Doorkeeper II: Anything But That

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I don’t know if you were paying close attention to some of the news when talk began about blood moons, the sign of the woman and the dragon in stars, the 70th anniversary of the reestablishment of Israel, and those kind of things. I was. I eat that stuff up. Sure, “no man knows the day nor the hour”, but we can watch for signs of Jesus’ second coming, and I do.

We’re all supposed to be living the kind of life that is ready for Jesus’ return any time, but – I don’t know – and maybe it says something terrible about me, but living like you have years ahead of you and living like tomorrow won’t be there are two different things. If you have no tomorrow, you make a will today and you preach to everyone who will listen. If you have years ahead of you, you might put the will off (I’m not saying you should. I’m saying you might.) and take a gentler approach to the man on the street.

Of course, the more signs appear, the more imminent everything seems, or maybe I should say is. But an end is coming sometime, and as it does, the more I just want to be there. I don’t care if I have a mansion or a little one room cabin. In fact, I’d rather be a doorkeeper than not there!

As Christians sometimes we get pretty comfortable in the thought that Jesus has saved us from the just result of our sins.[1] Yes, He is our righteousness. Yes, He is our home. However, his sacrifice doesn’t add to our own good works or lack of them when we wait to see what reward we’re given. As much as our current culture twists the thought of judging in all sorts of directions to reach a distorted goal, the Bible tells us we, who have accepted Christ as our Savior, will still be judged, not to decide our eternal destiny, but to examine our lives in order to determine gradation of reward. Is that news to you? We don’t talk about that much anymore because we’re concerned people will think what they do, their works, will get them into heaven. They don’t. Jesus does. But seriously, you can’t believe that God doesn’t care a whit about what we’ve done with our time here on earth. He cares very much.[2] God’s mercy doesn’t erase our responsibility.

That responsibility is a gift. Even if you cannot identify what we often call a “gift” in yourself, you must understand that gifts come in the form of both talents and opportunities. Someone might have a talent you don’t have. You might have an opportunity they don’t have. And when those gifts, in whatever form they take, whether talent or opportunity or something else altogether, are in our lives, they present to us the excitement of challenge, the learning that comes from failure, and the satisfaction of success. They open doors to working with people and getting to know them in new ways. They stretch us and help us to grow. They encourage us to become better, maybe even a little more like Jesus. Oh yes. “Works” has become a four-letter word these days, but understood rightly, it is actually a five-letter word. That word is bless. (Where’s a smiley face emoticon when you need one?) Understood rightly, works shouldn’t be a burden. They should be a blessing. So let’s look a little closer. If you find yourself forgetting about the main thing – God’s love – just recall that His love covers not only a multitude of sins, but your inadequacy, as well.

There will be no selfie sticks at the judgment seat of God. No one will be able to change the lighting or background. Photoshop will be prohibited. There will be no edits or revisions. There will be no fudging the facts or little white lies or . . . statistics. Excuses – all of them – will be thrown in a receptacle where they dissolve on contact. We will be alarmed to note the clothes we were so proud of now look like rags. We won’t have that impressive resume nor any title any longer. Our victim status will be revoked. Everything we were so proud of will seem very small. In fact, all externals will be stripped away, leaving only the real person. When we’re standing in that multitude not so long from now, how will we measure up?

to be continued . . .

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[1] Jesus stands ready to stand with us before the judgment seat of God. He’s the one whose blood covers our sins. Acts 2:38; Titus 3:5-6

[2] Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done.

Images: httpcommons.wikimedia.orgwikiFileCarina-Nebula.jpg.;  thephotographyblography.blogspot.png; gift-publicdomainpictures.net

Doorkeeper I

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When my family travels, we usually stop at the kind of hotels  that don’t have a doorman. We don’t pull up and get out of our shiny black Aston Martin while the valet parks our car. We’re not offered an umbrella if it’s raining nor do we get a nod from someone in a uniform who holds the door for us. No, we just walk in, walk up to the desk, give the clerk our credit card, get the room keys, and walk away. No fancy service for us! You might say we’re do-it-yourself-ers when it comes to travel.

For people who, on their honeymoon, stopped at the grocery store for meal supplies, this makes perfect sense. We started out traveling on the cheap and haven’t really changed that part of our identity in thirty years of marriage. Part of me wonders what it would be like to travel differently, though; to jet somewhere and eat fancy food while I’m up in the air; to have a well-used passport; and to stay at the kind of hotels that have someone at the door.

