Six Hours One Friday Read online

  CHAPTER 13

  THE ELEVENTH HOUR GIFT

  Nicodemus came in the middle of the night. The centurion came in the middle of the day. The leper and the sinful woman appeared in the middle of crowds. Zacchaeus appeared in the middle of a tree. Matthew had a party for him.

  The educated. The powerful. The rejected. The sick. The lonely. The wealthy. Who would have ever assembled such a crew? All they had in common were their empty hope chests, long left vacant by charlatans and profiteers. Though they had nothing to offer, they asked for everything: a new birth, a second chance, a fresh start, a clean conscience. And without exception their requests were honored.

  And now, one more beggar comes with a request. Only minutes from the death of them both, he stands before the King. He will ask for crumbs. And he, like the others, will receive a whole loaf.

  Skull’s hill—windswept and stony. The thief—gaunt and pale.

  Hinges squeak as the door of death closes on his life.

  His situation is pitiful. He’s taking the last step down the spiral staircase of failure. One crime after another. One rejection after another. Lower and lower he descended until he reached the bottom—a crossbeam and three spikes.

  He can’t hide who he is. His only clothing is the cloak of his disgrace. No fancy jargon. No impressive résumé. No Sunday school awards. Just a naked history of failure.

  He sees Jesus.

  Earlier he had mocked the man. When the crowd first chorused its criticism, he’d sung his part.1 But now he doesn’t mock Jesus. He studies him. He begins to wonder who this man might be.

  How strange. He doesn’t resist the nails; he almost invites them.

  He hears the jests and the insults and sees the man remain quiet. He sees the fresh blood on Jesus’ cheeks, the crown of thorns scraping Jesus’ scalp, and he hears the hoarse whisper, “Father, forgive them.”

  Why do they want him dead?

  Slowly the thief’s curiosity offsets the pain in his body. He momentarily forgets the nails rubbing against the raw bones of his wrists and the cramps in his calves.

  He begins to feel a peculiar warmth in his heart: he begins to care; he begins to care about this peaceful martyr.

  There’s no anger in his eyes, only tears.

  He looks at the huddle of soldiers throwing dice in the dirt, gambling for a ragged robe. He sees the sign above Jesus’ head. It’s painted with sarcasm: King of the Jews.

  They mock him as a king. If he were crazy, they would ignore him. If he had no followers, they’d turn him away. If he were nothing to fear, they wouldn’t kill him. You only kill a king if he has a kingdom.

  Could it be . . .

  His cracked lips open to speak.

  Then, all of a sudden, his thoughts are exploded by the accusations of the criminal on the other cross. He, too, has been studying Jesus, but studying through the blurred lens of cynicism.

  “So you’re the Messiah, are you? Prove it by saving yourself— and us, too, while you’re at it!”2

  It’s an inexplicable dilemma—how two people can hear the same words and see the same Savior, and one see hope and the other see nothing but himself.

  It was all the first criminal could take. Perhaps the crook who hurled the barb expected the other crook to take the cue and hurl a few of his own. But he didn’t. No second verse was sung. What the bitter-tongued criminal did hear were words of defense.

  “Don’t you fear God?”

  Only minutes before these same lips had cursed Jesus. Now they are defending him. Every head on the hill lifts to look at this one who spoke on behalf of the Christ. Every angel weeps and every demon gapes.

  Who could have imagined this thief thinking of anyone but himself? He’d always been the bully, the purse-snatching brat. Who could remember the last time he’d come to someone’s aid? But as the last grains of sand trickle through his hourglass, he performs man’s noblest act. He speaks on God’s behalf.

  Where are those we would expect to defend Jesus?

  A much more spiritual Peter has abandoned him.

  A much more educated Pilate has washed his hands of him.

  A much more loyal mob of countrymen has demanded his death.

  A much more faithful band of disciples has scattered.

