Seis horas de un viernes - Softcover

Lucado, Max

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0829719741 ISBN 13: 9780829719741

Publisher: Vida, 1998

Synopsis

Muchos observadores no vieron nada extraordinario durante esas síes horas. Para ellos fueron seis horas regulares de un viernes común y corriente. Pero para un punado de testigos estaba ocurriendo el mas espectacular de los milagros. Tres cuerpos colgaban de tres cruces, y uno de ellos era el del Hijo de Dios. ¿Qué hace usted con ese día de la historia? ¿Qué hace con las afirmaciones del Cristo Crucificado? Si de veras Dios ordeno su propia crucifixión entonces esas seis horas están cargadas te triunfo, porque fue en esas horas que Dios nos dio tres puntos de anclaje lo bastante fuerte como para resistir cualquier tormenta que nos envié la vida. A CAUSA DE LA CRUZ USTED Y YO SABEMOS QUE: Nuestra vida no es fútil… nuestros fracasos no son fatales… nuestra muerte no es el fin… Lucado nos lleva al pie de la cruz donde hallamos esperanza para enfrentarnos a las dificultades de la vida. En la cruz encontramos propósito, perdón y descanso.

About this title

About the Author

Desde que entró en el ministerio en 1978, MAX LUCADO ha servido en iglesias de Miami, Florida; Río de Janeiro, Brasil; y San Antonio, Texas. Actualmente sirve como ministro de enseñanza de la Iglesia Oak Hills en San Antonio. Ha recibido el Premio Pinnacle 2021 de la ECPA por su destacada contribución a la industria editorial y la sociedad en general. Es el autor inspirador más vendido de Estados Unidos, con más de ciento cuarenta y cinco millones de productos impresos.

Siga su sitio web en librosdelucado.com

From the Back Cover

Many spectators didn't observe anything extraordinary during those six hours. For them, they were six regular hours in any given day. If God really ordained His own crucifixion to occur during these six hours then they are full of triumph, because in those hours God gave us three strong points on how to anchor ourselves to the cross. This anchor is strong enough to resist any storm that life can throw at us.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Seis Horas de Un Viernes

Anchoring Ourselves to the CrossBy Max Lucado

Vida Publishers

Copyright © 1999 Max Lucado
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780829719741

Chapter One

Hurricane
Warnings

Labor Day weekend, 1979. Throughout the nation people wereenjoying their last waltz with summertime. Weekend reunions,camping trips, picnics.

    Except in Miami.

    While the rest of the nation played, the Gold Coast of southFlorida watched. Hurricane David was whirling through theCaribbean, leaving a trail of flooded islands and homeless people.

    Floridians don't have to be told to duck when a hurricane ison the warpath. Windows were taped up, canned goods werebought, flashlights were tested. David was about to pounce.

    On the Miami River a group of single guys was trying to figureout the best way to protect their houseboat. Not that it wasmuch of a vessel. It was, at best, a rustic cabin on a leaky barge.But it was home. And if they didn't do something, their home wasgoing to be at the bottom of the river.

    None of the fellows had ever lived on a boat before, much lessweathered a hurricane. Any sailor worth his salt would have had agood laugh watching those landlubbers.

    It was like a McHale's Navy rerun. They bought enough ropeto tie up the Queen Mary. They had their boat tied to trees, tiedto moorings, tied to herself. When they were through, the littlecraft looked as if she'd been caught in a spider's web. They were sobusy tying her to everything, it's a wonder one of the guys didn'tget tied up.

    How was I privy to such a fiasco? You guessed it. The houseboatwas mine.

    Don't ask what I was doing with a houseboat. Part adventureand part bargain, I guess. But that Labor Day weekend was moreadventure than I'd bargained for. I had owned the boat for threemonthly payments, and now I was about to have to sacrifice her tothe hurricane! I was desperate. Tie her down! was all I could think.

    I was reaching the end of my rope, in more ways than one, whenPhil showed up. Now Phil knew boats. He even looked boat-wise.

    He was born wearing a suntan and dock-siders. He spoke thelingo and knew the knots. He also knew hurricanes. Word on theriver had it that he had ridden one out for three days in a ten-footsailboat. They made him a living legend.

