450 Sermon Illustrations on Death

A young man was very ill. The doctors had exhausted their

resources. He dreaded death and feared it terribly. Just before the

end he raised himself up in bed and said, "I will not die." But as he

closed the sentence he fell back on the bed and was gone. Yes, we may

refuse the call of loved ones and the call of God; but when the

sheriff of the skies, death, comes we will respond. We will go then.

There are the two calls. The call of Christ and the call of death. The

call of Christ, which is the preparation for the call of death, can be

refused; but the other call, which is the call of death, cannot be

avoided.

By William Moses Tidwell, "Effective Illustrations."

We would say kindly to every backslider and sinner who will go on

to live and die in sin, "When you come to the end, there will be some

things you will never taste, hear, feel, or see again. It will be

"good-by forever." I would make, if you will permit, this kindly

suggestion, "Enjoy them all you can, for this will be the last." Often

at the state prison, when a man is to be electrocuted and he comes to

his last day on earth, at his last meal he is told to order anything

he likes. He is told to enjoy it, for this is his last. So, careless

soul, if you go on and die without Christ, we would suggest that on

your dying couch you enjoy all you can, for this will be your last.

Don't forget, sinner, to have some music at the end, for this will be

the last you will ever hear.

William Moses Tidwell, "Pointed Illustrations."

A group of boys passed down the road, hollering to some other boys

as they passed. They shouted, "We are on our way to hell." Someone

heard them and said, "They may be nearer than they think." They were

on their way to a mountain climb. They soon reached a high altitude

where there were some very steep and high precipices. The leader of

the group took a way a little different from the others. He was higher

up the mountain than the others. Finally the others heard a cry and

noise and, looking up, they saw him falling over a precipice of almost

five hundred feet. His body was mangled beyond recognition. He was

nearer hell than he knew.

William Moses Tidwell, "Pointed Illustrations."

Rev. Roy Stewart tells of a man in the penitentiary in South

Carolina who was to be electrocuted. The electrocution was to take

place the following day. Every preparation had been made for an early

execution. The condemned man's head had been shaved.

The guard was showing the visitors through the prison yards and the

place of execution. He seemed so lighthearted and carefree! He talked

just as glibly as if nothing serious were about to take place. But a

strange thing occurred. That night the governor granted a pardon for

the condemned man, and he is still living; but the "Sheriff of the

skies" came along that very night and arrested the guard, who was

called out to meet God. We never know just where the grim reaper will

strike.

William Moses Tidwell, "Pointed Illustrations."

It is related that two little children died very suddenly of

cholera. The mother laid them tenderly upon the bed and spread a sheet

over them. When her husband came home, she met him and said, "Husband,

a person lent me some jewels, and now wishes them returned. What must

I do?" "Why, return them at once," he said. Then she took him to the

room, removed the sheets and said, "God is the Person, and these are

the jewels."

William Moses Tidwell, "Pointed Illustrations."

I feel in myself the future life. I am like a forest once cut down; the new shoots are stronger and livelier than ever. I am rising, I know, toward the sky. The sunshine is on my head. The earth gives me its generous sap, but heaven lights me with reflection of unknown worlds. You say the soul is nothing but the resultant of the bodily powers. Why, then, is my soul more luminous when my bodily powers begin to fail? Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart. There I breathe at this hour the fragrance of the lilacs, the violets, and the roses as at twenty years. The nearer I approach the end, the plainer I hear around me the immortal symphonies of the worlds which invite me. It is marvelous, yet simple. It is a fairy tale, and it is history. For half a century I have been writing my thoughts in prose and in verse; history, philosophy, drama, romance, tradition, satire, ode and song -- I have tried it all. But I feel I have not said the thousandth part of what is in me. When I go down to the grave I can say, like so many others, “I have finished my day's work.” But I cannot say, “I have finished my life.” My day's work will begin again the next morning. The tomb is not a blind alley it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight; it opens with the dawn. -- Victor Hugo.

