Out of the Carpentry Shop
(Written by Max Lucado)
The heavy door creaked on its hinges as He pushed it open. With a few
strides He crossed the silent shop and opened the wooden shutters to a
square shaft of sunshine that pierced the darkness, painting a box of
daylight on the dirt floor.
He looked around the carpentry shop. He stood for a moment in the
refuge of the little room that housed so many sweet memories. He
balanced the hammer in His hand. He ran his fingers across the sharp
teeth of the saw. He stroked the smoothly worn wood of the sawhorse. He
had come to say good-bye.
It was time for Him to leave. He had heard something that made Him
know it was time to go. So He came one last time to smell the sawdust
and lumber.
Life was peaceful here. Life was so . . . safe. Here He had spent
countless hours of contentment. On this dirt floor He had played as a
toddler while His father worked. Here Joseph had taught Him how to grip a
hammer. And on this workbench He had built His first chair.
I wonder what He thought as He took one last look around the room.
Perhaps He stood for a moment at the workbench looking at the tiny
shadows cast by the chisel and shavings. Perhaps He listened as voices
from the past filled the air.
“Good job, Jesus.”
“Joseph, Jesus – come and eat!”
“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get it finished on time. I’ll get Jesus to help me.”
I wonder if He hesitated. I wonder if His heart was torn. I wonder if
He rolled a nail between His thumb and fingers, anticipating the pain.
It was in the carpentry shop that He must have given birth to His
thoughts. Here concepts and convictions were woven together to form the
fabric of His ministry.
You can almost see the tools of His trade in His words as He spoke.
You can see the trueness of a plumb line as He called for moral
standards. You can hear the whistle of the plane as He pleads for
religion to shave away unnecessary traditions. You can picture the
snugness of a dovetail as He demands loyalty in relationships. You can
imagine Him with a pencil and a ledger as He urges honesty.
It was here that His human hands shaped the wood His divine hands had
created. And it was here that His body matured while His Spirit waited
for the right moment, the right day.
And now that day had arrived. It must have been difficult to leave.
After all, life as a carpenter hadn’t been bad. It wasn’t bad at all.
Business was good. The future was bright and His work was enjoyable. In
Nazareth He was known only as Jesus, the son of Joseph. You can be sure
He was respected in the community. He was good with His hands. He had
many friends. He was a favorite among the children. He could tell a good
joke and had a habit of filling the air with contagious laughter.
I wonder if He wanted to stay. “I could do a good job here in
Nazareth. Settle down. Raise a family. Be a civic leader.” I wonder
because I know He had already read the last chapter. He knew that the
feet that step out of the safe shadow of the carpentry shop would not
rest until they had been pierced and placed on a Roman cross.
You see, He didn’t have to go. He had a choice. He could have stayed.
He could have kept his mouth shut. He could have ignored the call or at
least postponed it. And had He chosen to stay, who would’ve known? Who
would have blamed Him?
He could have come back as a man in another era when society was not
so volatile, when religion wasn’t so stale, when people would listen
better. He could have come back when crosses were out of style, but His
heart wouldn’t let Him.
If there was hesitation on His part of humanity, it was overcome by
the compassion of His divinity. His divinity heard the voices. His
divinity heard the hopeless cries of the poor, the bitter accusations of
the abandoned, the dangling despair of those who are trying to save
themselves.
And His divinity saw the faces. Some wrinkled. Some weeping. Some
hidden behind veils. Some obscured by fear. Some earnest with searching.
Some blank with boredom. From the face of Adam to the face of the
infant born somewhere in the world as you read these words, He saw them
all.
And you can be sure of one thing. Among the voices that found their
way into that carpentry shop in Nazareth was your voice. Your silent
prayers uttered on tear-stained pillows were heard before they were
said. Your deepest questions about death and eternity were answered
before they were asked. And your direst need, your need for a Savior,
was met before you ever sinned.
And not only did He hear you, He saw you. He saw your face aglow the
hour you first knew Him. He saw your face in shame the hour you first
fell. The same face that looked back at you from this mornings mirror,
looked at Him. And it was enough to kill Him.
He left because of you. He laid his security down with His hammer. He
hung tranquility on the peg with His nail apron. He closed the window
shutters on the sunshine of His youth and locked the door on the comfort
and ease of anonymity.
Since He could bear your sins more easily than He could bear the
thought of your hopelessness, He chose to leave. It wasn’t easy. Leaving
the carpentry shop never has been.
