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Overview
Now Max's most encouraging words on life’s most important subject are collected into one volume and enhanced with beautiful, full-color photography. An everyday reminder of what the Cross means to you can add joy and gratitude to ordinary days, difficult days, and even the best days.
Keep these words close by and return to them time and again for a dose of inspiration straight from Max’s heart to yours.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780718091361 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Nelson, Thomas, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 02/14/2017 |
| Series: | Inspiration for Everyday Life |
| Pages: | 112 |
| Product dimensions: | 9.10(w) x 9.10(h) x 0.50(d) |
About the Author
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Read an Excerpt
The Cross
Inspiration for Everyday Life
By Max Lucado
Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2017 Max LucadoAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7180-9136-1
CHAPTER 1
And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death— even death on a cross!
— Philippians 2:8 (NIV)
The cross.
It rests on the time line of history like a compelling diamond. Its tragedy summons all sufferers. Its absurdity attracts all cynics. Its hope lures all searchers.
And according to Paul, the cross is what counts.
My, what a piece of wood! History has idolized it and despised it, gold-plated it and burned it, worn and trashed it. History has done everything to it but ignore it.
That's the one option that the cross does not offer.
No one can ignore it! You can't ignore a piece of lumber that suspends the greatest claim in history. A crucified carpenter claiming that he is God on earth? Divine? Eternal? The death slayer?
No wonder Paul called it "the core of the gospel." Its bottom line is sobering: if the account is true, it is history's hinge. Period. If not, it is history's hoax.
That's why the cross is what matters.
— No Wonder They Call Him the Savior
The diadem of pain, which sliced your gentle face, three spikes piercing flesh and wood to hold you in your place. The need for blood I understand. Your sacrifice I embrace. But the bitter sponge, the cutting spear, the spit upon your face?
Did it have to be a cross? Did not a kinder death exist than six hours hanging between life and death, all spurred by a betrayers kiss? "Oh, Father," you pose, heart-stilled at what could be, "I'm sorry to ask, but I long to know, did you do this for me?"
— He Chose the Nails
Like a master painter God reserved his masterpiece until the end. All the earlier acts of love had been leading to this one. The angels hushed and the heavens paused to witness the finale. God unveils the canvas and the ultimate act of creative compassion is revealed.
God on a cross.
The Creator being sacrificed for the creation. God convincing man once and for all that forgiveness still follows failure.
I wonder if, while on the cross, the Creator allowed his thoughts to wander back to the beginning. One wonders if he allowed the myriad of faces and acts to parade in his memory. Did he reminisce about the creation of the sky and sea? Did he relive the conversations with Abraham and Moses? Did he remember the plagues and the promises, the wilderness and the wanderings? We don't know.
We do know, however, what he said.
"It is finished."
The mission was finished. All that the master painter needed to do was done and was done in splendor. His creation could now come home. "It is finished!" he cried.
And the great Creator went home.
(He's not resting, though. Word has it that his tireless hands are preparing a city so glorious that even the angels get goose bumps upon seeing it. Considering what he has done so far, that is one creation I plan to see.)
— No Wonder They Call Him the Savior
Nails didn't hold God to a cross. Love did.
— When God Whispers Your Name
The Anchor Points of the Cross
Six hours, one Friday.
To the casual observer the six hours are mundane. A shepherd with his sheep, a housewife with her thoughts, a doctor with his patients. But to the handful of awestruck witnesses, the most maddening of miracles is occurring.
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.
Far worse than the breaking of his body is the shredding of his heart.
His own countrymen clamored for his death.
His own disciple planted the kiss of betrayal.
His own friends ran for cover.
And now his own father is beginning to turn his back on him, leaving him alone.
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.
Let me ask you a question: What do you do with that day in history? What do you do with its claims?
If it really happened ... if God did commandeer his own crucifixion ... if he did turn his back on his own son ... if he did storm Satan's gate, then those six hours that Friday were packed with tragic triumph. If that was God on that cross, then the hill called Skull is granite studded with stakes to which you can anchor.
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 that 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.
— Six Hours One Friday
My life is not futile. My failures are not fatal. My death is not final.
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.
There was something about the crucifixion that made every witness either step toward it or away from it. It simultaneously compelled and repelled.
