Follow Me!

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” Mt 16:24

“Follow you? That’s impossible. I can’t do it!”

On 20 October 1944 the leading elements of the 3d Battalion, 34th Infantry—one of the units of the U.S. Army's 24th Division—hit the Philippine island of Leyte on a beach defended by Japanese soldiers occupying a number of large, well-camouflaged pillboxes. The objective was simple: establish a beachhead in order to take the Philippines and break a vital supply line of the Imperial Japanese Navy.

The soldiers hit the beach and almost immediately they found themselves pinned down by heavy machine gun and rifle fire. The beach landing stalled. Casualties began to mount.

To save his men, Regimental Commander Colonel Aubrey S. Newman rose in the midst of the battle and shouted, “Follow me!” And his men did. They swept forward against the Japanese defenders and crushed them. They took the beach and altered the course of the war.

When I first became a Christian, following Christ seemed easy. I read the Bible and went to church. I prayed every day and tried my best to live a good life. And it felt good. Life was easy. But when the honeymoon ended I began to backslide, and for thirty years I walked around half-blind, seeking whatever I pleased and claiming to be a Christian. I learned to frown. I grew a stiff neck. My heart turned cold to God.

But one day while searching His Word, seeking answers to why my life had grown so meaningless, God spoke to me.

“If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

“Follow you?” I cried. “I can’t!”

“You must.”

“But, Lord, you don’t understand. I’ve tried to follow you. I can’t keep up with you!”

“That’s because you’re carrying too heavy a load,” I heard Him say. “Drop everything. Follow me.”

When Colonel Newman’s men hit Red Beach that hot October day they left their families and their worldly possessions behind. They left behind their problems, dropped everything they owned, and picked up their weapons. Then they followed their commanding officer into battle, and the beachhead was won.

The Battle of Leyte raged for seventy-seven more days. American forces suffered a total of 15,584 casualties, of which 3,504 were killed in action. Colonel Newman was critically injured, but in the end his victory on that hot Red Beach proved to be a turning point in the Pacific campaign of World War II. The United States obtained an important foothold in the Philippines, and a vital artery of the Imperial Japanese Naval forces was severed.

To follow Jesus Christ means to live a life of obedience. To put on the full armor of God every day, and then like Colonel Newman’s soldiers, to stand up and follow your commanding officer into battle.

Jesus said, “Follow me.”

He gave a direct order. Will you obey Him? Drop what you are doing today. Take up your cross and follow Him into battle. Victory is assured, for Christ has already won.

He Is Always There

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.
Heb 11:1

"I can’t see you," I whispered. "I can’t hear you either. But I know you’re there, Lord, I can feel you all around me."

She was born in 1880, the daughter of a Confederate Army officer, a normal healthy child. But at nineteen months of age she developed a serious illness that left her unable to hear. Or see.

Her formative years were difficult. She had no practical connection to the outside world. Instead she lived in a world of silence, a dark void with no ability to communicate except through tantrums and fits of rage. At the age of six the specialists deemed her incorrigible with no hope for a normal life. After all without eyes and ears it would be impossible for her to thrive. She could never make it.

But then a miracle occurred. A remarkable young woman walked into her life, someone acutely aware of the difficulties of the deaf and blind. The Teacher, as she came to be known, taught the child to communicate with her hands. She started by using her own fingers to draw the letters W-A-T-E-R in the palm of one of the child’s hands, while holding the other under a spigot of flowing water. And it worked. The child made the connection. Her education began.

She soon learned the English language, and became proficient at reading Braille. She learned to communicate with others, to type, and even to write. And against all odds she went to college, earned a Bachelor’s degree, and then made a successful career as an author, lecturer and esteemed political activist. In short, she made a profound difference, and she did it all without ever having seen or heard the world around her.

As I consider the life of the late Helen Keller, I am reminded of the difficult challenges that face anyone desiring a close walk with God. We can’t hear His voice, we can’t see His face, and yet, it is still possible to know Him intimately. To understand how He thinks. To comprehend His will.

"But how?" some may ask. "If I can’t see him, how do I know he’s there? "If he never speaks to me, how do I know he’s real?"

By learning to communicate with Him. Our eyes and ears add the finishing touches to our understanding of things, add depth and color and dimensions that vividly brighten our lives. But they can also draw our attention away from God. Think about Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. They listened to the serpent, then they looked at the tree. Enticement gave way to sin, and death entered the world. What if they’d never seen the fruit? Or never even heard the tempter? What would have happened?

No, it is not with our eyes or ears that God chose to reveal Himself to us, but by reaching deep within us to stir our spirits and build up our faith. For only by faith can a man ever walk closely with God. But faith takes time. Hard work. You develop it by spending time with God in prayer, by diligently studying His Word, and by reaching out to others in search of His Spirit within them. And when that faith begins to grow you discover vast treasures all around you that you never knew existed.

I’ve never seen God, and I’ve never heard his voice, but I recognize the touch of His hand. I sense His awesome presence. He opens my eyes and ears to add the music and colors to my life. This builds my faith, and fills me with assurance that He is always there.

Once I knew only darkness and stillness... my life was without past or future... but a little word from the fingers of another fell into my hand that clutched at emptiness, and my heart leaped to the rapture of living.