Someone at the door. We don’t know their name, and embarrassingly enough, we probably don’t care that we don’t know. They’re at their station to provide a service. They are the invisible presence that helps, directs, assures, and serves. They wear a uniform and maybe a cap.

You know the scripture that says I’d rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked? (Psalm 84:10) I’ve noticed that we sing songs using the first part of that verse: Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere; but no one sings the second part of the verse, and I don’t think it’s because we can’t think of a catchy tune for it. We hear catchy tunes for cat food, right? Don’t tell me a jingle with the singular lyric “meow” isn’t at this minute playing in your head!

No, I think it’s because we’d all rather be at the party inside than standing at the door opening and closing it, picking up luggage, or giving directions to the nearest drugstore. We want to be where the action is. We want to be part of the action. In fact, if we’re truthful, we’d like to have a little bit of the action be about us, or, at the very least, be more important than the doorkeeper.

When we think of being a servant of sorts, we’d like to have a photo of us wearing some shade of khaki floating around social media showing the lengths we go to serve and how much we’re willing to sacrifice. Maybe we’d like to be formally dressed – with or without sequins – on a stage telling the world what Jesus means to us. In that picture, there’s a tear in the eye of an audience member touched by our song or testimony. Or perhaps we’re more part of the grunge crowd and when we’re present, the room doesn’t need air conditioning because we’re just that cool. Maybe we’re with a service group wearing matching tee shirts that identify us as doing something good. And we are! All of these scenarios are good. In fact, very good. But just outside by the door . . .

Image: Pexels.com

The Box

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I wrote this nearly 30 years ago – before I owned either a computer or cell phone. Its length and language tell, perhaps, how much Tennyson I was reading at the time. Its truth, well you can decide for yourself.

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Snow floats so lightly to the ground

Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.

It’s quiet, oh so quiet now

As onward winds the gentle night.

 

 

And light breaks up the darkness which

Was soft and warm, a friend to man.

Rays setting forth with their own gift

Of life, a silent contribution.

 

Acknowledged by the sons of Day

The sun projects its sharpest beam

Of warmth, of tenderness, of love,

Of clarity of visions seen.

 

The townsmen underneath the sky

In tasks intently diligent,

Yet stop to help a neighbor

In Greater work; benevolence.

 

A Child is born within this scape.

Fair, thoughtful, willing now to learn

He grows in stature, virtue, intellect;

Seizing lessons, each in turn.

 

In play with friend he learns of sharing;

Give and take, each in its place.

Perhaps to give the better part,

And in so doing finds more grace.

 

His father, mother, brother, sister

Teach him well in their own way

Of kinship greater than their own

Extending to the sons of Day.

 

Receives instruction, he and others,

From a wisened teacher there.

He learns of more than dates and graphs;

Learns the love of learning more.

 

Forgiveness from within his church

A lesson difficult to grasp;

Its merit true, yet grieving, freeing

Learns the Child as hands are clasped.

 

How charity and chastity

Go hand in hand, a deeper troth.

Consistent, true, considerate;

Teacher, student of his love.

 

A noble statesman teaches him

Not of rank or high degree,

But of higher consequence;

True vision, gentle quality.

 

 

Throughout the planting and the harvest

Child observes truths of the soil.

Seed produces same in harvest;

Patience requisite of toil.

 

From life itself the Child acquires

Understanding of own self’s control,

Without the which all else abridges

‘Til nought is left of value’s toll.

 

Along his journey thus instructed,

Child grows thoughtful, kind and good;

Stopping oft to help his neighbor,

Conscious of his brotherhood.

 

Light nudges night away again.

Child tends his work from day to day.

Projecting still its gift of life

The clarifying, warming Ray.

 

Into his work there comes a box,

A talking box with soothing sound.

Pleased to have this company,

Bemused, the Child keeps it around.

 

Its music stirs, its commentary

Sometimes stern, others humorous,

Box becomes a life its own;

Intent in its own righteousness.

 

Once again to help his neighbor

Child hears the box from shop to shop

Goading him for senseless labor,

“Have you had your turn?”, cries the box.

 

Troubled by this indignation

Child replies, “It matters not

Whose turn is whose in brotherhood.”

Silent is the box.

 

Soothing music, words that please him

Once again calm Child’s soul.

“I would not tell you what to do,”

Replies the box, sans virtue’s toll.

 

“I am your friend.  Look!  How I love you!

I am here both night and day!

I would not keep your brother hurting;

It’s only you I try to save.”

