The Applause of Heaven - Max Lucado [14]
The message is gripping: Show a man his failures without Jesus, and the result will be found in the roadside gutter. Give a man religion without reminding him of his filth, and the result will be arrogance in a three-piece suit. But get the two in the same heart-get sin to meet Savior and Savior to meet sin-and the result just might be another Pharisee turned preacher who sets the world on fire.
Four people: the rich young ruler, Sarah, Peter, Paul. A curious thread strings the four together-their names.
The final three had their names changed-Sarai to Sarah, Simon to Peter, Saul to Paul. But the first one, the young yuppie, is never mentioned by name.
Perhaps that's the clearest explanation of the first beatitude. The one who made a name for himself is nameless. But the ones who called on Jesus' name-and his name only -got new names and, even more, new life.
Blessed are those who mourn .. .
CHAPTER 5
THE PRISON OF PRIDE
As Brazilian jail cells go this one wasn't too bad. There was a fan on the table. The twin beds each had a thin mattress and a pillow. There was a toilet and a sink.
No, it wasn't too bad. But, then again, I didn't have to stay.
Anibal did. He was there to stay.
Even more striking than his name (pronounced "uh-neeball") was the man himself. The tattooed anchor on his forearm symbolized his personality-cast-iron. His broad chest stretched his shirt. The slightest movement of his arm bulged his biceps. His face was as leathery in texture as it was in color. His glare could blister a foe. His smile was an explosion of white teeth.
But today the glare was gone and the smile was forced. Anibal wasn't on the street where he was the boss; he was in a jail where he was the prisoner.
He'd killed a man-a "neighborhood punk," as Anibal called him, a restless teenager who sold marijuana to the kids on the street and made a nuisance of himself with his mouth. One night the drug dealer had used his mouth one time too many and Anibal had decided to silence it. He'd left the crowded bar where the two of them had been arguing, gone home, taken a pistol out of a drawer, and walked back to the bar. Anibal had entered and called the boy's name. The drug dealer had turned around in time to take a bullet in the heart.
Anibal was guilty. Period. His only hope was that the judge would agree that he had done society a favor by getting rid of a neighborhood problem. He would be sentenced within the month.
I came to know Anibal through a Christian friend, Daniel. Anibal had lifted weights at Daniel's gym. Daniel had given Anibal a Bible and had visited him several times. This time Daniel took me with him to tell Anibal about Jesus.
Our study centered on the cross. We talked about guilt. We talked about forgiveness. The eyes of the murderer softened at the thought that the one who knows him best loves him most. His heart was touched as we discussed heaven, a hope that no executioner could take from him.
But as we began to discuss conversion, Anibal's face began to harden. The head that had leaned toward me in interest now straightened in caution. Anibal didn't like my statement that the first step in coming to God is an admission of guilt. He was uneasy with words like "I've been wrong" and "forgive me." Saying "I'm sorry" was out of character for him. He had never backed down before any man, and he wasn't about to do it now-even if the man were God.
In one final effort to pierce his pride, I asked him, "Don't you want to go to heaven?"
"Sure," he grunted.
"Are you ready?"
Earlier he might have boasted yes, but now he'd heard too many verses from the Bible. He knew better.
He stared at the concrete floor for a long time, meditating on the question. For a moment I thought his stony heart was cracking. For a second, it appeared that burly Anibal would for the first time admit his failures.
But I was wrong. The eyes that lifted to meet mine weren't tear-filled; they were angry. They