By J. Wilbur Chapan, “Present Day Parables.”

*

The sainted A. J. Gordon tells of a man in Boston whom he met one

day, and he said to him, "I want you to go with me to the burial

ground with my child." He stepped into the carriage, and there on the

front seat was the white coffin. They rode away through the city of

Boston to the cemetery, but not a word was spoken. They came to the

grave, and the father, after carrying the little casket to the grave,

held it in his arms, and, taking the little key from his pocket,

unlocked the casket and raised the lid, and fastened his eyes upon the

face of his child. He said not a word, but looked long and steadily;

then he closed the lid, and gave the coffin into the hands of those at

the grave, turned, entered his carriage, and rode back to Boston,

never speaking a word. But just as he got out of the carriage he said,

with a breaking heart, "She was all I had." "Poor man," said Dr.

Gordon, "'he had not the hope that you and I have, and his heart was

breaking because he felt the separation was for eternity." -- J. W .

C.

By J. Wilbur Chapan, "Present Day Parables."

I want something better than the best disbeliever in Jesus Christ ever possessed. God forbid that I should ever say an untrue or unkind word about any of the sons of men -- least of all that I should seem to tear aside with ruthless hand the veil that hides the secret place of sorrow!

But the occurrence to which I am about to refer was not done in a corner, and I only bring to your mind what you all know when I mention the time when Colonel Ingersoll endeavored to fulfill the promise made to his brother, who was also his boyhood's playmate, and pronounced his funeral address. It was in June 1879. This brother had died in Washington, and Colonel Ingersoll stood by the coffin and tried to read his address. His voice became agitated, his form trembled, and his emotion overcame him. Finally, he put down the paper, and, bowing himself upon the coffin, he gave vent to uncontrollable grief.

When at last he was able to proceed he raised himself up, and among other words he said these: “Whether in mid-ocean or 'mid the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck must mark at last the end of each and all; and every life, no matter if its every hour be filled with love and every moment jeweled with a joy, will at the last become a tragedy as sad and dark and deep as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death ... Life is a dark and barren vale between the cold and ice-clad peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We lift our wailing voices in the silence of the night, and hear no answer but the bitter echo of our cry.”

Could ever words more sadly hopeless have been uttered at a time like that? And then he added what to me were the most pathetic words of all -- something about “hope trying to see a star, and listening for the rustle of the angel's wings.”

Mrs. Browning most truly writes:

“There is no God,” the foolish saith,

But none, “There is no sorrow.”

And nature oft in bitter need

The cry of faith will borrow.

Eyes which the preacher could not school,

By wayside graves are raised;

And lips cry, “God be pitiful!”

Which ne'er said, “God be praised!”

I think I should like greater comfort and a better hope than that.

Dwight Moody had a brother, and after his own conversion he earnestly pleaded with him, until the brother also yielded himself to Christ and became such an earnest worker that he was the means of leading a number of his friends at his home into the kingdom. And then this brother died and was buried.

A few years ago, as I spent a day in Northfield and was driven through its beautiful streets by one of the old residents, I said, “I wish you would tell me something about Mr. Moody that may not be generally known.” And as we passed the old white church he said, “I remember his brother's funeral.”

He said that there were a number of ministers in the pulpit, and that after they had finished the usual services and the coffin-lid was about to be put in its place, Mr. Moody arose, and, stepping forward from the seat where he had been sitting, with a shining face, he laid one hand upon the coffin, and then lifting the other he poured out such a stream of thanksgiving unto God for the life that was gone, and for the wonderful comfort and joy and hope that came to him in Jesus Christ, that it was said by this onlooker that it almost seemed as if the heavens were opened and they could see the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man.

At last he ceased, the coffin-lid was placed in its position, and the body was carried out and laid in the grave. On one side of the sepulcher stood fifty young men, many of them led to Christ through the influence of this one who was gone, and they held in their hands beautiful white flowers, which they cast down upon the coffin in token of the glorious resurrection.

