Would I Have Been at the Cross That Day?

Would I have been at the cross that day? Or would I have been too scared and run away?

Recently, at a Prayer Partner Retreat at Alta Mons with my church, I stood in the center of a massive field surrounded by the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains. Awed and silenced by the breath-taking beauty, I spun around in one brief sweep, like Maria on the Sound of Music. Only I did not sing. I raised my arms in praise to the King, for no song or words seemed adequate for that moment. I stood completely still, listening to the gentle rush of a bulging stream and the birds chirping overhead. I felt the cool breeze sweep across my face and the soggy ground sink beneath my feet. That last sensation was my cue to move on.

As I looked up, I spotted a rough-hewn cross in the distance. Stepping closer, I noticed multiple carvings on the wooden beams. Testimonies to the Lord of Lords and King of Kings. Scratched into the wood were such praises as:  God eternal. Almighty God. Prince of Peace. Everlasting God. Sing praise.

I wondered about the folks who had etched their testimony onto the cross for others passing by to witness. Probably men, women, boys, and girls just like me, with struggles, failures, and heartaches, but in love with the Savior. So much so, they took the time to stop and leave their praise imprint.

As I stood alone before the empty cross, I could not help but wonder if I would have been so bold the day my Lord died. Would I have supported him publicly as He was dying for me publicly? Or would I have been like so many of His followers who simply turned away, scared and confused?

I thought about how easy it was to stand before a symbolic cross on a quiet May day, surrounded by beauty and other believers, only a short distance away, who shared a passion for prayer. My heart was convicted and challenged. I wondered what sacrifice I had made that could even begin to compare to my Lord's sacrifice for me.

Stepping even closer to the cross and viewing the etchings, I wondered what lasting impressions I had made for God's kingdom because I had encountered the Christ of the cross.

Would my life be any different for having been here? What would I do or say today that would show at least one other person my Savior lives?

A Divine Appointment

A man wearing brown pants with beige dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, stocked the cracker shelves as I swerved around the corner with my grocery cart headed for the saltines.

“Hi, how are you today?” I said, sweeping past him.

“Good, how ‘bout you?” he countered with southern drawl while shoving a box of Ritz into an available spot. An overhead light beamed off the baseball-sized bald spot on the top of his head.

“Oh, fine, just fine.” I said, torn between scanning the shelves for my selection and exchanging cordialities.

Chattering on as if he hadn’t talked to anyone all day, he spoke of everything from the weather to his first grandchild due the end of October.

A bell sounded in my head. This was a topic near and dear to my heart, for my husband and I now had five grandchildren, the latest born in our home only weeks earlier, and the sixth on his way the beginning of October.

The man’s glasses slid down his nose as he reached to unpack another box. His wiry, sandy-colored hair stuck out over his forehead like a visor. Somewhat stocky, his belly loped over his belt when he squatted to straighten the cracker boxes on the bottom shelf. His daughter, only nineteen, would give birth to a son, he told me, lining up a row of Ritz like new army recruits.

“I was just getting used to the empty nest, and now this—I can hardly believe I’m going to be a grandfather.”

I had been where he was four years ago. With two weddings in one year and two babies the next, I was still gulping for air.

“I know what you mean,” I assured, lamely glancing at him one second and squinting at the saltines the next.

“But you have to let them go. You do the best you can raising them, then you just have to let them go,” he said, forcibly brushing his hands together to illustrate his words.

I inched my cart down the aisle, but paused out of politeness when he continued talking.

“I wonder, though, young people today probably won’t discipline their kids the way I was brought up. It was a trip to the woodshed for me. Yep, I learned a thing or two with the strap.”

Nodding, I assessed whether to stick around and humor this stock boy—well, man—with more of my presence or make my getaway.

Was this a divine appointment the Lord had placed in my way on this sunny September morn?

As we conversed more about the need for discipline in our culture, a story popped into my head.

“You know, you’re right, discipline is so important for children. I remember a speaker I listened to once share how he decided to teach his children a significant lesson after they had misbehaved one day.”

The man’s eyes flitted to my face as he reached for yet another large cardboard box full of crackers.

“The father told his two children to come into the bedroom. Once there, he pulled his shirt off, handed them each a leather belt, leaned over the mattress, and told them to whip his back with the belts.”

A whisper of a frown passed over the man’s face as he cocked his head to listen.