  When it seems that everyone has turned away, a crook places himself between Jesus and the accusers and speaks on his behalf.

  “Don’t you even fear God when you are dying? We deserve to die for our evil deeds, but this man hasn’t done one thing wrong.”3

  The soldiers look up. The priests cease chattering. Mary wipes her tears and raises her eyes. No one had even noticed the fellow, but now everyone looks at him.

  Perhaps even Jesus looks at him. Perhaps he turns to see the one who had spoken when all others had remained silent. Perhaps he fights to focus his eyes on the one who offered this final gesture of love he’d receive while alive. I wonder, did he smile as this sheep straggled into the fold?

  For that, in effect, is exactly what the criminal is doing. He is stumbling to safety just as the gate is closing. Lodged in the thief’s statement are the two facts that anyone needs to recognize in order to come to Jesus. Look at the phrase again. Do you see them?

  “We are getting what we deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”4

  We are guilty and he is innocent.

  We are filthy and he is pure.

  We are wrong and he is right.

  He is not on that cross for his sins. He is there for ours.

  And once the crook understands this, his request seems only natural. As he looks into the eyes of his last hope, he makes the same request any Christian makes.

  “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.”5

  No stained-glass homilies. No excuses. Just a desperate plea for help.

  At this point Jesus performs the greatest miracle of the cross. Greater than the earthquake. Greater than the tearing of the temple curtain. Greater than the darkness. Greater than the resurrected saints appearing on the streets.

  He performs the miracle of forgiveness. A sin-soaked criminal is received by a blood-stained Savior.

  “Today you will be with me in Paradise. This is a solemn promise.”6

  Wow. Only seconds before the thief was a beggar nervously squeezing his hat at the castle door, wondering if the King might spare a few crumbs. Suddenly he’s holding the whole pantry.

  Such is the definition of grace.

  ANCHOR POINT 3

  MY DEATH IS NOT FINAL

  CHAPTER 14

  GOD VS. DEATH

  “I will tell you something that has been secret: that we are not all going to die, but we shall all be changed.”1

  I was only going to be in Washington, DC, for one day, and that day was full. Still, I had to see it. I had read about it, heard about it, seen news reports and pictures of it, but I had to see it for myself.

  “You’ll only have about ten minutes,” my host explained.

  “Ten minutes is all I need,” I told him.

  So he pulled the car over and let me out.

  A gray sky was shedding a coat of drizzle. I pulled my overcoat tighter around my neck. The barren trees and dead grass cast an appropriate backdrop for my mission. I walked a few hundred yards, descended a sloping sidewalk, and there it was. The Washington Monument to my left, the Lincoln Memorial to my back, and before me stretched the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

  The wailing wall of a generation. Black marble tablets carved with names that read like the roster of a high school football team more than a list of dead soldiers—Walter Faith, Richard Sala, Michael Andrews, Roy Burris, Emmet Stanton.

  Each name a young life. Behind each name was a bereaved widow . . . an anguished mother . . . a fatherless child.

  I looked down at my feet. There lay a dozen roses, soggy and frosty from the weather. It was the day after Valentine’s Day. A girlfriend or wife had come to say, “I still remember. I haven’t forgotten.”

  N
ext to me stood a trio. By the emotion on their faces, it was obvious they hadn’t come out of curiosity. They had come out of grief. The one in the center caught my attention. He wore a green army coat. He was big. He was black. He was bearded. Angry tears steamed down his face. Twenty years of emotion still trying to find an exit.

  A couple walked behind me. They were looking for a name. In their hands was a program that told them on what tablet to look. “Did you find it?” I heard the woman ask. “Every name has a number.”

  True, I thought. Every name does have a number and sooner or later every number is called.

  It was then that I stopped looking at the names and stared at the monument. I relaxed my focus from the lettering and looked at the tablet. What I saw was sobering. I saw myself. I saw my own reflection. My face looked at me from the shiny marble. It reminded me that I, too, have been dying as long as I have been living. I, too, will someday have my name carved in a granite stone. Someday I, too, will face death.

