They Call Him Savior - Part 2 — Max Lucado

The Gospel of the Second Chance

This is side three of No Wonder They Call Him the Saviour by Max Lakato. It was like discovering the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, or spotting a little pearl in a box of buttons, or stumbling across a ten-dollar bill in a drawer full of envelopes.

It was small enough to overlook, only two words. I know I'd read that passage a hundred times, but I'd never seen it. Maybe I'd passed over it in the excitement of the Resurrection, or since Mark's account of the Resurrection is by far the briefest of the four, maybe I'd just not paid too much attention, or maybe since it's in the last chapter of the Gospel, my weary eyes had already read too quickly to note this little phrase.

But I won't miss it again. It's highlighted in yellow and underlined in red. You might want to do the same. Look in Mark, chapter 16. Read the first five verses about the women's surprise when they find the stone moved to the side, and then feast on that beautiful phrase spoken by the angel, He is not here, He is risen.

But don't pause for too long. Go a bit further. Get your pencil ready and enjoy this jewel in the seventh verse. Here it comes. The verse reads like this, But go, tell His disciples and Peter that He is going before you to Galilee.

Read it again. This time I'll emphasize the words. But go, tell His disciples and Peter that He is going before you to Galilee. Now tell me if that's not a hidden treasure. If I might paraphrase the words, Don't stay here, go tell the disciples.

A pause, then a smile. And especially tell Peter that He's going before you to Galilee. Oh, what a line! It's as if all of heaven had watched Peter fall, and it's as if all of heaven wanted to help him back up again.

Be sure and tell Peter that he's not left out. Tell him that one failure doesn't make a flop. No wonder they call it the gospel of the second chance. Not many second chances exist in the world today. Just ask the kid who didn't make the Little League team, or the fellow who got the pink slip, or the mother of the three who got dumped for a pretty little thing.

Not many second chances. Nowadays it's more like it's now or never. Around here we don't tolerate incompetence. Got to get tough to get going. Not much room at the top. Three strikes and you're out. It's a dog-eat-dog world.

Jesus has a simple answer to our masochistic mania. It's a dog-eat-dog world, he would say. Then don't live with the dogs. That makes sense, doesn't it? Why let a bunch of other failures tell you how much of a failure you are?

Sure you can have a second chance. Just ask Peter. One minute he felt lower than a snake's belly, and the next minute he was the high hog at the trough. Even the angels wanted this distraught netcaster to know that it wasn't over.

The message came loud and clear from the Celestial Throne Room through the Divine Courier. Be sure and tell Peter that he gets to bat again. Those who know these types of things say that the Gospel of Mark is really the transcribed notes and dictated thoughts of Peter.

If this is true, then it was Peter himself who included these two words. And if these really are his words, I can't help but imagine that the old fisherman had to brush away a tear and swallow a lump when he got to this point in the story.

It's not every day that you get a second chance. Peter must have known that. The next time he saw Jesus he got so excited that he barely got his britches on before he jumped into the cold water of the Sea of Galilee.

It was also enough, so they say, to cause this backwoods Galilean to carry the Gospel of the second chance all the way to Rome, where they killed him. If you've ever wondered what would cause a man to be willing to be crucified upside down, maybe now you know.

It's not every day that you find someone who will give you a second chance, much less someone who will give you a second chance every day. But in Jesus, Peter found both. Thomas. He defies tidy summary.

Oh, I know, we've labeled him somewhere in some sermon. Somebody called him Doubting Thomas. And the nickname stuck. And it's true, he did doubt. It's just that there was more to it than that. There was more to his questioning than a simple lack of faith.

It was more due to a lack of imagination. You see it in more than just the resurrection story. Consider, for instance, the time that Jesus was talking in all eloquence about the home he was going to prepare.

Though the imagery wasn't easy for Thomas to grasp, he was doing his best. You can see his eyes filling his face as he tries to envision a big White House on St. Thomas Avenue. And just when Thomas is about to get the picture, Jesus assumes, you know the way that I am going.

