Six Hours One Friday

by Max Lucado

  But little did they know their wildest dream wasn’t wild enough. Just as someone mumbles, “It’s no use,” they hear a noise. They hear a voice.

  “Peace be with you.”1

  Every head lifted. Every eye turned. Every mouth dropped open. Someone looked at the door.

  It was still locked.

  It was a moment the apostles would never forget, a story they would never cease to tell. The stone of the tomb was not enough to keep him in. The walls of the room were not enough to keep him out.

  The one betrayed sought his betrayers. What did he say to them? Not “What a bunch of flops!” Not “I told you so.” No “Where-were-you-when-I-needed-you?” speeches. But simply one phrase: “Peace be with you.” The very thing they didn’t have was the very thing he offered: peace.

  It was too good to be true! So amazing was the appearance that some were saying, “Pinch me, I’m dreaming” even at the ascension.2 No wonder they returned to Jerusalem with great joy!3 No wonder they were always in the temple praising God!4

  A transformed group stood beside a transformed Peter as he announced some weeks later: “Therefore let all Israel be assured of this: God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ.”5

  No timidity in his words. No reluctance. About three thousand people believed his message.

  The apostles sparked a movement. The people became followers of the death-conqueror. They couldn’t hear enough or say enough about him. People began to call them “Christ-ians.” Christ was their model, their message. They preached “Jesus Christ and him crucified,” not for the lack of another topic, but because they couldn’t exhaust this one.

  What unlocked the doors of the apostles’ hearts?

  Simple. They saw Jesus. They encountered the Christ. Their sins collided with their Savior and their Savior won! What lit the boiler of the apostles was a red-hot conviction that the very one who should have sent them to hell, went to hell for them and came back to tell about it.

  A lot of things would happen to them over the next few decades. Many nights would be spent away from home. Hunger would gnaw at their bellies. Rain would soak their skin. Stones would bruise their bodies. Shipwrecks, lashings, martyrdom. But there was a scene in the repertoire of memories that caused them never to look back: the betrayed coming back to find his betrayers, not to scourge them, but to send them. Not to criticize them for forgetting, but to commission them to remember. Remember that he who was dead is alive and they who were guilty have been forgiven.

  Think about the first time you ever saw him. Think about your first encounter with the Christ. Robe yourself in that moment. Resurrect the relief. Recall the purity. Summon forth the passion. Can you remember?

  I can. 1965. A red-headed ten-year-old with a tornado of freckles sits in a Bible class on a Wednesday night. What I remember of the class are scenes—school desks with initials carved in them. A blackboard. A dozen or so kids, some listening, some not. A teacher wearing a suit coat too tight to button around his robust belly.

  He is talking about Jesus. He is explaining the cross. I know I had heard it before, but that night I heard it for sure. “You can’t save yourself; you need a savior.” I can’t explain why it connected that night as opposed to another, but it did. He simply articulated what I was beginning to understand—I was lost—and he explained what I needed—a redeemer. From that night on, my heart belonged to Jesus.

  Many would argue that a ten-year-old is too young for such a decision. And they may be right. All I know is that I never made a more earnest decision in my life. I didn’t know much about God, but what I knew was enough. I knew I wanted to go to heaven. And I knew I couldn’t do it alone.

  No one had to tell me to be happy. No one had to tell me to tell others. They couldn’t keep me quiet. I told all my friends at school. I put a bumper sticker on my bicycle. And though I’d never read 2 Corinthians 4:13, I knew what it meant. “I believed; therefore I have spoken.” Pardon truly received is pardon powerfully proclaimed.

  There is a direct correlation between the accuracy of our memory and the effectiveness of our mission. If we are not teaching people how to be saved, it is perhaps because we have forgotten the tragedy of being lost! If we’re not teaching the message of forgiveness, it may be because we don’t remember what it was like to be guilty. And if we’re not preaching the cross, it could be that we’ve subconsciously decided that—God forbid—somehow we don’t need it.