    He felt sorry for us, so he came to give some advice ... and itwas sailor-sound. "Tie her to land and you'll regret it. Those treesare gonna get eaten by the 'cane. Your only hope is to anchordeep," he said. "Place four anchors in four different locations, leavethe rope slack, and pray for the best."

    Anchor deep. Good advice. We took it and ... well, before I tellyou whether or not we handled the hurricane, let's talk aboutanchor points.

    Chances are someone reading these words is about to getcaught in a storm. The weather is brewing and the water is risingand you can see the trees beginning to bend.

You've done everything possible, but your marriage still won't stand. It's just a matter of time.

    You bit off more than you could chew. You never should have agreed to take on an assignment like that. There is no way you can meet the deadline. And when that due date comes and you don't produce ...

    You've been dreading this meeting all week. They've already laid off several men. Why else would the personnel director need to talk to you? And with a newborn at home.

    Perhaps the winds have already reached gale force and you'reholding on for your life.

"Why our son?" are the only words you can muster. The funeral is over and the words of comfort have been politely said. Now it is just you, your memories, and your question, "Why me?"

    "The tests were positive. The tumor is malignant." Just when you thought the biggest struggle was over. More surgery.

    "They took the other bid." That sale was your last hope. To be outbid could mean you'll have to shut down the shop. That client would have been just enough to keep the business afloat for another quarter. But now?

    Waves that suck our joy out to sea. Winds that rip out ourhopes by their roots. Rising tides that seep under the doors of ourlives and cover the floors of our hearts.

    I got caught in a hurricane as this chapter was being completed.The warning came in a telephone call during a meeting.The forecaster with the grim news was my wife. "Max, your sisterjust called. Your mother is going to have quadruple bypass surgeryat eight o'clock tomorrow morning." A few quick calls to the airlines.Clothes thrown in a bag. A race to the airport in time to grabthe last seat on the last flight.

    No time to develop a personal philosophy on pain and suffering.No time to analyze the mystery of death. No time to setanchors. Time only to sit tight and trust the anchor points.

    Anchor points. Firm rocks sunk deeply in a solid foundation.Not casual opinions or negotiable hypotheses, but ironclad undeniablesthat will keep you afloat. How strong are yours? Howsturdy is your life when faced with one of these three storms?

    Futility. You're riding high and getting higher. You should becontent. You should be pleased. You are doing what you set out todo. You have a house. You have a job. You have security. You havetwo cars in the garage and a CD in the bank. By everyone's estimationsyou should be pleased.

    Then why are you so unhappy? Is it because you know thatevery tide that rises also falls? Is it because your degree and promotiondon't answer the questions that keep you awake at night?"What's it for, anyway?" "Who will know what I did?" "Who careswho I am?" "What is the purpose of it all?"

    Failure. You can't hide it anymore. You blew it. You werewrong. You let everyone down. Instead of standing tall, you fellshort. Instead of stepping out, you stepped back. The very thingyou swore you'd never do is exactly what you did.

    Your anchors drag through sand, finding no rocks. Unless asolid point is found soon, the hull of your heart will be splintered.

    Finality. The scene repeats itself thousands of times each day inAmerica. Folding chairs on manicured grass. Nicely dressed peopleunder a canvas canopy. Kleenexes. Tears. Words. Metal casket.Flowers. Dirt. Open grave.

    It's the wave of finality.

    Though it has slapped the beach countless times, you neverconsidered it would hit you, but it did. Uninvited and unexpected,it hit with tidal force, washing away your youth, your innocence,your mate, your friend. And now you're soaked and shivering,wondering if you will be next.

    Futility,

       failure,

          finality.

    You don't have to face these monsters alone. Listen to Phil'sadvice. It's sailor-sound both in and out of the water: Anchor deep.

    Got any hurricanes coming your way?

    This book examines three anchor points. Three boulderswhich can stand against any storm. Three rocks that repel thetallest of waves. Three petrified ledges to which you can hook youranchors. Each anchor point was planted firmly in bedrock twothousand years ago by a carpenter who claimed to be the Christ.And it was all done in the course of a single day. A single Friday.All done during six hours, one Friday.

