Sermon Tone Analysis
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Chapter 1
Uncle Harold’s Love Story by Robert Surridge
Why would Jesus go through with it?
Tormentors “spit in Jesus’ face and beat him with their fists.
And some slapped him, jeering, ‘Prophesy to us, you Messiah!
Who hit you that time?’ ” (Matthew 26:67, 68, NLT).
“They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him.
They wove thorn branches into a crown and put it on his head, and they placed a reed stick in his right hand as a scepter.
Then they knelt before him in mockery and taunted, ‘Hail!
King of the Jews!’
And they spit on him and grabbed the stick and struck him on the head with it.
When they were finally tired of mocking him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him again.
Then they led him away to be crucified” (Matthew 27:28–32, NLT).
Why would Jesus willingly subject Himself to such inhumane torture?
What kept Him pinned to the tree?
It wasn’t the spikes.
Nor was it the Roman soldiers.
It was love—pure and simple.
Jesus determined to cling to that cross for the sake of His family—you and me.
Naked, bleeding, mangled, and thrashed, He would not let go.
There was no limit to where Jesus would go in order to reconcile the lost human race to His Father.
Why?
One reason: love.
One thing I regret is not having met some of my grandparents’ brothers and sisters who died before I was born.
My grandmother comes from Nottinghamshire in England, and most of the men in her family were coal miners.
Many of them hardly lived long enough for my father, let alone me, to know them.
Some were killed in accidents down in the mine.
Others coughed themselves to an early grave from miners’ lung.
The one I really regret not having met, though he died only a few years ago, was my great-uncle Harold.
Harold Gascoigne was a Nottinghamshire miner—like his brother, cousin, father, and grandfather.
He was a big, strong man, but gentle, soft-spoken, and dependable.
Harold took pride in his job, though it was often mundane, dirty, and dangerous.
It’s probably done by a machine nowadays.
But Harold worked on the floor of the mine loading the lift cage with full coal tubs.
Once the cage was full, it would be cranked by a winch hundreds of feet to the surface.
Harold’s job had to be done quickly and efficiently.
Each trip to the top cost money and time.
If the cage wasn’t full, coal would bottleneck at the bottom, and a shortage would develop at the top.
If Harold took too long maneuvering the filled coal tubs into the cage, the number of trips up and down the shaft in a day would be reduced.
There was also safety to consider.
The coal tubs had to fit securely in the lift cage.
If one were to start rolling about during the trip to the surface, the whole lift shaft assembly could become unbalanced and damaged.
The sliding gates of the cage were also Harold’s responsibility.
If they weren’t secure, well . . . the results didn’t bear thinking about.
In a job like Harold’s, one day was very much like the next.
The only thing that seemed to indicate the passing of months and years was wear and tear on the equipment.
Harold noticed one thing in particular.
One of the bashed, dented, and battered coal tubs, through use, now no longer fit snugly in the cage.
This caused difficulty in sending a full load.
But Uncle Harold was conscientious and did his best to overcome problems caused by the deteriorating equipment.
On one particular shift, though, everything began to go wrong.
It had been a hard day.
The pit ponies that dragged wagons full of coal tubs to the lift cap had been acting up, the coal dust seemed more choking and blinding than usual, and the coal tubs, heavier and more awkward.
Harold had just closed the cage gates on another load when he saw that one tub was dangerously askew.
The warning bell for the pull to begin sounded.
Quickly he reached over the top of the lift gate to give the tub a sharp jolt into place.
Harold knew the timing of the warning bell and had rightly judged that he had a few seconds to get back to safety.
What he hadn’t judged correctly was that someone would send the message to go ahead and winch the cage up before the warning period ended and without visually checking the cage area.
A thousand feet above, the winching gear slammed suddenly into action, and the cage jerked up into the shaft.
Harold, still bent over it, went with it.
The first thing he felt was a beam, and then crosspieces of the shaft smashing into his legs and lower back.
As the shaft narrowed, these blows dragged him backward and down along the side of the cage.
But he held on like grim death.
His left hand managed to grab on to a part of the cage, and that, along with tangled clothing wrapped in the bars, stopped him from being dragged out completely.
The cage stopped.
It was more than a quarter of the way up.
Harold’s shocked workmates had finally managed to get a message to the top ordering them to stop the lift cage.
But what now?
Harold was beyond reach.
The operator tried to reverse the cage, but it seemed stuck.
Slowly the miners realized that Harold’s body must be jamming the cage.
The team leader below shone a powerful torch beam up the shaft.
He could barely see the cage and Harold’s body hanging off one side.
The miners gasped.
He must be dead.
“Silence!” the leader demanded.
They heard a moan.
“Harold?”
Another moan.
The team leader knew that Harold had to be desperately injured, and that the rest of the trip would probably kill him.
But even though it was farther up than down, Harold would have to go to the surface eventually to get proper medical attention.
The leader made a decision.
The best thing was to get him up now—no matter what state he was in.
They passed the message up the phone to the surface.
“Proceed, dead slow!”
The miners at the bottom heard the cage jerk upward.
A moment later something fell at their feet.
It was a thumb.
The cage went up at the slowest pace possible, but there was still not enough room between the shaft wall and the cage for Harold’s body.
His back, legs, and limp right arm were gradually scraped raw by each beam.
It was somewhere on that agonizing journey that Harold lost two more fingers from his right hand.
The pain was agonizing.
And the cage seemed to be actively trying to shake him loose, while the shaft wall tried to snatch him off and drag him down.
But it was something very specific that gave Harold the ability to cling to the cage as it dragged him upward.
Dreadful, heartbreaking pictures flashed through Harold’s mind.
He kept seeing the face of his wife, Beatrix, and his young son, Trevor.
First as the news of his death reached them, then at his graveside, then being evicted from their home, his wife a widow and his son an orphan.
He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let that happen.
His family needed him; they were more important than the pain, the weariness, and the fear.
He loved his wife and son passionately.
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