 

Not a little troubled, he,

The child considers its behest;

Yet what to do with the box?

Endures the stimulating chest.

 

And somewhat with relief he finds

The Box is what it claims to be;

A friend in hard times and in ease,

Providing helpful levity.

 

Again the Box scoffs at the Child

“O, innocent, you stupid man!”

Not one around chaste remains;

Each takes his pleasure best as he can.”

 

“Look yonder!  Love is only

Temporal and nothing more.

Naïve you are.  You poor dear Child.

Hold you only to folklore.”

 

Begins the child to answer it,

Yet pauses, thoughts newly confused;

Maintains his silence now disturbed.

Box, the one who seems bemused.

 

Thus encounters compromise

Of virtue, once he deemed as right.

Uncertain of his thoughts, his deeds;

The source unknown of Child’s plight.

 

Box seizes opportunity

With powerful song and dance.

It breathes a word, alluring,

Tempting.  Whispers, shouts it.  “TOLERANCE.”

 

“Yes, tolerance is fitting, caring,”

Says the Child, “It fits the beam

Of the Sun so high above us.”

Things not always what they seem.

 

Light inches in across the darkness

Radiating softer light.

Squinting, Child ponders slowly

“Why gleams the sun so bright, so bright?”

 

Once again a neighbor stops him

In this contemplative state.

“I advise you true direction,

Brother, friend who’s lost your way.”

 

“O you who are so high and mighty!

Slave to your own foolish task!”

Box admonishes the Child

“And what of Tolerance!”

 

“A man can turn ways manifold,

One way equal to the other.

Care you not to tolerate

The wanderings of your friend, your brother!”

 

Stutters Child, “The ways unequal

In the way; some briars, cliffs.

Friend would repent his wayward journey

To help was my sole motive.”

 

“Yet, perhaps I was hasty

In my vision for my friend.

Not I, but he it is who chooses

Paths to take to journey’s end.”

 

“Admitted he that he was lost,

But by my charge, admonition

Perhaps I unwittingly

Detracted from a truer vision.”

 

Thusly courses conversation;

“Surely you will learn to know

Even seedlings planted early

Into something different grow.”

 

“Childhood’s lessons better left

To babes.  You are too great for these.

With societal correctness

More the masses you will please.”

 

Another day forgiveness asked

From one held in the child’s debt.

Box intercepted, whispers,

“Why is it for him you fret?”

 

“He has nothing done to help you

Nor to make your days seem bright

Pardon would the error prove;

Debt his due, of course is right.”

 

“But what of tolerance?”

Inquires the Child.  His heart protests.

“This is nought of tolerance,”

Assures the Box, “Now take your rest.”

 

“Sons of Day need not the Sun

To guide them, keep them safe and strong.

Tolerate cacophony!

You will grow to love the song.”

 

Light filters through the clouds below

Touching, warming Child at play.

“Damn the light!  It scorches me.

Await I ‘til it goes away!”

 

Offered now a high position

Child considers in this hour

“Take it!  Take it!” Box demands him

“This shall offer you much power!”

 

“What of quiet, gentle service?”

Momentarily stays Child’s reply.,

Voices he the words to please it

“None more deserving than I.”

 

Years of subtle twisting, turning

Child and Box trace hand to hand’

Lessons learned so long ago

No more distract from Box’s stand.

 

Virtue, lost in years of message

From the Box, forever gone.

“’Tis hard to see the way I travel.”

Child loathe admits.  And travels on.

 

Lessons taught by truer teachers

Tossed aside Child knows not whence

Liberated from their limits

In the name of Tolerance.

 

Enters he into the twilight

Recognizing nought of sunlight’s bend.

Night no friend, it offers strictly

Cold and darkness without end.

 

Quietly the child lies down

Task long forgotten, sighs

“I cannot help but wonder if . . .”

His words drift off as dead he lies.

 

Snow floats so lightly to the ground

Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.

It’s quiet, oh so quiet now

As onward winds the gentle night.

 

The Child in his coffin lies

Lost to Day, alike to dark.

Triumphantly, a voice rings clear

Now his casket stands the Box.

 

 

Poem and copyright by Connie Miller Pease; photos: pexels.com; pixabay 

Preservation of a Nation

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God created nations, and He loves them. In fact, we are told in Revelation about the leaves of a tree used to heal the nations. Love of country does not equal hate of another country or other people. It simply means that you love your home.

