MY life is not futile -- My failures are not final-- My death is not final-- --
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.
God is on a cross. The creator of the universe is being executed.
Spit and blood are caked to his cheeks, and his lips are cracked and swollen. Thorns rip his scalp. His lungs scream with pain. His legs knot with cramps. Taut nerves threaten to snap as pain twangs her morbid melody. Yet, death is not ready. And there is no one to save him, for he is sacrificing himself.
It is no normal six hours…it is 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?
Six hours. One Friday.
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 anchor points sturdy enough to withstand any hurricane.
Anchor point #1 – My life is not futile. This rock secures the hull of your heart. Its sole function is to give you something which you can grip when facing the surging tides of futility and relativism. It’s a firm grasp on the conviction that there is truth. Someone is in control and you have a purpose.
Anchor point #2 – My failures are not fatal. It’s not that he loves what you did, but he loves who you are. You are his. The one who has the right to condemn you provided the way to acquit you. You make mistakes. God doesn’t. And he made you.
Anchor point #3 – My death is not final. There is one more stone to which you should tie. It’s large. It’s round. And it’s heavy. It blocked the door of a grave. It wasn’t big 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.
There they are. Three anchor points. The anchor points of the cross.
Take the 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.
– Excerpts from Six Hours One Friday by Max Lucado