And on the other side of the grave stood Mr. Moody; and he said that as he stood there and thought of his brother, being dead, was yet speaking, he felt that if he were silent the very stones would cry out, and he cried with a loud voice, “Glory to God! Glory be to God! O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy victory?” -- B. F. M.

________

By J. Wilbur Chapan, “Present Day Parables.”

When a person is about to die, you never hear them say "Gee, I wish

I had spent more time at the office, or more time watching TV."

-- Anonymous

I recently heard a new medical term. I was told that a seriously ill man was "pre-terminal." Evidently this means he was not yet terminal, but it was expected that soon he would be. That left me thinking. Can't that really be said about each and every one of us? When it comes right down to it, aren't we all "pre- terminal"? Aren't we all going to die someday, unless the Lord comes back first?

When his health began to fail, an Easterner decided to go west to

the wide-open spaces. In a small town in Arizona, he approached an

old man sitting on the steps of the local store. "Say," he asked,

"what is the death rate around here?"

"Same as it is back east, brother," replied the old fellow, "one to

a person."

According to an old legend, a man made an agreement with Death.

The man said he would be willing to go when Death called, provided

Death would agree to send a messenger well in advance to warn him.

Death nodded agreement. Months and years passed. Then, one bitter

evening, Death suddenly appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. In

frightful despair the man cried, "It is you. You are here too soon.

You haven't kept your part of the bargain."

Death leaned over and whispered, "I have more than kept my part. I

have sent you, not just one, but many messengers. Look in the mirror,

and you will see all of them." The man looked, gazing long and deep,

for the last time. Death continued, "Look at your hair. Once it was

black, but now it is thinned white. See the way you turn your head to

hear my voice! You cannot hear as well as once you did. And how

closely you peer into the glass to behold yourself, for your eyes have

lost their clearness. How lined is your face. And your form is so

bent. These have been my messengers, but you have been too busy with

things to pay attention. I have more than kept my part of the

bargain. Now you must keep yours. The time has come for you to

leave.

Dr. Donald Grey Barnhouse was driving with his children to his

wife's funeral service. Coming to a stoplight, they found themselves

behind a huge truck. The sun was shining in such a position that it

cast the truck's shadow across the snow-covered field beside it. As

the shadow loomed large, Dr. Barnhouse said, "Look, children, at that

truck, and look at its shadow. If you had to be run over, which would

you rather be run over by? By the truck or by its shadow?"

His youngest child spoke up. "The shadow. It couldn't hurt

anybody."

"That's right," continued Barnhouse. "Death is a truck, but the

shadow is all that ever touches the Christian. The truck ran over the

Lord Jesus. Only the shadow passed over mother."

Death is the shadow that hangs over human life. It is the

judgment. It is God's evaluation of your life and mine. Though

impossible to do so, we are constantly attempting to escape the fact

of death. The late William Randolph Hearst forbade anyone to use the

word {death} in his presence. What a contrast to Philip II,

King of Macedon and father of Alexander the Great, who commissioned a

servant to come into his presence daily and solemnly announce,

"Remember, Philip, thou must die."

- G. Curtis Jones, {1000 Illustrations for Preaching and

Teaching, }(Nashville: Broadman Press, 1986) 100

It was late afternoon when the boat's engine sputtered, stalled,

and refused to restart. Gallons of water surged into the craft as it

pitched on sickening, six-foot swells. The five Jaegers had done all

they knew to do, but it wasn't enough. An exciting fishing trip was

now a thing of horror. They were going under.

Grim-faced, George Jaeger, his three sons, and his elderly father

methodically tightened the buckles on their life jackets, tied

themselves together with a rope, and slipped silently into a black and

boiling Atlantic.