–Helen Keller

Eternally Grateful

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God. Col 3:16

"Songs, hymns and spiritual songs? I don’t know, Lord. I don’t feel much like singing these days. I’ve tried to be a good Christian, but lately I don’t feel that richness dwelling within me. Where’s the joy you promised? Please explain it to me so that I can understand."

I prayed that prayer not long ago. After years of trying to lead a decent life and discover what it means to be a Christian, I finally reached the point where I felt haunted by my lack of joy. Something was missing from my life, and that scripture made no sense to me at all. Until recently…

"I read a good article yesterday. Think you might like it."

"Oh yeah—?"

I caught a gleam in my friend, Dan’s, eye. We were sitting in a local café. We had already chatted about sailing and about work and about our families, but as he opened his Blackberry and began to scroll through the files I could tell he had something important to share.

"A good article? What’s it about?"

"The different virtues," he said, "and the spiritual wealth hidden within them."

I listened as he continued. He mentioned loyalty and faithfulness. Self-discipline, integrity and strength.

"But the greatest virtue of all," he explained, "is gratitude."

"Gratitude?" That didn’t resonate with me. How about love? Or compassion? "How could gratitude be the greatest virtue?"

"Well," he said, nodding and tapping his Blackberry screen, "think about it—you and I are extremely blessed just to be here."

"Yeah, today I might agree with that, Dan, but there are other times I might not. I don’t always feel blessed. In fact sometimes I feel downright ungrateful."

"Then you need to hear this," he said. "It’s from a book called, A Short History of Nearly Everything, written by a man named Bill Bryson. Listen to what he says…

‘You have been extremely - make that miraculously - fortunate in your personal ancestry. Consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, a period of time older than the Earth's mountains and rivers and oceans, every one of your forebears on both sides has been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and sufficiently blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stranded, stuck fast, untimely wounded, or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment in order to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result - eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly - in you.’

"The point is," Dan said, "the odds against your being born were astronomical. You shouldn’t even be here. But you’re part of God’s plan. You might even say, He invited you to be here. So you have a lot to be grateful for."

*

This morning I witnessed perfection. The sky, just an hour before devoid of any light, burst forth with living color. The eastern horizon glowed with the warm tinted hues of morning. A light fog drifted skyward from the trees and meadows as if God Himself were lifting it to Heaven.

As I drove along thinking of the beauty and the majesty behind it all, I was reminded of my conversation with Dan and suddenly it all made sense to me. God had invited me to be there, at that exact moment in time, to behold that beautiful sunrise. He wanted me to see it.

Each of us received a personal invitation from Almighty God—to be born, to live on this planet, and to enjoy His marvelous creation. Are you humbled by this? I am, for I now realize my purpose—to love God, to teach and admonish His people, and to praise Him with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. I have been filled with riches and joy, and for that I am eternally grateful.

What about me?

“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes not from the Father but from the world.” 1 John 2:15-16

Okay, I admit it—I love the world. I always have, it’s a great place to live. But there was a time when it had me in chains, dying to get out there in it, to live a little. But my situation wouldn’t allow it. And God? He never seemed to answer my question, What about me? So I decided to put my foot down. One of two things was going to happen: he’d talk to me, or I’d run until I dropped. I had to get his attention…

“Lord, do you hear me?” I took off down the lakeside trail shaking my fist at him as I ran. “Are you listening to me? There’s so much I want to see. So many things I want to do. All of my friends are having fun. What about me?”

Silence.

“Why won’t you answer me? All I ever do is work. I deserve more.”

More silence.

“It’s not fair!”

And, boy, I sure showed him! I ran until I couldn’t take another step, but still God remained silent. Finally I stopped in the middle of the trail and doubled-over, dejected and frustrated, sweating and gasping for air. Physically and emotionally I felt drained. Spiritually I was spent.

“Oh, God,” I cried, tears flooding my eyes. “Where are you?”

A funny croaking sound answered me. I turned and watched a frog leap into the lake. “Very funny,” I muttered. “Is that the best you can do?” Then a deer caught my eye. She lifted her head from the water’s edge, glanced at me and trotted into the woods. “Hmm.” A fish jumped and landed with a splash. “What is this?” I murmured. And then I noticed this dragonfly. Crazy thing buzzed past my face, landed on a small branch less than three feet away, and sat there staring at me. I felt puzzled. Was someone trying to tell me something?

Then a high-pitched mechanical sound caught my attention. Distracted I looked up. A fancy motorboat zoomed across the lake. I glanced back at the dragonfly. It sat perched on the end of the stem watching me. I felt a strange paradox in my heart. Then another boat cruised past. My face hardened again. I wanted a boat so bad I could taste it. I balled up my fist and opened my mouth to yell at God, but something stopped me—His voice. It came to me, powerful and resounding, and yet as gentle as a whisper…

You listen to me now. This world…all those things you so desperately want and can’t get your hands on…don’t you see? You love those things more than you love me.

My problems were still waiting for me when I got home, but something about me had changed. I ran into the woods that morning angry, frustrated, and shaking my fist at God, but I walked out at peace, quietly acknowledging Him and thanking Him for my life.

