My Cross

“Get a new cross ready, and get it done now!”

 

The voice was a familiar one.  The Roman centurion who did Pilate’s dirty work, knocking so loudly that the whole neighborhood shook awake, startled by such unwelcome noise in the early morning darkness. 

 

“This one can’t wait!”

 

I tried to answer, but my mind was still asleep.  Was this real?  Was I dreaming?  I opened my mouth to speak, but my tongue wouldn’t work.

 

So I struggled out of bed and somehow found the door without so much as a candle to help me. 

 

“Open up or I will have my men break down this door!” roared the angry voice on the other side.

 

“OK, ok,” I mumbled, “give me just a minute.  I can’t even see the lock in this darkness.”

 

Finally, after fumbling around for what seemed like an hour, and pinching my finger, hard, I was able to crack open the door just enough to peer out.

 

Standing there was the imposing figure of Rome’s finest, fully armored with war gear and helmet, and a gruff look on his face that would have sent the bravest enemy running.  Behind him stood a hundred more like him, casting dark shadows in the moonlight and crowding the narrow streets around our home.

 

“Pilate requires your services before the sun comes up today.  And don’t be one minute late with it.” he spewed.

 

I closed the door behind me to the sound of soldiers’ boots marching with the rhythm and cadence that comes only from years of training.  I was glad to hear the silence return as their footsteps faded in the distance.  They were on their way back to Jerusalem.

 

“What am I going to do?” I whispered to the door, now closed and locked again.

 

“It just isn’t possible to get a cross finished so soon.  There is no way.  It can’t be done.”

 

But if I fail, I die.

 

Pilate does not tolerate failure.  Or anyone who does not follow his orders to the letter.  Those who disappoint him become an example, so no one will fail him or refuse him again.

 

This is so unusual, though.  In all the years and all the times they have forced me to make their awful crosses, the Romans have never demanded one to be done so quickly.

 

Before sunrise?

 

What is the rush?

 

What is going on?

 

Who is the poor criminal who is such a thorn in Pilate’s side that he wouldn’t be allowed to live even one more day while a proper cross could be constructed?

 

What could he possibly have done that was such an affront to Caesar that Roman justice had to be rendered without even a review or an appeal?

 

Well, it is too early to be concerned with such things.  And I don’t have time to dwell on them anyway.

 

Sunrise?

 

How?

 

I walked out my back door into the yard where I keep the wood.  I have always loved the smell of freshly cut timber, which is probably why I chose to become a carpenter in the first place.  That, and the feeling of satisfaction I get when I finish a wagon for newlyweds, or a kitchen table for a new home, or a tool chest for an old man’s workshop, or my favorite of all, a cradle for a newborn baby.

 

That is why it is so hard for me to use good wood the way the Romans make me use it. 

 

I remember back when I first started to learn the trade of carpentry, how excited I was to apprentice under our town’s best carpenter.  He was known by everyone as the most skilled woodworker around.  His creations were much sought-after and cherished because of their quality and workmanship.

 

I used to love watching his hands as he cut, and planed, and hammered the wood.  They were strong hands, but also soft in a way.  They seemed to always hold the wood perfectly for the task that needed to be done.  They seemed never to make a mistake. 

 

His hands would sometimes rub against my arm, or he would reach out and give me a good-natured pinch on the cheek as a way to say, “Good job.”  At those moments, his hands seemed almost tender, and yet rough at the same time, calloused by hours and hours spent holding the heavy tools needed to turn rough wood into smooth furniture.

 

My whole family considered me blessed to be able to learn at his side, to watch and see just how he made such beautiful things.  I knew they were right.  Not just because of what I was learning, but also because of his kindness.

 

He was never angry when I wasted a perfectly good piece of wood by measuring it wrong.  He didn’t scold me when I took too long to cut a corner the right way.  He wasn’t upset when I had trouble getting an edge level.

 

Instead, he would take hold of the wood I was ruining and gently show me the proper way to do the work.  To this day, I don’t know how he could have been so patient with me.  I loved him like a father, and I always felt loved by him like a son.

 

No time for all of that now.

 

Sunrise. 