The word patriot comes from the Greek word patris, father. A patriot values his fatherland. Patriotism remembers our Founding Fathers who worked very hard to found this nation and used God’s laws as a pattern. Sacrifices were made then and have been made in all the years since. Blessings were given at its inception and continue to this day, both deserved and undeserved. For these things – wise founders, great sacrifice, and God’s blessings – we are grateful. And one thing more: I’m extremely grateful for my freedom. How about you?

The Continental Congress’ initial meeting was on September 7, 1774. It began with prayer. This nation began on its knees, and that is the way it will be preserved. As citizens, we yes, we patriots, commend the good, help fix the wrong, repent of sin, and pray for national revival. We pray for wise leaders who fear God. God intends to use rulers for good and when they reject him, the entire nation suffers. When they are righteous, the nation is blessed.

We live in a time when many of our country’s citizens are uneducated about those first citizens, the ones on whose shoulders we stand. Some debate the Constitution and its merit. It strikes me as the height of arrogance to believe that because the Founders lived over 200 years ago, they knew less than we do today; that the morals someone picks like cherries from a tree are better suited to a nation than God’s standards. “None of these perspectives acknowledges the grateful recognition of the Founding Fathers that life is a gift from God, not an affront to human desires. Reaffirming both folk wisdom and Christian orthodoxy, a healthy respect for limits, woven into the fabric of the Republic from the beginning, offers a way to recover the political and moral realism that contemporary Americans have lost.”

So this 4th of July, get on your knees in thanks, repentance, and request. Then stand up straight and true, put your hand over your heart, and pledge allegiance to the flag of your nation. It’s a good thing.

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!

Image: http-pixabay.com-en-eagle-america-flag-bird-symbol-219679.jpg; Sources: Acts 17:26; Revelation 22:2; Proverbs 29:2; Romans 13:1-2; Mark Malvasi, The Imaginative Conservative, July 2, 2018

My Place

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There are beautiful places in the wide world; colorful, exotic and lush.

Where warm breezes call, sweet sunshine is sure with tempting allure from the rush.

I could fly to locations with interesting sights; Or hike mountains that soar to the clouds.

 

Or maybe alight in a city at night whose action is fast, fun, and loud.

 

 

 

But only one place do I hold on my heart because from the start it held me.

Not bright nor dependably sunny and lush nor offers new sights to see.

Yet to just one place I unceasingly go, and I know its dear soul by design.

No, not for perfection, but for so much more: because it’s a place I call mine.

Images: Pixabay on pexels.com; pexels.com by Konstantin Stupak; www.pinterest.com-camerons-healing-kitchen.png

We Have A Puppy!

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I’ll give you a clue about the right answer in puppy training class. Our little bundle of fur, being a rescue from an Amish puppy mill, was already over 3 months old when we got him. I was glad he had a little religion already. But by the time I signed up for training, he was too old for the puppy class. We went to our first tweener class last week. It is a walk-in situation, which suits us; though why we have trouble connecting schedules when all four kids are out of the house, I can’t explain. We were the only ones who raised their hands to indicate it was our first time being there, which leads me to my clue. When the instructor asks if your puppy knows “Sit”, and you say “Yes”, the answer to the follow-up question of “How many times do you say it before your dog obeys?” is not “As many times as it takes”. You’re welcome. I live to serve.

The class begins with a get acquainted time for the dogs which consists of them nipping and growling and rolling around on the floor. Some of the sweet little things walked behind their owners’ chairs or bumped noses. Not ours. Ours was right out in the middle of things the entire time. I began to understand a bit more of how parents of kids with ADHD feel.

Then we all began our assignments. The first was for the dog to learn its name. Really? What dog doesn’t know its name? Apparently the answer to that question is “Some”. I witnessed a dog sit in front of the instructor and not turn once when she said its name. She said its name more than once, but no one called her on it. The puppy gazed off in a completely different direction as though it was composing a poem in its head.

Then we worked on “Sit”, “Down”, and some sort of follow the hand exercise. Our dog was stellar, if I do say so myself, but, after practicing at home, has decided he’s supposed to bite the hand rather than bump it with his nose. I have a feeling that will land us in the doghouse if the instructor notices during the next class. Thank goodness there are only four. One down, three to go.

There are options, of course, to continue on to the next class which is called Basic Training. I don’t suppose they’ll include a course on weapons proficiency. I’m trying to decide whether to sign up and how much more training this dog needs; but I have a feeling the answer to that question is “As many times as it takes.”