*

Are you angry with God? Do you ever shake your fist at Him? Demand your rights? Then maybe you love this world just a little too much. Put your foot down. Run out there and find Him. And when some silly bug lands on a branch in front of you and boldly stares you down, close your mouth and listen for God’s voice. Then follow Him out of that deep, dark forest. He has a better life waiting for you…a life of contentment, of hope, and of joy.

* * *

I Am Not Ashamed

“For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth; to the Jew first, and also to the Greek.” Romans 1:16

“Excuse me—”

He was huge. Powerful. Broad chest and shoulders clothed in a white karate ghi. He looked every bit the part. In fact he scared me at first. I was small and wiry, he was a professional fighter, and he had just broken a pile of concrete blocks…with his head.

“Uh, Mr. Barlow?”

“Yes?” Frank Barlow turned and looked at me. “I’m in kind of a hurry,” he said. “How can I help you, son?”

“I, uh, I just wanted to ask you something—” I paused, hesitated, then just spit it out. “Do you know Jesus?”

Mr. Barlow appeared stunned, caught off guard, but then he chuckled and retaliated as a humored smile broke the stiffness on his face. “Son,” he said, “I don’t have time for religion right now. I have more important things on my mind.” I grinned sheepishly. I knew when I was licked. Besides I didn’t know what to say or do next. For that matter, I had no idea why’d I even asked him the question to begin with, it was just something I felt compelled to do. “Okay,” I said. “I really enjoyed your presentation.” Mr. Barlow nodded, smiled at me, and walked away. I never saw him again.

A few months later my mother told me a story. She had been at gathering of Christian women that day, a lady’s luncheon of sorts. “We had a guest speaker,” she said. “He was a karate expert.”

“Really?” That caught my attention. I was enamored with the notion of karate. Of black belts and fists. Of breaking boards and blocks and people’s heads with nothing but hands and feet. “Who?” I exclaimed. “Who was it?”

“His name was Frank Barlow.”

“Frank Barlow!”

“He gave his testimony,” she explained. “About how he’d become a Christian. About how he was on his way back to his car after a karate exhibition when this high school kid came up to him and asked him if he knew Jesus.”

“Mama, that was me!”

“I know,” my mom said with a smile. “I just thought you might want to know you had an impact on his life. He accepted Christ.”

That was thirty-five years ago. For more than twenty of those years Mr. Barlow operated a dojo in my hometown, called “Judo and Karate for Christ.” Today he is a Karate Master, with a 6th Dan black belt in Shorin Jiu Te Do Karate, and expertise in numerous other disciplines. But today something else is different about him too…today Frank Barlow knows Jesus.

*

I recently received a note from an angry reader. She asked me to stop cramming my religion down her throat. She was referring to the devotionals that I frequently post online. What she doesn’t understand though is that I can’t stop. It took me thirty-five years to realize the depth of the gift that I’d been given—everlasting life. And it’s as real today as it was way back then when I found the guts to ask Frank Barlow that simple question—Do you know Jesus? It changed his life. So now I want everyone to know, including you. For you see, I’m not ashamed of the gospel of Christ. Jesus is The Messiah. The living Son of God.

Are you a Christian? Is there someone you know who needs to know the truth that Jesus Christ is the way, the truth, and the life? Then tell them. If a skinny eighteen year-old kid can turn a powerful karate expert around by asking him a simple question, then imagine what you could do.

The Shroud of Turin - Is It the Lord?

Then Simon Peter, who was behind him, arrived and went into the tomb. He saw the strips of linen lying there, as well as the burial cloth that had been around Jesus’ head. The cloth was folded up by itself, separate from the linen. John 20:6-7

Jesus Christ was beaten. He was scourged. He was nailed to a wooden cross and raised into the air to die. And when it was over his friends removed his body from the cross, wrapped him in a burial cloth, and laid him to rest in a tomb. And it was done. But what his disciples found when they returned that first Easter morning changed the world. The tomb was empty. Except for one thing. The piece of fine white linen in which they’d placed his body…it was still there.

*

Today an ancient artifact exists that many believe to be that cloth. Others disagree. But no one knows for sure, because its origin remains unknown. The Roman Catholic Church considers it a holy relic, others a clever hoax. It’s a true mystery. It’s called The Shroud of Turin.

“What we are doing here,” said Dr. John Jackson, U.S. Air Force Academy, leader of the Shroud of Turin Research Project (STURP), “is seeking the truth…we want to apply the scientific method.”

And they did just that. Forty specialists traveled to Turin, Italy from all over the world. They unloaded crate after crate of scientific equipment, and spent five exhausting days examining the Shroud. They used microscopes and spectrographs. They removed pollen samples from the threads. They used visible light, ultraviolet, x-ray and infrared. Produced undistorted photographs, as precise as optics allow. And they applied the scientific method, never stopping to rest, while the weight of global responsibility weighed heavy on their shoulders. And in the end their work proved priceless, for what they found dazzled the world.

The Shroud is a well-preserved linen cloth 14’ 3” long and 3’ 7” wide. It bears the sepia-colored image of a nomadic shepherd, an anatomically correct likeness of a man tortured in every way consistent with the scriptural account of Christ’s passion. At arm’s length the form appears hazy and indistinct, but from a distance it takes on the shape of a man, his face and bodily features remarkably real, riddled with bloody wounds that paint a ghastly portrait of death.

