by Max Lucado
And, oh, how restrictive is the ball and chain of death. You try to run away from it—you can’t. You try to run with it—it is too heavy. You try to ignore it, and it yanks you into reality.
Just yesterday I visited a home that was wearing the black wreath of death. The youngest of three daughters, a recently married twenty-two-year-old, had been killed in a collision between an eighteen-wheeler and a bus. The eyes that met me at the door were those of a prisoner. The family was held hostage by the answerless questions. Taken captive by sadness, they couldn’t take a dozen steps without walking into a brick wall of disbelief.
It was enough to make you cry. It is enough to make God cry.
Jesus’ throat tightened as he walked among the inmates. He gazed at the chalky faces through watery eyes. How long would they listen to Satan’s lie? How long would they be in bondage? What would he have to do to convince them? Hadn’t he proven it at Nain? Was the raising of Jairus’s daughter not proof enough? How long would these people lock themselves into this man-made prison of fear? He had shown them the key to unlock their door. Why didn’t they use it?
“Show me the tomb.”
They led him to the burial place of Lazarus. It was a cave with a stone laid across the entrance. Over the stone was spun the spider web of finality. “No more!” the stone boasted. “No more shall these hands move. No longer shall this tongue speak. No more!”
Jesus wept. He wept not for the dead but for the living. He wept not for the one in the cave of death but for those in the cave of fear. He wept for those who, though alive, were dead. He wept for those who, though free, were prisoners, held captive by their fear of death.
“Move the stone.” The command was soft but firm.
“But, Jesus, it will . . . it will stink.”
“Move the stone so you will see God.”
Stones have never stood in God’s way. They didn’t in Bethany two thousand years ago. And they didn’t in Europe a hundred years ago.
She was a Hanoverian countess. If she was known for anything, she was known for her disbelief in God and her conviction that no one could call life from a tomb.
Before her death, she left specific instructions that her tomb was to be sealed with a slab of granite; she asked that blocks of stone be placed around her tomb and that the corners of the blocks be fastened together and to the granite slab by heavy iron clamps.
This inscription was placed on the granite rock:
This burial place,
purchased to all eternity,
must never be opened.
All that any man could do to seal the tomb was done. The countess had ensured that her tomb would serve as a mockery to the belief in the resurrection. A small birch tree, however, had other plans. Its root found its way between the slabs and grew deep into the ground. Over the years it forced its way until the iron clamps popped loose and the granite lid was raised. The stone cover is now resting against the trunk of the birch, the boastful epitaph permanently silenced by the work of a determined tree . . . or a powerful God.
“Lazarus, come out!”
It took only one call. Lazarus heard his name. His eyes opened beneath the wrap. The cloth-covered hands raised. Knees lifted, feet touched the ground, and the dead man came out.
“Take the grave clothes off of him and let him go.”1
There is a story told in Brazil about a missionary who discovered a tribe of Indians in a remote part of the jungle. They lived near a large river. The tribe was friendly and in need of medical attention. A contagious disease was ravaging the population and people were dying daily. An infirmary was located in another part of the jungle and the missionary determined that the only hope for the tribe was to go to the hospital for treatment and inoculations. In order to reach the hospital, however, the Indians would have to cross the river—a feat they were unwilling to perform.
The river, they believed, was inhabited by evil spirits. To enter the water meant certain death. The missionary set about the difficult task of overcoming the superstition of the tribe.
He explained how he had crossed the river and arrived unharmed. No luck. He led the people to the bank and placed his hand in the water. The people still wouldn’t believe him. He walked out into the river and splashed water on his face. The people watched closely, yet were still hesitant. Finally he turned and dove into the water. He swam beneath the surface until he emerged on the other side.
Having proven that the power of the river was a farce, the missionary punched a triumphant fist into the air. He had entered the water and escaped. The Indians broke into cheers and followed him across.
Jesus saw people enslaved by their fear of a cheap power. He explained that the river of death was nothing to fear. The people wouldn’t believe him. He touched a boy and called him back to life. The followers were still unconvinced. He whispered life into the dead body of a girl. The people were still cynical. He let a dead man spend four days in a grave and then called him out. Is that enough? Apparently not. For it was necessary for him to enter the river, to submerge himself in the water of death before people would believe that death had been conquered.
But after he did, after he came out on the other side of death’s river, it was time to sing . . . it was time to celebrate.
CHAPTER 18
THE CELEBRATION
A party was the last thing Mary Magdalene expected as she approached the tomb on that Sunday morning. The last few days had brought nothing to celebrate. The Jews could celebrate— Jesus was out of the way. The soldiers could celebrate—their work was done. But Mary couldn’t celebrate. To her the last few days had brought nothing but tragedy.
Mary had been there. She had heard the leaders clamor for Jesus’ blood. She had witnessed the Roman whip rip the skin off his back. She had winced as the thorns sliced his brow and wept at the weight of the cross.
In the Louvre there is a painting of the scene of the cross. In the painting the stars are dead and the world is wrapped in darkness. In the shadows there is a kneeling form. It is Mary. She is holding her hands and lips against the bleeding feet of the Christ.