“Well, as you might expect, the children were totally confused. ‘Daddy,’ they said in unison, ‘why do you want us to spank you? We’re the ones who did wrong.’”

“‘Yes, you did wrong,’ the father stated, “’but I want you to whip me. I will take your punishment.’”

“’No, Daddy, we can’t let you do that!’”

“By now big crocodile tears were inching their way down the children’s cheeks.

“’Please, Daddy, we can’t do this!’

“The father insisted, and the children struck him with the belts, over and over again at his command. His back, layered with red stripes, pulsed with pain. His children dropped to the floor weeping uncontrollably.

“The father turned, stooped and stretched his arms around his broken children. ‘That, my children, is what Jesus did for us. He took the punishment that we deserve when He died on the cross.’

“The children never forgot their father’s lesson, nor did they ever require a spanking again.”

With eyebrows arched like Howdy-Dowdy, the man stood frozen for a second, “Yep, that’s a powerful lesson, all right.” Shaking his head, he retrieved more cracker boxes and resumed shelving.

“Well, you have a good day now; nice talking with you,” I said, gripping the cart handle.

“Yeah, you too. Have a good one.” He waved a hand, signaling the end of the conversation. Yet, something in his eyes indicated he would be thinking on our visit for some time to come.

Once upon a time . . .

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who grew up with the name of Jesus on her lips, but not in her heart. She knew all the Bible stories. Her parents, after all, were home missionaries, serving the Lord among the children in East Tennessee.

During her early years, a great sadness filled her home and her young life. Her brother, fourteen years her senior, had died at age eighteen after a lifetime of hydrocephalus. Even at the age of four, she sensed a bleakness and a blackness cover her world. Terror filled her nights, her only comfort the light her mother left on in the hallway. Oh, how her mother tried to console the little girl. She would sit on the edge of her bed and quote Psalm 56:3: "When I am afraid, I will trust in you."

The little girl wanted to trust in God, but she didn't know how. Fear engulfed her spirit and overwhelmed any faith that might break through.

Then, on one muggy summer Sunday night, she and her friend sat in church listening to a visiting evangelist. Well, her friend was listening. She was absorbed in a western novel she'd checked out of the church library.

When the service ended and the speaker asked if anyone would like to come forward and receive Christ as Savior, her friend leaned over to her. "I want to go up," she said.

The little girl shrugged. "Ah, we're too young."

Her reply didn't deter her friend, however. She stood up, slipped past the little girl, and walked down the aisle to her mother. They whispered together and then went up to the front.

A few months later, in October, the little girl sat beside her father on a Sunday morning. The sun streamed through the stained-glass windows. After the preacher closed the sermon, the minister of music directed the congregation to a hymn titled, Jesus I Come.

As the music swirled around her, she became transfixed on the words, "Out of my bondage, sorrow and night, Jesus, I come, Jesus, I come. Into Thy freedom, gladness and light, Jesus, I come to Thee."

At that moment, she knew those words were written for her. Without a word, she slipped past her father and down the aisle, her physical trek a spiritual heart response to Jesus. Jesus, I come to You, was her heart cry.

That day, the little girl acknowledged Jesus as her personal Savior. It was a first, trembling step to connect with Jesus.

The next day, the little girl went to third grade and sat behind her friend, Jimmy. She tapped him on the shoulder and told him what she had done. He said he had done the same thing.


Another hymn that captured her heart as a child was The Old Rugged Cross, written by George Bennard.

"On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suff'ring and shame;
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
So I'll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown."

That little girl was me, and I have one glory: the cross of Christ. As Augustus Toplady wrote in his well-known hymn, Rock of Ages , "In my hand no price I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling."

In Christ alone, does my life make sense. In the midst of much doubt, fear, and obsessive-compulsiveness over the years, the Lord has continually wooed me out of the darkness and into His marvelous Light. He is faithful God, Savior, and Lord.

As Luke so aptly writes about Christ in chapter one, verses 77-79 . . .

Jesus Christ came "to give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins, because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven, to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace."

During this Christmas season, my heart's prayer for you, dear reader, is that you will consider the cross, for through Christ alone can any of us know forgiveness of sin and share eternal life with Him.

Let His Light break through your darkness and guide your feet into the path of peace.

God Loves Everyone!

I was saddened this morning when I encountered a gentleman who insisted that God hates homosexuals. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let's use the Bible to set the record straight . . .

Jesus says in John 3:16, "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life" (NIV).