Upon completion of their work, Jackson and his team took their findings back to their research facilities and labs, and over the course of three years developed the following statement:

“We can conclude for now that the Shroud image is that of a real human form of a scourged, crucified man. It is not the product of an artist. The bloodstains are composed of hemoglobin and also give a positive test for serum albumin. The image is an ongoing mystery and until further chemical studies are made, perhaps by this group of scientists, or perhaps by some scientists in the future, the problem remains unsolved.”

Could the Shroud be the burial cloth that covered the Lord Jesus Christ? Well over the next few weeks I will share with you some of my discoveries. Knowledge I gained on a journey that began thirty years ago when, for sixteen remarkable weeks, I worked in the shadows of geniuses—Dr. John Jackson, Leader of STURP, and Professor Vernon Miller, Brooks Institute of Photography, the Chief Scientific Photographer for STURP. These two remarkable men took me under their wings, taught me the meaning of scientific discovery, and shared with me riches I will treasure the rest of my life.

The Shroud of Turin—Is It The Lord?

* * *

The Wonder of Easter Morning

"They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!" John 20:2

Anguish. Pain. Traumatic shock. Death! Do you understand what Jesus Christ did for you? The price he paid for your soul? Well let’s take a look and see what happened, because it’s Easter once again. And it’s time you knew the truth…

He knew what was coming: His darkest hour. A time of unbridled evil the likes of which the world had never known. It was his appointed time, time to stand alone against the forces of darkness, and the thought of what was coming was more than he could bear.

"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me, yet not my will, but yours be done."

Surely his heart pounded as he uttered that prayer. His head throbbed, his chest ached, and his blood pressure rose so high that a mixture of bloody sweat and oil oozed to the surface of his skin. He shivered as he knelt in that shadowy garden, cold, alone, and frightened, aware of the excruciating death that awaited him, now just hours away.

"Father," he prayed, "the time has come."

An angry mob arrived bearing swords and clubs. They surrounded him, arrested him, and then led him quickly away. He stood for their questioning, their mockery and their scorn, and then submitted to their cruel sharp whips as they beat him again and again. His torturers laughed and cursed, striking him without end until his battered skin fell away in ribbons of bloody flesh. "Hail, King of the Jews," they taunted, throwing a purple robe across his back. They thrust a crown of thorns upon his head and struck it with their staffs. The blows jarred his senses and drove the needle sharp thorns deep into his scalp. Then half-dead and humiliated he was led before his judge and forced to stand in submission as Pilate announced his fate.

"Crucify him!"

Oh, what horrific images must have ricocheted through his mind. He was to be crucified, nailed to the very piece of wood that they were strapping across his back. He picked up the heavy patibulum—the upper beam of the cross—and started to walk, but his tortured body could take no more. His knees buckled. He fell. The timber pushed him down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"You," the chief guard shouted, pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board. "Now get up," the guard shouted, striking Christ atop the head. "Get going. Move!"

Christ struggled to rise. He dragged his tortured body through the city gate and up the steep dirt path that led to the top of the hill, Golgatha, that horrible sun-bleached mountain that bore the face of a skull. Could he hear the enemy taunting him, I wonder, whispering in his ear? Could he see the other two crucified there? The post to which he’d be nailed? How awful must that sight have been. But how remarkable his courage. Up the hill he trudged, each step harder than the last, until he made it to the top and paused to catch his breath. But his executioners showed no mercy. Wasted no time. They knocked him to the ground, pinned his hands and feet, and then placed a spike against each wrist and let the hammers fly.

Clang! Clang!

The cold steel spikes pierced his hands and pushed the bones apart, and fiery jolts of energy shot inward to his chest. Agonizing was the pain. Paralyzing the effect. Spasm after spasm gripped his core. His trunk began to quiver, his teeth to chatter and cringe.

"Raise him," the chief guard shouted. "Get him up there, now!"

The soldiers grunted as they lifted the heavy beam with Christ attached. He hung by the nails in his freshly pierced wrists. And the pain was blinding. The agony beyond belief. Six feet high they raised him, seven, maybe more, until the patibulum dropped into position atop the mighty post.

"Grab his feet."

The soldiers bent his legs, held his feet against the post. Clang! Jesus cried out in agony. Clang! Excruciating pain crippled his core. His heart pounded, his mind screamed for reason. His tortured feet quivered, his hands grew cramped and numb. The soldiers backed away. The people mocked and scorned. And Christ was left to hang on the post—

"Crucified!"

His chest wall, paralyzed by painful impulses and the weight of his outstretched arms, spasmed and heaved. He stood up on his impaled feet to catch a breath of air, but the pain was overwhelming. Relief impossible to find.

"My God…why have you forsaken me?"

Jesus hung on the cross for hours, battling to breathe, while soldiers gambled for his clothes and animals nipped at his feet. And slowly but surely, deep in shock, weak from blood loss and pain, the human Christ began to wither as his body slipped away. His heart became congested with blood, his lungs heavy and stiff. And soon the act of breathing, even shallow gulps of air, became impossible. The carbon dioxide in his blood reached toxic levels. Soon organs systems began to fail, and tissues began to die.

