The Execution!

You are a career criminal, standing before the judge with a long list of charges against you. Witness after witness takes the stand, and with pointed finger, they tear your defence apart with overwhelming evidence. One by one the recorded phone calls and surveillance videos are played, the intercepted emails and text messages are read out. They had been tracking you for years.

The case is water-tight. You sit quietly in the dock. You know what the result is going to be. You know that you are guilty, the judge knows that you are guilty, all the spectators watching know that you are guilty – you hear them whispering it amongst themselves in the gallery. The writing is on the wall.

Before passing sentencing, the judge asks if you would like to say anything in your defence. You decline! What can you say?

"How do you plead?" demands the judge. "Guilty, your honour", you whisper, "I have no defense."

The judge pronounces his sentence, "Having reviewed your case and listened to the evidence presented, and in light of the charges laid, notwithstanding your guilty plea, I have no choice but to sentence you to death by firing squad - to be carried out immediately!".

The gallery erupts. Some cheer as others gasp. The deafening roar of camera shutters, and blinding flashes, seem strangely distant as your mind swims in shock!

Before it has time to sink in the prison guards, half dragging you across the room, begin to escort you towards the outer courtyard. You turn towards the judge. He is busy writing some notes on the case. "You Honour!", you cry out, "Please! Have mercy on me!".

"I'm guilty! I'm sorry! Please have mercy on me!", you cry out from the heart as you are shoved through the doors.

It is unusually warm outside. In the centre of the yard you see the execution post. The timber looks as though it has been clawed by a wild beast. The bullets from past executions have, like lead teeth, bitten great splinters out of it.

As an old man roughly ties you to the post, you see five young men dressed neatly in parade uniform form a line ten yards from where you stand, rifles by their side. Before you get a chance to look into their eyes, a dark hessian sack is pulled over your head. You feel the heat of your own breath on your cheeks. It begins to condense, and mix with the beads of sweat running down your face. The itching of rough fibres in the stifling heat becomes unbearable as your pulse begins to quicken.

Though muffled, you hear the sharp click of safety catches being released. You draw a deep breath and wait.

"Any last words?", the squad leader barks coarsely. You sigh, and once again apologise for your transgressions. "Please, if there be any way, have mercy on me!".

You pause, hoping that someway, somehow your plea might pave the way to safety. Your heart seems to hold its beat in unison with your hopes as you strain to hear the reply. Nothing.

"Guard, A-tten-tion!". Your legs begin to lose their strength as you release your end is but a shot away. As you lean forward, the ropes stop you from toppling. Your heart turns to wax, and melts.

"Ready!", you hear the sound of shuffling feet and the sharp metallic noise of rifle bolts driving it's deadly round into the chamber.

"Aim!", every muscle in your body begins to tense up in preparation to meet the white hot lead.

Before the executioner can give the final command you hear a shout from across the courtyard, "Hold It!" You flinch, momentarily thinking the shot has been taken! It's surreal, you were expecting it to be more painful than that.

As your thoughts begin to focus, you hear muffled talking and then the sound of someone coming over to you. They cut the ropes that have been holding you up these last few moments, and your legs give way. You pitch forward and fall heavily on the cobblestone paving.

In the confusion you hear the squad leader begin. "Ready, Aim..."

You begin tearing at the hessian bag over your head as your mind races.
"What's going on?" your mind screams searchingly.

"Fire!" The sharp crack of rifles is hurriedly followed by the sickening thud of bullets finding their mark. As you begin to draw the bag from over your head, you hear the sound of a body crumpling on two lifeless legs.

Turning, you see him there on the ground. Lifeless. Bloodied. It doesn't make sense. That should have been you.

You crawl over to base of the post and sweep away the mop of hair from across the mans face. In shock, you gasp, it is the judge who minutes before had pronounced your death sentence.

You see in his tightly clenched hand, a crumpled piece of white paper with crimson red stains on it. You reach for it, and prying it loose, begin to unfold it and read:

"My son. I am a just and righteous judge, and you are a condemned criminal. Because I am just, I must see that justice is done and the law upheld! To let your crimes go unpunished would be a severe miscarriage of justice - a wicked act of a corrupt judge. My son, you begged for mercy, but the law had to be satisfied! You cried out for pardon, but someone had to pay the price! I wanted to save you, but I could not let you walk free and your crimes go unanswered. I was willing to pay that price! I was willing to die in your place, so that you might live! Though I am just, I prefer mercy. You have this day received my mercy and my full pardon. Your sins have been forgiven! Go in peace."

"This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins."
1 John 9-10

This Is My Son, Whom I Love!

And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." Matthew 3:17

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.

When the great war broke out, the son enlisted to fight for king and country. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands.

He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art." The young man held out this package. "I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

A few years later the man died too. Since he had no heir, all his paintings were to be sold at auction. Collectors came from all around, it isn't often that such a great collection becomes available.

As the auction opened the first painting on the platform was the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"

There was silence.

After a few moments, a voice in the back of the room shouted, "Is this a joke? We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one!"

But the auctioneer persisted. "Will somebody bid for this painting. Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"

Another voice angrily. "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"

But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the young man who's life had been saved all those years earlier during the war. "This man means everything to me! Please let me have the portrait sir. I'll give $10 for the painting, it's all I've got!" Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.

"We have $10, who will bid $20?"

"Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters."

"$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?"

The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son, they wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.

The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!"

A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now, let's get on with the collection!"

But the auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over."

"What?", the crowd stammered, "Is this some sort of joke? What about the paintings?"

"I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including all the paintings.

The man who wants the son gets everything!"

God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: "My Son, My Son, who will give all for My Son?"

"God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. He who has the Son has life; he who does not have the Son of God does not have life."

1 John 5:11-12