George glanced at his watch as the boat finally disappeared - 6:30

p.m. Very little was said. It grew dark. First one boy and then

another swallowed too much saltwater, gagged, and strangled on the

brine as they fought to keep their heads up. The helpless father

heard his sons, one by one, and then his dad choke and drown. But

George couldn't surrender. After eight nightmarish hours, he

staggered onto the shore, still pulling the rope that bound him to the

bodies of the other four. Pause and try to imagine the sight!

"I realized they were all dead - my three boys and my father - but

I guess I didn't want to accept it, so I kept swimming all night

lang," he later told reporters. "My youngest boy, Clifford, was the

first to go. I had always taught our children not to fear death

because it was being with Jesus Christ." Before Cliff died, his dad

heard him say, "I'd rather be with Jesus than go on fighting."

IN that vivid Atlantic memory, George Jaeger had a chance to

witness the impact of his fifteen years as a father. The boys died

quietly, with courage and dignity. Up to the very last minute, one by

one they modeled the truth passed on by their father: When under

pressure, stay calm . . . think . . . even if death is near, keep

under control. So they did, and so they died. When the ultimate test

was administered in an angry sea, they handed in perfect scores.

- Gordon MacDonald, {The Effective Father }(Wheaton: Tyndale

House, 1977) 13-14

SFFeb87

A prominent citizen in town was dying. As he lay in his lovely home, the best doctors surrounding him, he whispered, with a note of despair, "I'm leaving home, I'm leaving home." Across town there lay a solitary figure in surroundings bare. Her modest home contained only the most threadbare of life's essentials. In her eye was a gleam. Before she died she was heard to say, "I'm going home, I'm going home."

Charles Cooper, Prairie Street Mennonite Church, Elkhart, Indiana. 46514

Stephen has always been a freespirited, freebird that couldn't be caged. The world was his playground. Postcards from all areas of the world would reveal a life of travels that would make any vacationer drool, as Stephen lived as the ultimate vagabond traveler.

The family slowly grew accustomed to his surprising appearances home which always seemed to be right around the holidays, but we were all grateful to be together. Just as surprisingly and quick he'd show up, was the same of his leaving. He never was one for good-byes. Tears, hugs, insistence of staying was just not his cup of tea, so he always left unannounced.

It was what he left behind that we learned to hang on to so dearly. His memories of stories past were treated as precious china. Stephen would fill us in on travels that captivated his listening audience. Florida was a place of interest, St. Petersburg being his most memorable. He told of how he worked at a fishing dock, driving local truck for the company. He got to eat all the fish his stomach could handle. “Pretty good benefit,” he would say in his low voice.

Stephen stood 6'2”, was slender and had a face that didn't really seem to age much. His thick dark brown hair made his sisters jealous because it grew so fast and had a beautiful glisten to it as the sun shone upon him.

His driving job didn't last long, so he ventured on to another unknown destination. Mentions of small towns, long roads and fields were a part of his stories.

When I asked him of his most favorite place, he said “London, England.” There was a river that flowed thru town that found Stephen many times on its banks. The river was a good friend to him. It was always there, never put him down and would occasionally share a duck or two.

Being a driver of the country myself, I had visited many of the places in his stories. I'd listen with captivating ease as he unfolded his next excursion, most of which I could relate to.

During the times we were apart, I would be on the road, watching the world thru my windshield. So many places I would like to stop at but can't. Either no time or I was just too big. “No trucks allowed” became a common sight.

I'd pass by a hitchhiker or two and think of Stephen out on another story telling vacation. Finally, after several travel packed years, he settled down in Southern California with some friends. A new life was beginning for him with somewhat a bit more order.

A job had landed him a pretty good cash income and we were able to see Stephen more often. Phone calls were becoming more common as he was beginning to announce each arrival. The scene of what looked to be the poor abandoned child on the doorstep was quickly becoming a faded memory.