And today, two thousand years later, the same is true. It's the watershed. It's the Continental Divide. It's Normandy. And you are either on one side or the other. A choice is demanded. We can do what we want with the cross. We can examine its history. We can study its theology. We can reflect upon its prophecies. Yet the one thing we can't do is walk away in neutral. No fence sitting is permitted. The cross, in its absurd splendor, doesn't allow that. That is one luxury that God, in his awful mercy, doesn't permit.
On which side are you?
— No Wonder They Call Him the Savior
The sinless One took on the face of a sinner so that we sinners could take on the face of a saint.
— He Chose the Nails
Our Master lived a three-dimensional life. He had as clear a view of the future as he did of the present and the past.
This is why the ropes used to tie his hands and the soldiers used to lead him to the cross were unnecessary. They were incidental. Had they not been there, had there been no trial, no Pilate and no crowd, the very same crucifixion would have occurred. Had Jesus been forced to nail himself to the cross, he would have done it. For it was not the soldiers who killed him, nor the screams of the mob. It was his devotion to us.
So call it what you wish: An act of grace. A plan of redemption. A martyr's sacrifice. But whatever you call it, don't call it an accident. It was anything but that.
— God Came Near
The Hands of Jesus
Oh, the hands of Jesus. Hands of incarnation at his birth. Hands of liberation as he healed. Hands of inspiration as he taught. Hands of dedication as he served. And hands of salvation as he died.
The crowd at the cross concluded that the purpose of the pounding was to skewer the hands of Christ to a beam. But they were only half-right. We can't fault them for missing the other half. They couldn't see it. But Jesus could. And heaven could. And we can.
Through the eyes of Scripture we see what others missed but what Jesus saw. "He canceled the record that contained the charges against us. He took it and destroyed it by nailing it to Christ's cross" (Col. 2:14 NLT).
Between his hand and the wood there was a list. A long list. A list of our mistakes: our lusts and lies and greedy moments and prodigal years. A list of our sins.
Dangling from the cross is an itemized catalog of your sins. The bad decisions from last year. The bad attitudes from last week. There, in broad daylight for all of heaven to see, is a list of your mistakes.
God has done with us what I am doing with our house. He has penned a list of our faults. The list God has made, however, cannot be read. The words can't be deciphered. The mistakes are covered. The sins are hidden. Those at the top are hidden by his hand; those down the list are covered by his blood. Your sins are "blotted out" by Jesus (see KJV). "He has forgiven you all your sins: Christ has utterly wiped out the damning evidence of broken laws and commandments which always hung over our heads, and has completely annulled it by nailing it over his own head on the cross" (Col. 2:14 Phillips).
This is why he refused to close his fist. He saw the list! What kept him from resisting? This warrant, this tabulation of your failures. He knew the price of those sins was death. He knew the source of those sins was you, and since he couldn't bear the thought of eternity without you, he chose the nails.
The hand squeezing the handle was not a Roman infantryman.
The force behind the hammer was not an angry mob.
The verdict behind the death was not decided by jealous Jews.
Jesus himself chose the nails.
So the hands of Jesus opened up. Had the soldier hesitated, Jesus himself would have swung the mallet. He knew how; he was no stranger to the driving of nails. As a carpenter he knew what it took. And as a Savior he knew what it meant. He knew that the purpose of the nail was to place your sins where they could be hidden by his sacrifice and covered by his blood.
So Jesus himself swung the hammer.
The same hand that stilled the seas stills your guilt.
The same hand that cleansed the Temple cleanses your heart.
The hand is the hand of God.
The nail is the nail of God.
And as the hands of Jesus opened for the nail, the doors of heaven opened for you.
— He Chose the Nails
The same hand that stilled the seas stills your guilt.
The same hand that cleansed the Temple cleanses your heart. And as the hands of Jesus opened for the nail, the doors of heaven opened for you.
He knew the price of those sins was death. He knew the source of those sins was you, and since he couldn't bear the thought of eternity without you, he chose the nails.
Paul said, "The cross of our Lord Jesus Christ is my only reason for bragging" (Gal. 6:14 NCV). Do you feel a need for affirmation? Does your self-esteem need attention? You don't need to drop names or show off. You need only pause at the base of the cross and be reminded of this: The maker of the stars would rather die for you than live without you. And that is a fact. So if you need to brag, brag about that.