  Death. The bully on the block of life. He catches you in the alley. He taunts you in the playground. He badgers you on the way home: “You, too, will die someday.”

  You see him as he escorts the procession of hearse-led cars. He’s in the waiting room as you walk out of the double doors of the intensive care unit. He’s near as you stare at the pictures of the bloated bellies of the starving in Zimbabwe. And he’ll be watching your expression as you slow your car past the crunched metal and the blanketed bodies on the highway.

  “Your time is coming,” he jabs.

  Oh, we try to prove him wrong. We jog. We diet. We pump iron. We play golf. We try to escape it, knowing all along that we will only, at best, postpone it.

  “Everyone has a number,” he reminds.

  And every number will be called.

  He’ll make your stomach tighten. He’ll leave you wide eyed and flat footed. He’ll fence you in with fear. He’ll steal the joy of your youth and the peace of your final years. And if he achieves what he sets out to do, he’ll make you so afraid of dying that you never learn to live.

  That is why you should never face him alone. The bully is too big for you to fight by yourself. That’s why you need a big brother.

  Read these words and take heart. “Since the children have flesh and blood (that’s you and me), he too shared in their humanity (that’s Jesus, our big brother) so that by his death he might destroy him who holds the power of death—that is, the devil—and free those who all their lives were held in slavery by their fear of death. For surely it is not angels he helps, but Abraham’s descendants (that’s us).”2

  Jesus unmasked death and exposed him for who he really is—a ninety-eight-pound weakling dressed up in a Charles Atlas suit. Jesus had no patience for this impostor. He couldn’t sit still while death pulled the veil over life.

  In fact, if you ever want to know how to conduct yourself at a funeral, don’t look to Jesus for an example. He interrupted each one he ever attended.

  A lifeguard can’t sit still while someone is drowning. A teacher can’t resist helping when a student is confused. And Jesus couldn’t watch a funeral and do nothing.

  In this last section we are going to watch Jesus when he comes face to face with death. We are going to see his eyes mist as he sees his brothers and sisters bruised and beaten by the bully of death. We are going to see his fists clench as he encounters his enemy. We are going to . . . well, turn the page and you’ll see for yourself.

  You’ll see why the Christian can face the bully nose to nose and claim the promise that echoed in the empty tomb, “My death is not final.”

  CHAPTER 15

  FANTASY OR REALITY?

  Two crowds. One entering the city and one leaving. They couldn’t be more diverse. The group arriving buzzes with laughter and conversation. They follow Jesus. The group leaving the city is solemn—a herd of sadness hypnotized by the requiem of death. Above them rides the reason for their grief—a cold body on a wicker stretcher.

  The woman at the back of the procession is the mother. She has walked this trail before. It seems like just yesterday she buried the body of her husband. Her son walked with her then. Now she walks alone, quarantined in her sadness. She is the victim of this funeral.

  She is the one with no arm around her shoulder. She is the one who will sleep in the empty house tonight. She is the one who will make dinner for one and conversation with none. She is the one most violated. The thief stole her most treasured diamond—companionship.

  The followers of Jesus stop and step aside as the procession shadows by. The blanket of mourning muffles the laughter of the disciples. No one speaks. What could they say? They feel the same despair felt by the bystanders at any funeral. “Someday that will be me.”

  No one intervenes. What could they do? Their only choice is to stand and stare as the mourners shuffle past.

  Jesus, however, knows what to say and what to do. When he sees the mother, his heart begins to break . . . and his lips begin to tighten. He glares at the angel of death that hovers over the body of the boy. “Not this time, Satan. This boy is mine.”

  At that moment the mother walks in front of him. Jesus speaks to her. “Don’t cry.” She stops and looks into this stranger’s face. If she wasn’t shocked by his presumption, you can bet some of the witnesses were.