Thomas blinks a time or two, looks around at the other blank faces, and then bursts out with candid aplomb. Lord, we don't know where you're going, so how can we know the way? Thomas didn't mind speaking his mind.

If you don't understand something, say so. His imagination would only stretch so far. And then there was the time that Jesus told his disciples he was going to be with Lazarus, even though Lazarus was already dead and buried.

Thomas couldn't imagine what Jesus was referring to. But if Jesus was wanting to go back into the arena with those Jews who had tried once before to stone him, Thomas wasn't going to let him face them alone.

So he patted his trusty sidearm and said, Let's die with him. Thomas had spent his life waiting on the Messiah, and now that the Messiah was here, Thomas was willing to his life for him. Not much imagination, but a lot of loyalty.

Perhaps it's this trait of loyalty that explains why Thomas wasn't in the upper room when Jesus appeared to the other apostles. You see, I think Thomas took the death of Jesus pretty hard. Even though he couldn't quite comprehend all the metaphors that Jesus at times employed, he was still willing to go to the end with him.

But he had never expected that the end would come so abruptly and prematurely. As a result, Thomas was left with a crossword puzzle full of unanswered riddles. On the one hand, the idea of a resurrected Jesus was too far-fetched for dogmatic Thomas.

His limited creativity left little room for magic or razzle-dazzle. Besides, he wasn't about to set himself up to be disappointed once again. One disappointment was enough, thank you. Yet, on the other hand, his loyalty made him yearn to believe.

As long as there was the slimmest thread of hope, he wanted to be counted in. His turmoil, then, came from a fusion between his lack of imagination and his unwavering loyalty. He was too honest with life to be gullible, and yet was too loyal to Jesus to be unfaithful.

In the end, it was this realistic devotion that caused him to utter the now-famous condition, UNLESS I SEE THE NAIL MARKS IN HIS HANDS AND PUT MY FINGERS WHERE THE NAILS WERE, I WILL NOT BELIEVE IT. So I guess you could say that he did doubt, but it was a different kind of doubting that springs not from timidity or mistrust, but from a reluctance to believe the impossible and a simple fear of being hurt twice.

Most of us are the same way, aren't we? In our world of budgets, long-range planning, and computers, don't we find it hard to trust in the unbelievable? Don't most of us tend to scrutinize life behind furrowed brows and walk with cautious steps?

It's hard for us to imagine that God can surprise us. To make a little room for miracles today, well, it's just not sound thinking. As a result, we, like Thomas, find it hard to believe that God can do the very thing that He is best at, replacing death with life.

Our infertile imaginations bear little hope that the improbable will occur. We then, like Thomas, let our dreams fall victim to doubt. We make the same mistake that Thomas made. We forget that impossible is one of God's favorite words.

How about you? How's your imagination these days? When was the last time you let some of your dreams elbow out your logic? When was the last time you imagined the unimaginable? When was the last time you dreamed of an entire world united in peace or all believers united in fellowship?

When was the last time you dared dream of the day when every mouth will be fed and every nation dwell in peace? When was the last time you dreamed about every creature on earth hearing about the Messiah?

Has it been a while since you claimed God's promise to do more than all we ask or imagine? Though it went against every logical bone in his body, Thomas said he would believe if he could have just a little proof.

And Jesus, who is ever so patient with our doubting, gave Thomas exactly what he requested. He extended his hands one more time. And was Thomas ever surprised? He did a double take, fell flat on his face, and cried, My Lord and my God!

Jesus must have smiled. He knew he had a winner in Thomas. Any time you mix loyalty with a little imagination, you've got a man of God on your hands, a man who will die for a truth. Just look at Thomas.

Legend has him hopping a freighter to India, where they had to kill him to get him to quit talking about his home prepared in the world to come, and his friend who came back from the dead. They're coming as friends, secret friends, but friends nonetheless.

The Burial of Jesus and the Light of Reformation

You can take him down now, soldier. I'll take care of him. The afternoon sun is high as they stand silently on the hill. It's much quieter than it was earlier. Most of the crowd has left. The two thieves gasp and groan as they hang near death.

