200 Sermon Illustrations on Faithfulness

You can go down into the narrow vault which Nero built as a retreat from the great heat, and you will find the walls painted all over with fanciful designs in arabesque, which have been buried beneath the earth fifteen hundred years; but when the peasants light it up with their torches, the colors flash out before you as fresh as they were in the days of St. Paul.

— WENDELL PHILLIPS

Instances of almost human fidelity are common among deer. We have several times been witness of them. On one occasion we had wounded a good stag late in the evening; the herd broke away, leaving him alone. In a few minutes another fine stag, evidently his friend, detached himself from the herd and galloped back to where the first lay wounded in a burn (brook). It got so dark that we could only tell the whereabouts of the wounded beast by seeing the other standing by his side. We crawled up to about a hundred yards of him, but still could not see the one we had shot. We stood up, expecting he would jump up and make a run for it, but he was too badly hit. Walking on, we at last saw his gray head in the heather, and a bullet finished him. Still the devoted friend kept close by and would not leave the spot. We had not the heart to shoot the poor beast after he had given proof of such wonderful fidelity, and at last had almost to drive him away.--Lord Walsingham and Sir RALPH PAYNE-GALLWEY, “Shooting.”

An English farmer sent his hired boy to prevent a party of gentlemen from riding over his fields. The leader of the huntsmen peremptorily ordered him to open the gate. Upon his refusal, he said shortly, “Boy, do you know who I am? I am the Duke of Wellington, and I am not accustomed to disobedience. I command you to open this gate.” The boy lifted his cap and stood unawed before the “man of iron will,” and said in a firm voice, “I am sure the Duke of Wellington would not wish me to disobey the orders of my employer, who tells me not to suffer any one to pass.” The Duke sat his horse for a moment, and then looking stedfastly at the boy, lifted his own hat and replied, “I honor the man or boy who is faithful to his duty, and who can neither be bribed or frightened into doing wrong.” He handed a bright new sovereign to the boy, who had done what Napoleon could not do; he had kept back the Duke of Wellington.--JAMES T. WHITE, “Character Lessons.”

The wrecking of the _Maine_, happening at night, was so sudden and the convulsion was over in so brief a time, that a chance for a display of heroism seemed next to impossible; and yet, in the terror of that awful scene, every surviving man immediately recovered himself and stood to his discipline. Not one comrade was forsaken by another. The last seen of the lost lieutenant was at the turret under his charge, weak and staggering with his wounds. The marine on duty, true to his habit of service, rushed through a dark passage flooded with water, and reported that the ship had been blown up and was sinking. It did not occur to him to save himself until his duty was done. Officers and men, in danger of being swamped by the death struggle of the ship, rowed around her, trying to save life, and careless of their own. The captain was the last to leave the ship. No man sought his own safety at the sacrifice of another, nor sought it first.--_Youth’s Companion._

One of the Copes had but just written his check for $50 for some local charity, when a messenger announced the wreck of an East Indiaman belonging to the firm, and that the ship and cargo were a total loss. Another check for $500 was substituted at once, and given to the agent of the hospital with the remark: “What I have God gave me, and before it all goes, I had better put some of it where it can never be lost.” (Text.)

— NOAH HUNT SCHENCK

On the deck of the _Republic_ (January, 1909), when the passengers had all departed, when Captain Sealby was left alone with his men, with his ship, he stood before them. His voice shook a little.

“Men of the _Republic_,” he said, “I am proud of you. You have acquitted yourselves like men. I look upon no coward. The darkness is drawing on”--it was then four o’clock Saturday afternoon--“and the passengers are gone. You have now the right to leave this vessel. She may sink; she may not--I can not say. But you have done your duty; the boats are at your disposal--”

“How about you, captain?” interrupted a voice.

“I shall stand by the ship,” was the reply.

And then, in chorus, came a great shout:

“And we’ll stand by with you, captain.”

So they did, until, later in the evening, the captain compelled all but fifty men to leave the vessel.

It is related that one day, when the arctic explorer Nansen was battling with the ice-floes in the Polar seas, a carrier-pigeon tapped at the window of Mrs. Nansen’s home at Christiania. Instantly the casement was opened, and the wife of the famous arctic explorer in another moment covered the little messenger with kisses and caresses. The carrier-pigeon had been away from the cottage thirty long months, but it had not forgotten the way home. It brought a note from Nansen stating that all was going well with him and his expedition in the Polar regions. He had fastened the message to the frail courier, and turned it loose into the frigid air. It flew like an arrow over a thousand miles of frozen waste, and then sped forward over another thousand miles of ocean and plain and forests, and one morning entered the window of the waiting mistress, and delivered the message for which she had been waiting so anxiously. (Text.)

Sir Michael Costa was once rehearsing with a vast array of performers and hundreds of voices, when, in the mighty chorus, amid the thunder of the organ, and the roll of drums, and the blare of brass instruments, and the clashing of cymbals, he suddenly stopt and exclaimed, “Where is the piccolo?” That little instrument had ceased to play, and the great master of music missed it.

So in life’s chorus, the least man can make or mar it by faithfulness or neglect. (Text.)

See VANITY.