  In what was perhaps the last letter Paul ever wrote, he begged Timothy not to forget. In a letter written within earshot of the sharpening of the blade that would sever his head, he urged Timothy to remember. “Remember Jesus Christ. . . .”6 You can almost picture the old warrior smiling as he wrote the words. “Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel. . . .”

  When times get hard, remember Jesus. When people don’t listen, remember Jesus. When tears come, remember Jesus. When disappointment is your bed partner, remember Jesus. When fear pitches his tent in your front yard. When death looms, when anger singes, when shame weighs heavily. Remember Jesus.

  Remember holiness in tandem with humanity. Remember the sick who were healed with callused hands. Remember the dead called from the grave with a Galilean accent. Remember the eyes of God that wept human tears. And, most of all, remember this descendant of David who beat the hell out of death.

  Can you still remember? Are you still in love with him? Remember, Paul begged, remember Jesus. Before you remember anything, remember him. If you forget anything, don’t forget him.

  Oh, but how quickly we forget. So much happens through the years. So many changes within. So many alterations without. And, somewhere, back there, we leave him. We don’t turn away from him . . . we just don’t take him with us. Assignments come. Promotions come. Budgets are made. Kids are born, and the Christ . . . the Christ is forgotten.

  Has it been a while since you stared at the heavens in speechless amazement? Has it been a while since you realized God’s divinity and your carnality?

  If it has, then you need to know something. He is still there. He hasn’t left. Under all those papers and books and reports and years. In the midst of all those voices and faces and memories and pictures, he is still there.

  Do yourself a favor. Stand before him again. Or, better, allow him to stand before you. Go into your upper room and wait. Wait until he comes. And when he appears, don’t leave. Run your fingers over his feet. Place your hand in the pierced side. And look into those eyes. Those same eyes that melted the gates of hell and sent the demons scurrying and Satan running. Look at them as they look at you. You’ll never be the same.

  A man is never the same after he simultaneously sees his utter despair and Christ’s unbending grace. To see the despair without the grace is suicidal. To see the grace without the despair is upper-room futility. But to see them both is conversion.

  ANCHOR POINT 2

  MY FAILURES ARE NOT FATAL

  CHAPTER 8

  FATAL ERRORS

  The handwriting was shaky. The stationery was lined, loose-leaf paper. The ink was black and the tone desperate. The note was dated February 6, 1974, and was addressed to the U.S. government.

  “I am sending ten dollars for blankets I stole while in World War II. My mind could not rest. Sorry I’m late.” It was signed, “an ex-GI.” Then there was this postscript, “I want to be ready to meet God.”

  This recruit was not alone in his guilt. His letter is one of literally tons of letters that have been sent to the U.S. government since it began collecting and storing the letters in 1811. Since that time $3,500,000 has been deposited in what is called the Conscience Fund.

  An average of $45,000 per year is received. The biggest year was 1950 in which $350,000 was collected.

  One man writing from Brazil sent fifty dollars to cover the cost of two pairs of cavalry boots, two pairs of trousers, one case of KC rations, and thirty pounds of frozen meat he stole from the army b
etween 1943 and 1946.

  In some instances the amounts are small; only the remorse is big. One Colorado woman sent in two eight-cent stamps to make up for having used one stamp twice (which, for some reason, had not been canceled). A former IRS employee mailed in one dollar for four ballpoint pens she had never returned to the office.

  A Salem, Ohio, man submitted one dollar with the following note, “When a boy, I put a few pennies on the railroad track and the train flattened them. I also used a dime or a quarter in a silver-coating experiment in high school. I understand there is a law against defacing our money. I have not seen it but I desire to be a law-abiding citizen.”

  Anxiety over a thirty-year-old mistake? Regret over mashed pennies? A guilty conscience because of ballpoint pens? If the struggle to have a clean conscience wasn’t so common, the letters would be funny. But the struggle is common.

  What do you do with your failures? Our mistakes come to us as pebbles, small stones that serve as souvenirs of our stumbles. We carry them in our hands, and soon our hands are full. We put them in our pockets, and soon our pockets bulge. We place them in a bag and put it over our shoulder; the burlap scratches and chaps. And soon the bag of yesterday’s failures is so heavy we drag it.

