Tell Them to Never Forget

As told by…

Gary Smiley, NYC Paramedic

Part Two

...I thought about my son. I had lost my own father about a year and a half earlier, and I’m lying there trapped beneath this ambulance thinking, I’ve been doing all this crazy stuff for my job all these years and now…I got myself killed. My son’s father just himself killed. And apparently there are tapes of me screaming for help over the radio, but, thankfully, I don’t remember much of it. But I do remember that my thoughts shifted, and I remember thinking, Dad, if you're out there, you've got to get me out of here. And that was the last thought I can remember before they pulled me out. I asked my father, “Dad, if you’re out there, please get me out of here. I don’t want to die.” And I guess my dad had something to do with it, because I was in the kill zone, I was sixty feet from the base of the north tower. And you know most of the people around me were killed...

To read more, please visit http://answeringthecall911.blogspot.com/

“Merry Christmas!”

“The virgin will be with child and will give birth to a son, and they will call him Immanuel” —which means, “God with us.”  Matthew 1: 23

I never cared for the Christmas breakfast. It was a mandatory affair at the college where I worked, an event that occurred every Christmas just before semester break. To me, it was always kind of a waste of time. A little boring really. But the Christmas breakfast of 2001 was anything but boring. In fact it changed my life.

“Can I have your attention, please?” The Dean of Health Sciences tapped her microphone. “It’s time to eat. Now I hear Pat says a good prayer,” she continued, smiling and looking my way. My eyebrows rose. “Pat? Would you say the blessing for us?”

All eyes turned my way.

“Umm—” I gave an embarrassed shrug. “Sure.”

I felt honored as I accepted the microphone, but also a bit confused. Who told her I said a good prayer? And if I did pray, would people be, well…offended?

I shrugged, asked them to bow their heads and began. I thanked God for America, and that in the wake of 9/11 we still had our families our homes and our lives. I thanked Him for our jobs, and for freedom and friends and peace. I thanked him for the food, and everything was going well, but then I went and did it. His name rolled off my lips.

“And thank you most of all for Christmas, and for what it still means to us. That two thousand years ago our savior was born, The Lord Jesus Christ.” I ended the prayer in his name, and closed with a hearty, “Amen.”

When I opened my eyes I realized we had a problem. No one moved. I saw confusion on many faces, anger on many others. Most looked stunned, several definitely offended. I felt like running for the exit doors, but then I saw a timid smile appear on one person’s face. And then another. And then slowly, and meekly at first, someone began to clap. Soon others joined in, and after a moment half the room was caught up in celebration. The other half still frowned.

Now I felt stunned. But then several people wandered over. “Thank you,” someone whispered to me. “Oh, thank you!” another exclaimed. “That was so great!”

A friend walked up to me shaking his head. “Are you nuts? Don’t you realize the Dean’s a Jew?”

“Jesus was a Jew,” I replied. “Merry Christmas!”

You can’t say Christmas around here anymore; it’s now the holiday season or some nonsense like that. And they never asked me to say the blessing again, but that’s okay, I learned a valuable lesson that day: Some people are truly offended by His name, others are filled with courage. So this “holiday season” as you get caught up in the bustle of buying gifts and running here and there, share his name with others, and then tell them, “Merry Christmas.” Some will be offended, but others will be filled with hope. It’s not the holiday season—it’s Christmas.

“Merry Christmas!”

Been there. Done that.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoeverbelieves in him shall not perish but have eternal life."  John 3:16

You’ve got problems. And at times it seems like no one understands. But there’s someone who does. He’s been there…done that…and his love for you is difficult to imagine.

Picture yourself alone, praying for a friend. Your concern is so intense that your head begins to pound. Your blood pressure rises, and your hands begin to shake. Capillaries burst. Blood drips from your tear ducts and pores. And yet, despite your grief and turmoil, you remain in earnest prayer, your love for your friend so deep you are willing to give it all.

Suddenly a mob appears, carrying weapons and stainless steel chain. They lock you in shackles and force you to move, mocking you and striking you as they lead you away. They strip you of your clothing and bind you to a post. The wood is rough against your skin, a solid stump to which they tie your arms. Your muscles tighten. Your pulse races. You pant and cringe at the terror about to unfold.

Two men approach carrying gruesome whips. The tools are medieval and crude, with multiple leather thongs tipped by pieces of iron. They take turns beating you—over and over again—the cruel whips ripping at your skin until the flesh on your back, legs, chest and arms lies open in red, dripping stripes.