PRIDE IN ONE’S TASK

The following is told of John F. Stevens, who was appointed by President Roosevelt to take charge of the Panama Canal:

Sometime in the seventies, and somewhere in Arizona, both the time and place where the Apaches were very seriously on the warpath, it became necessary to send a message across a hundred or two miles of desert. There was offered a reward of five hundred dollars to the man who would carry it. The peril was undeniable and nobody seemed to consider the reward worth the probable cost of it. But presently John Stevens undertook to deliver the message. He eluded the Apaches and made the journey successfully on foot, but declined the five hundred dollars. The thing had been there to do; he preferred to do it for its own sake. (Text.)--_American Magazine._

“Oh, grandpa,” said Charlie, “see how white the apple-trees are with blossoms.”

“Yes,” replied grandpa; “if the tree keeps its promises, there will be plenty of apples; but if it is like some boys I know there may not be any.”

“What do you mean by keeping its promises?” Charley inquired.

“Why,” returned grandpa, “blossoms are only the tree’s promises, just as the promises little boys make sometimes are blossoms. Sometimes the frost nips these blossoms, both on the tree and in the boy.”

“I see,” Charlie remarked; “then you think when I promise to be a better boy, I am only in blossom. But I’ll show you that the frost can’t nip my blossoms.”--_The Young Evangelist._

* * * * *

About three weeks after the capture of Fort Donelson slanders and misrepresentations sent to Washington resulted in removing General Grant from his command. Colonel Nicholas Smith, in “Grant the Man of Mystery,” tells how Grant behaved under this unjust treatment. Grant said:

When I was ordered to remain behind it was the cause of much astonishment among the troops of my command, and also disappointment. I never allowed a word of contradiction to go out from my headquarters. You need not fear but what I shall come out triumphantly. I am pulling no wires, as political generals do, to advance myself. I have no future ambition. My object is to carry on my part of this war successfully, and I am perfectly willing that others may make all the glory they can out of it.

General Nelson A. Miles, when head of the army, used to be continually besieged by cranks with pneumatic rapid-firing guns, dirigible war balloons, and other martial inventions. But the general would weed these cranks out with admirable speed. An inventor, quoted in the New York _Independent_, says:

“I sat in his office with him one day when a servant brought in a card. ‘Oh, send him in,’ said General Miles. ‘His business won’t take more than a minute or two.’ So in came a wild-eyed, long-haired man, twisting his soft hat nervously in both hands. ‘General,’ he said, ‘I have here’--and he took out a small parcel--‘a bullet-proof army coat. If the Government would adopt this--’ ‘Put it on. Put it on,’ said General Miles, and he rang the bell. The servant appeared as the inventor was getting into the coat. ‘Jones,’ said the general, ‘tell the captain of the guard to order one of his men to load his rifle with ball and cartridge and--’ ‘Excuse me, general, I forgot something,’ interrupted the inventor, and with a hunted look he disappeared.”

We have come to a time when multitudes are tired of law, and duty, honor, justice, and the old solid and substantial virtues of the fathers. Now and then this rebellious mood voices itself in the lips of some restless youth who exclaims boldly, “I hate the very word duty.” Men are become like the cattle in the clover-field, that once the appetite is satisfied, tire of walking around knee-deep in rich, luscious grasses, and stick their heads through the fence, to strain toward the dog’s kennel in the dusty lane. It is a singular fact that a colt in the field, up to its ears in clover, as soon as it has eaten and is full, envies the poor old forsaken horse, out in the lane, a mere bag of bones, deserted by its owner and left to die, and eating dirt in its hungry desire for a single mouthful of grass-roots.

— N. D. HILLIS

Fred Craddock, in an address to ministers, caught the practical implications of consecration. "To give my life for Christ appears glorious," he said. "To pour myself out for others ... to pay the ultimate price of martyrdom -- I'll do it. I'm ready, Lord, to go out in a blaze of glory.

"We think giving our all to the Lord is like taking a $1,000 bill and laying it on the table -- 'Here's my life, Lord. I'm giving it all.'

"But the reality for most of us is that he sends us to the bank and has us cash in the $1,000 for quarters. We go through life putting out 25 cents here and 50 cents there. Listen to the neighbor kid's troubles instead of saying, 'Get lost'. Go to a committee meeting. Give a cup of water to a shaky old man in a nursing home.

"Usually giving our life to Christ isn't glorious. It's done in all those little acts of love, 25 cents at a time. It would be easy to go out in a flash of glory; it's harder to live the Christian life little by little over the long haul."

In Minor Prophets series. Habakkuk 2:4 and justification by faith alone.

1. Context of faith in Habakkuk 2:4.

a. Saving faith.

b. Living faith.

2. Influence on Luther and Reformation.

3. Jesus plus me?

a. Roman Catholics. See Christianity Today, 11/7/86, page 26.

b. Jehovah Witnesses.

Stories from the underground church in Russia never fail to jolt us awake. I came across another one just this past week. A house church in a city of the Soviet Union received one copy of the Gospel by Luke, the only Scripture most of these Christians had ever seen. They tore it into small sections and distributed them among the body of believers. Their plan was to memorize the portion they had been given, then on the next Lord's Day they would meet and redistribute the scriptural sections.