Most human beings would have lost consciousness by this point, but Jesus? He was more than a simple man. He was the Son of God. And somehow, miraculously, he stayed lucid to the end. He gazed down upon the crowd, at his enemies and his friends, then he drew a shallow breath and murmured his final prayer.

"It is finished."

Finished. All the anguish and pain. That terrible asphyxiating death. Yes, finished. Completed. Jesus Christ paid for our sins, paid the debt in full. But all that would be meaningless if not for Easter morning…

*

"Come! Quickly," Mary Magdalene shouted. "I have seen the Lord!"

Jesus’ disciples raced to the cave. They peered inside the tomb. "Where is he?" they must have whispered, stepping inside the room. "I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not here!" But on the bench where Jesus’ body had been placed they saw the linen burial cloth, and another piece of cloth that had been wrapped around his head. It was folded up by itself, lying neatly to one side.
Folded up? Lying neatly to one side? Is this a picture of violence? Unbridled evil or rage? What happened inside that tomb? We may never know, but we do know this, that tomb could not contain the Lord. For Easter morning is not about pain or suffering. It’s not about sorrow and death. It’s about life. Resurrection. The culmination of God’s ultimate plan. It’s about that wonderful day that Jesus Christ rose, to overcome death forever.

Do you see now? Do you understand the crucial price that Christ paid for your sins? Well raise your hands and rejoice, for Jesus Christ is risen. He’s alive! It’s the wonder of Easter morning.

* * *

Exactly What He's Doing

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on our own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

If someone had told me nineteen years ago that I’d still be a paramedic today, and a teacher, I would have said, "No way. I have bigger plans for my life." But thank God, He knew better…

Tricia was an outstanding student. So dedicated. So sincere. Seventeen years old with the warm, bubbly personality of a high school cheerleader and some of the best study habits I had ever seen, but try as I may, I just couldn’t imagine her elbows deep in a bloody EMS call. She looked too fragile. She’d never make it on the street. So I could hardly believe what I was about to hear.

"Mr. Patterson, you’ll never believe it!"

"What?"

"You remember how you taught us to do the Heimlich maneuver? On a conscious person with an obstructed airway?"

"Yeah?"

"Well it works," she exclaimed. "I saved a man’s life!"

"You what?"

"I’m serious! We were at Taco Bell eating lunch? And this man? He stood up at the next table grabbing his throat? And it was, like, so obvious he was choking, you know? So I asked him, ‘Can you cough? Can you talk?’ He shook his head. ‘I know the Heimlich Maneuver,’ I said. ‘Turn around!’ He did. And then I just did what you taught us—I wrapped my arms around him and gave him five abdominal thrusts. And guess what, this big wad of food came shooting out of his mouth! Can you believe it? I mean, I really did it! I saved somebody’s life!"

*

Yes, I had a plan for my life, but God knew better. And He used little Tricia to prove it. He led me down a different path than the one I would have chosen, and while we were walking He used me in ways I never could have imagined—to teach people, to mentor them, and amazingly, even to help them save a few lives.

Do you have big plans? Well before you spend another day chasing your dreams, seek the Lord. Acknowledge Him and see where He leads you. And then one day if you realize that He used you to accomplish mighty deeds, don’t be surprised—He’s an awesome God! And He knows exactly what He’s doing.

* * *

Wake Up, Lord. Save Me!

The disciples went and woke him, saying, "Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!" He replied, "You of little faith, why are you so afraid?" Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm. Mt 8:25-27

"How long was she under?"

"Five minutes?" the teenager cried. "Maybe more, I don’t know!"

I scooped my patient out of the water and laid her on a dry portion of cement beside the pool. The pretty little pig-tailed girl with chubby cheeks and dimples looked to be about eight years old, and as cute as a button, but her lightly freckled face looked dull and colorless, her eyes as lifeless as a plastic baby doll’s.

"I only took my eye off of her for a minute," her sister exclaimed. "I’m so sorry! Is she going to be all right?"

"Quick," I said tearing open the plastic wrapper for an Ambu-bag. "Get the monitor." My partner grabbed the EKG monitor and removed the electrode cables. "Somebody start compressions." I placed the resuscitator unit over the patient’s mouth and gave the bag a squeeze. Her chest rose and fell. Water trickled from the corner of her mouth. One of the firefighters removed his helmet and knelt by my side. He placed his hands on her chest and started pushing against her breastbone with a verbal cadence of one, and two, and three…

"Folks," I heard my partner say, "please stand back. Give us room." He pulled the backing off of a sticky electrode pad and attached it to one of her legs. He repeated the process on each of her other limbs while the firefighter and I performed CPR. "Okay," he said turning on the unit. The EKG monitor beeped. A harsh, erratic, jumpy yellow line traced across the screen. "Let’s take a look." He placed a hand on the firefighter’s arm. "Hold compressions."

The firefighter stopped. I held my breath. The EKG line flattened out, hiccuped once, and then grew into a regular patern of uniform complexes. Oh, thank you, Jesus!