I remember one particular Christmas as Stephen announced that he had been recently diagnosed with an illness that would slowly rob him of his life. The family was crushed. Tears and sobs flowed thru the room as the family tried to deal with this major blow. The doctors gave him only a couple or years to live as his insides were slowly being eaten away.

Three years past after that shocking Christmas. The family was grateful that Stephen was still among us. He was only 27 years old when life dealt him this new card. He lead a very full life, mostly all travels that consisted of living on the streets or occasionally landing a job that included living quarters. He was usually quiet, not much for words that explained about himself, except for his stories. Those were elaborate.

I was back on the road, when my pager beeped with a message to call home. Mom told me that Stephen was beginning to get sicker and has now moved back home. Stephen back home? How long will that last? Well, it lasted for the full year that he remained with us. Time was even more precious to us. Doctors were trying their best to encourage us as we watched Stephen slowly lose his life’s battle.

“Beep-beep,” goes my pager again. I'm in Winslow, Arizona headed down to Phoenix. I find a truck stop and dial the unknown phone number. “Mercy Hospital, may I help you?”, the young voice softly says on the other end.

My insides begin to shake as I explain who I am and why I am calling. I'm directed to another area of the hospital and what seems like an eternity, finally connected to my mother. My nerves are overtaking me as I begin to sweat. Thoughts travel a million words a second thru my head as I anticipate what Mom is about to say.

“Jenny,” she calmly and quietly says, “Stephen has just been admitted in the hospital. The doctors say that he is fading fast and he may only have hours or a couple of days left.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat that felt as big as a rock. I couldn't think. Tears began to well up in my eyes. Breathing became harder to accomplish. Just then I felt a soft touch on my shoulder as my husband stood behind me. He calmly said, “you're going home.”

That was all it took, The tears became a major downpour. I tried to speak as I told Mom, “I'm coming home.”

Arrangements were easy. I was taking a plane. I explained to the travel agent that I needed to fly from Salt Lake City, Utah to Sacramento, California.

“When do you need to go, Ma'am?” The gentleman on the other end asked. He sounded young and very professional. His voice was low and quiet, as I pictured him to be in his mid 20's.

“Tomorrow, as soon as possible, can I do that?” I was nervously speaking to him. The words came out as it seemed I was gasping for air. It was quite warm outside, yet I seemed to be freezing. I've never flown in a large plane before. My emotions were scurrying in all directions. The fear of flying and the need to be with my brother, NOW!!

“No problem, ma'am” he interrupts my thoughts. “The cost will be $300.” He almost seemed cold when he told me of the cost.

“Oh dear, um...gosh, that's a lot of money.” My voice cracks and shakes even more. “I'm on my way home to see my brother. He's...he's dying and is in the hospital now.”

“Oh...” the man seemed to jump at that word. “Well that's different, we can get you on a bereavance flight at 9am tomorrow. That cost will only be $150.”

Wow, what a difference. I suddenly began to feel more relaxed. A warm feeling of accomplishment was slowly coming over me.

I called home again and explained my arrangements. I would leave at 9am and arrive in Sacramento at 10:30 am. No problem. My sisters would pick me up there and take me to the hospital in Redding where Stephen is.

II

My husband and I were taking care of a delivery in Phoenix, Arizona. It seemed to take an eternity. We were loaded with 40,000 pounds of dog food. “Unload your trailer?” a lumper had asked us. He looked small and scrawny, but what he lacked in size, he made up in energy. We went ahead and hired him. He was probably not more that 25 years old, and his muscular build showed of good hard work.

We made the arrangements for him to do the work. He was fast. Only 4 hours to receive a well earned $100. It seemed a bit expensive to us, but other concerns were occupying our minds right now.

III

We're now headed to Salt Lake City. I called Mom at home from Phoenix. “Everything is still okay,” she said. “Stephen is talking, eating a little food and looking forward to seeing you.” She was quiet and calm and said that she was pretty numb inside right now.

“Thanks Mom,” I said quietly. My insides seemed to well up again. This roller coaster ride was beginning to really take its toll on me.