On Sunday these believers arrived inconspicuously in small groups throughout the day so as not to arouse the suspicion of KGB informers. By dusk they were all safely inside, windows closed and doors locked. They began by singing a hymn quietly but with deep emotion. Suddenly, the door was pushed open and in walked two soldiers with loaded automatic weapons at the ready. One shouted, "All right -- everybody line up against the wall. If you wish to renounce your commitment to Jesus Christ, leave now!"

Two or three quickly left, then another. After a few more seconds, two more.

"This is your last chance. Either turn against your faith in Christ," he ordered, "stay and suffer the consequences."

Another left. Finally, two more in embarrassed silence with their faces covered slipped out into the night. No one else moved. Parents with small children trembling beside them looked down reassuringly. They fully expected to be gunned down or at best, to be imprisoned.

After a few minutes of complete silence, the other soldier closed the door, looked back at those who stood against the wall and said, "Keep your hands up -- but this time in praise to our Lord Jesus Christ, brothers and sisters. We, too, are Christians. We were sent to another house church several weeks ago to arrest a group of believers--" The other soldier interrupted, "But, instead, we were converted! We have learned by experience, however, that unless people are willing to die for their faith, they cannot be fully trusted."

In segments of the world where Bibles are plentiful and churches are protected, faith can run awfully shallow. Commitment can stay rather lukewarm. Eagles can learn to fly dangerously low. "What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly."

{see #7884 for briefer variant}

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Similar episode, probably legendary, from the internet:

There is a story floating around cyberspace about a church service that was allegedly interrupted by a squad of armed men dressed in black with black ski masks covering their faces. They supposedly burst into the full church and fired into the ceiling. The leader stepped forward and announced, "If you're not willing to take a bullet for God leave now." There was a stampede of parishioners who raced for the exits. The minister was left standing at the pulpit with a mere dozen remaining in the congregation. The masked leader announced, "OK, preacher, we got rid of the hypocrites. You can continue with your service." The masked gunmen left.

Email, submitted by Rev. Dick Lewis

January 27, 2000

A few years ago a researcher named Linda Wolfe wrote a book on infidelity in marriage. She interviewed 66 women and found that 21 of them were having affairs to preserve their marriage. Five years later the author checked up on them to see if it worked. Only 3 out of 21 were still married - fully 81% were divorced.

A year ago, the front page of The Alabama Baptist (July 23, 1998) carried the story of the death of my wife, Eleanor. The 12 months since have been the longest time span imaginable. Many nights knew no end. Days dragged by. Hour upon hour was spent staring at the same page of books not realizing I had read them over and over again and still could not understand what they said. Frequently I hid behind closed doors of the office so no one would know how many tears I shed or how often they came.

At the same time, the 12 months have gone by so fast. It seems unreal that it has been a full year since I regained consciousness on the side of a street in Durban, South Africa; since Eleanor and I held hands as we lay on gurneys in the emergency room of St. Augustine Hospital; since the doctor came with the terrible news that Eleanor had lost consciousness.

To help me get through this season of remembrance, I am keeping a journal. The first entry each day is what I recall of that day one year ago. Every word brings memories as fresh and vivid as if it were yesterday. A year ago? It cannot be, I want to say, but the calendar does not lie.

Life is forever changed. Life is still changing.

A new friend shared a biblical analogy that aptly describes part of what happened to me during the past 12 months. She said those who deeply grieve are like the invalid in Luke 5 who could not get to Jesus. Friends had to carry him into the presence of the Lord. During these 12 months, I have been carried.

I have been carried by family, by co-workers, by directors, by fellow church members and by friends. The list goes on and on. I have been amazed by the number of individuals I did not know who indicated they have prayed for me. At the recent Southern Baptist Convention in Atlanta, people stopped me on the street and spoke to me in lunch lines to assure me of their prayers. I continue to need them.

To all those who carried me, I am indebted. To each one, I am grateful. Your prayers, your encouragement, your help, your strength and your love helped me through this first year. Thank you. Through you, God provided the care I needed to face the issues caused by Eleanor's untimely death. I am among the fortunate. People have allowed me to grieve. I have not been told to "get over it" or "it has been long enough." I am told a year anniversary makes a difference in grieving. For me, however, I faced the same problems on day 366 that existed on day 365.

People still ask, "How are you doing?" and I still do not know how to respond. I could answer them by reflecting on the past 12 months. I could tell them the things I did right and the things I did wrong. I could answer the question by recounting my physical progress -- seven surgeries completed, one to go. If all goes well, the doctors' duties will be complete in December. I am jogging again, up to at least three miles three or four times a week.

I could answer the "How are you doing?" question by reporting present activities. I am working full time trying to carry on the responsibilities of the editor of the state Baptist paper. I've resumed preaching after a layoff of several months. Six of the last seven weeks I have been privileged to preach in Alabama Baptist churches. Grief group, now meeting once every two weeks, is still an important time for me.

I could answer the question by looking to the future, referencing attempts to pick up an old hobby and learn a new skill. I could talk about wanting to meet new people. I could even answer the question from a theological perspective and talk about the spiritual lessons I am learning on this walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

The problem with any answer is I still do not know the path through this experience. That means I still do not know if I am doing things right or wrong. I only know my experience -- and I know that in retrospect. I do not know if I am making good decisions for today or making foolish decisions about tomorrow. I really do not know how I am doing. That is why I usually say, "I'm still here." It is not intended as a funny answer. It acknowledges an accomplishment.