A soldier leans a ladder against the center tree, ascends it, and removes the stake that holds the beam to the upright part of the cross. Two of the other soldiers, glad that the day's work is nearing completion, assist with the heavy chore of laying the cypress crosspiece and body on the ground.

Careful now, says Joseph. The five-inch nails are wrenched from the hard wood, freeing the limp hands. The body that encased the Savior is lifted and laid on a large rock. He's yours, says the sentry.

The cross is set aside, soon to be carried into the supply room until it's needed again. The two are not accustomed to this type of work, yet their hands move quickly to their tasks. Joseph of Arimathea kneels behind the head of Jesus and tenderly wipes the wounded face.

With a soft wet cloth he cleans the blood that came in the garden, that came from the lashings and from the crown of thorns. With this done, he closes the eyes tight. Nicodemus unrolls some linen sheeting that Joseph brought and places it on the rock beside the body.

The two Jewish leaders lift the lifeless body of Jesus and set it on the linen. Parts of the body are now anointed with perfume spices. As Nicodemus touches the cheeks of the Master with aloe, the emotion he's been containing escapes.

His own tear falls on the face of the crucified King. He pauses to brush away another. The middle-aged Jew looks longingly at the young Galilean. It's a bit ironic that the burial of Jesus should be conducted not by those who had boasted they would never leave, but by two members of the Sanhedrin, two representatives of the religious group that killed the Messiah.

But then again, of all who were indebted to this broken body, none were as much as those two. Many had been freed from the deep pits of slavery and sickness, many had been found in the darkest of tunnels, tunnels of perversion and death, but no tunnel was ever darker than the tunnel from which these two had been rescued, the tunnel of religion.

They don't come any darker. Its caverns are many and its pitfalls are deep, its subterranean stench reeks with the spirit of good intentions, its endless maze of channels are cluttered with the disoriented, its paths are covered with cracked wineskins and spilt wine.

You wouldn't want to carry a young faith into this tunnel. Young minds probing with questions quickly stale in the numbing darkness. Fresh insights are squelched in order to protect fragile traditions.

Originality is discouraged, curiosity is stifled, priorities are reshuffled. Christ had nothing but stinging words of rebuke for those who dwell in the caverns. Hypocrites, he called them, godless actors, fence-builders, inflexible judges, unauthorized hedge-trimmers, hair-splitters, blind guides, white-washed tombs, snakes, vipers, bang, bang, bang!

Jesus had no room for those who specialized in making religion a warlord and faith a footrace, no room at all. Joseph and Nicodemus were tired of it, too. They had seen it for themselves. They had seen the list of rules and regulations.

They had watched the people tremble under unbearable burdens. They had heard the hours of senseless wrangling over legalistic details. They had worn the robes and sat at the places of honor and seen the word of God be made void.

They had seen religion become the crutch that cripples, and they wanted out. It was a sizable risk. The High Society of Jerusalem wasn't going to look too kindly on two of their religious leaders burying a revolutionist, but for Joseph and Nicodemus the choice was obvious.

The stories this young preacher from Nazareth told rang with a truth that they had never heard in the cavern, and besides, they'd much rather save their souls than their skin. So they lifted the body slowly and carried it to the unused tomb.

In doing so, they lit a candle in the cavern. Supposing these two had been observing the religious world during the last two thousand years, they probably found things to be not too terribly different.

There's still a sizable amount of evil that wears the robe of religion and uses the Bible as a sledgehammer. It's still fashionable to have sacred titles and wear holy chains, and it's still often the case that one has to find faith in spite of the church instead of in the church.

But they have also observed that just when the religious get too much religion and the righteous get too right, God finds somebody in the cavern who will light a candle. It was lit by Luther at Wittenberg, by Latimer in London, and by Tyndall in Germany.

John Knox fanned the flame as a galley slave, and Alexander Campbell did the same as a preacher. It's not easy to light a candle in a dark cavern. Yet those of us whose lives have been enlightened because of these courageous men are eternally grateful.

And of all the acts of enlightenment, there is no doubt which one was the noblest. You can take him down now, soldier. I'll take care of him. Before we bid goodbye to those present at the cross, I have one more introduction to make.