* * *

    To the casual observer there was nothing unusual about thesesix hours. To the casual observer this Friday was a normal Friday.Six hours of routine. Six hours of the expected.

    Six hours. One Friday.

    Enough time for

       a shepherd to examine his flocks,

       a housewife to clean and organize her house,

       a physician to receive a baby from a mother's womb

    and cool the fever of one near death.

    Six hours. From 9:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M.

    Six hours. One Friday.

    Six hours filled with, as are all hours, the mystery of life.

* * *

    The bright noonday sun casts a common shadow for theJudean countryside. It's the black silhouette of a shepherd standingnear his fat-tailed flock. He stares at the clear sky, searching forclouds. There are none.

    He looks back at his sheep. They graze lazily on the rocky hillside.An occasional sycamore provides shade. He sits on the slopeand places a blade of grass in his mouth. He looks beyond the flockat the road below.

    For the first time in days the traffic is thin. For over a week ariver of pilgrims has streamed through this valley, bustling downthe road with animals and loaded carts. For days he has watchedthem from his perch. Though he couldn't hear them, he knew theywere speaking a dozen different dialects. And though he didn't talkto them, he knew where they were going and why.

    They were going to Jerusalem. And they were going to sacrificelambs in the temple.

    The celebration strikes him as ironic. Streets jammed withpeople. Marketplaces full of the sounds of the bleating of goats andthe selling of birds.

    Endless observances.

    The people relish the festivities. They awaken early and retirelate. They find strange fulfillment in the pageantry.

    Not him.

    What kind of God would be appeased by the death of ananimal?

    Oh, the shepherd's doubts are never voiced anywhere excepton the hillside. But on this day, they shout.

    It isn't the slaughter of the animals that disturbs him. It is theendlessness of it all. How many years has he seen the people comeand go? How many caravans? How many sacrifices? How manybloody carcasses?

    Memories stalk him. Memories of uncontrolled anger ...uncontrolled desire ... uncontrolled anxiety. So many mistakes. Somany stumbles. So much guilt. God seems so far away. Lamb afterlamb, Passover after Passover. Yet I still feel the same.

    He turns his head and looks again at the sky. Will the blood ofyet another lamb really matter?

* * *

    The wife sits in her house. It's Friday. She's alone. Her husband,a priest, is at the temple. It's time for lunch, but she has noappetite. Besides, it's hardly worth the trouble to prepare a meal forone. So, she sits and looks out the window.

    The narrow street in front of her house is thick with people.Were she younger, she would be out there. Even if she had no reasonto go on the streets, she would go. There was a time when shewas energized by such activity. Not now. Now her hair is gray. Herface is wrinkled, and she is tired.

    For years she has observed the holidays. For years she haswatched the people. Many summers have passed, taking withthem her youth and leaving only the perplexities that hound her.

    As a young woman she was too busy to ponder. She had childrento raise. Meals to prepare. Schedules to keep. She brushedaway the riddles like she brushed back her hair. But now her homeis empty. Those who needed her have others who need them. Now,the questions are relentless. Who am I? Where did I come from?Where am I going? Why is it all happening?

* * *

    The house is alive with excitement. In one room a man paces.In another a woman pushes. Sweat beads glisten on her forehead.Her eyes close, then open. She laughs, then groans. The youngdoctor encourages her. "Not much more. Don't give up." With adeep breath she leans forward and exerts her last ounce of energy.Then she leans back, pale and spent.

    "You have a son." She raises her head just enough to see the redinfant cradled in the broad palms of the physician.

    Delighted with his task, the doctor cleans the eyes and smilesas he watches them fight to open. The child, freshly welcomedfrom the womb, is returned to his mother.

    The next house he visits is quiet. Outside the bedroom awhite-haired wife sits. Inside is the frail frame of her husband, hotwith fever. Nothing can be done. The doctor is helpless as the mantakes his last breath. It's deep—his bony, bare chest rises. Hismouth opens wide, so wide that his lips whiten. Then he dies.