Someone cuts the bindings and you fall like a sack to the floor. Your breath comes in short labored gasps. Your skin oozes and burns. The damage is done, and from these injuries you will most likely die. You will enter a period of shock, and in time, unable to deal with the massive tissue damage and blood loss, you will slowly slip away. Your capillaries will clog. Your organ systems will fail. Death will be quiet and slow. But your punishment is not over; it has only just begun.

Your torturers force you to stand. They throw a robe across your back. The fabric soaks up your blood, and almost immediately clots begin to form. The threads intertwine with the raw bloody flesh, gluing the robe to your back and shoulders, the sleeves to your lacerated arms. Then comes your cap, a wicked ring of three-inch thorns that they thrust upon your head. The needle sharp points bite deep into your skin. One eye closes, gouged by a wayward thorn.

Next a wooden beam is dragged into the room, a ninety pound timber you can hardly manage to lift. They make you pick it up. Carry it outside. A crowd is waiting for you, a jeering angry mob. People spit at you as you pass. They curse and laugh and joke. You try your best to keep moving, but your weakened shoulders and legs cannot manage the load. Your knees buckle. The timber pushes you down, smashing your cheek into the grimy pavement, tearing your lips and nose.

“Get up,” someone shouts. “Let’s go!” But you can hardly move. Another man is chosen. They force him to carry your beam. You follow him up a long, steep hill, a tall rocky crag that resembles a bleached white skull. Exhausted and weary, you finally reach the top. They grab the robe and jerk it from your back. The clots rip away, the venous bleeding resumes, and what’s left of your precious life fluids drips to the dusty ground.

A pulverizing blow finds the small of your back. The wind is knocked from your lungs. You double over in pain. Then they throw you to the ground. They pull you onto the gnarly beam and pin your arms in place.

Clang!

A cold iron spike pierces the bones of your wrist. Blood spews. Your fingers grope madly at the air.

Clang!

A wave of inconceivable pain shoots up your arm and explodes at the base of your brain. The hammer rises and falls again. Another terrible clang!

Helpless, in agonizing pain, all you can do is watch as your other hand is nailed to the board. And then six sweaty men drag you across the ground, lift you into the air, and drop the beam onto the notch carved atop the post. And there you hang at the edge of the cliff, a piece of raw meat two feet above the ground. People crowd and poke you. The spikes crunch the bones in your wrists. The brutality is maddening, the effect beyond reason or hope. Rough hands grab your feet and legs. Bend your battered knees. “Pull his feet together,” one shouts. And two more spikes appear. Clang! Clang!

The pain is excruciating, the loneliness complete. Flies attack your bloody wounds, dogs nip at your feet. Your chest heaves spasmodically, a full breath is far from reach. Your lungs grow heavy and edematous, your breath becomes shallow and weak. Shock is the only thing keeping you alive, but soon your tortured heart fails. And just before you die you gaze down at your torturers, and the people all around.

“Father, forgive them,” you cry. “They know not what they do.”

*

Christ suffered an excruciating death, but did you realize he was not a helpless victim. As he hung upon that cross—nailed at the hands and feet, his lungs filling with water and blood, and his spirit slipping away—he could have called down an army of angels. Fought back. Easily won. But he chose to remain obedient, because he knew his Father’s plan of salvation. His free gift for you and for me. “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.”

You have tough problems, it’s true, but remember this—you also have a Savior who completely understands, and that night as he knelt in the garden in prayer, he was thinking of you. So trust him with your life. Pray for his help today. Jesus Christ has been there. Done that. And he did it all for you.

I Just Wasn't Ready

In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. Ephesians 6:17

“Congratulations,” a good friend said to me, rushing up and warmly shaking my hand. “What took you so long?”

I chuckled and shook my head. Mike had asked a sincere question, and it deserved an honest answer. “It’s simple,” I responded. “God knew I just wasn’t ready.”

You see, every year my church ordains a new group of deacons, men elected to take on the task of caring for the body of Christ. To be servants. It’s an important job, and it does require a small degree of personal sacrifice, but it’s not difficult. Still, for the first twenty-eight years of my membership, God knew I just wasn’t ready.

I first joined my church in 1981. I met my wife there and we dedicated both of our children. I served on numerous committees, taught classes and mentored young married couples. I parked cars, collected offerings, worked the nursery and sat in the pews countless times. I did everything a good member was supposed to do, but still, somehow, I never felt truly fulfilled. And somewhere along the way I began to change.

My life turned dark. I grew distant. And for the longest time I wanted nothing at all to do with the church. I stopped attending. Ran from God. All the time professing to a Christian, a true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ. But in reality I had become a hypocrite, a weak, watered-down Christian fighting to earn my place in the world. To succeed. To live the American dream.

