This is a special, Good Friday edition of the blog. Please offer a warm welcome to guest writer Tim Schultz. Thanks, Tim, for taking the time to share these powerful thoughts on the message of Good Friday. * * * As Jesus rides into Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday, He’s being praised by the crowds as a conquering king. Within one week, the crowd has transformed into an angry mob calling for Jesus’ execution. What happened?
Last week was painful for my wife and me. In a span of 24 hours, life dealt us a couple of hard blows, and when it was over, we could hardly stand up. Although I normally ride the bus, on Thursday I asked my wife to take me to work. I felt stressed and wanted to spend a little more time with her and our baby. She agreed to do so, and I agreed to feed the baby in the back seat.
I was a poor law student living on $300 a month, and as soon as I saw the police cars down the road, I instinctively put my foot on the break. I couldn’t afford a ticket. It was just a police checkpoint though. I slowed down, stopped beside the officer, and handed him my driver’s license. He furrowed his brow. “You’re going to need to pull over. Your license is expired,” he said, writing me a $50 ticket.
I remember one of the first times I barfed out my feelings to a group of people. I was 13-years-old, my family was coming apart, and I needed to talk to someone. Around that time, a caring teacher invited me to a peer counseling group. When it was my turn to talk, it didn’t take long before all the pent-up frustration boiled over into emotion.
Recently, my wife and I decided to have a weekend of focused prayer in our home, to lay aside our worldly cares and set our minds on Christ. Things did not go as planned. The whole weekend, my one-year-old daughter was miserably upset, due to a bad cold, which left her with an endless fountain of snot running down her face. And though she was hungry, she was too miserable to eat, which drove her to a wailing, screaming fit.
Not too long ago, I was at the gym early one morning, and I felt unusually aware of God’s love and presence in my life (and that’s saying something, because the only thing I’m usually aware of at that hour is my need for more sleep). Anyway, although I felt groggy, I began internally singing the words of a simple worship song to Jesus. However, I had trouble focusing on the song due to the speakers at the gym, which were blaring OutKast’s song, “I Like the Way You Move.”
In his book, When Good Men Are Tempted, Bill Perkins talks about one night when he unwittingly fell into sexual temptation. He only meant to go outside and water the grass, but in the dark, he looked up at his neighbor’s home and “saw a beautiful young woman talking on the phone. That wouldn’t have been any big deal if she was dressed. But she wasn’t.”
A few months ago, my doctor gave me a drug called Topamax to address some migraine-like symptoms I was having. Although it helped with the symptoms, it also left me with a perpetual sense of drunkenness, an inability to pronounce simple words, and an overall lack of discretion. If I thought it, I said it; and I was proud of it. With all the awkwardness of a socially inept 14-year-old, I bumbled my way through conversations, yielding profoundly embarrassing results. I was off the drug in less than a week.
I’m usually the first one to greet my daughter every morning when she wakes up. I hold her torso against my chest, she presses her face against my neck, and I rock her. Before long, though, she starts squirming as the need for her morning milk exceeds her need for morning hugs.
Sometimes, my baby girl thinks I’m an awful father. I do mean things like laying her down to sleep, taking pieces of paper out of her mouth, and pulling her away from wall outlets. Today, I’m awful because I’m trying to help her get over a cold. It shouldn’t be a big deal, but here’s the problem: although my daughter likes to have her nose kissed, she does not otherwise want it to be touched.
I have a confession to make: it’s been about three or four weeks since I’ve read my Bible for more than 15 minutes. Believe it or not, I actually like to read my Bible. But unfortunately, it doesn’t come naturally for me to sit down and focus on it – or to sit down, period.
“Oh Lord, I’m having a hot flash again,” said my Aunt Kathy Jo, wiping sweat from her cheek while setting up for Thanksgiving dinner. “Somebody turn on the air conditioner – I can’t take it.” I chuckled at her honesty and then complimented her outfit. It was a departure from the more formal Thanksgiving attire of years past. With her black hat, shimmering with rhinestones, tight black pants, and white, denim jacket, she looked less like Martha Stewart and more like Salt n’ Pepa.
Last Friday afternoon, I got a call from my neurologist’s office. I had recently gotten an MRI, and my doctor’s secretary had called to say my doctor wanted me to see an oncologist. I didn’t know why my doctor wanted me to see a cancer specialist; and unfortunately, the secretary didn’t either. “Please, if you know what this is about, tell me,” I said. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t, but I’ll have the doctor call you back today.”
Cory, one of my happily married friends, was annoyed with some of his single, male buddies. “Joshua, it’s so irritating,” he said. “I suggest a woman to them, but they say ‘she’s not attractive enough,’ or she’s lacking in some other area. And here’s the crazy part: In every case — without exception — the woman is way out of their league.”
Last Tuesday, I mistakenly decided to be cool. I walked out of the house in my snazzy, faux, black Hugo suit, a white shirt, and no tie. I was going to work, but I looked more like I was going clubbing. I walked past my beat up, 1996 Honda Accord, strutted down the sidewalk, and walked down the street to catch the public bus. About fifty yards from the bus stop, I saw my bus go past the 7-11, make the stop, and then move on.
Joshua Rogers 