I gave our patient two more full ventilations and then watched in amazement as she opened her eyes and began to cough and choke. We rolled her onto her side, careful to protect her head and neck as the clear pool water drained from her mouth and nose. "Non-rebreather," I said reaching out and snapping my fingers. Someone placed a hissing oxygen mask into my hand. I placed it over her face and waited, speaking quietly to her and praying silently as I coaxed her back to life. "Come on," I said. "You can do it. Come on back to us, come back." And slowly but surely she did. She pinked up. Her eyes opened. And then as if waking from a nightmare and realizing it was all just a terrible dream she closed those innocent blues again and began to cry. I closed mine too, but I began to pray. "Thank you, Lord. Oh, thank you, Lord."

*

Lord, I’m struggling. I feel like I’m drowning down here. I can see the surface but I just can’t seem to get there. Help me! Give me your hand, Lord. Please save me!

Have you been there? Where the cares of this world make you feel like you’re about to drown? Well next time you find yourself in the midst of a raging tempest with the wind shrieking and waves crashing all around, remember you’re not alone. Jesus is right there with you.
"Save us," his Disciples cried. "We’re going to drown!"

And look what Jesus did. He woke from his sleep. He stood and boldly rebuked the storm. And the wind and waves subsided. And peace fell over the scene.

* * *

Finished But Not Over

But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. Jn 19:33-34

Why did he do it? He could have called down a legion of angels. Destroyed the entire Roman army and easily saved himself. So why didn’t he? What’s this all about anyway? Who was this man, Jesus?

"Cut them down!"

"But, sir, they’re still alive."

"Then get the mallet. Break their legs!"

The cross. It was such an evil game. And the Legionnaires played it well. They knew exactly where to place the nails to elicit maximum pain. The perfect angle to bend the legs. The cruel effects of traumatic shock.

The horrible wooden mallet swung. The convicted criminal’s lower leg bones cracked. He screamed in agony as his battered limbs gave way. His weight fell against his tightly bound wrists and the slow process of suffocation began. The second victim’s death was much the same. The mallet flew. He emitted a terrible scream. His bent legs collapsed beneath him, and his constricted chest could no longer breathe. Asphyxiation set in. But then they came to Jesus…

"This one’s already gone," the Legionnaire exclaimed.

"Make sure of it!"

"Sir, you saw what happened! When he took his last breath. The earth shook. Thunder rolled. The sky turned dark as night. You saw it! Surely this man was the Son of God!"

"Give that to me!" The chief guard grabbed a long sharp spear and thrust the tip into Christ’s bare chest. A mixture of blood and water flowed from his wounded side. But there was no movement. No crying. The spirit had already left his body. Jesus Christ was dead.

"He’s finished," the guard shouted. "Cut him down."

And that was it.

*

Why did he do it? Why? Because he loved us that much. Jesus could have saved himself but he chose to die, to offer himself as a living sacrifice for you and me. He suffered that horrible, painful death so that we might live forever. In the eyes of the world it was over. Jesus lost. But don’t be fooled. It may have been finished when Christ drew his final breath on the cross, but it was NOT over. His death was just the beginning. The best was yet to come! For this man, Jesus Christ? He was the Son of God, and he was about to reveal God’s ultimate plan.

* * *

"It is finished."

And they crucified him.

Mk 15:24

I’ve been a paramedic for seventeen years. Witnessed the brutality of man. I’ve seen people shot and stabbed. Heads crushed. Limbs twisted and broke. I’ve even seen a small baby girl dipped into boiling water by an insane mother. But this? What we did to the Lord? I can’t even fathom it.

"Crucify him!"

The hammer fell. Clang! The point of the spike drove through the bones of his wrist and into the wooden patibulum. The victim screamed. A hot spasm shot up his arm and exploded at the base of his skull. A wave of pain seized him, so intense it dulled his senses and stole his breath. He writhed and cried and groaned as the Roman soldiers pinned his other arm to the beam and repeated the process. Clang! Again the same results. Blood spewed from the wound. His fingers groped and bent like spastic claws. His breathing came in shallow ineffective bursts.

"Now his feet," the Legionnaire shouted. "One on top of the other!"

The torturers grabbed his tired swollen legs. They bent his knees. They placed one foot atop the other and then hammered a single nail through the top of each foot. The sharp steel penetrated the flesh, pushing the bones apart and pinning his feet tightly against the wooden beam. An indescribable wave of excruciating pain raced up his legs, shot through the small of his back, and gripped his spine. The damaging blow hit his brain, a powerful nervous impulse that shocked his nervous system and locked his chest in spasm.

"Okay," the guard shouted. "He’s crucified. Raise him!"

The head of the cross began to rise. Jesus felt his torso shift and slide down the length of the splintered cross transferring the weight of his entire body to the nail holes in his tortured wrists and feet. The cross reached vertical. It locked into place. Jesus hung there in agony, barely able to breathe, his chest wall pulled tight. And for the next few horrible hours, as he looked through blurry eyes down on the world, a terrible battle raged. He’d stand up on the nails to relax his chest wall enough to breathe, but only for a moment. His feet screamed for mercy. His tired thigh muscles cramped and burned. Exhausted and no longer able to stand the pain he would collapse and fall once again upon his wrists. And the excruciating cycle repeated itself. Again and again. Back and forth he shifted his weight searching for relief but finding none.

