The Brightest Day

It happened again this week.

On June 21st nearly every year I remind my wife of a fact I learned in grade school, and every year she impolitely interrupts me as I start my spiel, “Oh, don’t bother me with that nonsense again.”

Your teachers probably informed you too that June 20-21 has the most daylight hours of the year – the first day of summer in the Northern Hemisphere - 12 hours of daylight at the equator and 24 at the North Pole. Thus my dismal comment every June 21st, “Every day for the rest of the year will progressively have less daylight.”

By now it has become a corny joke – to my delight and her disgust.

Leap back in time with me to Jerusalem on the Friday before Passover, AD 30.  On that day at Jerusalem’s latitude, they would normally have 12.6 hours of daylight. Imagine the response of a Roman guard’s wife if her husband, while leaving for Golgotha duty that morning, would quip, “Well, buttercup, today we’ll have 3 hours less daylight than normal.”

I believe she would mutter, “Oh, don’t bother me with that nonsense.”

But that’s exactly what happened. Instead of 12.6 hours of daylight, there were only 9.6.

Contrary to baseless explanations of a solar or lunar eclipse, heavy cloud cover or a dust storm, it was caused by the Father’s powerful expression of great sorrow – “from the sixth hour until the ninth hour darkness came over all the land.” [Matthew 27:45]  That’s high noon to 3:00 pm – three hours when the day normally is the brightest.

Suddenly breaking his silence, “About the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice . . .

‘My God, my God, why have your forsaken me?’” [Matthew 27:46] Though we can’t fathom the eternal relationship of the heavenly Father with his only Son, we know now that this moment was the central event in the history of the world, when the Creator of the universe – a loving Father - allowed his sinless Son to pay for all the rottenness of all humanity.

The darkest day literally became the brightest day – remembered by eternally grateful

Christ followers since that day, in the bread and cup which symbolize his body and blood.

It's Not All About Me

Rick Warren, in his “anti-self-help” best seller, The Purpose Driven Life, opens the first of 40 chapters, “It’s not all about you.” A bold statemen in our culture where personal fulfillment, satisfaction and recognition reign quite pompously.

If I’m not happy, I’ll take my toys and go home. Later, take my bat and stalk off. Later, take my half of the furniture and live with mom and dad. This pathetic pity party shows up at work, in the neighborhood, at church, and in social settings. My way or the highway.

During the month Meghan Vogel keeps coming to my mind. At Ohio’s Division III girls state track meet, Meghan was running dead last in the 3200-meter race when about 20 meters from the finish Arden McMath collapsed in front of her. Instead of running past her, Meghan lifted Arden and literally carried her staggering body  – making sure to keep her fallen competitor ahead at the finish line. A standing ovation erupted at the stadium.

Meghan’s unselfish act has been noted as one of the greatest displays of sportsmanship in recent history. Not GET at any cost, but GIVE at all costs.

We hear of just enough random acts of kindness to avoid resigning that our culture is completely jaded with SELF. But sometimes we ache for more episodes of selflessness.

We love stories like Meghan’s. And the Luke 10 Bible story when Jesus told about a Samaritan, now called the good Samaritan. A solo traveler fell among thieves that left him half dead. Only the Samaritan, ranked at the cultural bottom by Jews, lifted the fallen traveler off the roadway and personally ushered him to safety and healing.

In reality, this is the life story of Jesus: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” [John 10:10] In his final hours, “Not my will but yours be done.” [Luke 22:42]   At every communion setting we restate in our grateful observance: His death was all about ME, but the new life he gives us, it’s all about HIM.

That's Not Who I Am

When my neighbor Ed met a new neighbor, he asked her name. “Debbie,” she responded. Remembering her name would be easy because he knew another friend, Debbie. Later, recalling her name was the same as a friend, he called out, “Hi Phyliss.” Wouldn’t you know, Phyllis was the name of another friend? Debbie was not Phyllis. Oops.

Guess I’ve done worse. Like coming behind my wife at church one Sunday, and whispering in her ear, “Where are we going to sit, honey?” When “my wife” turned around . . . oops, she was not my wife, but a woman the same height as my wife and wearing a matching coat. For some reason she didn’t respond favorably to my blundering “honey” advances. Not Honey.

For 3½ years Jesus had to repeatedly counter, “That’s not who I am.”

From Herod’s prison John the Baptist asked, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” Predicting that Jesus would inflict wrath and judgment, John was stunned with the news that Jesus was healing sick and forgiving sinners.

When Jesus returned to Nazareth, his homies asked, “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?”

Amazed neighbors could not fathom that the carpenter’s kid who had helped repair their roof was now a renowned miracle worker.

Jesus asked his disciples about public perception, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?” Their responses resembled a Gallup Poll: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or a revered prophet of Israel. Sorry, wrong answers.

Even a few hours before his death, the identity mystery resurfaced – this time with Pilate, the Roman governor, asking, “Are you the king of the Jews?” I detect Jesus’ slight annoyance as Pilate reveals his shaky political status, “Yes, it is as you say.” Sounds a little like a teen-ager’s passive, “Whatever.”

After Jesus’ resurrection, Philip, the disciple, added a final blow when he requested,

“Lord, show us the Father.” BAM. “Don’t you know me, Philip, even after I have been among you such a long time?”

The Corinthian Christians had fallen into grim habits. Their Lord’s Supper time was vulgarized by insensitivity, inebriation and division – with little thought of remembering

Christ’s death. Paul warned, “For anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord eats and drinks judgment on himself.” [1 Corinthians 11:29] 

The communion meal must constantly “recognize the body of the Lord,” – the body that was crucified, the blood that was shed. This meal is not an all-you-can-eat pig out. Not just bread and juice. Not a cute Sunday church ritual. Jesus counters: That’s not who I am.