 

Soon. 

 

How?

 

Besides, I just finished one of their crosses yesterday anyway.  There it is, over there, just behind my wagon, ready to be loaded and transported to the Roman garrison at Jerusalem where they will use it on one of our Jewish zealots, named Barabbas.

 

He was arrested and found guilty of crimes against the state.  The verdict was crucifixion.  Crucifixion on one of my wood crosses.  Not that I would ever put my name on such a cruel tool of pain and torture and death against my own people.  But there was no way out of it, I had to make them.

 

Well, there is nothing to be done.  It is impossible to make a new cross from scratch with so little time to do all the hard work of carrying and measuring and cutting and smoothing and testing and loading it all and moving it to the city.

 

I will just have to take the finished cross for Barabbas to Pilate and beg for my life.  Maybe he will show me mercy since I did, at least, finish this one on time.  Maybe instead of death, he will give me forty lashes.  Although forty lashes might be worse than death, actually.

 

Time to go.

 

As I approached the Jerusalem outskirts, I heard crowds of people shouting.  I had never heard anything like it before.  I got closer and saw hundreds, maybe thousands, of people gathered in the plaza in front of Pilate’s judgment seat.

 

They were shouting Barabbas’ name, over and over again. 

 

“Give us Barabbas!” they screamed.  “We want Barabbas! Release Barabbas!”

 

I pulled my cart up to the place where I always unloaded it.

 

“Here is your cross for Barabbas,” I reported to the guard who was in charge of the crucifixion detail.  “But I am sorry I did not get the other cross finished.  There just wasn’t enough time.  Please forgive me.”

 

The soldier started laughing at me.  It was the kind of laugh that turns into a chortle, and then a cackle, and then a cry.

 

“This is your lucky day, Jew,” he managed to choke out between deep huffs of more laughter.

 

“We only need one cross today.  Can’t you hear?  Your friends in the square have just called for Barabbas to be released as Pilate’s annual act of mercy during your Passover.  He is a free man now.”

 

Relief.

 

“So you won’t be needing this cross, after all?” I asked, for the first time hopeful that I might live after all, through some miracle of our Lord.

 

“I didn’t say that,” he replied.  “We still need it.  There is a new outlaw who will be crucified today instead of Barabbas.  He claims to be King of the Jews.  You probably know him.  Goes by the name of Jesus.  Jesus of Nazareth!”

 

As soon as I heard the name, my knees buckled.  Before I could catch myself, I was face down in the dirt.  My strength had left me.  I crumpled to the ground.

 

Know him?

 

Of course I know him!

 

I grew up in Nazareth too!

 

Jesus had stood beside me all of those years in the carpentry shop in Nazareth, best friends, we learned to be carpenters from the man who was like a father to both of us, Joseph.

 

We had played together as boys, day after day in the shop before the work began.  I had eaten at his table, in the chair next to his, always enjoying the wonderful meal his mother, Mary, had made.

 

We had wrestled in the mud after rain storms, fished together whenever Joseph would take us on a rare day away from the shop, and we often raced up the street to see who could be the first one into synagogue on the Sabbath.

 

Best friends.  More like brothers.

 

Jesus…crucified?

 

Why?

 

What had he done?  I couldn’t understand it. 

 

Somehow, I found the strength to pull myself up from the ground.  The soldier was laughing at me even harder as he unloaded the cross.

 

The cross.

 

My cross.

 

How could he die on my cross?

 

It was my fault.  His death would always be because of me, because of what I had done.

 

I couldn’t hold it in.  It didn’t matter that the Roman soldier was there, watching me.  The tears ran down my face unceasing, mingled with the dirt still on my lips, and that sticky, wet sand seeping into my mouth.  I didn’t care.

 

“Get out of here!” yelled the Roman.  “Your job is done!”

 

As I tried to find the foothold to pull myself up on the cart through sobbing eyes, I heard a commotion behind me.  Those all-too-familiar footsteps of soldiers again.  But this time they were not in sync, but out of kilter, chaotic.

