I know the Bible says nobody knows the day or the hour when the Son of Man shall come, and that the times and seasons for such things the Father has in His own authority. But several years ago I gave some thought to the question: Where would I like to be when the trumpet sounds?
Here were my top three choices.
If I could choose to be anywhere when Jesus returns for his own, it would be standing in the pulpit of a church preaching a gospel message and calling people to repent, for the kingdom of heaven was at hand. I'd like to offer the invitation for someone, anyone, to believe and be saved, and see a hand go up in the back, perhaps some prodigal son, some wayward daughter, some lost soul that had been prayed for time and time again with no results. I'd love to see that hand go up, and then watch as that person stepped out in faith to walk the aisle, to kneel in an old-fashioned altar, and to pray a prayer of repentance and acceptance as they receive Jesus. And somewhere in heaven, that great book of names is opened and God's finger runs down the page to the last name on the list, and with a smile, He turns to His right and says, "Son, that's the last one. Go get your bride!" And just as that sinner steps out, transformed by faith into a saint of the most high God, I'd love to hear that moment shattered by the sound of a trumpet and someone calling my name. And in a moment, in a twinkling of any eye, be with my new brother in the sky!
My second choice would be preaching some old saint's funeral. Gramma So-and-so who had spent a lifetime waking in the midnight hours to pray for someone whom God had laid on her heart. Who came to you were sick to wash your dishes or do your laundry or bathe your feverish forehead with a cooling cloth. Who showed up in the worst moments of your life with a basket packed with fried chicken, cold potato salad, warm banana pudding, and a jug of sweet tea. Who knelt with you in an altar of commitment, holding your hand and sometimes your neck as she prayed you through to whatever blessing God had for you. Who danced and shouted all over the sanctuary when the Holy Ghost got ahold of her, bobby-pins flying and braids swinging while she hooted and hollered and spoke in tongues and prophesied, leading that forgotten parade called a Jericho march. I'd love to be standing at a graveside, with one hand on the casket and the other holding my Bible open to the page that says, "For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, and the voice of the archangel, and the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first..." And as I'm reading those words as a final prayer over the body of the dearly departed, the lid flies off the casket, sending roses and mums everywhere as Gramma leaps to her feet with her hands in the air and shouts, "I'm going home!" And before we even have a chance to respond, graves everywhere begin to explode with dirt and debris as all the saints of all the ages begin to rise from the graves. And suddenly we too are changed, rising to meet them in the air, knowing that we shall ever be with the Lord.
But if I could really choose to be anywhere at all when the Rapture happens, it would be standing on a hillside south of Deming, New Mexico, where fourteen years ago I took the ashes of my preacher Daddy and dumped them into the wind, watching them drift peacefully away--until the breeze shifted direction and blew him all over me. I'd love to be standing there when the trumpet sounds, when Jesus calls the name of Bryan Stafford from the roll, and those ashes come back from the four winds that carried them off, and even as my own flesh is transformed into incorruptible immortality, I look my daddy in the face and hear him shout one more time, "I told you son, Jesus is coming back!"
As I said before, nobody knows the when. All I do know is this--regardless of where I am or what I'm doing, I'm going to be ready when Jesus sounds the call! How about you?
No comments:
Post a Comment