“Am I really saved?” I began to wonder. “Is Christianity real?”

I started picking fights with God. I challenged him. Demanded answers and got in His face. And one day when I felt like everything was hopeless, I reached the breaking point and cried out to Jesus:

“You tell me to follow you…well I can’t do it. I can’t keep up with you!”

“You can’t keep up,” I heard him say, “because you’re carrying too much baggage. You love this world too much.”

“Well what do you want me to do, Lord?”

“Pick up your cross and follow me.”

“But I don’t know how!”

And then, it was as if blinders were removed from my eyes. I suddenly understood that I couldn’t pick up my cross and follow Christ because I had become too weak. I had no strength left. No longer could I survive as a Christian by my power alone. I needed a fresh infusion of strength. And that’s when an old passage came to mind, a spiritual order from Ephesians, chapter six:

“Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”

I began to meditate on that passage. Studied the armor of God. And I soon began to realize why I’d become so weak. I had been toying with the God’s armor instead of putting it on. Choosing one piece of armor one day, another piece the next. I never put it all on at the same time, and rarely, if ever, did I pick up the sword of the Spirit. God’s Word.

I decided to make a commitment to God, to begin reading his Word. Not occasionally, but every day. And I’ve been faithful. From Genesis through the Old Testament and into the Gospels of Christ. I have read, and studied, and memorized, and prayed, and God has changed me. I feel hope. Peace. And for the first time in my life I feel what I believe must be, true joy. It’s a feeling I can’t explain except to say that my heart feels light. My burdens have been lifted. And no longer do I feel the oppression of darkness. The morning light seems brighter. My way appears crystal clear.

I still don’t feel like I’m ready to stand before the congregation of my church—to share the Gospel of Christ and to serve the Lord’s Supper—because I know myself too well. But I also know what God has taught me, and the long road I have traveled to learn what it means to be a Christian. God’s timing is always perfect. His plan righteousness never fails.

So, yeah, it took me a long time, Mike, a long time to realize why I’m here. For forty years I served my self. But today, by God’s grace, I’m learning to serve others.

Do you feel weak? Unable to take up you cross and follow the Lord? Well it could be a piece your spiritual armor is missing. Find out which piece, and then put on the full armor of God. Do it every day. Only then will you find the strength to take up your cross and follow the Lord Jesus Christ.

Is It the Lord?

I wanted to see it for myself. I needed to know. Was it what Christ really looked like? Could it truly be his shroud?

It’s centuries old. It bears the likeness of a man tortured, scourged and crucified in every way consistent with the Gospel accounts of Jesus Christ’s passion. Many believe it to be his burial cloth. Others disagree. But after years of exhaustive studies its origin remains unknown. A true mystery. It is either the most clever forgery ever created by the hands of man, with details and encoded information impossible to reproduce with today’s technology, or it’s authentic; the actual burial cloth of the Lord Jesus Christ. It resides in the city of Torino. It’s considered a holy relic. It’s called The Shroud of Turin.

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

No one knows what happened that first Easter morning—whether the angels gently awakened Jesus, or if he arose in a burst of radiant energy—but we do know that Peter and John found an empty tomb. The piece of fine white linen in which they’d placed his body was still there. And the short length of cloth that had been wrapped around his head lay folded up neatly by itself, separate from the rest.


OCTOBER 1978 “What we are doing here,” Dr. John Jackson explained, “is seeking the truth…we should start by applying the scientific method.”

And they did. In October 1978, thirty scientists met in Turin, Italy with a common goal—to determine the details, the authenticity, and indeed the actual origin of The Shroud of Turin. They unloaded crate after crate of equipment, set up shop within the cathedral, and examined the Shroud for five exhausting days. They took photographs, densitometry readings and pollen samples from its threads. They used microscopes, visible light, low energy x-rays, ultraviolet and infrared films. In short, they applied the scientific method, keeping an open mind at all times with the constant weight of global responsibility heavy on their shoulders. And when they had finished, the real work began.

“Pat?” Professor Vernon Miller of Brooks Institute of Photography stopped me one day after class. “Do you want an opportunity of a lifetime?”

“Opportunity?” I said with a casual shrug. “Sure. What is it?”

“I’m looking for two assistants next semester to help me with my studies. I’ve already spoken with Bill. We have a lot of research to do, and I could sure use your help.”

“Bill and me? Research? About what?”

“The Shroud.”

