The miracle of the resurrection on that fateful Sunday sets our God and our beliefs apart from all others.
It was a 33-year journey for a homeless child that many felt ended in shame, hatred by most, and six hours of excruciating pain.
It is that Friday that believers must never forget, because on that day, Jesus truly showed us the depth and breadth, the true measure of His love for us.
One of my favorite writers is Max Lucado, who besides being a writer, is a full-time pastor and missionary blessed with the gift of vivid expression.
His book, “Six Hours One Friday,” gives a colorful account of that meaningful Friday and gives meaning to Christ’s every action of that day:
To the casual observer, there was nothing unusual about these six hours. To the casual observer, this Friday was a normal Friday. Six hours of routine. Six hours of the expected. Six hours. One Friday.
Six hours filled with, as are all hours, the mystery of life. Our God was on a cross. The creator of the universe was being executed.
Spit and blood had caked to His cheeks, and His lips were cracked and swollen. Thorns ripped His scalp. His lungs were screaming with pain. His legs knotted with cramps. Taut nerves threatened to snap as pain twanged His mortal body. Yet, death was not ready. And there was no one to save Him, for He was sacrificing Himself.
No, it was no normal six hours and it was no normal Friday.
A witness could not help but ask: “Jesus, do you give no thought to saving Yourself? What keeps You there? What holds You to the cross? Nails don’t hold gods to trees. What makes You stay?”
Those six hours were no normal six hours. They were the most critical hours in history. For during those six hours on that Friday, God embedded in the earth three life lessons, or anchor points of our Christian faith sturdy enough to withstand any hurricane we might face.
Our lives are not futile. This rock secures the hull of our hearts. Its sole function is to give us something, which we can grip when facing the surging tides of futility and doubt. It’s a firm grasp on the conviction that there is truth. Someone is in control and we have a purpose.
Our failures are not fatal. It’s not that He loves what we did, but He loves who we are. We belong to Him. The One Who has the right to condemn us provided the way to acquit us. We make mistakes. God doesn’t. And He made all of us.
Our deaths are not final. There is one more stone to which we should tie. It’s large. It’s round. And it’s heavy. It blocked the door of a grave. It wasn’t big enough nor heavy enough or strong enough, though. The tomb that it sealed was the tomb of a transient. He only went in to prove He could come out. And on the way out, He took the stone with Him and turned it into an anchor point. He dropped it deep into the uncharted waters of death. Tie to His rock, and the typhoon of the tomb becomes a spring breeze on Easter Sunday.
Three anchor points of our Christian faith, compliments of three days. Friday through Sunday. The anchor points of the cross.
Take the great sailor’s advice, “Anchor deep, say a prayer, and hold on.”
And don’t be surprised if Someone walks across the water to give you a hand.