“Mom, can you give Steve a message for me? Please tell him that I love him and give him a big hug and kiss for me.” I could picture my brother patting me on the back and saying, “I love you too, little sister.

Stephen always enjoyed calling me 'little sister' as he was much taller. I was the oldest of all five children, but Stephen was by far the tallest. He was also the only boy, besides Dad of course.

Pictures revealed that Dad and Stephen were very much alike. Tall, slender and very handsome. Dark thick hair adorned Stephens head, while Dad was beginning to shine a bit more glory on top of his.

IV

We headed up Interstate 17 on our way to Salt Lake City. I knew I could never sleep, so I wanted to do the driving. I found myself rocking back and forth in the drivers seat trying to coax the truck to go forward quicker. It wasn't working, but it gave me something to do. My brother is fighting a losing battle, and I wanted to be there with him.

There was so much going through my head. So much I wanted to apologize for. Like the day I punched him in the stomach when I wanted to ride the tire swing first. I hit him so hard that he doubled over and began coughing. I immediately panicked and told him he could ride first. “Just don't tell Mom I hit you!” He agreed, not only to riding first, but having both of us ride at the same time.

Stephen got inside the tire, while I sat on top and hung onto the flimsy hose we used to tie it to the tree. Mom and Dad didn't know we were using their brand new garden hose for our fun.

We began to swing and gain height, speed and momentum. Just then, squeek...crack...and crash! The hose broke and two laughing, giggling kids suddenly were silenced as we fell hard to the ground. After a few silent seconds, we busted out in a laughter so loud and hard, that our stomachs began to hurt.

I reminisced of all the long walks we took around town. Our adventures took us to places that now make me shudder in fear. Cat walks under train tressels were our favorite. There was one in particular that spanned over one mile and stretched over a huge river. It took us two hours to walk it. When a train would approach, we had to lay down on the walk, wrap our arms and legs around the boards and hang on tight. The vibration from the locomotives were so intense that we wouldn't breath until it passed.

Our young lives were so full of mischievous acts that I'm surprised that Mom and Dad still have hair. Dinner always seemed to be served to us cold. Could it be because we weren't on time? Oh well, we slowly ate through it again and again.

My thought takes a break as I notice that I have just passed the rest area below Flagstaff, Arizona. I am overcome with a feeling of sudden nervousness. It's the same kind of palm sweating, adrenaline building, type of fear you feel when you realize you have forgotten something very important.

So I go on to Flagstaff to a truckstop there. I was going to go non-stop to Salt Lake, but this feeling told me not to wait.

The weather was blistering hot in Arizona, so we went into the well air cooled restaurant. The scurry of waitresses revealed a packed house. That's okay, they can avoid me for awhile so I can use the phone without interruption.

I nervously pick up the phone, take a deep breath and dial my parents house. It rings once...twice...I sweat. A couple of clicks sound and a voice says, “hello?”

“Mom, it's Jenny,” I say, trying to breath at the same time. I begin shaking inside again.

“Jenny! How did you know to call me?” Mom was quite loud this time with an excited tone in her voice.

“I don't know, Mom. I just had this odd feeling about a half hour ago to check in.” I was almost feeling exhausted as my emotions had been in full gear the past couple of hours. This break felt good, but it was quickly draining me of any energy I had left.

“Well, I am on hold right now with your company, waiting for someone to answer. The operator put me on hold 15 minutes ago.” Mom said.

It was Memorial Day. The staff at the terminal's were down to a skeleton crew as I explained to her. That's why no one is answering the phones.

I heard a deep breath being taken on the other end of the line. Mom very quietly began to speak. “Jenny, your brother passed on about a half hour ago.”

Silence...It seemed forever. “How's Daddy?” My voice cracked out.

“Here he is,” She handed the phone to him.

“Hi Jenny, um...mm...I love you.” That was all he could say.