One thing of which I am sure is the faithfulness of God. Even though my prayers were not answered as I was confident they would be, God has been "a very present help in time of trouble." Through his Spirit, through his Word and through his people, God worked. He provided strength when I had none. He accepted and understood when all I could do was scream in confusion and anger. He guided, sometimes corrected, the steps I took. God forgave my mistakes. He loved me, even when I was too numb to feel his presence.

Today I do not cling to life as firmly as I did a year ago. Nor do I abhor death as much. The loss of Eleanor has changed my understanding of both life and death. But because of the experiences of the past year, I do hold to God more firmly than ever. I know God loves me and cares for me and will never forsake me. I know God is faithful.

*

Stuck on the Road to Emmaus: The secret to why we are not fulfilled.

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They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”

-- LUKE 24:32, NRSV

Frankly, it’s hard to figure out in middle-class, twentieth-century North America what it means to follow Jesus. It’s hard to discern what dying to self looks like in any given instance. Do I pursue a job promotion, or is this “selfish ambition and vain conceit”? Do I take a holiday in the Bahamas, or is this a damnable failure to be “rich toward God,” a failure to give to someone in need when I have material possessions? Can I buy a season’s pass at a ski resort, or is this gross self-indulgence?

Most Christians I meet feel stuck. They started a journey, but somewhere, somehow, got stranded. They feel like they’re living on the border. There they sit, swapping rumors about God. Or they just stop talking about God at all. They can talk about everything else with ease and eloquence, but their tongues thicken, twist, grow mute about naming and proclaiming God. And this: they feel that the most their faith amounts to is just that: mere talk. They’ve joined a talking cult.

Where is this huge, exultant freedom for which Christ set us free? Why do I still fret over downturns in Asian markets, get irked by reckless or doddering drivers, harbor grudges over petty slights, care more about my rhododendron bush than about the soul of the boy who broke its branches playing street hockey? Why can I sustain a capacity to explore, in my mind, vast tracts of an imaginary world, but can barely focus my prayers on God for more than 30 seconds at a go?

The most wondrous, breath-taking truth I’ve ever contemplated is the story of the triune God and his ways with humanity -- with me. But a fly tapping on the window can distract me from this story. Ten minutes of my morning set aside for appropriating the story’s meaning into my life seems a sacrifice, and sometimes, just a nuisance.

As a pastor, I hear and see all the time those who want to have a deeper, richer experience with Christ, but they find themselves instead whiling away their days. Their days pass in a blurring swiftness and yet drag on in a dreary sameness -- in jobs they dislike, in relationships that baffle and hurt them, with financial worries and health problems.

They don’t feel fulfilled. And they carry a secret dread: Is there more, and I’m the only one missing it? Or worse: Is this it, and everyone’s pretending it’s enough?

Jesus, newly risen from the dead, joins with two of his disciples -- one’s name is Cleopas, and the other is not named -- as they walk to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13–35). Jesus asks what they are discussing. Gloomily, they tell him about “Jesus of Nazareth,” a “prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people.” They speak about how the religious rulers handed him over to be crucified. “But we had hoped,” they say, “that he was the one to redeem Israel.” They tell about the rumors told by womenfolk -- more troubling than consoling -- of his resurrection. One thing is for sure: the tomb is empty, bodiless.

Jesus listens, and then speaks. “Oh, how foolish you are,” he says, “and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?”

When they arrive at the village, these two persuade Jesus -- whom they still do not recognize -- to eat with them. He does, and as Jesus breaks the bread, gives thanks, and gives it to them, “their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ “

The heart condition of these people is actually twofold: slow and burning. That is a strange affliction, and, I think, common. One definition of Christ’s followers might be that: people of the slow, burning heart. Sorrow and hope, awe and self-pity, wonder and worry, believing and doubting, yes and no mix loosely in us, tugging us one way, jostling us another. Jesus walks the road with us. But we can look straight at him and not recognize him. Jesus opens the Scriptures to us and often something happens within -- a warming sometimes, a scorching at others. And just at those moments when finally the scales fall from our eyes and we see that, behold, it is he, it is Jesus! -- at that wondrous moment, he often up and vanishes.

Our encounters with the risen Christ are mostly like that: enigmatic, fleeting, mere glimpses, little ambushes. And we’re left with the question, “Didn’t our hearts burn within us? Didn’t they?”

For the last two years, I have been invited to speak, briefly, to a group of men and women enrolled in a 12-step program our church offers. As the pastor, I am to assure these people that if they get stuck anywhere in the journey, I can help: diagnose accurately, treat effectively, and heal.

Both times I’ve done this, I have felt sorely inadequate. Some of these people -- you can see it in their faces -- have homemade maps of hell tattooed into their flesh. I’ve felt like a kid who studied a book on the Vietnam War talking to veterans who lost eyes, limbs, buddies, and part of their souls in that place. What have I to say to them?