  Here are some failures that have been dragged into my office.

  Unfaithfulness. He wanted to try again. She said, “No way.” He wanted a second chance. She said, “You blew your chance.” He admitted he made a mistake by seeing another woman. He sees now that the mistake was fatal to his marriage.

  Homosexuality. His wrists bore the scars of a suicide attempt. His arms had tracks from countless needles. His eyes reflected the spirit of one hellbent on self-destruction. His words were those of a prisoner grimly resigned to the judge’s sentence. “I’m gay. My dad says I’m a queer. I guess he’s right.”

  Division. A church leadership demanded submission. A membership demanded a louder voice. It was a bomb waiting to explode. The eruption resulted in a half-empty building of walking wounded.

  Immorality. She came to church with a pregnant womb and a repentant spirit. “I can’t have a child,” she pleaded. “We’ll find a home for it,” she was assured. She agreed. Then she changed her mind. Her boyfriend funded the abortion. “Can God ever forgive me?” she asked.

  Nothing drags more stubbornly than a sack of failures.

  Could you do it all over again, you’d do it differently. You’d be a different person. You’d be more patient. You’d control your tongue. You’d finish what you started. You’d turn the other cheek instead of slapping his. You’d get married first. You wouldn’t marry at all. You’d be honest. You’d resist the temptation. You’d run with a different crowd.

  But you can’t. And as many times as you tell yourself, “What’s done is done,” what you did can’t be undone.

  That’s part of what Paul meant when he said, “The wages of sin is death.”1 He didn’t say, “The wages of sin is a bad mood.” Or, “The wages of sin is a hard day.” Nor, “The wages of sin is depression.” Read it again. “The wages of sin is death.” Sin is fatal.

  Can anything be done with it?

  Your therapist tells you to talk about it. So you do. You pull the bag into his office and pour the rocks out on his floor and analyze each one. And it’s helpful. It feels good to talk and he’s nice. But when the hour is up, you still have to carry the bag out with you.

  Your friends tell you not to feel bad. “Everyone slumps a bit in this world,” they say. “Not very comforting,” you say.

  Feel-great-about-life rallies tell you to ignore the thing and be happy! Which works—until you wipe the fog off your mirror and take an honest look. Then you see, it’s still there.

  Legalists tell you to work the weight off. A candle for every rock. A prayer for every pebble. Sounds logical, but what if I run out of time? Or what if I didn’t count correctly? You panic.

  What do you do with the stones from life’s stumbles?

  When my oldest daughter, Jenna, was not quite four years old, she came to me with a confession. “Daddy, I took a crayon and drew on the wall.” (Kids amaze me with their honesty.)

  I sat down and lifted her up into my lap and tried to be wise. “Is that a good thing to do?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  “What does Daddy do when you write on the wall?”

  “You spank me.”

  “What do you think Daddy should do this time?”

  “Love.”

  Don’t we all want that? Don’t we all long for a father who, even though our mistakes are written all over the wall, will love us anyway? Don’t we want a father who cares for us in spite of our failures?

  We do have that type of a father. A Father who is at his best when we are at our worst. A Father whose grace is strongest when our devotion is weakest. If your bag is big and bulky, then you’re in for some thrilling news: your failures are not fatal.

  CHAPTER 9

  CRISTO REDENTOR

  Ninety feet tall. One thousand three hundred twenty tons of reinforced Brazilian tile. Positioned on a mountain a mile and one-half above sea level. It’s the famous Christ the Redeemer statue that overlooks the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

  No tourist comes to Rio without snaking up Corcovado Mountain to see this looming monument. The head alone is nine feet tall. The span from fingertip to fingertip—sixty-three feet.

  While living in Rio, I saw the statue dozens of times. But no time was as impressive as the first.