I couldn't handle it anymore. The tears were more than I could handle. I couldn't breath. I was gasping for air as Mom took the phone back from Dad.

“Mom, I'm still coming home. I'll be there tomorrow. Michael says I can stay for as long as I need.”

A few days later we were all gathered at the cemetery. It was a bright sunny day. The temperature was fairly comfortable as a slight breeze was occasionally offered as a relief. Flowers adorned all the other headstones marking the Memorial Day remembrance.

It was a fairly large cemetery. Rich green grass lay below huge oak trees that offered shade to the ones resting peacefully below. A bird could be heard chirping a song in the distance. There was a cat strolling across the lawn as though he'd been through there many times before.

The family took turns sharing their memories and thoughts of Stephen. We had a very simple outdoor memorial service. He meant a lot to us, but never wanted anyone to fuss over him. The words that stick so vividly in our heads even to this day was said by Mom, “this is the first time that we all know exactly where Stephen is.”

At 30 years old, the rebel of staying in one place is finally at rest. Stephen is at a peace that he has never seen before. Little brother, I love you and always will remember you.

This is based on a true story of my brother. I have been an unpublished writer of short stories and poems since my early school years. I enjoy writing and find myself many times waking up in the middle of the night to jot a rough draft out. I have been a driver of America's roads for the past several years. Thank you for this opportunity to share my talents with so many of your readers.

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Send your comments to the author of this short story.

Email: MrsBluBrd@aol.com

What do people think about on their death beds, and what do

they say? Here is a sample: Murderer Richard Loeb was a trifle

optimistic about his survival after being stabbed 56 times by a fellow

convict in 1936: "I think I'm going to make it!" James Rodgers

replied to the question whether he had a last request before facing a

firing squad: "Why yes, a bulletproof vest."

Legendary swashbuckler Douglas Fairbanks must have been confused

before giving up the ghost in 1939 because his famous last words

were: "Never felt better." William Palmer, who was hanged in 1856,

was told to step on the scaffold's trap door. "Is it safe?" he asked.

Charles Wood, a murderer who died in the electric chair in 1963, faced

witnesses and quipped: "Gents, this is an educational project. You

are about to witness the damaging effect electricity has on wood."

Finally, Phineas T. Barnum, believed by some to be the greatest

ballyhoo artist in history, was interested in the almighty dollar

right up to his last moment on earth. His last words: "How were the

receipts today at Madison Square Garden?" It's really tragic their

thoughts are not on the God they are about to meet. --George Gipes

Edith Rockefeller McCormick, the daughter of John D. Rockefeller, maintained a large household staff. She applied one rule to every servant without exception: they were not permitted to speak to her. The rule was broken only once, when word arrived at the family's country retreat that their young son had died of scarlet fever. The McCormicks were hosting a dinner party, but following a discussion in the servants' quarters it was decided that Mrs. McCormick needed to know right away. When the tragic news was whispered to her, she merely nodded her head and the party continued without interruption.

What a picture of the world's attitude toward death! Try to ignore it. Brush it off. Don't let it ruin the party. But as hard as the world works to deny the reality of death, nothing can stave off the inevitability of life's final transition.

-- The Little Brown Book of Anecdotes

As a young man, D.L. Moody was called upon to suddenly to preach a funeral sermon. He hunted all through out the Four Gospels trying to find one of Christ’s funeral sermons, but searched in vain. He found that Christ broke up every funeral He attended.

Death could not exist where He was. When the dead heard His voice they sprang to life. Jesus said, I am the resurrection, and the life (John 11:25).

=============

Another version from Rev. Don Robinson's sermon "Power Of Life" (Kerux Sermon #12225)

Early in Dwight L. Moody’s ministry he was called upon to do his first funeral. He wanted to do it right, so he went to the Bible to consider how Jesus would have done it.

Moody found an amazing truth -- Jesus didn’t hold funeral services! Whenever Jesus came into contact with those who were dead he gave them life!