Fighting For A Cause

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On Memorial Day we remember those who have died in our country’s battles. We remember their courage even if they were afraid. We mark their place even if their life was lost in an unidentified spot. We honor their heroism even if they were simply one of many fulfilling an assignment. Governments are duty-bound to honor those who protect it from external threats.

We hope governments are good, but sometimes they are not. The horror of a bad government, an internal threat, resisted at a terrible cost bears our consideration, for our nation now faces a loud and strong clarion call to Socialism.

History is clarity’s friend, so let’s examine a few times when people of a nation succumbed to the allure of empty government promises. A nation is rarely suddenly killed from within. No, it’s crippled bit by tempting bit.

God’s moral laws are denigrated. When we dismiss God’s law, Government’s law will take its place, and things go horribly, predictably wrong. They’ve been going so wrong, in fact, that some of our population is  now struggling to know the distinction between male and female. Such an obvious difference has become a question. There is a blindness that goes beyond sight.

It is the obligation of the church to speak up. It’s tempting to let little things slide in the interest of making ourselves approachable. But when the church is silent – no matter the reason, whether out of concern to not offend or desire for popularity or misguided belief that it should not mix it up with politics (Elijah must have missed the memo) – it will be one of the first to taste destruction.

Citizens aren’t deceived by outright lies. They are deceived by half-truths, distortions, and duplicity. They are proverbial frogs in a kettle. The water has been on a slow boil for awhile already. First their economy is crippled, making it difficult for folks to meet financial obligations. Obamacare mandate, anyone? People exchange their free independence for regulated dependence on the government. History is rewritten, monuments destroyed. Weapons are taken away in the interest of safety, thereby removing citizens’ ability to defend themselves. Then words like “fairness” or “change” are used to lure the naive into a socialist ideology. Socialism is simply Communism lite. Lite doesn’t last. It is always replaced with the real thing. Constitutions are circumvented by declaring emergency law and order. Then the country is – bingo – under communist rule. No shots fired. That comes later.

But those advocating Socialism want to help the poor. They want to make it a fair playing field. They’re benevolent, right?

Let’s look at a few Communist rulers. Pol Pot killed between 1.5 and 2 million of his own people. Anyone who had allegiance to God or anything other than the State was tortured and killed. Prisoners were made to dig trenches, then ordered to kill the person next to them where the deceased would tumble into the trench. Friends. Family members. I’ll wager hope and spirit tumbled into those trenches, too.

Or how about Romania? Ceausescu hated the church so much he destroyed their buildings. His Government did not tolerate disloyalty and neighbor turned against neighbor as a matter of survival.

Stalin killed over 20 million of his countrymen in Russia. Hitler killed around 6 million Jews and 5 million others. Mao Zedong had over 45 million Chinese people killed.

While we memorialize our soldiers this coming weekend, let’s do one more thing. Let us resolve to keep the freedom for which they died. Even if we have to fight on our own land in our own way, big or small, to do it. Because citizens of resolve are a nation’s only hope for freedom. God be with us.

Revelation 22:2; Image: http-pixabay.com-en-eagle-america-flag-bird-symbol-219679.jpg

A Dusty Few Years

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He picked up another piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth as he looked at some of the ravens perching on the gnarled branches. Life was weird alright, but he’d always been one to accept that. In fact, he didn’t understand how most other folks insisted on life being the way they thought it should be. Should be! Really? Life was breath amidst delight and chaos. What did prescriptive insistence have to do with it? He deliberated over those who required people to fit into certain ideas of dignity or say things the way they imagined things should be said; over life’s roads taking particular turns at preordained times. Whose ideas of dignity? Whose way of speaking? Preordained by who? People had plenty of thoughts about him, he knew. They didn’t want to accept that God’s prophets were rough around the edges. But what was more important – their preconceived notions or the truth? A wry smile crossed his face. They had no idea of how improper and uncivilized God could be when He chose. He picked up the last piece of meat and turned it over in his hands, examining it. Holding it up, he toasted the onlooking birds, and finished his meal. Those people who said what others approved were too prideful to yield. He hoped they’d change, but even with a sign from heaven, he knew they wouldn’t. Their ideas about what was most worthy of worship were immovable and their hate for him was too strong. The sun blazed down as he slurped from the nearby brook. It was going to be a long, dry, hot, and dusty few years.

Story idea: taken from the life of Elijah – I Kings: 17:1-6; Image: Pexels.com

 

Come Back, Spring!