— Traveling Light
The centurion's convictions began to flow together like rivers. "This was no carpenter," he spoke under his breath. "This was no peasant. This was no normal man."
He stood and looked around at the rocks that had fallen and the sky that had blackened. He turned and stared at the soldiers as they stared at Jesus with frozen faces. He turned and watched as the eyes of Jesus lifted and looked toward home. He listened as the parched lips parted and the swollen tongue spoke for the last time.
"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." (Luke 23:46 NIV)
Had the centurion not said it, the soldiers would have. Had the centurion not said it, the rocks would have — as would have the angels, the stars, even the demons. But he did say it. It fell to a nameless foreigner to state what they all knew.
"Surely he was the Son of God." (Matthew 27:54 NIV)
Six hours on one Friday. Six hours that jut up on the plain of human history like Mount Everest in a desert. Six hours that have been deciphered, dissected, and debated for two thousand years.
What do these six hours signify? They claim to be the door in time through which eternity entered man's darkest caverns. They mark the moments that the Navigator descended into the deepest waters to leave anchor points for his followers.
What does that Friday mean?
For the life blackened with failure, that Friday means forgiveness.
For the heart scarred with futility, that Friday means purpose.
And for the soul looking into this side of the tunnel of death, that Friday means deliverance.
Six hours. One Friday.
What do you do with those six hours on that Friday?
— Six Hours One Friday
Jesus once and for all displayed his authority over savagery. Evil may have her moments, but they will be brief. Satan unleashed his meanest demons on God's Son. He tortured every nerve ending and inflicted every misery. Yet the master of death could not destroy the Lord of life. Heaven's best took hell's worst and turned it into hope.
— Fearless
Could it be that the two two crosses on the hill symbolize one of God's greatest gifts? The gift of choice.
— He Chose the Nails
The cross will not lose its power. The blood of Christ will not fade in strength. Heaven will never announce the collapse of the bridge. God will never return to the drawing board.
— It's Not About Me
I'm thinking that we aren't so unlike those soldiers at the cross. (I'm sorry to say.)
We, too, play games at the foot of the cross. We compete for members. We scramble for status. We deal out judgments and condemnations. Competition. Selfishness. Personal gain. It's all there. We don't like what the other did so we take the sandal we won and walk away in a huff.
So close to the timber yet so far from the blood.
We are so close to the world's most uncommon event, but we act like common crapshooters huddled in bickering groups and fighting over silly opinions.
How many pulpit hours have been wasted on preaching the trivial? How many churches have tumbled at the throes of miniscuity? How many leaders have saddled their pet peeves, drawn their swords of bitterness and launched into battle against brethren over issues that are not worth discussing?
So close to the cross but so far from the Christ.
We specialize in "I am right" rallies. We write books about what the other does wrong. We major in finding gossip and become experts in unveiling weaknesses. We split into little huddles and then, God forbid, we split again.
Another name. Another doctrine. Another "error." Another denomination. Another poker game. Our Lord must be amazed.
"Those selfish soldiers," we smirk with our thumbs in lapels. "They were so close to the cross and yet so far from the Christ." And yet, are we so different? Our divisions are so numerous that we can't be cataloged. There are so many offshoots that even the offshoots have shoots!
Now ... really.
Are our differences that divisive? Are our opinions that obtrusive? Are our walls that wide? Is it that impossible to find a common cause?
"May they all be one," Jesus prayed.
One. Not one in groups of two thousand. But one in One. One church. One faith. One Lord. Not Baptist, not Methodist, not Adventist. Just Christians. No denominations. No hierarchies. No traditions. Just Christ.
Too idealistic? Impossible to achieve? I don't think so. Harder things have been done, you know. For example, once upon a tree, a Creator gave his life for his creation. Maybe all we need are a few hearts that are willing to follow suit.
What about you? Can you build a bridge? Toss a rope? Span a chasm? Pray for oneness? Can you be the soldier who snaps to his senses, jumps to his feet, and reminds the rest of us, "Hey, that's God on that cross!"
— No Wonder They Call Him the Savior
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Cross by Max Lucado. Copyright © 2017 Max Lucado. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
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