Jesus presented the perfect balance of conviction and compassion, truth and grace. He extended His hand and heart to all. He came to restore us to the Father. Anyone who desires to come can drink freely of His living water, which will become "in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life"(John 4:14).

Furthermore, Paul notes in 1 Corinthians 6:9-11: Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of God."

Notice that homosexuality is only one among many sins which Paul condemns. The good news is that through Christ the Corinthian believers had been washed, sanctified, and justified. In short, they had been forgiven by the blood of Christ and restored to the Father.

If God hates homosexuals, then he hates us all, for we are all sinners and worthy of eternal damnation. The ground is level at the foot of the Cross. Through Christ alone are we made right before God.

The Cross stands forever as proof that God loves everyone!

A DIVINE APPOINTMENT

A man wearing brown pants with beige dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, stocked the cracker shelves as I swerved around the corner with my grocery cart headed for the saltines.

“Hi, how are you today?” I said, sweeping past him.

“Good, how ‘bout you?” he countered with southern drawl while shoving a box of Ritz into an available spot. An overhead light beamed off the baseball-sized bald spot on the top of his head.

“Oh, fine, just fine.” I said, torn between scanning the shelves for my selection and exchanging cordialities.

Chattering on as if he hadn’t talked to anyone all day, he spoke of everything from the weather to his first grandchild due the end of October.

A bell sounded in my head. This was a topic near and dear to my heart, for my husband and I now had five grandchildren, the latest born in our home only weeks earlier, and the sixth on his way the beginning of October.

The man’s glasses slid down his nose as he reached to unpack another box. His wiry, sandy-colored hair stuck out over his forehead like a visor. Somewhat stocky, his belly loped over his belt when he squatted to straighten the cracker boxes on the bottom shelf. His daughter, only nineteen, would give birth to a son, he told me, lining up a row of Ritz like new army recruits.

“I was just getting used to the empty nest, and now this—I can hardly believe I’m going to be a grandfather.”

I had been where he was four years ago. With two weddings in one year and two babies the next, I was still gulping for air.

“I know what you mean,” I assured, lamely glancing at him one second and squinting at the saltines the next.

“But you have to let them go. You do the best you can raising them, then you just have to let them go,” he said, forcibly brushing his hands together to illustrate his words.

I inched my cart down the aisle, but paused out of politeness when he continued talking.

“I wonder, though, young people today probably won’t discipline their kids the way I was brought up. It was a trip to the woodshed for me. Yep, I learned a thing or two with the strap.”

Nodding, I assessed whether to stick around and humor this stock boy—well, man—with more of my presence or make my getaway.

Was this a divine appointment the Lord had placed in my way on this sunny September morn?

As we conversed more about the need for discipline in our culture, a story popped into my head.

“You know, you’re right, discipline is so important for children. I remember a speaker I listened to once share how he decided to teach his children a significant lesson after they had misbehaved one day.”

The man’s eyes flitted to my face as he reached for yet another large cardboard box full of crackers.

“The father told his two children to come into the bedroom. Once there, he pulled his shirt off, handed them each a leather belt, leaned over the mattress, and told them to whip his back with the belts.”

A whisper of a frown passed over the man’s face as he cocked his head to listen.

“Well, as you might expect, the children were totally confused. ‘Daddy,’ they said in unison, ‘why do you want us to spank you? We’re the ones who did wrong.’”

“‘Yes, you did wrong,’ the father stated, “’but I want you to whip me. I will take your punishment.’”

“’No, Daddy, we can’t let you do that!’”

“By now big crocodile tears were inching their way down the children’s cheeks.

“’Please, Daddy, we can’t do this!’

“The father insisted, and the children struck him with the belts, over and over again at his command. His back, layered with red stripes, pulsed with pain. His children dropped to the floor weeping uncontrollably.

“The father turned, stooped and stretched his arms around his broken children. ‘That, my children, is what Jesus did for us. He took the punishment that we deserve when He died on the cross.’

“The children never forgot their father’s lesson, nor did they ever require a spanking again.”

With eyebrows arched like Howdy-Dowdy, the man stood frozen for a second, “Yep, that’s a powerful lesson, all right.” Shaking his head, he retrieved more cracker boxes and resumed shelving.

“Well, you have a good day now; nice talking with you,” I said, gripping the cart handle.

“Yeah, you too. Have a good one.” He waved a hand, signaling the end of the conversation. Yet, something in his eyes indicated he would be thinking on our visit for some time to come.