Roy Exum
Most of us in the South were raised with the timeless story of Good Friday. This is traditionally a day of mourning because it was on this day long, long ago that Jesus Christ suffered a horrible death by crucifixion for our sins at Calvary. As a child none of us could fathom what is “good” about such a day, but the bigger picture is that on Easter Sunday our same Jesus rose from the dead, assuring eternal life – a really good thing – to each of us who have confessed our sins to Him in personal prayer and remain in devout belief that Jesus Christ is our Savior.
That may be far too simple an explanation.
So, it is today – most especially today as the world reels from the worst epidemic ever known and over 100,000 worldwide have died (over 16,500 in the U.S.) in just three months – I want to share a story. Again remember it was written years ago, that better explains why Good Friday was so necessary for Easter morning’s resurrection. Originally the story was entitled “Clean Blood” but in more recent years it has been headlined, “Through His Eyes”:
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THROUGH HIS EYES (“CLEAN BLOOD”)
By Jeff Walling
The day is over, you are driving home. You tune in your radio. You hear a little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It’s not influenza, but three or four fellows are dead, and it’s kind of interesting. They’re sending some doctors over there to investigate it.
You don’t think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it’s not three villagers, it’s 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it’s on TV that night. CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the disease center in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before.
By Monday morning when you get up, it’s the lead story. For it’s not just India, it’s Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you’re hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as “the mystery flu”. The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is wondering, “How are we going to contain it?” That’s when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen.
That night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: “There’s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu. “It has come to Europe.”
Panic strikes. As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don’t know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. Then you die.
Britain closes its borders, but it’s too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North Hampton, and it’s Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: “Due to a national security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I’m sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing.”
Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are selling little masks for your face. People are talking about what if it comes to this country, and preachers on Tuesday are saying, “It’s the scourge of God.”
It’s Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and says, “Turn on a radio, turn on a radio!!” While the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made, “Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu.” Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country.
People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts. It’s as though it’s just sweeping in from the borders. Then, all of a sudden, the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made.
It’s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn’t been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: “Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That’s all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make to the hospitals.”
Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they’ve got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, “Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home.”
You stand around scared with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on, and that this could be the end of the world. Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He’s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, “Daddy, that’s me.”
Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. “Wait a minute, hold it!” And they say, “It’s okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn’t have the disease. We think he has got the right type. Your son could save the world.”
Five agonizing minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another some are even laughing. It’s the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, “Thank you, sir. Your son’s blood type is perfect. It’s clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine.”
As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, “May we see you for a moment? We didn’t realize that the donor would be a minor and we need. ... we need you to sign a consent form.”
You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty. “H-h-h-how many pints?” And that is when the old doctor’s smile fades and he says, “We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren’t prepared. We need it all, sir.” “But…but…”
“You don’t understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign.” “But can’t you give him a transfusion?” “If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?”
In numb silence you do. Then they say, “Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?”
Can you walk back? You’re asked yourself. Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, “Daddy? Mommy? What’s going on?” Can you take his hands and say, “Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn’t just have to be. Do you understand that?” And when that old doctor comes back in and says, “I’m sorry, we’ve got to get started. People all over the world are dying.” Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, “Dad? Mom? Dad? Why … why have you forsaken me?”
And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some folks don’t even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care.
Would you want to jump up and say, “MY SON DIED! DON’T YOU CARE?”
Is that what God is saying? “MY SON DIED. DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?”
“Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great love you have for us. Amen”
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Before I was led to this story, I had a poem I had been saving for this Good Friday:
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ONE GUY DIDN’T
Three guys were tried for crimes against humanity.
Two guys committed crimes.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys were given government trials.
Two guys had fair trials.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys were whipped and beaten.
Two guys had it coming.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys were given crosses to carry.
Two guys earned their crosses.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys were mocked and spit at along the way.
Two guys cursed and spit back.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys were nailed to crosses.
Two guys deserved it.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys agonized over their abandonment.
Two guys had reason to be abandoned.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys talked while hanging on their crosses.
Two guys argued.
One guy didn’t.
Three guys knew death was coming.
Two guys resisted.
One guy didn’t.
One.
Two.
Three guys died on three crosses.
Three days later.
Two guys remained in their graves.
One guy didn’t.
-- Author Unknown
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I TOOK YOUR PLACE
One day, a man went to visit a church. He arrived early, parked his car, and got out. Another car pulled up near him, and the driver told him, “I always park there. You took my place!”
The visitor went inside for Sunday School, found an empty seat, and sat down. A young lady from the church approached him and stated, “That’s my seat! You took my place!” The visitor was somewhat distressed by this rude welcome but said nothing.
After Sunday School, the visitor went into the church sanctuary and sat down. Another member walked up to him and said, “That’s where I always sit. You took my place!”
The visitor was even more troubled by this treatment, but still said nothing. Later, as the congregation was praying for Christ to dwell among them, the visitor stood, and his appearance began to change.
Horrible scars became visible on his hands and on his sandaled feet. Someone from the congregation noticed him and called out, “What happened to you?” The visitor replied… “I took your place.”
Author Unknown
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