I tell them the story of the road to Emmaus. I tell them that there is a way that grief both blinds us to Christ and yet also makes us see him like we never have before. This journey -- whether 12 steps or 12 million steps -- is haunted by “what ifs” and “whys,” by the pain of loss. It is a journey of nostalgia and lament. One refrain of the journey is “but we had hoped... .” (v. 21). I tell them that Jesus walks with us but seldom do we recognize him. When we do, the moment of epiphany, the moment of seeing the risen Christ before us, is often sparked and sealed, not by grand gestures, but by simple, homely things, like nail marks in the hand, like the breaking of bread in thankfulness. I tell them that just as suddenly as we can see Jesus appear, suddenly he can disappear again. I tell them we are the slow-hearted and the burning-hearted, the two things criss-crossing each other.

OUR ENCOUNTERS WITH THE RISEN CHRIST ARE MOSTLY LIKE THAT; ENIGMATIC, FLEETING, MERE GLIMPSES, LITTLE AMBUSHES.

One of our persistent cultural myths is the myth of fulfillment -- the promise that, on this earth, the fullness of all I truly need and all I really desire awaits. And it’s not just a Hollywood myth. It’s a Christian one, too. Maybe it’s especially Christian.

Me, I’m one book away from fulfillment, one conference shy, one significant experience or insight short. If I’m slain in the Spirit, or attend a marriage retreat, or go on a missions trip, or get involved in a real community of fellow believers, or pray more, I will be fulfilled. That’s the myth. It pushes and lures me personally. It is the constant thing I am asked to dispense as a pastor, apothecary-like, to all the spiritually, emotionally, physically unfulfilled people who come to me.

The problem is, I don’t see fulfillment this side of the Jordan promised in Scripture. I see joy promised and peace. But also tribulation, soul-piercing. I see that the “great cloud of witnesses” who surround us, cheering us on, have among them those who “faced jeers and flogging ... were chained and put in prison ... were stoned ... sawed in two ... went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated ... wandered in deserts and mountains, and in caves and holes in the ground.” What’s more, “none of them received what had been promised” (Heb. 11:36–39, NIV).

The portrait of the faithful is not a portrait of the fulfilled. What defines them -- what defines all of us on the road to Emmaus -- is hope. What defines them is a slow, burning heart. What defines them is a yearning: knowing in their bones, in spite of loss or sorrow or aloneness, that there is Something more, Something else, Something better. What defines them is a hauntedness, a shaky but unshakable conviction that the Christ they see now through a glass darkly, in little fleeting puzzling glimpses, they will see one day face-to-face.

But for now, on this road, their slow hearts burn.

We don’t know anything more about these two disciples on the road. We read on, and Luke tells us that they ran to tell the other 11 disciples, and that Jesus himself showed up again: calming their doubts, demonstrating his resurrection, opening their minds to the Scriptures, commissioning them for world missions, promising to endow them with power from on high (Luke 24:36–53).

But these two get lost in the crowd. Who is Cleopas? He flits into the story and then out, never heard from again. Who is the other one? She or he hides forever behind a thick scrim of anonymity. Unlike Peter, whose rashness and cowardice and then unflinching courage stamp him with vividness; unlike Thom as, whose mix of stubborn doubting and steadfast believing evoke the man with particularity; unlike Paul, whose gruffness and tenderness, canniness and honesty, irritableness and long-suffering make him unmistakable, unforgettable: unlike such as these, these two are mere silhouettes. We see them in dark outline, devoid of feature.

Except this: their hearts are slow and burning. They are, I think, Everyman.

Were they fulfilled after this? No more fights with the spouse? No more shouting at the kids? No more days of feeling -- you know that feeling -- both empty and heavy inside? No more doubting, no more despairing, no more fretting over whether the trickle of money will ever catch up with the torrent of bills? Never again missing the risen Jesus in their midst?

We don’t know, because we’re not told. But if the stories of the other disciples give any clue, the best response to the question, Were they fulfilled? is to answer, That’s the wrong question. Was Paul fulfilled? Was Peter? Was John? It’s the wrong question.

Fulfillment is heaven’s business. What Paul, Peter, John, Cleopas, and the other one knew was that the thing they had hoped for -- that Jesus is the one who is going to redeem not just Israel, but the whole world -- is a sure hope. Their yearning was not a hollow wistfulness, a whistling in the dark. It was, in fact, a homing device in the heart, drawing them on no matter how long the road, no matter that the “day is almost over” (v. 29), no matter that their hearts are slow with doubt and broken with grief. Even then -- especially then -- their hearts still burn, and they know this journey is a good one, leading Somewhere.

And it’s never taken alone.

______________________________________

Mark Buchanan is pastor of the New Life Community Church, Duncan, British Columbia, Canada.

Copyright (c) 1999 by the author or Christianity Today, Inc./CHRISTIANITY TODAY magazine. July 12, 1999, Vol. 43, No. 8, Page 55

Hachi was a Japanese dog who used to go with his master to the RR station each AM and wait for his return in the evening. One night in 1925 the master did not return, having died in another city. For over ten years this dog went to the same station each evening waiting for his master. After about an hour, he trotted home. This faithfulness prompted the Japanese gov't. to erect a statue of the dog on the spot where he waited. Small statuettes were sent to all schools in the Japanese empire.

A famous professional baseball player once remarked that the aim of his life was to hear his manager say to him when he retired, "You are the greatest player I have ever coached." He was motivated to do his best by that hope. How much more for the committed Christian to be motivated by the hope that someday he/she will hear the Master say, "You have been faithful," or "Well done, thou good and faithful servant." What more could a Christian want?

