intervenes, unless something happens, the epitaph of Grace Smith will be theirs.

  That’s why the story you are about to read is significant. It’s the story of another tombstone. This time, however, the tombstone doesn’t mark the death of a person—it marks the birth.1

  Her eyes squint against the noonday sun. Her shoulders stoop under the weight of the water jar. Her feet trudge, stirring dust on the path. She keeps her eyes down so she can dodge the stares of the others.

  She is a Samaritan; she knows the sting of racism. She is a woman; she’s bumped her head on the ceiling of sexism. She’s been married to five men. Five. Five different marriages. Five different beds. Five different rejections. She knows the sound of slamming doors.


  She knows what it means to love and receive no love in return. Her current mate won’t even give her his name. He only gives her a place to sleep.

  If there is a Grace Llewellen Smith in the New Testament, it is this woman. The epitaph of insignificance could have been hers. And it would have been, except for an encounter with a stranger.

  On this particular day, she came to the well at noon. Why hadn’t she gone in the early morning with the other women? Maybe she had. Maybe she just needed an extra draw of water on a hot day. Or maybe not. Maybe it was the other women she was avoiding. A walk in the hot sun was a small price to pay in order to escape their sharp tongues.

  “Here she comes.”

  “Have you heard? She’s got a new man!”

  “They say she’ll sleep with anyone.”

  “Shhh. There she is.”

  So she came to the well at noon. She expected silence. She expected solitude. Instead, she found one who knew her better than she knew herself.

  He was seated on the ground: legs outstretched, hands folded, back resting against the well. His eyes were closed. She stopped and looked at him. She looked around. No one was near. She looked back at him. He was obviously Jewish. What was he doing here? His eyes opened and hers ducked in embarrassment. She went quickly about her task.

  Sensing her discomfort, Jesus asked her for water. But she was too streetwise to think that all he wanted was a drink. “Since when does an uptown fellow like you ask a girl like me for water?” She wanted to know what he really had in mind. Her intuition was partly correct. He was interested in more than water. He was interested in her heart.

  They talked. Who could remember the last time a man had spoken to her with respect?

  He told her about a spring of water that would quench not the thirst of the throat, but of the soul.

  That intrigued her. “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”

  “Go, call your husband and come back.”

  Her heart must have sunk. Here was a Jew who didn’t care if she was a Samaritan. Here was a man who didn’t look down on her as a woman. Here was the closest thing to gentleness she’d ever seen. And now he was asking her about . . . that.