We don’t know if Mary did that, but we know she could have. She was there. She was there to hold her arm around the shoulder of Mary the mother of Jesus. She was there to close his eyes. She was there.
So it’s not surprising that she wants to be there again.
In the early morning mist she arises from her mat, takes her spices and aloes, and leaves her house, past the Gate of Gennath and up to the hillside. She anticipates a somber task. By now the body will be swollen. His face will be white. Death’s odor will be pungent.
A gray sky gives way to gold as she walks up the narrow trail. As she rounds the final bend, she gasps. The rock in front of the grave is pushed back.
“Someone took the body.” She runs to awaken Peter and John. They rush to see for themselves. She tries to keep up with them but can’t.
Peter comes out of the tomb bewildered and John comes out believing, but Mary just sits in front of it weeping. The two men go home and leave her alone with her grief.
But something tells her she is not alone. Maybe she hears a noise. Maybe she hears a whisper. Or maybe she just hears her own heart tell her to take a look for herself.
Whatever the reason, she does. She stoops down, sticks her head into the hewn entrance, and waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Why are you crying?” She sees what looks to be a man, but he’s white—radiantly white. He is one of two lights on either end of the vacant slab. Two candles blazing on an altar.
“Why are you crying?” An uncommon question to be asked in a cemetery. In fact, the question is rude. That is, unless the questioner knows something the questionee doesn’t.
“They have taken my Lord away, and I don’t know where they have put him.”
She still calls him “my Lord.” As far as she knows his lips were silent. As far as she knows, his corpse had been carted off by graverobbers. But in sp
ite of it all, he is still her Lord.
Such devotion moves Jesus. It moves him closer to her. So close she hears him breathing. She turns and there he stands. She thinks he is the gardener.
Now, Jesus could have revealed himself at this point. He could have called for an angel to present him or a band to announce his presence. But he didn’t.
“Why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”1
He doesn’t leave her wondering long, just long enough to remind us that he loves to surprise us. He waits for us to despair of human strength and then intervenes with heavenly. God waits for us to give up and then—surprise!
Has it been a while since you let God surprise you? It’s easy to reach the point where we have God figured out.
We know exactly what God does. We break the code. We chart his tendencies. God is a computer. If we push all the right buttons and insert the right data, God is exactly who we thought he was. No variations. No alterations. God is a jukebox. Insert a tithe. Punch in the right numbers and—bam—the divine music we want fills the room.
I look across my desk and see a box of tissues. Ten minutes ago that box sat in the lap of a young woman—midthirties, mother of three. She told me of the telephone call she received from her husband this morning. He wants a divorce. She had to leave work and weep. She wanted a word of hope.
I reminded her that God is at his best when our life is at its worst. God has been known to plan a celebration in a cemetery. I told her, “Get ready; you may be in for a surprise.”
Have you got God figured out? Have you got God captured on a flowchart and frozen on a flannelboard? If so, then listen. Listen to God’s surprises.
Hear the rocks meant for the body of the adulterous woman drop to the ground.
Listen as Jesus invites a death-row convict to ride with him to the kingdom in the front seat of the limo.
Listen as the Messiah whispers to the Samaritan woman, “I who speak to you am he.”
Listen to the widow from Nain eating dinner with her son who is supposed to be dead.
And listen to the surprise as Mary’s name is spoken by a man she loved—a man she had buried.
“Miriam.”2
God appearing at the strangest of places. Doing the strangest of things. Stretching smiles where there had hung only frowns. Placing twinkles where there were only tears. Hanging a bright star in a dark sky. Arching rainbows in the midst of thunderclouds. Calling names in a cemetery.
“Miriam,” he said softly, “surprise!”
Mary was shocked. It’s not often you hear your name spoken by an eternal tongue. But when she did, she recognized it. And when she did, she responded correctly. She worshiped him.
The scene has all the elements of a surprise party—secrecy, wide eyes, amazement, gratitude. But this celebration is timid in comparison with the one that is being planned for the future. It will be similar to Mary’s, but a lot bigger. Many more graves will open. Many more names will be called. Many more knees will bow. And many more seekers will celebrate.
It’s going to be some party. I plan to make sure my name is on the guest list. How about you?
“No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love him.”3
CHAPTER 19
THE FINAL GLANCE
Max, your dad’s awake.” I had been watching a movie on television. One of those thrillers that takes you from the here and now and transports you to the somewhere and sometime. My mother’s statement seemed to come from another world. The real world.
I turned toward my father. He was looking at me.
His head was all he could turn. Lou Gehrig’s disease had leeched his movement, taking from him everything but his faith . . . and his eyes.
It was his eyes that called me to walk over to his bedside. I had been home for almost two weeks, on special leave from Brazil, due to his worsening condition. He had slept most of the last few days, awakening only when my mother would bathe him or clean his sheets.