    The same hands that cleansed the eyes of the infant now closethe eyes of the dead. All during a period of six hours on one Friday.

    He fights off the questions. He hasn't time to hear them today.But they are stubborn and demand to be heard.

    Why heal the sick only to postpone death?

    Why give strength only to see it ebb away?

    Why be born and then begin to die?

    Who points the crooked finger at death's next victim?

    Who is this one that with such regular randomness separatessoul from body?

    He shrugs and places the sheet over the ashening face.

    Six hours, one Friday.

    To the casual observer the six hours are mundane. A shepherdwith his sheep, a housewife with her thoughts, a doctor with hispatients. But to the handful of awestruck witnesses, the most maddeningof 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 crackedand swollen. Thorns rip his scalp. His lungs scream with pain. Hislegs knot with cramps. Taut nerves threaten to snap as pain twangsher morbid melody. Yet, death is not ready. And there is no one tosave 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 ofhis 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 nothought to saving yourself? What keeps you there? What holds youto the cross? Nails don't hold gods to trees. What makes you stay?

* * *

    The shepherd stands staring at the now blackened sky. Onlyseconds before he had stared at the sun. Now there is no sun.

    The air is cool. The sky is black. No thunder. No lightning. Noclouds. The sheep are restless. The feeling is eerie. The shepherdstands alone, wondering and listening.

    What is this hellish darkness? What is this mysterious eclipse?What has happened to the light?

    There is a scream in the distance. The shepherd turns towardJerusalem.

    A soldier, unaware that his impulse is part of a divine plan,plunges the spear into the side. The blood of the Lamb of Godcomes forth and cleanses.

    The woman has scarcely lit the lamp when her husband rushesin the door. The reflection of the lamp's flame dances wildly in hiswide eyes. "The temple curtain ...," he begins breathlessly, "torn!Ripped in two from top to bottom!"

    The black angel hovers over the one on the center cross.

    No delegation for this death, no demon for this duty. Satan hasreserved this task for himself. Gleefully he passes his hand of deathover these eyes of life.

    But just when the last breath escapes, the war begins.

    The pit of the earth rumbles. The young physician nearly loseshis balance.

    It is an earthquake—a rock-splitting rumble. A stampedelikevibration, as if prison doors have been opened and the captives arethundering to freedom. The doctor fights to keep his balance as hehurries back to the room of the one who has just died.

    The body is gone.

* * *

    Six hours. One Friday.

    Let me ask you a question: What do you do with that day inhistory? What do you do with its claims?

    If it really happened ... if God did commandeer his own crucifixion ... ifhe did turn his back on his own son ... if he did stormSatan's gate, then those six hours that Friday were packed withtragic triumph. If that was God on that cross, then the hill calledSkull is granite studded with stakes to which you can anchor.

    Those six hours were no normal six hours. They were the mostcritical hours in history. For during those six hours on that Friday,God embedded in the earth three anchor points sturdy enough towithstand any hurricane.

    Anchor point #1—My life is not futile. This rock secures thehull of your heart. Its sole function is to give you something whichyou 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 heloves what you did, but he loves who you are. You are his. The onewho 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 morestone 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. Thetomb that it sealed was the tomb of a transient. He only went into prove he could come out. And on the way out he took the stonewith him and turned it into an anchor point. He dropped it deepinto the uncharted waters of death. Tie to his rock and thetyphoon of the tomb becomes a spring breeze on Easter Sunday.

    There they are. Three anchor points. The anchor points of thecross.

    Oh, by the way, Hurricane David never made it to Miami.Thirty minutes off the coast he decided to bear north. The worstdamage my boat suffered were some rope burns inflicted by heroverzealous crew.

    I hope your hurricane misses you, too. But in case it doesn't,take the sailor's advice. "Anchor deep, say a prayer, and hold on."And don't be surprised if someone walks across the water to giveyou a hand.

Continues...

Excerpted from Seis Horas de Un Viernesby Max Lucado Copyright © 1999 by Max Lucado. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Vida
• Publication date: 1998
• Language: Spanish
• ISBN 10: 0829719741
• ISBN 13: 9780829719741
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 176