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The pansy bowl sits, forlorn, on the floor

Searching for one beam of sun;

The sweaters I’d packed away with great hope

Again claim warmth second to none;

Thoughts of iced tea are now besotten;

Grass between toes? Imagination;

The smell of warm earth is nearly forgotten;

Neglected Spring left behind at the station;

It’s April the sixth in my northern state,

Outside, sparkling white, eight inches of snow;

I weep as I must be resigned to my fate,

With more in the forecast, or so we are told;

When will this nightmarish existence end?!

When will my socks no longer be wet?

When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When?

How much more miserable can it get?

Spring, if by some unknown, unintended breach;

We’ve carelessly, needlessly frightened away;

Or taken for granted green, pink, red, or peach;

Forgive! And come back for an extended stay!

Image: pexels.com

Turning Back Our Clocks to Good Friday

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We turned our clocks back one hour a few weeks ago. It makes it seem like the day has more light; that night doesn’t come so soon. On Good Friday we turn our clocks back 2000 years to the day when the source of light was killed, when – from noon to three in the afternoon – light was quenched. When there was an earthquake and tombs were opened. When the curtain at the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. When Jesus was crucified.

The nation of Israel celebrated the Passover meal every year as a way to remember when God freed them from slavery to the Egyptians. They still do. They remember the sorrow of slavery. They remember the urgency of leaving their familiar bondage and taking risks to get to freedom. They remember. And it is this meal that Jesus and His apostles celebrated at what we call the Last Supper. Indeed, it was the last meal Jesus ate.

Remembering is time travel. When Jesus said Remember Me, He invited us to be part of the very first communion time – the Lord’s Supper, the Last Supper.

And while they are eating, Jesus says, “I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me.”

They are very sad and begin to say to him one after the other, “Surely not I, Lord?”

Surely. Not. I.

James 2:10 tells us For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. There can be no hypocrites at the Lord’s table, because whoever partakes admits their own sin and their need for Jesus’ sacrifice.

Surely not I? No, It is me. And it is you. We are the reason for this terrible night.

After the Passover Supper, the friends sing a hymn. We sing with them. Then they walk to a familiar garden called the Garden of Gethsemane. We walk with them. It is quiet and fragrant with the scent of olive trees, and is one of Jesus’ favorite places. No wonder he goes there to fight a battle with his own will, knowing the greatest battle of all will be won on the cross.

And Judas, one of Jesus’ friends, an apostle, steps out from among the crowd pushing its way into this quiet retreat and greets Jesus with a kiss. With that kiss Judas sealed for all time his traitorous place in history. Such a small act. Such an eternal consequence.

The Jewish leaders are fed up with Jesus. They don’t like His message. They feel threatened. Now they’ve finally found a way to bring him to trial. It takes two stages: a religious trial and a civil trial.

They begin with a religious trial, and take Jesus to Caiaphas, the high priest, where the teachers of the law and the elders are assembled. There’s a problem finding anyone who can give evidence against Jesus.

Of multiple charges, none can stand save one. Asked if he is God’s Son, he answers with the truth. Truth is the charge for death.

They bring him before Pilate who sees no basis for the charges against Jesus.

Pilate sends him to Herod who, along with his soldiers, ridicules and mocks him. He has Jesus dressed in an elegant robe in order to make fun of him and sends him back to Pilate.

And Pilate, who knows there isn’t any reason for Jesus’ death, tries to reason with the mob.

“I can have him punished, then release him.”

“Crucify him! Crucify him!”, the mob shouts.

“Do you want me to release Barabbas instead?”

No one in their right mind would want Barabbas released. He’s in prison not only for sedition, but murder.

But the crowd yells, “Yes! Release Barabbas!”

Pilate knows an out-of-control mob when he sees one. They might begin breaking things, destroying property. They’re on the verge of a riot.

Pilate’s wife is upset. Pilate wants nothing to do with this mess. So he calls for a bowl and washes his hands in front of the crowd.

“I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he says. “It is your responsibility!”

We are there at the cross. Soldiers jeer, making fun of Jesus. Do you see them? There they are, gambling for his clothing. They don’t care about suffering. They don’t care about betrayal. They care about winning a game.

We turned our clocks back one hour a few weeks ago. It makes it seem like the day has more light; that night doesn’t come so soon. On Good Friday we turn our clocks back 2000 years to the day when the source of light was killed, when – from noon to three in the afternoon – light was quenched.

And now we must remember one more thing: It’s always darkest before the dawn.

Scripture: Matthew 26-27; image: pexels.com