 

Startled, I looked back.  They were pushing and shoving someone dressed in a purple robe in the middle of their pack like doomed prey in the midst of wolves.  At first, I couldn’t tell who the man was, all I could see was the blood flowing from his head where a rough crown of thorns had been planted.

 

As they passed by me, the man in the robe suddenly stopped and turned.

 

He looked right at me.

 

Suddenly, I recognized him!

 

I couldn’t believe it.  But there he was, just a few steps from me.

 

It was Jesus!  

 

Time itself seemed to stand still for that moment.

 

Immediately all of those feelings of guilt and torment started to flood back and I fell to my knees before him.

He quickly reached out and touched my shoulder.

 

“Father forgive him, for he knew not what he did.”

 

Then he was gone, pushed along again by the mocking Roman soldiers who taunted him and spit on him until they put the cross on his back so he could carry it himself to his own crucifixion.

 

But it was my cross.

 

It was my cross he carried that day.

 

I didn’t stay in the city.  There was no need.  I knew what was going to happen when the soldiers’ hammer blows fiercely striked the spikes.

 

But I no longer felt condemned by what I had done.

 

The moment Jesus spoke to me, all of the guilt left me immediately.

 

I felt free.

 

I felt new.

 

I felt loved.

 

I felt forgiven.

 

And I knew, somehow, deep within me, that I would see Him again someday.

 

Not only as my best friend.  Not only as my brother.  But as my Savior.

 

Rev. Greg McCollam,

Pastor, Walnut Hills Baptist Church

Good Soil, Good Crops and Good Lives

The story below is an excerpt from my recently published book, Where's God? Finding Him in the Small Stuff.  For more information about the book, please visit my website:  www.gregmccollam.com


The month of May is the month of over-turned soil. 

Driving down the road during the month of May, you can't help but notice how the land around you has changed. 

Gone are the old, crumpled, broken stalks of last year's corn crop.  Gone are the early-Spring weeds which had begun to poke their heads above ground only a month ago.  Gone, even, are the leftover leaves and scattered branches which had fallen during February's snow storms.

In their place is over-turned soil.

In May, farmers prepare their fields for planting.  New seed won't grow among the old remains of last year's crop.  New seed needs new, clean soil for healthy growth.  So farmers turn the soil, exposing the fresh earth while burying the old, worn-out ground underneath.

Also in May, home gardeners spend hours pulling and yanking weeds from their flower beds to keep those weeds from choking out the tender growth of their new plants.  Those gardeners turn the soil, making room for the flowering of new life to come.

And in May, homeowners are outside picking up the leaves and branches from their lawns which left scars behind during the long winter months when it was just too cold to do anything about them.  Homeowners turn the soil, planting fresh grass seed to heal the wounds of winter. 

The month of May reminds me that good seed needs good soil.  And only "over-turned" soil is "good soil" for seed.

In many ways, the same is true in the life of a Christian.  If God is going to plant some "good seed" in the field or flower bed of your life, He needs to over-turn some soil.  He needs to prepare you for the growth that is to come.

Like the farmer, God will not throw His "good seed" over the "old crop" of your life. It will not grow there.  He needs to over-turn some soil.

Like the gardener, God will not throw His good seed into a flower bed full of weeds.  First, He needs to over-turn some soil.

Like the homeowner, God will not throw His good seed among the fallen leaves and branches of your life.  It cannot grow there among that kind of dead debris.  He needs to over-turn some soil.

How does He do it?  What are the signs of "over-turned soil" in your life?     

In many ways, "over-turned soil" looks a lot like "change." 

Sometimes, God overturns the soil of your life by changing something.  Maybe He adds something new to your life...a new job, a new baby, a new friend, a new church, or a new house.

Sometimes, God may overturn the soil of your life through loss...the loss of a loved one, the loss of your health for a while, the loss of a financial nest egg, or the loss of a home.

There are times when over-turned soil looks like a reason to celebrate.  At other times, it looks like a reason for grief and worry.  But, in the midst of both happy and sad circumstances, God is preparing you for His new, good seed.  He is over-turning some soil.

Jesus told a story about good seed and soil in Matthew, chapter 13....