This introduction is very special. There was one group in attendance that day whose role was critical. They didn't speak much, but they were there. Few noticed them, but that's not surprising. Their very nature is so silent, they're often overlooked.

In fact, the Gospel writers scarcely gave them a reference. But we do know they were there. They had to be. They had a job to do. Yes, this representation did much more than witness the divine drama. They expressed it.

They captured it. They displayed the despair of Peter, they betrayed the guilt of Pilate, and unveiled the anguish of Judas. They transmitted John's confusion and translated Mary's compassion. Their prime role, however, was with that of the Messiah.

With utter delicacy and tenderness, they offered relief to his pain and expression to his yearning. Who am I describing? You may be surprised. Tears, those tiny drops of humanity, those round wet balls of fluid that tumble from our eyes, creep down our cheeks, and splash on the floor of our hearts.

They were there that day. They're always present at such times. They should be. That's their job. They are miniature messengers, on call twenty-four hours a day to substitute for crippled words. They drip, drop, and pour from the corner of our souls, carrying with them the deepest emotions we possess.

They tumble down our faces with announcements that range from the most blissful joy to darkest despair. The principle is simple. When words are most empty, tears are most apt. A tear stain on a letter says much more than the sum of all its words.

A tear falling on a casket says what a spoken farewell never could. What summons a mother's compassion and concern more quickly than a tear on a child's cheek? What gives more support than a sympathetic tear on the face of a friend?

What do you do when words won't come? When all the nouns and verbs lay deflated at your feet, with what do you communicate? When even the loftiest statements stumble, what do you do? Are you one of the fortunate who isn't ashamed to let a tear take over?

Can you be so happy that your eyes' water in your throat swells? Can you be so proud that your pupils blur and your vision mists? And in sorrow, do you let your tears decompress that tight chest and untie that knot in your throat?

Or do you re-root your tears and let them only fall on the inside? Not many of us are good at showing our feelings, you know, especially us fellows. Oh, we can yell and curse and smoke, yes, sir, but tears?

Save those for the weak-kneed and timid. I've got a world to conquer. We do well, guys, to pause and look at the tear-stained faces that appear at the cross. Peter, the burly fisherman, strong enough to yank a full net out of the sea, brave enough to weather the toughest storm, the man who only hours before had bared his sword against the entire Roman guard, but now, now look at him, weeping, no, wailing, huddled in a corner with his face hidden in his calloused hands.

Would a real man be doing this, admitting his fault, confessing his failure, begging forgiveness? Or would a real man bottle it up, justify it, rationalize it, keep a stiff upper lip and stand his ground?

Has Peter lost his manhood? We know better, don't we? Maybe he's less a man of the world, but less a man of God? No way. And John, look at his tears, his face swollen with sorrow as he stands eye-level with the bloody feet of his master.

Is his emotion a lack of courage? Is his despair a lack of guts? And the tears of Jesus? They came in the garden. I'm sure they came on the cross. Are they a sign of weakness? Do those stains on his cheeks mean he had no fire in his belly or grit in his gut?

Of course not. Here's the point. It's not just tears that are the issue. It's what they represent. They represent the heart, the spirit and the soul of a person. To put a lock and key on your emotions is to bury part of your Christ-likeness, especially when you come to Calvary.

You can't go to the cross with just your head and not your heart. It doesn't work that way. Calvary is not a mental trip. It's not an intellectual exercise. It's not a divine calculation or a cold theological principle.

It's a heart-splitting hour of emotion. Don't walk away from it dry-eyed and unstirred. Don't just straighten your tie and clear your throat. Don't allow yourself to descend Calvary cool and collected.

Please, please pause. Look again. Those are nails in those hands. That's God on that cross. It's us who put him there. Peter knew it, John knew it, Mary knew it. They knew a great price was being paid.

They knew who really pierced his side. They also somehow knew that history was being remade. That's why they wept. They saw the Savior. God, may we never be so educated, may we never be so mature, may we never be so religious that we can see your passion without tears.