Whilst visiting the beautiful island of Tasmania my attention

was often called, nay, arrested, to huge trees which appear as

bleached ghosts of the forest. They stand out in the brilliant

moonlight with a weirdness alike surprising and magnificent. The

reason of their condition is as follows: On account of their

great size and the heavy cost of what is called 'grubbing up,'

the settler leaves them in the ground and proceeds to hew round

the trunk at the height of about four feet from the ground. The

axe cuts through the bark, and about an inch into the tree. The

effect is, that when next spring comes the sap from the 'gashed

wound' exudes, and the giant of the forest dies. The branches

wither, the leaves fall off, the bark strips, and a single year

suffices for these trees to join the army of the upright dead.

The farmer can now plough the ground between, sow his corn, and

reap the harvest in the huge mausoleum of the forest. No

sheltering foliage hinders the sun's rays, and the wheat plant

thrives and ripens amidst hundreds of towering trees whose only

voice is the silence of the dead. (Dict. of Ill. #1459)

Even thus, individual Christians and entire denominations can lose

the life of God's Spirit and be left standing physically, or

organizationally, alive but dead spiritually. --Duane V. Maxey

A Burmese Christian tells the following parable: A little

banyan seed said to a palm tree one day, "I am weary of being

tossed about by the wind; let me lodge in your branches."

"Remain as long as you like," was the reply. Soon the tree

forgot all about its tiny guest, but the seed did not remain

idle. Immediately it began to work its roots under the bark and

into the heart of the trunk itself. Finally the tree cried out,

"What are you doing?" "I'm only the little seed you allowed to

rest among your boughs," came the reply. "Get out!" exclaimed

the palm. "You've become too large and strong!" "I cannot

leave you now," said the banyan. "We have grown together, and I

would kill you if I tore myself away." The tree tried desperately to

shake itself loose, but to no avail. Eventually its graceful leaves

turned brown, and its trunk wasted away; but the banyan continued to

thrive until its host could not longer be found.

Yes, a little seed can develop into a parasitic plant and do great

damage. In like manner, a tiny sin that is not confessed and forsaken

can grow into an overpowering habit that chokes a Christian's

spiritual vitality and ruins his life.

In his book The Best is Yet to Be, Henry Durbanville told the

story of a man who lay dying and was fearful, even though he was

a born-again Christian. He expressed his feelings to his Christian

doctor. The physician was silent, not knowing what to say. Just then

a whining and scratching was heard at the door. When the doctor

opened it, in bounded his big, beautiful dog, who often went with him

as he made house calls. The dog was glad to see his master. Sensing

an opportunity to comfort his troubled patient, the doctor said, "My

dog has never been in your room before, and he didn't know what it was

like in here. But he knew I was here, and that was enough. In the

same way, I'm looking forward to heaven. I don't know much about it,

but I know my Savior is there. And that's all I need to know!"

A dying sailor was near his end, and the death-sweat stood upon his brow. A friend said, "Well, mate, how is it with you now?" The dying man, with a smile, made answer, "The anchor holds! The anchor holds!"

God grant that every one of us may be able to say this, for His name's sake. Amen.

Charles Simeon wrote, "One time it was my privilege to watch

the ascent of a balloon. It was bound to the earth by many

cords. As the process of filling it with gas began, it struggled to

get free. The first line was cut, and immediately that side was lifted

from the earth. Then the second and third ropes were loosened, and

finally the others. When the last cord was snapped asunder, the

balloon rose majestically toward the heavens, showing the high

destination for which it struggled to get free.

I thought to myself, that's a picture of the attitude I should

possess as a Christian -- one whose affection is set on Heaven. In

proportion as my heart is filled with the Holy Spirit's presence, I

will demonstrate my aspiration and earnest longing for an eternal

inheritance. As one by one the carnal cords are cut that bind my soul

to earth, it will rise in its affection to Heaven where it so greatly

desires to be."