A crowded gather of distinguished scientists had been listening spellbound to the masterly expositions of Michael Faraday. For an hour he had held his brilliant audience enthralled as he demonstrated the nature and properties of the magnet. He had brought his lecture to a close with an experiment so novel, so bewildering, and so triumphant, that for some time after he resumed his seat, the house rocked with enthusiastic applause. And then the Prince of Wales... afterwards King Edward VII rose to propose a motion of congratulation. The resolution, having been duly seconded, was carried with renewed thunders of applause.

Suddenly the uproar ceased and a strange silence settled over the audience. The assembly waited for Faraday's reply. But he did not appear. Only his most intimate friends knew what had become of him. He was an elder in a little Sandemanian [*] church... a church that never boasted more than twenty members. The hour at which Faraday concluded his lecture was the hour of the weeknight prayer meeting.

__________

*Sandemanians, or Glasites, were a Christian sect, founded in Scotland by John Glas. It spread into England and America, but is now practically extinct.

Glas dissented from the Westminster Confession only in his views as to the spiritual nature of the church and the functions of the civil magistrate. But his son-in-law Robert Sandeman added a distinctive doctrine as to the nature of faith which is thus stated on his tombstone: “That the bare death of Jesus Christ without a thought or deed on the part of man, is sufficient to present the chief of sinners spotless before God.”

In a series of letters he maintained that justifying faith is a simple assent to the divine testimony concerning Jesus Christ, differing in no way in its character from belief in any ordinary testimony. In their practice the Glasite churches aimed at a strict conformity with the primitive type of Christianity as understood by them. [From www.fact-index.com]

It is related that one fearfully stormy night a boat was wrecked.

As the dawn came, many were seen out in the icy waters, holding on to

anything that would prevent them from sinking. Ed and Will Spencer

came to the scene. Ed was a fine swimmer. He swam out and out again

until he had rescued many, and was almost exhausted. He saw a woman

holding on to a piece of board and crying for help. They said, "Ed,

you'd better not go." But it was too much for him. He swam out into

the icy waters and brought her to shore. Then he swooned. He was taken

to the hospital. After some hours, he became conscious and said to his

brother Will, "How many were drowned?" Will replied, "I do not know."

Then he said, "How many did I save?" Will replied, "Ed, you saved

seventeen." But Ed sadly said, "Did I do my best?" He would become

unconscious, and every time ask the same question when he would

revive. "Will, did I do my best?"

Have we done our best? We fear we are playing at religion and soul

winning.

The movie The Ghost and the Darkness tells the story of John Patterson, a civil engineer who realizes the dream of a lifetime when he's contracted to build a railroad bridge over the Tsavo river in Africa. He leaves his young wife, whom he loves deeply, at home. She is pregnant with their first child. As the movie progresses it comes to one poignant scene in which the unmarried Remington, the hunter, asks Patterson if he loves his wife. Patterson says that he loves her very much. The camera immediately pans over to an African who has befriended the two white men; it catches a wistful sadness on his face. The man has four wives. He says to Remington and Patterson, “I don't love any of my wives.”

Joyful relationships are not found with many different sex partners. It is found in remaining faithful to a life mate.

see “Fresh Sermon Illustrations” (http://www.sedona.net/~budman/illustr.html)

God works in mysterious ways, he really does. Let me tell you how he worked with me.

My husband, Michael and I, have driven as a team for the past 2 years. Before that, I was a passenger while he drove solo. Our job as a team has been to move freight across America's roads. So naturally, I thought it was my turn to go solo.

In the spring of 1995, I decided to venture out on a new and exciting excursion in my life. I wanted to do this for a few reasons. Independence has always been pretty much my character, although I am thoroughly dependent on Michael. I saw this as a way to prove to myself I could take on such a task. After all, trucking is a far cry different from sitting behind a desk pushing pencils. Here, we're on the roads of America pushing big rigs to destinations unknown, watching the world through our windshield.

Another reason why I wanted this, was as insurance, so-to-speak. What if Michael got sick or injured, or...well, let's not think of that. What if...can I really keep going? Can I really keep this rig on the road alone and do a good job at it? Can I drive in all types of weather alone, or am I going to wimp out because I didn't force myself to learn anything? I never was one to sit idle for long and do nothing.

So, here I was, after 6 months of careful planning and thinking about this new step. Michael and I had discussed this in great length. Now we both felt ready to make the transition. Nervousness was very much a companion right now and soon becoming a well known feeling as we cleaned out my stuff to put into the other truck.

I was assigned to my own company truck. It was a big beautiful Freightliner. It was large enough for me to stand up in. In fact, it even had a top bunk in it if I wanted to sleep up there instead of the lower bed. Wow, this is really exciting. A truck all my own!!

The adrenaline in me was flowing like it never has before. I felt 10 feet tall and full of confidence. I went to the dispatch office to prepare to get the information for my first load.

"Hello," I said in sort of a laughter. "I'm ready for my first load." I looked around the room with a new interest. Usually Michael stood here and worked out the details for our next loads. Now, I stand in his place and actually feel pretty good.

The dispatcher looked up from his computer to greet me. "Well, hello there Jen. Gonna' try this on your own, huh?" He smiled with a firm confidence. He was a younger dispatcher. I was told that he was only 24 years old. His physique showed of a man that likes to be out on the slopes a lot. Ski areas in the Utah are in abundance there, and he looked as if he had been to every one of them.

