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.

* * *