God Uses Flawed People

They aren't exactly what you'd call a list of who's who in purity and sainthood. In fact, some of their antics and attitudes would make you think of the Saturday night crowd at the county jail. What few halos there are among this befuddled bunch could probably use a bit of straightening and polish.

Yet, strange as it may seem, it's this very humanness that makes these people refreshing. They're so refreshing that should you ever need a reminder of God's tolerance, you'd find it in these people. If you ever wonder how in the world God could use you to change the world, look at these people.

What people? The people God used to change history. A rag bag of ne 'er-do-wells and has-beens who found hope not in their performance, but in God's proverbially open arms. Let's start with Abraham.

Though eulogized by Paul for his faith, this father of a nation wasn't without his weaknesses. He had a fibbing tongue that wouldn't stop. One time, in order to save his neck, he let the word get out that Sarah wasn't his wife, but his sister, which was only half true.

And then, not long later, he did it again, and Abraham said of Sarah his wife, she is my sister. Twice he traded in his integrity for security. That's what you call confidence in God's promises? Can you build a nation on that kind of faith?

God can. God took what was good and forgave what was bad, and used old forked tongue to start a nation. Another household name is Moses, definitely one of history's greatest. But until he was eighty years old, he looked like he wouldn't amount to much more than a once-upon-a-time prince-turned-outlaw.

Would you choose a wanted murderer to lead a nation out of bondage? Would you call upon a fugitive to carry the Ten Commandments? God did. And he called him of all places right out of a sheep pasture, called his name through a burning bush.

There, with knees knocking and, Who, me? written all over his face, Moses agreed to go back into the ring. And what can you say about a fellow whose lust got so lusty that he got a woman pregnant, tried to blame it on her husband, had her husband killed, and then went on living like nothing ever happened?

Well, you could say he was a man after God's own heart. David's track record left little to be desired, but his repentant spirit was unquestionable. Then comes Jonah, God's ambassador to Nineveh. Jonah, however, had other ideas.

He had no desire to go to that heathen city, so he opt on another boat while God wasn't looking, or at least that's what Jonah thought. God put him in a whale's belly to bring him back to his senses. But even the whale couldn't stomach this missionary for too long.

A good burp and Jonah went flying over the surf and landed big-eyed and repentant on the beach, which just goes to show you that you can't keep a good man down. And on and on the stories go. Elijah the Prophet, who pouted, Solomon the King, who knew too much, Jacob the wheeler-dealer, Gomer the prostitute, Sarah the woman who giggled at God.

One story after another of God using man's best and overcoming man's worst. Even the genealogy of Jesus is salted with a dubious character or two. Tamar the adulteress, Rahab the harlot, and Bathsheba, who tended to take baths in questionable locations.

The reassuring lesson is clear. God used and uses people to change the world. People, not saints or superhumans or geniuses, but people, crooks, creeps, lovers, and liars. He uses them all. And what they may lack in perfection, God makes up for in love.

Jesus later summarized God's stubborn love with a parable. He told about a teenager who decided that life at the farm was too slow for his tastes. So, with pockets full of inheritance money, he set out to find the big time.

What he found instead were hangovers, fair-weather friends, and long unemployment lines. When he had had just about as much of the pig's life as he could take, he swallowed his pride, dug his hands deeply into his empty pockets, and began the long walk home, all the while rehearsing a speech that he planned to give to his father.

He never used it. Just when he got to the top of the hill, his father, who had been waiting at the gate, saw him. The boy's words of apology were quickly muffled by the father's words of forgiveness, and the boy's weary body fell into his father's opened arms.

The same open arms welcomed him that had welcomed Abraham, Moses, David, and Jonah. No wagging fingers, no clenched fists, no, I told you so, slaps, or, where have you been? interrogations. No crossed arms, no black eyes or fat lips, no, only sweet open arms.

If you ever wonder how God can use you to make a difference in your world, just look at those He has already used and take heart. Look at the forgiveness found in those open arms and take courage. And, by the way, never were those arms open so wide as they were on the Roman cross.