"All we have is a load of rolled paper going to Los Angeles," he told me. He seemed to be pleading with me to take the load. He was scanning his pen across his note pad as he double checked his information. He looked back up, raised his eyebrows a bit, shrugged his shoulders and said, "sorry, you can either take this one or wait until later for a different one."

"Hmm...okay...I'll go ahead and do that load." I swallow the biggest lump in my throat. Now I'm nervous. So I'm not quite 10 feet tall anymore. At least a good 8 foot still, anyway.

He gives me all of the information that I needed to find the trailer to hook up to. I see that the trailer I needed was all ready loaded and in the terminal yard. All right, this seems pretty easy so far.

I hooked up to the trailer and began to do my pre-trip inspection. As I was walking around looking at every air line, tire, light and the overall rig, I prayed to God, "Lord Jesus, please protect me on my new journeys. Protect those who travel around me so that their trips may be safe also. Amen."

I walked around the trailer and the truck touching everything as I prayed. I wanted this first trip to go well since this will plant the seed as to how things will go from here.

All set, everything done! I completed my paperwork...my inspection is done...I asked for God's guidance and protection. I take a deep breath as I look out the windshield of the truck. I get comfortable in my seat and turn the ignition on. Now to put it in gear.

Another deep breath, this is it. In a few seconds, I will be on my way to independence. I release the air brakes and begin rolling forward. I'm on my way! I am really going to do this. I drive through the terminal yard and watch the other drivers sitting at the benches as they take a break from their long trips.

The weather was good. I like that. I noticed on the atlas earlier that it was just a short jaunt on I-15 from Salt Lake City, Utah to Los Angeles, California.

As I drove down the road, I began noticing things that I had never noticed before. I was usually sleeping when Michael was driving so that I could be rested for my shift of driving. I travelled through some of the most beautiful mountains of southern Utah, through the town of St. George. Rich, dark red dirt in all different shades colored the mountain sides. The mountains stood as majestic castles guarding those at their feet.

Soon I was travelling through an interesting 28 mile section of Arizona. This part of the interstate wound through cliffs that looked like the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I stopped at a rest area within the cliffs. Joshua Trees decorated the hillside in abundance. There was a breeze that lent the most awesome sweet smell of the sage brush in the area.

I took some pictures of the area so that I could remember what it all looked like. I was beginning to feel like a real travelling vacationer. This was cool!

Now back on the road, I came into an area that had a total personality change from what I had just come through. The sun had gone down. I drove slowly down the hill as I noticed that I was entering the bright and colorful city of Las Vegas, Nevada. What a spread!

The traffic in the middle of the night here is almost as bad as the day time. I can't believe that at midnight, there is a traffic jam on the interstate. What a crazy place this is.

As I leave the Vegas area, I get closer to California and notice the landscape taking on a big change. Although it is dark out there, the huge full moon has lit the area quite well. I notice that the trees are no longer a part of the landscape. In fact, there isn't much in the way of sage brush. The sands of the Mojave almost look unforgiving to the one who dares to venture out into its inner realm.

I pray again for protection as I travel past the last possible sight of civilization in Nevada. The look of California ahead of me lends no lights of buildings. Just the scurry of vehicles travelling the same road I am. Everyone has their own mission in mind and that is to reach their destination.

The next several miles through California are spent listening to my radio. The national news was recapping the footage on the Los Angeles riots that just got over about a week ago. They were updating the condition of the truck driver that was pulled out of his truck and also the status of Rodney King.

I remember when the riots were going on. Michael and I were headed to L.A. to deliver a load, but the National Guard stopped us at Barstow, California. They had all of the roads closed to Los Angeles due to the riots. No one could get in and no one could leave. Los Angeles was now a country of its own... isolated from the rest of the world.

I work hard while climbing hills and carefully go down the other side. I begin to get closer to Los Angeles by early morning. The sun begins to reveal the mountains in front of me.

At the top of a huge down hill called Cajon Summit, I pull into a safety area just to check my brakes. My load is pretty heavy, and I don't want to go rolling into L.A. at lightening speed with my brakes on fire. That would not be good.

Everything is checked and adjustments were made. Now to drop into the basin of L.A. I go down the mountain at a safe speed of 30 miles an hour. I feel very comfortable at that and make it down safely.

As I get to the bottom, I check over my directions to the company that I will be delivering the paper to. I then proceed to go through the maze of interstates and changes through the metro area. Los Angeles is pretty well put together when I compare it to Jersey City or New York City. No traffic circles to get stuck in the inside lane on. Not many off ramps that have no return to the freeway. I call those "oops ramps!"

"Let's see, my directions say to go south Interstate 110 to 51st street and go north. Okay, sounds simple", I reassure myself. Traffic is good, sun is out. My confidence is still pretty high. I am actually quite proud of myself and how I am handling L.A.'s freeways.

I see a sign, 51st street 1 1/2 miles. Okay, here goes the adrenaline thing again. I'm beginning to get a bit nervous now. My palms sweat as I hold onto the steering wheel with steel gripping strength. I take several deep breaths and ease my hands a bit. I begin slowing down and gearing the rig down.