And so it went for hours, until our savior’s battered body could take no more. Deep in shock he finally succumbed and lost all strength in his legs. He fell full force upon the nails within his wrists. His arms pulled at their sockets. His wrists writhed with pain. His chest wall tightened for the last time, and an intense pressure began to crush his heart. The organ quickly congested. Began to struggle and fail. And finally, as his precious lungs filled with fluid and drew their last and most difficult breath, Jesus murmured his final words…

"It is finished."

*

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but no portrait could ever reveal the true price Jesus paid for us at Golgatha. For you see, he was human, human in every way—they beat him, and scourged him, and nailed to a cross, and he died—but he was much more than that. He was the Son of God. They took him down, and placed his body in a tomb, and they even posted a guard, but forty-four later hours when they rolled away that huge entrance stone and looked inside, he was gone. Jesus Christ. The Son of God. He overcame death that you and I might live.

And now, it is finished.

* * *

The Cross

Finally Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. So the soldiers took charge of Jesus. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the Skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha). Jn 19:16-17

So there he was: Whipped nearly to the point of death, lacerated and punctured, his back and chest a cross-hatched pattern of torn bloody stripes. Blood seeped from every inch of his torso and legs. His head dripped from the deep puncture wounds that covered his scalp. And his crown? A nasty skull cap of tangled limbs and thorns encircled his head, gouging the tender flesh and causing unimaginable pain.

"He’s tougher than I thought," one of the scourgers exclaimed. "Most men would have died from that beating."

"Get out of the way," the chief guard shouted pushing him aside and cutting Jesus loose. Jesus fell to the ground exhausted and short of breath. "Now pick it up," the guard demanded, "or you’ll get more!"

Jesus picked up the gnarly piece of heavy timber they’d dropped by his side. He lifted it onto his shoulders and started walking, stumbling across the court.

"Move," the chief guard growled. "Get going, you!"

But Jesus couldn’t take another step. His tortured body cried for mercy. Weak and weary, deep in shock, he fell to his knees. And that awful patibulum. His cross. It weighed his shoulders down and pinned him to the ground, shoving his face into the dirt and crushing the cartilage at the bridge of his nose. His nostrils filled with hot dusty soil. Agony gripped his soul.

"He’s shot," a Legionaire scoffed. "Look at him."

"You there," the chief guard shouted pointing into the crowd. "Pick it up! You’ll carry it the rest of the way!" A stout African stepped forward and lifted the heavy board from Christ’s shoulders. "Now get up," the guard shouted striking him atop the head. Jesus cried as the needle sharp thorns gouged deeper into his scalp. "Get going," the guard yelled. "Move!"

Christ struggled to rise to his feet. He strained to see. Blood covered his face. Pain clouded his senses. He continued up the road dragging his tortured body through the city gates and up the steep dirt path that led to Golgatha…

The place of the skull.

I wonder what Jesus was thinking about at that moment. Death? The agony yet to come? Well the Gospels tell us that on the night before this all began, Christ knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray. But he didn’t pray for himself, he prayed for us.

Why? Didn’t he know what was coming? I can assure he knew what was coming. Luke tells us that his agony was so intense, his sweat fell like drops of blood. A physiological phenomenon, called hemohydrosis. Something that occurs only rarely when the tiny capillary beds in the victim’s skin come under such intense pressure that the blood literally seeps through the capillary walls and into the ducts of sweat. Oh yes, he knew what was coming. And yet instead of running away he knelt and prayed, for his disciples first, and then for you and me.

So in his darkest hour as he mounted that horrible skull-shaped hill, I’m certain he knew what was coming. But he was thinking of us.

"Stretch him out!"

The guards wasted no time. They threw the battered Jesus atop the wooden cross. They grabbed his arms and legs. Pulled them tight.

"Now, crucify him!"

And three horrible nails appeared. Ugly nine inch spikes formed on a blacksmith’s anvil for one purpose: To crucify the Lord.

*

Have you ever stopped to think of the true price Jesus Christ paid for you? Well this frightening adventure is not over yet. It’s really just beginning. And as you anticipate the finale, that bloody spectacle of Roman sport they called crucifixion, consider this: He did this for us. He did it for you.

* * *

The Scourging

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. The soldiers twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on his head. They clothed him in a purple robe and went up to him again and again, saying "Hail, King of the Jews!" Jn 19:1-3

Do you realize what Christ did for you? The suffering he endured? Well in EMS we see a lot of cruelty. A lot of mean cases, and a lot of needless blood. But most of us will never see anything to compare with this…

"Spread his arms," the chief guard roared. "That’s it, now lash them tight. Tight I said! Tighter!"

He knew what was coming. The anticipation alone would have been enough to make most men cry for mercy, but not him. He stood like a man. He knew what he needed to do and he did it. He loved us that much.

"Ha," the chief guard growled. "You call yourself a king? Let’s see what you got."

The scourgers readied themelves, one to each side, each with an evil grin on his face and a cat-of-nine-tails in his hand. But these Roman soldiers weren’t savages. Not at all. They were artists, skilled in the art of torture, and they carried out their jobs with practiced precision. They knew just how much punishment to inflict, and exactly how to do it to evoke maximum pain. It was a well rehearsed performance, a punishment equal to the crime.

"Proceed!"