One arm extended back into history and the other reaching into the future. An embrace of forgiveness offered for anyone who will come. A hen gathering her chicks, a father receiving his own, a Redeemer redeeming the world.

Contentment and the Gift of a Present Moment

No wonder they call him the Savior. Ah, an hour of contentment, a precious moment of peace, a few minutes of relaxation. Each of us has a setting in which contentment pays a visit. Early in the morning while the coffee is hot and everyone else is asleep, late at night as you kiss your six-year-old's sleepy eyes, in a boat on a lake when memories of a life well-lived are vivid, in the companionship of a well-worn, dog-eared, even tear-stained Bible, in the arms of a spouse, at Thanksgiving dinner or sitting near the Christmas tree, an hour of contentment, an hour when deadlines are forgotten and strivings have ceased, an hour when what we have overshadows what we want, an hour when we realize that a lifetime of blood-sweating and head-hunting can't give us what the cross gave us in one day, a clean conscience and a new start.

But, unfortunately, in our squirrel cages of schedules, contests, and side-glancing, hours like these are about as common as one-legged monkeys. In our world contentment is a strange street vendor, roaming, looking for a home, but seldom finding an open door.

This old salesman moves slowly from house to house, tapping on windows, knocking on doors, offering his wares, an hour of peace, a smile of acceptance, a sigh of relief. But his goods are seldom taken.

We're too busy to be content, which is crazy, since the reason we kill ourselves today is because we think it will make us content tomorrow. Not now, thank you, I've too much to do, we say. Too many marks to be made, too many achievements to be achieved, too many dollars to be saved, too many promotions to be earned, and besides, if I'm content, someone might think I've lost my ambition.

So the street vendor named Contentment moves on. When I ask him why so few welcomed him into their homes, his answer left me convicted. I charge a high price, you know. My fee is steep. I ask people to trade in their schedules, frustrations, and anxieties.

I demand that they put a torch to their fourteen-hour days and sleepless nights. You'd think I'd have more buyers. But he scratched his beard, then added pensively, but people seem strangely proud of their ulcers and headaches.

Can I say something a bit personal? I'd like to give a testimony, a live one. I'm here to tell you that I welcomed this bearded friend into my living room this morning. It wasn't easy. My list of things was, for the most part, undone.

My responsibilities were just as burdensome as ever. Calls to be made, letters to be written, checkbooks to be balanced. But a funny thing happened on the way to the rat race that made me slip into neutral.

Just as I got my sleeves rolled up, just as the old engine was starting to purr, just as I was getting up a good head of steam, my infant daughter Jenna needed to be held. She had a stomach ache. Mom was in the bath, so it fell to Daddy to pick her up.

She's three weeks old today. At first I started trying to do things with one hand and hold her with the other. You're smiling. You've tried that too? Well, just when I realized that it was impossible, I also realized that it was not at all what I was wanting to do.

I sat down and held her tight little tummy against my chest. She began to relax. A big sigh escaped her lungs. Her whimpers became gurgles. She slid down my chest until her little ear was right on top of my heart.

That's when her arms went limp. And she fell asleep. And that's when the street vendor knocked at my door. Good-bye, schedule! See you later, routine! Come back tomorrow, deadlines! Hello, contentment!

Come on in. So here we sit. Contentment, my daughter, and I. Pen in hand, notepad on Jenna's back. She'll never remember this moment, and I'll never forget it. The sweet fragrance of a moment captured fills the room.

The taste of an opportunity seized sweetens my mouth. The sunlight of a lesson learned illuminates my understanding. This is one moment that didn't get away. The tasks? They'll get done. The calls? They'll get made.

The letters? They'll be written. And you know what? They'll get done with a smile. I don't do this enough, but I'm going to do it more. In fact, I was thinking of giving that street vendor a key to my door.

Playing Games at the Foot of the Cross

By the way, contentment, what are you doing this afternoon? There was some dice-throwing that went on at the foot of the cross. Imagine this scene. The soldiers are huddled in a circle, their eyes turned downward.

The criminal above them is forgotten. They gamble for some used clothes. The tunic, the cloak, the sandals are all up for grabs. Each soldier lays his luck on the hard earth, hoping to expand his wardrobe at the expense of a cross-killed carpenter.

