By Dr. John E. Morgan

Pastor–Collinsville Baptist Church

Lexington.  My wife and I realized we were near it.  I had to see it.  Even at ten at night.

Lexington is still a quiet cluster of homes and small businesses.  Dim street lights and little else.  Nobody else around.

We parked and walked onto the grass of the Common. “The British came from down there at the south end”, I told Gloria.  “They moved into formation and marched this way.  The militia, the Minutemen, were lined up here in the north to face them.”

I could see it in my mind.  The early morning sun behind the British glinting off of their rifles.  Their red coats bright against the green of trees and grass.  The most powerful army in the world.  Marching up the Green.  Facing them a group of farmers and shopkeepers.  Staring at those red coats moving relentlessly toward them.   Coming to take their arms and imprison their leaders.

I told my wife, “They faced each other right here.  And then somebody shot.  Nobody knows who.  Then both sides fired at each other.   Eight Minutemen soon lay dead on this grass.  The rest scattered.  The British marched on toward Concord.  But the “shot heard round the world” had been fired.  A little group of Minutemen stood up to the Red Coats.  The first of a long line of men and women who have died for American freedom.

I got down on a knee and touched the grass.  Was this the exact place that the first American died for his country?  Probably not.  But I thought about the blood and rubbed my fingers. My wife put her arm around me and we walked back to the car.

A few months earlier we had gone to Jerusalem for the first time.  Like millions of Christians before us, we soon made our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  It is built on the place where Jesus died and was buried.  It is directly on top of the old rock quarry, Calvary, where the cross stood.

It does not look like what our Protestant eyes think it should.  Poorly lit inside.  Smoke and smell from incense.  All kinds of different Christians and Christian clergy.

We made our way up the worn stone stairs to the chapel.  At the end of the chapel, the top of the rock of Calvary can be seen through glass. Hanging above it is a crucifix – Jesus on the cross, Mary at His feet.  In front of it is an altar table.

Gloria and I, uncertain as to what was going on, waited in line to crawl under the table.  At the back, the table touches the glass above the rock.  There is a small opening in the glass.  Just big enough to reach your hand through and touch the rock.  In the one place on the rock where a hole had been chiseled out by the Romans.  A square hole.  Just the right size for a cross to fit.

I put my hand in the hole and reached down to the bottom.  Did the cross really stand right here?  Maybe.  If not, somewhere very close.  I thought about the cross.  And the blood that ran down it.  The blood of Jesus.

He was crucified by the most powerful army in the world, the Romans.  He did not fight.  He spread his arms out and let the nails go in.  He died.  I ran my fingers across the stone.

As Gloria and I crawled out, we put arms around each other.  And thought about the one who died for us.  To give us freedom.  Freedom from sin and the guilt that goes with it.  I rubbed my fingers together as we left.

Monday celebrate you freedom as an American.  Remember those who died to give it to you.  Everyday celebrate your freedom as a Christian.  Washed in the blood of Jesus.