 "A farmer planted seed.  As he scattered the seed, some of it fell on the road, and the birds ate it.  Some fell in the gravel, it sprouted quickly but didn't put down roots, so when the sun came up it withered just as quickly.  Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled by the weeds.  Some fell on good soil, and produced a harvest beyond the farmer's wildest dreams."

The thing is, if God were to ask me, I would say that I really don't want Him to over-turn that soil in my life. 

Do you know why?

Because I do not like change.

If it were up to me, I would prefer to keep things just like they are.

But God can't just leave "well enough alone"...because "well enough" is not "good enough" for Him.

He knows if He does not over-turn some soil in your life, if He does not bring both happy and sad changes your way, then your faith and your  relationship with Him will not grow.

It would be like spreading perfectly good seed on "unprepared" soil.  It would just lie there until it was either washed away by rain or swept away by wind.

It would never take root.

It would never bear fruit.

And that's just it.  God wants His Spirit to take root in your life.  He wants you to bear fruit for Him.

So, God plants "good seed" in your life which allows you to grow into the wonderful crop He wants you to be.   

Just remember...before He can do it, He needs to prepare you.  That means He will need to over-turn some soil in your life.

That means, changes are coming.  Don't be surprised.

Be ready.

No One Noticed?

Besides the obvious, there is one thing that keeps nagging at me about what happened in the house of  Ariel Castro, the man who kidnapped, abused, and held captive three girls/women for the last ten years.

How is it that NO ONE NOTICED?

I mean, it didn't happen out in the middle of nowhere, where he had the benefit of space between his house and the houses of his neighbors.  No, it happened in the middle of a suburb where the closest neighbors' houses were VERY close.

It didn't happen in the house of a recluse who never showed his face in public.  Castro was a school bus driver...he was a well-known local musician in the Latin music community...his neighbors saw him out-and-about on regular occasions.  In other words, he interacted with lots of people.

How is it that NO ONE NOTICED?

It didn't happen in the house of a man who had no family.  He obviously had two brothers who may, or may not, have been involved in Castro's fiendish deeds.  But the latest news reports make it seem that they were probably not a part of what went on there.

He had two grown children, a daughter and a son...one of whom was a "good friend" of one of the
girls who was abducted, and the other wrote an "investigative paper" on the case as a student in college.

I suspect he had other, extended family members as well, nieces, nephews, cousins, and the like, some of whom probably lived nearby.

How is it that NO ONE NOTICED?

It didn't happen recently, either.  These women had been held against their wills for years...and years...and years.  Ten years or more. 

In all that time, there wasn't the slightest hint that something bad was going on?  Not one muffled scream heard?  Not one weird-looking activity in the backyard.  Not one suspicion when Castro never allowed anyone through the front door? 

How is it that, in all of those years, NO ONE NOTICED?

For now, we have to give them all the benefit of the doubt...the neighbors, the co-workers, the musicians who shared a stage with him, the family...

...maybe Castro was just that diabolical, just that good at covering his tracks.  Maybe there really was no hint of what was going on in that house at any time for anyone to pick up on.

Until one neighbor happened to be outside at just the right time, eating his McDonald's, and not only heard and saw something wrong, but ACTED in response to it.  And, in the process, finally brought an end to the nightmare in the house on Seymour Street in Cleveland.

We celebrate their rescue, and their rescuer.

We condemn the criminal.

But I think we also have to ask ourselves...

...would I have noticed?

I have a new prayer for today:

"Lord, give me eyes and ears to hear and see evil when it is close to me,
and courage to confront it.  Amen."

In Defense of ESPN's Chris Broussard

If you want to know how to "defend your faith" as a Christian against the slings and arrows of an unbelieving world, take notes from Chris Broussard.

Broussard is an ESPN reporter who covers the NBA, and he made a public statement in response to player Jason Collins' "reveal" about being gay, in which Broussard said Collins is living in "open rebellion to God."

Since making that statement, Broussard has been attacked by celebrities and media alike, including the online blog Deadspin.com that carried the headline "Why ESPN's Chris Broussard Came Out as a Bigot" for its story.

