Dark clouds hide the sunlit sky
In the barn a baby cries
Does he know he’s born to die?
Rest now while your trials are few
Only your Father knows why
He was not a mighty king
He could make a hammer ring
Touch a heart and make it sing
His hands were the hands of strength
Hands that would pull men free
Bright sun tanned his weathered face
Dusty were the roads he traced
Spreading news of love and grace
Binding the broken heart
Soothing the sorrow-torn face
Dark clouds hide the sunlit sky
In the town a baby cries
On a hill a Savior dies
Dies of his own free will
He can tell you why
– from the song “Born to Die,” by John Fischer
As we begin Easter week, a word about Christmas. Of course there never would be Easter without it. There never would have been a cross without a manger. There never would have been a Savior without a baby. There never would have been a death without a birth … and what a birth it was.
Humble. In a town barely on the map. Laid in a feeding trough, serenaded by a cacophony of barnyard sounds. Uneventful, except for a handful of lowly shepherds who did witness a few hundred thousand angels, but who’s going to believe that? And the only royalty who attended were a few kings from the East, and we’re pretty sure they were a little late, by a couple of years, most likely.
Who but God would have done it like this? And I say that not because I know God that well, but because no human being would have conceived of a king born this way. Nor would any human conceive of a king living this way either, without a home, with little or no funding, where the only thing he owns is the shirt on his back.
And who were the people that got it — that heard his message and believed it? They were the poorest of the poor, the lepers and outcasts, the worst of sinners — the smelly, dirty band of ragamuffins who followed Jesus everywhere, except when he needed them the most. That’s when they all deserted him, and most of them were pretty bewildered about all the talk of a resurrection three days later.
These were simple folk — these were not theology students — and it was a simple plan.
The first man and woman sinned, and an animal had to be sacrificed to cover their shame. Now, if God would save the race, a human being had to die to cover the nakedness of the world — someone who could not only pay the sacrifice, but rise again and conquer death forever. That would be God’s only begotten Son, Jesus, born of a human virgin, whose seed came from God — a second Adam, first of a new strain of humanity with God as their real Father.
Now isn’t that simply brilliant? It’s the self-evident proof of the truth of the gospel story. Who else but God could have thought of this?
To all the memories you can muster – all of them – the good and the bad ones; they make up your life with Kathy. From the times you had enough of her, to the times you longed for her touch. From rousting you out of bed in the morning to boat rides at sunset. From after curfew to after work, she thought about you, worried about you, prayed for you, cried for you, and bargained with God over you. She longed for you and let you go, wondering how she would ever live without you.
And Mark … dear Mark … she didn’t care what was or was not going on in that thick head of yours, she loved you anyway. Always did; always will. She’s tenacious. She held on no matter what. She was a little pillar of a woman. Small. Immovable. You’d run into her and bounce off, wondering what it was you hit. You’d be the one to get hurt, and that was good, because you needed her strength. You may find you will still be bumping into her. That’s okay. That’s just that part of her that will always be with you – that part that made you the man you are today and will be even greater tomorrow.
John Fischer The Catch 