“The Shroud?” The Shroud of Turin was big news. Vern had just returned from Italy as Chief Scientific Photographer for the Shroud of Turin Research Project, and he was quickly becoming a legend. His photographs had kicked off a media frenzy and a new era of understanding as to the meaning and origin of the Shroud. His offer intrigued me. “Are you serious?” I said. “Yes!”

So my best friend, Bill Hendricks, and I got to work. We examined Vern’s negatives. Produced print after print after print. We performed scientific experiments. Scorched linens, and examined ancient Biblical icons. We traveled to Colorado Springs, and for three long days worked with Dr. John P. Jackson, physicist, and leader of the Shroud of Turin Research Project. We discussed the crucifixion, hung a volunteer victim upon a makeshift cross. We studied direct contact theories and produced three-dimensional images from original negatives of The Shroud. And so it went. For sixteen weeks. And Bill and I learned more about the Shroud of Turin than most people will ever know. We stood in the shadows of two great men, geniuses who had seen and touched The Shroud.

I felt privileged to have been a part of this wonderful experience. It changed my life. But after thirty years of continued studies and extensive lecturing of my own, I continued to feel a deep yearning. I needed to know—Was it authentic? Could the Shroud of Turin really be the grave cloth that wrapped my Lord?


APRIL 11, 2010 Thousands stood before me. Thousands more behind. Pilgrims. Regular people like me. We spoke different languages, but most of us smiled, for we shared a spirit of expectation. What we were all about to see…what we were all about to experience…it was bigger than any of us. Its relevance hard to imagine. But I had to know.

We waited two hours before finally reaching the chapel. My son, Phillip, entered before me. My wife, Kim, and I followed him inside. We entered the Cathedral of San Giovanni Battista, the resting-place of The Shroud. It was dark and full of people, but a reverent silence filled the room. Some knelt in pews praying. Others stood in silent wonder. At the front of the chapel I noticed a warm glow. It was up there. I could almost see it. I felt my stomach tighten. My heart leapt with excitement.

The slow moving line suddenly quickened. My skin became warm. My heart began to race. The line moved forward, past the pews and around a corner, and then I saw it. Under guard. Behind bulletproof glass. A long sepia-colored cloth adorned by a thick wooden frame.

The Shroud.

We stopped to the side and waited our turn. I could not believe I was finally there after all those years, about to see the Shroud of Turin. I had always been a believer, but there still remained some doubt. Could this be the cloth that Peter found? Am I gazing at the Lord?

Our turn came. We stepped in front of The Shroud. A nun dressed in white began to address our group, sharing details in a language I could not understand, but it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have heard her anyway. I stood in total amazement. Let my eyes roam over the details of the ancient cloth. Thinking. Absorbing. I had mere moments to gaze. I couldn’t waste a second.

I knew every inch of cloth by heart. Every bloodstain, crease and fold. And the image of the body was perfect. Subtle. Difficult to distinguish, but there. From the wounded wrists and feet, to the bloody scalp and spear-pierced side. Just like in the pictures, the negatives and prints over which I had labored, every detail rang true, clearly pointing to the scriptures. To Christ’s passion. His terrible death.

I fought to compose myself. Strained to comprehend my feelings. For thirty years I had waited, and at that moment as I stood before The Shroud of Turin I found myself in awe. Wondering once again…Is this the Lord? Is this really His shroud? Does it matter?

And then it hit me. It didn’t matter. Either way, my faith in Christ was secure. But what did matter, I suddenly realized, were the years of wonder and curiosity that had led me to that moment. The innocent pursuit of a young man that had begun in Vern Miller’s office so many years before. For in my search for the truth about The Shroud I had gained deep understanding. Knowledge of what my Savior had accomplished for you and me. Knowledge I could share with others about the depth of His love, and the true cost of our sins.

Jesus Christ anguished in the Garden. Suffered the brutal scourge. He was beaten, mocked and crucified. An innocent man condemned to a violent death. But in the end He arose. And the burial cloth that had been wrapped around his body? Well, Simon Peter “…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.”


Did I gaze upon the Lord that day? Did Phillip and Kim and I stand before Christ’s image as we paused in that hallowed hall? We will never know. Not on this side of Heaven. But for me it no longer matters. Jesus suffered. He was crucified. And He rose again to conquer death. And if He left His image on that cloth to remind us of what He accomplished, so be it. Either way my faith is secure. I know without a doubt…Jesus Christ is the Lord.

_______________________________________________

“What Killed the Man in the Shroud of Turin?”

A PowerPoint presentation by Pat Patterson. For details, or to schedule a speaking engagement for your church or organization, please contact me at psquare@nc.rr.com

_______________________________________________