In spite of such attacks, Broussard has been articulate and eloquent in defending his faith and his belief in God, and in God's Word, the Bible.

As Christians, we need to rally in support of Chris Broussard and applaud him for his courage in taking on a culture that has moved so far away from Biblical principles and beliefs.  What he said, we all may need to say some day...and probably sooner rather than later.

If you would like to listen to an interview of Broussard by a team of radio DJ's who did not agree with his Christian point of view, click on the link below.

Warning!  Some of the language used at the end of the interview is R-rated.  Please don't be offended...this is the way the world talks today without the Holy Spirit to direct them.

Also, notice how the DJ's keep attacking Broussard, even after the interview is over.  This is a spiritual battle and Satan clearly has his legions...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=KS-8YtijSi0#action=share

A Thanksgiving Story for Mother's Day

The story below is an excerpt from my new book, Where's God? Finding Him in the Small Stuff, which tells about the time I thought I would miss my first Thanksgiving with my Mom...until I decided I just couldn't stay away, and found a way back home.  I dedicate it to Ann Lawrence (my Mom's maiden name) and to everyone who has wonderful memories of their own moms as Mother's Day approaches.


It was a cold and stormy night.

A Wednesday night, to be exact...the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, in 1980.

It was my first BIG HOLIDAY away from home after graduating from college and I had BIG PLANS. 

Secret plans.

I would drive all the way to West Virginia from Indianapolis after I finished working at the Indiana Pacers game that night.  I had rented a car because I didn't trust my 1976 Vega station wagon to make the trip without breaking down. 

I would drive all night, overnight, so I could be home for Thanksgiving.

No one knew I was coming.  It would be a surprise for everyone, especially for my Mom.

You see, I had never missed a Thanksgiving with her.  Not once.  In all of my 22 years, Mom and I had always been together for Thanksgiving.

At first, I had told myself how silly it was to make the trip at all.  I was, after all, a grown man.  I had a fulltime job.  It was just Thanksgiving.  What difference would it make if I didn't get home that year?  So what if I wouldn't see my Mom, just this once.

There would be other holidays.  There would be other Thanksgivings.

It was too far to drive so late at night anyway.  I would be too tired.  It might even be dangerous.

I would be fine staying at my apartment, by myself. 

But, the more I thought about it, the more homesick I got.  Not that my Mom was a great cook, exactly.  I mean, she could cook a good meal, don't get me wrong.  But, for my Mom, cooking was more of a "hit and miss" proposition.

There were times when the Thanksgiving turkey just melted in your mouth.  But there were other times when the bottoms of the rolls were burned, or the mashed potatoes were a little stiff, or the pumpkin pie was still a bit frozen because she hadn't taken the box out of the freezer early enough to thaw. 

You never knew, from one year to the next, which food would hit the table.

Of course, it didn't matter.  I wasn't going home for the food.  I was going home to be with my family.  I was going home to be with my Mom.

So, sometime around midnight on that Wednesday night in 1980, I headed home.  It really was a cold and stormy night.

I was fine for an hour or two.  But eventually, there was no way I could keep my eyes open.  I had to pull over and take a nap.

I slept as well possible while sitting up behind the steering wheel.  That is, until the car got too cold.  Freezing, I started the car, turned on the heat and let it run until the air warmed up again.  Then, I turned off the engine and fell back to sleep.

That pattern repeated itself more than once that night.  Drive.  Stop.  Sleep.  Freeze.  Run the car.  Sleep.  Repeat.

Finally, sometime around the middle of the morning on Thanksgiving day, I pulled into the driveway at Mom's house.

She was in the kitchen when I got there.

She saw me drive up.  It was then that the most unusual thing happened.  Something that I had not expected.

For some reason, she did not seem surprised to see me.  She was happy that I made it home, of course, but she did not seem surprised at all.

It was almost as if she had expected me to be there.

As I look back on it now, I think I know why.  This was my home.  This was my family.  This was where I belonged.  This was the only place in the whole world where I could find a special kind of love...the love of my Mom.  Unconditional love.

The kind of love that says, "I love you just because you are my child."

I think Mom knew that I could not stay away, because that kind of love is too precious to miss.

