Journal
The Cross of Christ is the only hope of the world. Our constant danger is that we cry, Behold this new opportunity. Behold our new methods. Behold our human-brotherhood, and forget to cry, Behold the Lamb of God!
Samuel Zwemer, The Glory of The Cross
Remembering the cost of freedom. An unknown soldier who fell in the battle for North Africa during WWII lies in the American Cemetery in Carthage, Tunisia, along with nearly 3,000 of his fallen comrades.
"My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me to be a witness for me, that I have fought His battles, Who will now be my rewarder." So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.
Death of Valiant-for-the-Truth, from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress
If the mark of His blood is upon any word, thou needest never doubt it. If He has died, how canst thou perish? If He has bidden thee come, how can He cast thee out? If thou dost rest upon His finished work, how canst thou be condemned? Believe, I pray thee, and rest thee on the blood-sprinkled words of this wondrous Book.
Charles Spurgeon
Growing up, we had a Mother’s Day tradition in my part of Virginia. At church that Sunday, men and boys whose mothers were still living would wear a red rose on their lapel and any one whose mom was deceased honored her by wearing a white rose. That may explain why I have never liked white roses.
If I were to wear a white rose on Mother’s Day this Sunday, it would be the 10th time since my mother slipped from our arms into her Saviour’s everlasting embrace. While I won’t wear a white rose, I will honor her here.
Out of all the yellowing albums and shoeboxes of pictures, one of the photographs that best captures my mother’s life is from a Sunday long ago. As usual, her hands were full! In one hand she is holding her Bible and a baby bottle. The Bible is cluttered with papers—and probably some sheet music because she was both a Sunday School teacher and church piano player. At our little church, she was a “Swiss Army knife” of servanthood! In the other hand, she (along with my older brother) holds the hand of my little sister, who was just learning to walk. I am the only one in the picture who isn’t being very useful!
Two more daughters were born in later years, and then grandchildren followed. Her hands were always busy, loving her husband, loving her children, comforting, correcting, cooking, cutting hair, reading, washing, and playing the old hymns—but with the style of Jerry Lee Lewis! On Saturday night, she used to practice for church the next day. She loved songs about heaven. She sang and banged them out in rapid rhythm, like she planned to be there. By God’s grace, she made it. But to get there, He led her through years of suffering—as He stilled her busy hands. When she was dying of cancer, I wrote this from her bedside:
The last bits of snow catch the light of a near full moon as it sets over cold, vacant streets. I had expected to write this article from Pakistan, where I was to interview survivors of two church grenade bombings, but that trip was cancelled in order to be here—Room 9331 of the cancer ward of Duke University Medical Center.
My mother, so thin now and so fragile, lies in a bed next to me. A tangle of tubes runs into her much-bruised arm. The machines she is attached to seem detached from her pain as they hum quietly to themselves. I have sat through the night with her, catching a couple of naps during her shallow sleeping and shallow waking. She is resting now, and I am writing.
We had a good evening together, holding hands and reading much Scripture. My earliest memory of her was of her reading the Bible to my brother and me; so tonight it was my turn. With nearly 40 years of teaching Sunday School, she taught many children about the Lord besides her own. Hers was always the quiet service in the back rooms—which is where much of the Lord’s work is done. An old preacher once told me, “Between the great things we cannot do and the little things we will not do, lies the danger of doing nothing.” My mother, armed with flannelgraph, animal crackers, and Calvary Love, was never in such danger.
We recalled tonight how we used to sing together. I was too young to read; so she taught me the words and played the piano. That old, beaten-up piano had a keyboard that looked like an ugly grin with ivories yellowed, cracked, or missing—but we sang the Lord’s songs around it nonetheless. At church she played, too. I remember how pretty she was at the piano. She played, and I sang solos for special music of the songs she had helped me memorize.
She reminded me tonight that one of those songs that she taught me was about Stephen in Acts. I had forgotten that. Sitting here in this long hour before dawn, the words of the chorus all come back:
I see Jesus standing at the Father’s right hand.
I see Jesus yonder in the Promised Land.
Work is over, now I am coming to Thee.
I see Jesus standing, waiting for me.
She cannot sing now behind the oxygen mask with her throat parched by radiation, but she did tell me in the middle of the night that there are times lately when she has heard the most beautiful music.
The east brightens. Mama is stirring. She asks to be propped up so she can see the morning sky.
On Mama’s last birthday, I gave her a dozen red roses. She died the next day, and so I slipped one of them into her hand. At her funeral, my brother, sisters and I scattered the last red petals on her casket—fragrant bits of life cast in the grave—a promise of things to come. I know through the power of the Risen Christ, Mama has never been more alive—her hands never more busy, serving and praising in the place she so often sang about and now sees—a place where all tears have been wiped away by nailed-scarred hands and where no one ever wears the white rose of sorrow.
Tim Keesee
Coffee falls into the stomach....
Ideas begin to move,
Things remembered
arrive at full gallop...
The shafts of wit
Start up like sharpshooters,
Similes arise,
The paper is covered with ink...
-Honore de Balzac
When I was arrested for religious activity and denied the work for which I consecrated my life, I lost heart. I was put in a cell with approximately one hundred other people after my first interrogation. Suddenly I understood why I was in prison. Before going to bed I prayed, "Lord, it used to be so difficult for me to gather people together in order to preach your Gospel. But now I have no need to gather them. They are already here. Make me a blessing to them..."