I've wondered what that scene must have looked like to Jesus. As he looked downward past his bloody feet at the circle of gamblers, what did he think? What emotions did he feel? He must have been amazed.

Here are common soldiers witnessing the world's most uncommon event, and they don't even know it. As far as they are concerned, it's just another Friday morning, and he's just another criminal. Come on, hurry up, it's my turn.

All right, all right, this throw is for the sandals. Casting lots for the possessions of Christ, heads ducked, eyes downward, cross forgotten. The symbolism is striking. Do you see it? It makes me think of us, the religious, those who claim heritage at the cross.

I'm thinking of all of us, every believer in the land, the stuffy, the loose, the strict, the simple, upper church, lower church, spirit-filled, millennialists, evangelical, political, mystical, literal, cynical, robes, collars, three-piece suits, born-againers, ameners.

I'm thinking of us. I'm thinking that we aren't so unlike those soldiers, I'm sorry to say. We, too, play games at the foot of the cross. We compete for members, we scramble for status, we deal out judgments and condemnations, competition, selfishness, personal gain, it's all there.

We don't like what the other did, so we take the sandal we won and walk away in a huff. So close to the timber, yet so far from the blood. We are so close to the world's most uncommon event, but we act like common crapshooters, huddled in bickering groups and fighting over silly opinions.

How many pulpit hours have been wasted on preaching the trivial? How many churches have tumbled at the throes of miniscuity? How many leaders have saddled their pet peeves, drawn their swords of bitterness, and launched into battle against brethren over issues that aren't worth discussing?

So close to the cross, but so far from the Christ. We specialize in I-am-right rallies. We write books about what the other does wrong. We major in finding gossip and becoming experts in unveiling weaknesses.

We split into little huddles and then, God forbid, we split again. Another name, another doctrine, another error, another denomination, another poker game. Our Lord must be amazed. Those selfish soldiers we smirked with our thumbs in the pelts, they were so close to the cross and yet so far from the Christ.

And yet, are we so different? Our divisions are so numerous that we can't be catalogued. There are so many offshoots that even the offshoots have shoots. Now, really, are our differences that divisive?

Are our opinions that obtrusive? Are our walls that wide? Is it that impossible to find a common cause? May they all be one, Jesus prayed. One. Not one in groups of two thousand, but one in one. One church, one faith, one Lord.

Not Baptist, not Methodist, not Adventist, just Christians. No denominations, no hierarchies, no traditions, just Christ. Too idealistic? Impossible to achieve? I don't think so. Harder things have been done, you know.

For example, once upon a tree, a Creator gave His life for His creation. Maybe all we need are a few hearts that are willing to follow suit. What about you? Can you build a bridge, toss a rope, span a chasm, pray for someone, pray for oneness?

Can you be the soldier who snaps to his senses, jumps to his feet, and reminds the rest of us, hey, that's God on that cross? The similarity between the soldier's game and our game is scary. What did Jesus think?

Jesus in the Fog of Gethsemane

What does He think today? There is still dice-throwing going on, and it is at the foot of the cross. The fog of the broken heart. It's a dark fog that slyly imprisons the soul and refuses easy escape.

It's a silent mist that eclipses the sun and beckons the darkness. It's a heavy cloud that honors no hour and respects no person. Depression, discouragement, disappointments, doubt, all are companions of this dreaded presence.

The fog of the broken heart disorients our life. It makes it hard to see the road. Dim your lights, wipe off the windshield, slow down, do what you wish, nothing helps. When this fog encircles us, our vision is blocked and tomorrow is forever away.

When this billowy blackness envelops us, the most earnest words of help and hope are but vacant phrases. If you've ever been betrayed by a friend, you know what I mean. If you've ever been dumped by a spouse or abandoned by a parent, you've seen this fog.

If you've ever placed a spade of dirt on a loved one's casket or kept vigil at a dear one's bedside, you too recognize this cloud. If you've been in this fog or are in it now, you can be sure of one thing.