Someday, there is going to be a great Thanksgiving meal in the presence of Jesus.  Actually, in the Bible, it is called a "wedding supper," but it is basically the same thing.

"Then I heard what sounded like a great multitude, like the roar of rushing waters and like loud peals of thunder shouting:  'Hallelujah!  For our Lord God Almighty reigns.  Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory!  For the wedding of the Lamb has come and his bride has made herself ready.  Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear'...Then the angel said to me, 'Write: Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb.'"  (Revelation 19:6-9)

Do you want to be invited?  You have been already.  You were invited the very day that Jesus died on the cross for you.

If you want to be there, you do not have to drive for hours and hours on a cold and stormy night.  All you have to do is accept Jesus as your Savior. 

What waits for you is a wonderful time of precious, unconditional love, because you have "come home" through faith in Jesus Christ.  What waits for you is a love from God that says, "I love you just because you are my child."

Where else would you rather be?

For more information about my book, or to hear an audio excerpt from a different story, visit the following website: www.gregmccollam.com  Books are available from amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com, or at local bookstores (if the book is out of stock, they can order it for you) in hardback or paperback versions.

Don't Insult My Intelligence!

I just hate it when someone insults my intelligence.

When they try to "pull the wool over my eyes," it just infuriates me.

I mean, I can see with my own two eyes, and I can hear with my own two ears...and I like to think I have a brain in my head.

But, apparently, not everyone agrees.

Take this year's collection of judges on the once-popular TV show, "American Idol."  They have insulted my intelligence so often this season that I can no longer watch.

They did it by swooning over singers who were clearly not that good.  I think the judges wanted to convince me that these barely-better-than-karaoke-singers were the best talent since Carrie Underwood...or Scotty McCreary...or Barbra...or Frank...because, by doing so, they were defending their decisions to put these singers on the show in the first place.

But they insulted my intelligence.

After all, I have ears.

Or, consider a recent broadcast of "Morning Edition" on the NPR radio network.  They aired a "news" story that basically boiled down to this:  Many scientific researchers are switching from lab rats to lab mice for their experiments.

That's it.

Seriously.

It insulted my intelligence.

How in the world is a story like that "newsworthy?"

After all, I have a brain.

My children seem to specialize in insulting my intelligence.  This was especially so when they were younger.  Chores left undone.  Curfews not met.  Secret comings and goings.

When I would confront them about such issues, they would deny and deflect.

And in the process they were insulting my intelligence.

Because, I have eyes.

My reactions to these insults varied...from avoidance of "American Idol," to disappointment with NPR, to anger with my children.

In each case, however, my response was a negative one.

Which is also a warning to me as a Christian today.

Because, if I'm not careful, I can insult the intelligence of the people around me...especially unbelievers.

As a representative of Christ, they see Him in me.

They hear Him in me.

So if they see me looking at a woman in a lustful way, they see Him doing it.  If they see me at a movie I should not be attending, they see Him there.  If they see me cheating or stealing, they see Him cheating and stealing.

In the process, I insult their intelligence.

If they hear me gossip behind someone's back, they hear Jesus do it.  It they hear me lie, they hear Him do it.  If they hear me use God's Name in vain, they hear Him do it.

And I further insult their intelligence.

Because they have eyes, and ears, and brains...and they are basing their image of Jesus on me.

And on you.

When we insult their intelligence, their image of Christ is tarnished...and their response to Him can range from avoidance, to disappointment, to anger.

All negative.

As Christians, we must live in such a way that we stop insulting the intelligence of the people around us...

...and start inviting them instead.

Inviting them to come to Him and know Him as we know Him...

...which will change their lives forever by giving them new life!

From My Devotional Reading

Wanted to share with you an exerpt from my personal devotional readings today...

"This week with its failures and successes has taught me one new lesson.  It is this:  'I must give Him away in order to have Him.'   That is the law of the spirit world.  What one gives one has, what one keeps to oneself one loses.

Do you suppose that through all eternity the price we will need to pay for keeping God will be that we must endlessly be giving Him away?"

-- Frank C. Laubach, June 1, 1930