  Don’t cry? Don’t cry? What kind of request is that?

  A request only God can make.

  Jesus steps toward the bier and touches it. The pallbearers stop marching. The mourners cease moaning. As Jesus stares at the boy, the crowd is silent.

  The demon had been perched spiderlike over the body. He was enjoying the parade. He was the warden. The people were the prisoners. He was marching the condemned to execution. They were watching from behind invisible bars, imprisoned by their impermanence. He had relished the fear in the faces. He had giggled at their despair.

  Then he hears the voice. That voice . . . he knows the owner. His back arches and he hisses instinctively.

  He turns. He doesn’t see what others see. He doesn’t see the face of a Nazarene. He doesn’t hear the voice of a man. He sees the wrath of God. He hears the command of a King.

  “Get out of here.”

  He doesn’t have to be told twice.

  Jesus turns his attention to the dead boy. “Young man,” his voice is calm, “come back to life again.”

  The living stand motionless as the dead comes to life. Wooden fingers move. Gray-pale cheeks blush. The dead man sits up.

  Luke’s description of what happens next is captivating.

  “Jesus gave him back to his mother.”1

  How would you feel at a moment like this? What would you do? A stranger tells you not to weep as you look at your dead son. One who refuses to mourn in the midst of sorrow calls the devil’s bluff, then shocks you with a call into the cavern of death. Suddenly what had been taken is returned. What had been stolen is retrieved. What you had given up, you are given back.

  Jesus must have smiled as the two embraced. Stunned, the crowd breaks into cheers and applause. They hug each other and slap Jesus on the back. Someone proclaims the undeniable, “God has come to help his people.”2

  Jesus gave the woman much more than her son. He gave her a secret—a whisper that was overheard by us. “That,” he says, pointing at the cot, “that is fantasy. This,” he grins, putting an arm around the boy, “this is reality.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE SPARKLE FROM ETERNITY

  Wallace was an important man. He was the kind of man you would find leading a prayer at the football games or serving as president of the Lion’s Club. He wore a title and a collar and had soft hands with no calluses.

  He had a nice office just off the sanctuary. His secretary was a bit stale, but he wasn’t. He had a warm smile that melted your apprehension as you walked through his office door. He sat in a leather swivel chair and had diplomas on the wall. And he had a way of listening that made you willing to tell secrets you’d nev
er told anyone.

  He was a good man. His marriage wasn’t all it could be, but it was better than most. His church was full. His name was respected. He was a fifteen-handicap golfer, and the church bought him a membership at the country club to commemorate his twentieth year with the congregation. People recognized him in public and flocked to hear him on Easter and Christmas. His retirement account was growing, and he was less than a decade from hanging up the frock and settling down to an autumn of soft wine and good books.

  If he committed a sin, no one knew it. If he had a fear, no one heard it—which may have been his gravest sin.

  Wallace loved people. This morning, though, he doesn’t want people. He wants to be alone. He rings his secretary and advises her that he is not taking any more calls for the rest of the day. She doesn’t think it unusual. He’s been on the phone all morning. She thinks he needs time to study. She is partly correct. He has been on the phone all morning, and he does need time. Not time to study, however. Time to weep.

  Wallace looks at the eight-by-ten photo that sits on the mahogany credenza behind his desk. Through watery eyes he gazes at his twelve-year-old daughter. Braces. Pigtails. Freckles. She is a reflection of his wife—blue eyes, brown hair, pug nose. The only thing she got from her father was his heart. She owns that. And he has no intention of requesting that she return it.

  She isn’t his only child, but she is his last. And she is his only daughter. He’d built a fence of protection around his little girl. Maybe that is why the last few days have hurt so badly. The fence has crumbled.

  It began six days ago. She came home early from school feverish and irritable. His wife put her to bed, thinking it was the flu. During the night the fever rose. The next morning they rushed her to the hospital.