  I was a college student spending a summer in Brazil. Except for scampers across the Mexican border, this was my first trip outside the continental United States. I had known this monument only through National Geographic magazine. I was to learn that no magazine can truly capture the splendor of Cristo Redentor.

  Below me was Rio. Seven million people swarming on the lush green mountains that crash into the bright blue Atlantic. Behind me was the Christ the Redeemer statue. As I looked at the towering edifice through my telephoto lens, two ironies caught my attention.

  I couldn’t help but notice the blind eyes. Now, I know what you are thinking—all statues have blind eyes. You are right, they do. But it’s as if the sculptor of this statue intended that the eyes be blind. There are no pupils to suggest vision. There are no circles to suggest sight. There are only Little Orphan Annie openings.

  I lowered my camera to my waist. What kind of redeemer is this? Blind? Eyes fixated on the horizon, refusing to see the mass of people at its feet?

  I saw the second irony as I again raised my camera. I followed the features downward, past the strong nose, past the prominent chin, past the neck. My focus came to rest on the cloak of the statue. On the outside of the cloak there is a heart. A Valentine’s heart. A simple heart.

  A stone heart.

  The unintended symbolism staggered me. What kind of redeemer is this? Heart made of stone? Held together not with passion and love, but by concrete and mortar. What kind of redeemer is this? Blind eyes and stony heart?

  I’ve since learned the answer to my own question: what kind of redeemer is this? Exactly the kind of redeemer most people have.

  Oh, most people would not admit to having a blind redeemer with a stone heart. But take a close look.

  For some, Jesus is a good luck charm. The “Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer.” Pocket sized. Handy. Easily packaged. Easily understood. Easily diagramed. You can put his picture on your wall or you can stick it in your wallet as insurance. You can frame him. Dangle him from your rearview mirror or glue him to your dashboard.

  His specialty? Getting you out of a jam. Need a parking place? Rub the redeemer. Need help on a quiz? Pull out the rabbit’s foot. No need to have a relationship with him. No need to love him. Just keep him in your pocket next to your four-leaf clover.

  For many he’s an “Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer.” New jobs. Pink Cadillacs. New and improved spouses. Your wish is his command. And what’s more, he conveniently reenters the lamp when you don’t want him a
round.

  For others, Jesus is a “Monty Hall Redeemer.” “All right, Jesus, let’s make a deal. For fifty-two Sundays a year, I’ll put on a costume—coat and tie, hat and hose—and I’ll endure any sermon you throw at me. In exchange, you give me the grace behind pearly gate number three.”

  The Rabbit’s Foot Redeemer. The Aladdin’s Lamp Redeemer. The Monty Hall Redeemer. Few demands, no challenges. No need for sacrifice. No need for commitment.

  Sightless and heartless redeemers. Redeemers without power. That’s not the Redeemer of the New Testament.

  Compare the blind Christ I saw in Rio to the compassionate one seen by a frightened woman early one morning in Jerusalem.1

  It’s dawn. The early morning sun stretches a golden blanket across the streets of the city. Diamonds of dew cling to blades of grass. A cat stretches as it awakens. The noises are scattered.

  A rooster crows his early-morning recital.

  A dog barks to welcome the day.

  A peddler shuffles down the street, his wares on his back.

  And a young carpenter speaks in the courtyard.

  Jesus sits surrounded by a horseshoe of listeners. Some nod their heads in agreement and open their hearts in obedience. They have accepted the teacher as their Teacher and are learning to accept him as their Lord.

  Others are curious, wanting to believe yet wary of this one whose claims so stretch the boundaries of belief.

  Whether cautious or convinced, they listen keenly. They arose early. There was something about his words that was more comforting than sleep.

  We don’t know his topic that morning. Prayer, perhaps. Or maybe kindness or anxiety. But whatever it is, it is soon interrupted when people burst into the courtyard.

  Determined, they erupt out of a narrow street and stomp toward Jesus. The listeners scramble to get out of the way. The mob is made up of religious leaders, the elders and deacons of their day. Respected and important men. And struggling to keep her balance on the crest of this angry wave is a scantily clad woman.