The Lord heard my prayer. Prisoners were coming and going through this cell. In a short time forty people believed in Christ. I taught them to sing hymns and pray. Guards often banged on the door and ordered us to be silent. The authorities finally found out what was happening and transferred me to the cell for hardened criminals. Precisely at that time, I received from my family a parcel containing bread, sugar, and clothing. When I entered the new cell, the criminals' eyes searched me. I took a few steps, set my bag on the floor, and looked around at them.
"Men, today I received a parcel. Maybe there are some needy among you. Divide it..."
A tall, sullen fellow, probably their leader, approached me, silently took my parcel, and divided it equally among all of us. "Here, this is your part," he said, giving me a portion and returning my empty bag.
As a newcomer, I had to take the worst place in the cell, but the leader said, "For good people we have a good place. Now tell us why they transferred you to this cell."
"Well, in Cell 44 I taught people how to pray to God. The authorities did not like it, so they threw me in here."
The leader smiled for the first time. "Very good! Now you will teach us."
Georgi Vins (1928-1998) spent 8 years in Soviet gulags for the sake of the Gospel.
The following is an eyewitness account of George Whitefield's visit to Middletown, Connecticut, on October 23, 1740. It is taken from "Whitefield's Journals" (The Banner of Truth Trust, 1960. p. 561-562). The writer, Nathan Cole, was a farmer and carpenter in Connecticut during the First Great Awakening.
Now it pleased God to send Mr. Whitefield into this land, and my hearing of his preaching at Philadelphia, like one of the old apostles, and many thousands flocking to hear him preach the Gospel, and great numbers were converted to Christ, I felt the Spirit of God drawing me by conviction; I longed to see and hear him and wished he would come this way. I heard he was come to New York and the Jerseys and great multitudes flocking after him under great concern for their souls which brought on my concern more and more, hoping soon to see him; but next I heard he was at Long Island, then at Boston, and next at Northampton. Then on a sudden, in the morning about 8 or 9 of the clock there came a messenger and said Mr. Whitefield preached at Hartford and Wethersfield yesterday and is to preach at Middletown this morning at ten of the clock. I was in my field at work. I dropped my tool that I had in my hand and ran home to my wife, telling her to make ready quickly to go and hear Mr. Whitefield preach at Middletown, then ran to my pasture for my horse with all my might, fearing that I should be too late. Having my horse, I with my wife soon mounted the horse and went forward as fast as I thought the horse could bear; and when my horse got much out of breath, I would get down and put my wife on the saddle and bid her ride as fast as she could and not stop or slack for me except I bade her, and so I would run until I was much out of breath and then mount my horse again, and so I did several times to favour my horse. We improved every moment to get along as if we were fleeing for our lives, all the while fearing we should be too late to hear the sermon, for we had twelve miles to ride double in little more than an hour and we went round by the upper housen parish. And when we came within about half a mile or a mile of the road that comes down from Hartford, Wethersfield, and Stepney to Middletown, on high land I saw before me a cloud of fog arising. I first thought it came from the great river, but as I came nearer the road I heard a noise of horses' feet coming down the road, and this cloud was a cloud of dust made by the horses' feet. It arose some rods into the air over the tops of hills and trees; and when I came within about 20 rods of the road, I could see men and horses slipping like a steady stream of horses and their riders, scarcely a horse more than his length behind another, all of a lather and foam with sweat, their breath rolling out of their nostrils every jump.
“I was in my field at work. I dropped my tool that I had in my hand and ran home to my wife, telling her to make ready quickly to go and hear Mr. Whitefield preach at Middletown, then ran to my pasture for my horse with all my might, fearing that I should be too late.”
Every horse seemed to go with all his might to carry his rider to hear news from heaven for the saving of souls. It made me tremble to see the sight, how the world was in a struggle. I found a vacancy between two horses to slip in mine and my wife said "Law, our clothes will be all spoiled, see how they look," for they were so covered with dust that they looked almost all of a colour, coats, hats, shirts, and horse. We went down in the stream but heard no man speak a word all the way for 3 miles but every one pressing forward in great haste; and when we got to Middletown old meeting house, there was a great multitude, it was said to be 3 or 4,000 of people, assembled together. We dismounted and shook off our dust, and the ministers were then coming to the meeting house. I turned and looked towards the Great River and saw the ferry boats running swift backward and forward bringing over loads of people, and the oars rowed nimble and quick. Everything, men, horses, and boats seemed to be struggling for life. The land and banks over the river looked black with people and horses; all along the 12 miles I saw no man at work in his field, but all seemed to be gone.
When I saw Mr. Whitefield come upon the scaffold, he looked almost angelical; a young, slim, slender youth, before some thousands of people with a bold undaunted countenance. And my hearing how God was with him everywhere as he came along, I solemnized my mind and put me into a trembling fear before he began to preach; for he looked as if he was clothed with authority from the Great God, and a sweet solemn solemnity sat upon his brow, and my hearing him preach gave me a heart wound. By God's blessing, my old foundation was broken up, and I saw that my righteousness would not save me.
George Whitefield
Petra, Jordan
This is indeed our missionary message, the everlasting Gospel of One who came, who died on the Cross, who arose from the dead, ascended to heaven, and who is coming again. From Bethlehem and Calvary, from the empty tomb and from the clouds that hide Him from view, there streams the light of eternity. The great ellipse that includes the content of our faith and of our message to the world may be drawn as widely as possible, but it always has and always will have two foci--the Death and the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, and their relation to man's sin and his eternal destiny. This is the gospel of the Resurrection.
Samuel Zwemer, The Glory of The Cross