The first scourger stepped forward gripping his lethal weapon. "King of the Jews, huh?" He spat on Christ’s back. Whacked the side of his head. "Take this, your majesty!" He swung with all his might. The wicked instrument flew. Its deadly thongs whipped through the air then struck with exacting purpose, ripping and tearing at Christ’s bare flesh. Blood spewed forth. The scourger stepped back grinning; the second one stepped in. He repeated the brutal onslaught as if part of a terrible game. And back and forth they went with their sick, sadistic sport, whipping and lashing, and lashing and whipping, and on and on and on…

Christ cried out in agony. His flesh fell away in bloody chunks leaving behind a mural of horrible stripes. The battered skin swelled and oozed. Capillaries leaked. Shock soon set in and his blood pressure began to drop.

"Enough," the chief guard roared quickly tiring of the game. "Cut him down. He’s done."

The soldiers cut him loose and The King of Kings stood on shaky legs, his physical body robbed of strength, his spirit pushed to its near limit. "Here," a guard said stepping forward and placing a purple robe across his back. "A gift. A garment fit for a king."

"No, here," another guard bellowed. "Take mine." He brought an ugly crown of twisted thorns and shoved it onto Christ’s head. "Behold, your majesty. Your crown!"

Then they placed a staff in his hands, and the crowd of soldiers knelt before him and mocked him. Then they grabbed the staff and hit him over the head with it, again and again, crying, "Hail, king of the Jews. Hail!"

*

Of course I didn’t witness this terrible event, but the Bible paints a clear picture of what happened. Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. He was scourged. A common form of punishment in Christ’s day, and one well documented in the history books.

Today my coworkers and I still see a lot of blood—battered skulls, broken limbs, gunshot wounds and burns—and these images will be forever written on my mind as terrible reminders of the savagery of man, but for me one image remains the most vivid of all. And it’s not a pretty one. It’s the picture of my Lord walking away from that ill-conceived whipping post and picking up that awful cross. Lacerated. Punctured. Beaten and bleeding to the point of death. Most people would have died from those injuries alone, but not Christ. He still had a job to do, and this torture was only beginning.

The worst was yet to come…

* * *

Respond! Your life depends on it!

As Jesus was walking beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew. They were casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. "Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." Mt 4:18-19

Imagine if you called for help and nobody responded. How terrified would it make you feel to realize you were all alone? Well what I’m speaking of here is far more important than that.We’re speaking of eternity. I’m talking about someone’s life…

"C’mon, partner, we need to go!"

"Unh uh, I’m not going."

"Right. Put your boots on, man. I’ll be in the truck."

"I’m serious. I wanna see the end of this game."

His partner gazed at him, incredulous, as if trying to see the humor in a sick joke without a punchline. At first his face revealed confusion, and then a small degree of anger, and then outright disbelief. "You what?"

"I want to see this game."

"Medic-seven?" the dispatcher exclaimed. The station radio crackled as if to emphasize the frustration in her voice. "Are you en route yet?"

"Don’t answer her."

"What? We can’t just ignore this, man. We have to go!"

"Look, I’m not wasting my time on another silly call. It’s a cardiac arrest for crying out loud. There’s nothing we can do for the poor guy anyway."

The radio crackled again. "Medic-seven?"

"Seven to dispatch—stand by please." His partner’s expression deepend. A stern frown soured his face. "Are you insane? Do you realize what you’re doing?"

"Sure I do."

"Medic-seven!"

"Seven," his partner answered, his voice revealing total confusion. "I-I’m sorry, but you’ll have to send another unit. It’s my partner, he’s…well he’s refusing to take this call." A few seconds of uncomfortable silence passed before the radio erupted in a swarm of heated responses. The dispatcher, their supervisor, the fire department squad unit already en route to the scene—everyone fighting for radio space trying to understand the madness taking place. His partner stared at him dumbfounded. "I can’t believe this, man! Someone’s life is on the line and you’re just gonna sit there and watch that game?"

"Sit down and relax. Ignore it. It’ll go away."

*

Sound ridiculous? Well sure it does. But what if it really happened? I mean what if you dialed 911 and nobody came? Be pretty scary, huh? Well don’t worry, no serious first responder would ever consider ignoring an emergent call. In fact, as a whole, EMS personnel are some of the most dedicated people I know. They jump into action whenever the tones sound, regardless of the weather, or the time of day, or of how crummy they might be feeling at the moment. They jump, and as a result lives are changed. Many are saved. And yet I wonder, do these people care as much for themselves as they do for others?

You guys understand what I’m talking about. All of you firefighters. You police officers and paramedics. And all you ER nurses and doctors. You understand the importance of diligence. That another’s life may hang in the balance each time you’re called to act. You do it because you care. But I have a question for you—what about you?

Jesus said, "Here I am! I stand at the door and knock."

Will you dare to answer it? Will you respond with the same diligence that you would an everyday call? I mean, listen! This is the call of your life! It will determine your ultimate destiny. Where you’ll spend eternity. So will you open the door? Answer Christ’s call and let him in? Or will you sit there and ignore him and hope he simply goes away?

When Peter and Andrew heard Christ’s call they jumped. They followed him. And on their backs Christ built his church. If Jesus Christ is knocking on the door of your heart today, please don’t ignore him. Do as they did. Respond to his call. You must, for someone’s life depends on it…

Yours!

* * *

Leave me a comment. I would love to hear from you!