Next to his bed was a respirator—a metronome of mortality that pushed air into his lungs through a hole in his throat. The bones in his hand protruded like spokes in an umbrella. His fingers, once firm and strong, were curled and lifeless. I sat on the edge of his bed and ran my hands over his barreled rib cage. I put my hand on his forehead. It was hot . . . hot and damp. I stroked his hair.
“What is it, Dad?”
He wanted to say something. His eyes yearned. His eyes refused to release me. If I looked away for a moment, they followed me and were still looking when I looked back.
“What is it?”
I’d seen that expression before. I was seven years old, eight at the most. Standing on the edge of a diving board for the first time, wondering if I would survive the plunge. The board dipped under my seventy pounds. I looked behind me at the kids who were pestering me to hurry up and jump. I wondered what they would do if I asked them to move over so I could get down. Tar and feather me, I supposed.
So, caught between ridicule and a jump into certain death, I did the only thing I knew to do—I shivered.
Then I heard him, “It’s all right, son. Come on in.” I looked down. My father had dived in. He was treading water awaiting my jump. Even as I write, I can see his expression—tanned face, wet hair, broad smile, and bright eyes. His eyes were assuring and earnest. Had he not said a word, they would have conveyed the message. But he did speak. “Jump. It’s all right.”
So I jumped.
Twenty-three years later the tan was gone, the hair thin, and the face drawn. But the eyes hadn’t changed. They were bold. And their message hadn’t changed. I knew what he was saying. Somehow he knew I was afraid. Somehow he perceived I was shivering as I looked into the deep. And somehow, he, the dying, had the strength to comfort me, the living.
I placed my cheek in the hollow of his. My tears dripped on his hot face. I said softly what his throat wanted to, but couldn’t. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”
When I raised my head, his eyes were closed. I would never see them open again.
He left me with a final look. One last statement of the eyes. One farewell message from the captain before the boat would turn out to sea. One concluding assurance from a father to a son, “It’s all right.”
Perhaps it was a similar look that stirred the soul of the soldier during those six hours one Friday.
He was uneasy. He had been since noon.
It wasn’t the deaths that troubled him. The centurion was no stranger to finality. Over the years he’d grown callous to the screams of the crucified. He’d mastered the art of numbing his heart. But this crucifixion plagued him.
The day began as had a hundred others—dreadfully. It was bad enough to be in Judea, but it was hell to spend hot afternoons on a rocky hill supervising the death of pickpockets and rabblerousers. Half the crowd taunted, half cried. The soldiers griped. The priests bossed. It was a thankless job in a strange land. He was ready for the day to be over before it began.
He was curious at the attention given to the flatfooted peasant. He smiled as he read the sign that would go on the cross. The condemned looked like anything but a king. His face was lumpy and bruised. His back arched slightly and his eyes faced downward. “Some harmless hick,” mused the centurion. “What could he have done?”
Then Jesus raised his head. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t uneasy. His eyes were strangely calm as they stared from behind the bloody mask. He looked at those who knew him—moving deliberately from face to face as if he had a word for each.
For just a moment he looked at the centurion—for a second the Roman looked into the purest eyes he’d ever seen. He didn’t know what the look meant. But the look made him swallow and his stomach feel empty. As he watched the soldier grab the Nazarene and yank him to the ground, something told him this was not going to be a normal day.
As the hours wore
on, the centurion found himself looking more and more at the one on the center cross. He didn’t know what to do with the Nazarene’s silence. He didn’t know what to do with his kindness.
But most of all, he was perplexed by the darkness. He didn’t know what to do with the black sky in midafternoon. No one could explain it . . . no one even tried. One minute the sun, the next the darkness. One minute the heat, the next a chilly breeze. Even the priests were silenced.
For a long while the centurion sat on a rock and stared at the three silhouetted figures. Their heads were limp, occasionally rolling from side to side. The jeering was silent . . . eerily silent. Those who had wept, now waited.
Suddenly the center head ceased to bob. It yanked itself erect. Its eyes opened in a flash of white. A roar sliced the silence. “It is finished.”1 It wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t a scream. It was a roar . . . a lion’s roar. From what world that roar came the centurion didn’t know, but he knew it wasn’t this one.
The centurion stood up from the rock and took a few paces toward the Nazarene. As he got closer, he could tell that Jesus was staring into the sky. There was something in his eyes that the soldier had to see. But after only a few steps, he fell. He stood and fell again. The ground was shaking, gently at first and now violently. He tried once more to walk and was able to take a few steps and then fall . . . at the foot of the cross.
He looked up into the face of this one near death. The King looked down at the crusty old centurion. Jesus’ hands were fastened; they couldn’t reach out. His feet were nailed to timber; they couldn’t walk toward him. His head was heavy with pain; he could scarcely move it. But his eyes . . . they were afire.
They were unquenchable. They were the eyes of God.
Perhaps that is what made the centurion say what he said. He saw the eyes of God. He saw the same eyes that had been seen by a near-naked adulteress in Jerusalem, a friendless divorcée in Samaria, and a four-day-dead Lazarus in a cemetery. The same eyes that didn’t close upon seeing man’s futility, didn’t turn away at man’s failure, and didn’t wince upon witnessing man’s death.