Interstate driving, for the most part is very easy. It can be relaxing and not very stressful. It's when you get off of that and switch to city driving is when things begin to change.

Okay, I'm on the ramp now. I take a deep breath..."Lord, please be with me and guide me through." I have reached the stop sign and then that's when I begin to sweat.

"I was going south on Interstate 110. Yeah, that's right". I mumble to myself. I look left, then right. Confusion sets in. Two people walking along the sidewalk are watching me. One of them is pushing a grocery cart full of belongings. They were both just strolling along down the sidewalk enjoying the view of a truck driver that looks obviously lost.

As I double check my directions, it says to go north on 51st street. Yes, that is what it says. I begin to get real nervous. "Lord, please grant me a calm spirit so that I may continue this trip." I pray out loud. I notice that 51st does not go north and south, it goes east and west. Now what!! I sweat some more as I turn the air conditioner on full blast. Well here goes, a pure stab in the dark. I turn my signal on...click...click...click. I put the truck in gear and make a right hand turn. A long inhale and exhale and now I'm on 51st. "Am I going the right direction?" I thought.

I travel one block so far. Okay not too bad. Then I go two blocks and notice that the surroundings are not beginning to look like an industrial area. I begin to sweat some more. Now I have gone three blocks. By now my insides are shaking and I start speeding up. I hardly even stopped at one of the stop signs back there. This is not right. The surroundings are all wrong. I shouldn't be here. I am shaking so bad now that I am about frozen.

The neighborhood that I am travelling through clearly shows the scars of the recent riots that I had heard about on the radio earlier. I remember the news that I had heard on the radio when we were stuck in Barstow. Now I am really scared. I feel isolated in my truck as I begin to really speed up through the neighborhood.

The scars of the recent riots were very noticeable. Walls were spray painted with what looked to be like gang writings. Cars were vandalized in front of the homes. One guy was out in his front yard holding the hose as he watered his lawn. He had a cast on his arm and was propped up on a crutch. Could he be a casualty of the riots? Several older kids and young adults were sitting on the porch of another house as they watched me pass by. One of them stood up and that is when I gulped for air. There wasn't enough air in the truck. Breathing got harder now. This is definitely not the place for a single girl to be let alone a trucker!

As I carefully shifted gears, and quickly went through the neighborhood, I came to a stop sign. I had to stop at this one. It let out to a 4-lane thoroughfare. Oh what a relief. I take a deep breath and sigh as I exhale. Civilization! It is like I had just come out of a huge forest into the mass opening of a field. I had been fighting to get through the thick brush and trees and finally made it out.

I have stopped at the stop sign and set my air brakes. I need to look for my L.A. Bible. That's what us truck drivers call our L.A. atlas. We depend on this book as much as we depend on the bible and God for answers. It is our lifeblood! As I search the truck for where I normally keep my atlases, I notice that I can't find the L.A. book.

"Oh great!" I said out loud. "Where did I put it?" I was getting frustrated.

As I sit at the corner of 51st and Avalon, shaking uncontrollably of fear, I was breathing very irregularly. The air conditioner was on full blast, yet the sweat poured off of my face.

I yell out, "Lord help me, please!"

Just then, I focus on my cellular phone on the dash. It took two trys to steady my fingers enough to push the right buttons. I finally correctly dialed into Michaels truck. He was traveling on Interstate 5 going north in Oregon when his phone rang.

"Hello," he said in his usually bubbly voice. He almost always knew that when his phone rang it was me. So each time, he was excited to hear from me.

"He...hello, Michael. I...I am in t...trouble. I'm in L.A. s...somewhere and need t...to get to 53rd street." I said shakingly. Each word seemed as if I were gasping for air. I was wiping the sweat off my forhead with a paper towel. It didn't take long before I needed to replace it with another one.

"All right, calm down," he said. "Let me pull over and I'll help you." He was just about to travel out a service area when I called him. The phone crackled a bit with static which made it difficult to hear.

"Okay, where are you and where do you need to go?" He asked. I explained everything to him and actually began to calm down. When I told him that I didn't know where my L.A. bible was, he said, "uh, yeah. You left it in my truck."

"Good place for it," I told him. He found right where I was and talked me through the next several blocks until we found 53rd street. "Oh thank you, sweetie. You have been a life saver to me. I love you." I exhaled out every word in relief. Now that I was actually calming down, I was beginning to get cold from all of the sweating I was doing. I had to turn the air conditioner off.

We hung up our phones and I took another long, deep breath. I was looking around the surroundings, the tall buildings, the warehouses. "Now, this is where I should have been in the beginning," I thought.

As I look around, I notice a billboard perched on top of one of the warehouses. The billboard itself was old and dilapidated, but the message on it was clearly new and fresh. Tears began to well up in my eyes as I read the message that I knew was only meant for me. A huge lump in my throat began to form, the sign read..."Don't worry about it. Pray to God. It works!"

"Oh, Lord Jesus. You were with me all of the time. Thank you Jesus. Forgive me for not looking upon you, during my worst fears. I see that you are really my pilot, and I am the co-pilot." I confessed out loud.

Wow...chills from seeing that sign? You bethca!!! Thank you Lord, you really do work in mysterious ways.

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Email: MrsBluBrd@aol.com