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A Divine Appointment in Santiago de Compostela
by Millie Norwich
Like Rome and Jerusalem, Santiago de Compostela, Spain, has been the destination of pilgrimages for centuries. With its 12th century cathedral and the world’s oldest continuously operating medical school, the city remains a magnet for people from many parts of the world seeking physical and spiritual healing.
I was a pilgrim of sorts myself that summer, a sojourner who had flown into the pages of a fairy tale. Of course, my magic carpet was an Iberia jetliner. For six weeks, however, I felt I had been snatched out of my present life as a Southern California homemaker and whisked through time and space to a land of cobblestone streets, dappled tile roofs, and ancient facades sprinkled with shutters and graceful iron balustrades.
Anticipating a return to teaching, I had ventured to provincial Spain for an intensive summer course in Spanish at the historic Universidad de Santiago de Compostela. My goal? To brush up my bilingual competency.
As our little contingency of American students spilled out of the airport taxis into the narrow street with enough luggage to herald the arrival of Cher, 1 Peter 3:15 danced through my mind: “sanctify Christ as Lord in your hearts, always being ready to make a defense to everyone who asks you to give an account for the hope that is in you, yet with gentleness and reverence” (NASB). Therefore with a greater sense of adventure than reluctance, I anticipated a dorm situation with an assortment of undergraduates who think anyone over 30 is Neanderthal. Lord, Your will, Your choosing and timing.
I was relieved to find my assigned roommate was only a few years my junior. I quickly discovered Marta was a type A consultant sporting an MBA from Cornell. She was on a mission to devour Spanish with haste to facilitate her operation of a Mexican factory for a pottery business.
My very serious, nearly frenetic roommate effused a trail of lists: vocabulary and assignments, museums and historic attractions, shops that carried chic Italian clothing, lists taped to the mirror, lists on the door. Among her lists was one of five-star restaurants to which she had a terrible time dragging me. Marta saw no need for Jesus, but that large, black purse of the world’s most organized woman was a veritable apothecary and convenience store rolled into one. When I noticed a gape in a seam, out came needles with multi-colors of thread.
“Band-Aid? What size?” Right here between the Advil and decongestants.
While the youngsters in our group visited discos and slept away the weekends, Marta and I held down the quiet dorm study hall. In a marathon study session I must have muttered “chocolate.” Out came a Hershey bar with almonds from that bag of hers. If I cleared my throat while recalling a subjunctive, a Smith Brothers appeared like magic.
I’ll never forget the first time I heard the woman laugh with explosive mirth. It was at my expense, of course, and it wouldn’t be the only time I unwittingly amused her to such an ethereal level. “Come here,” she said with an uncontrollable smirk and led me down the hall to the laundry room.
Before my Santiago experience, it had never occurred to me that in storybook places clothes are laundered on a washboard in a tub sink with a crank wringer. We used a pulley clothesline out the back window that stretched to the rear of the building directly behind us. The entire square block had rear adjoining tile roofs one floor beneath our clothesline, and my wardrobe, including lingerie, had blown off the line and was lollygagging about on the inaccessible expanse.
Retrieving it promised to be our most creative experience in language development and native culture. And it was fortuitous Santiagans aren’t smitten with litigious paranoia. That made it convenient for me to dangle halfway out their bedroom and bathroom windows and climb on top of their furniture and beds to accomplish contortions with brooms and mops while they joined my roommate to gape in wonderment. I concluded the afternoon’s entertainment in a small bank on top of a chair placed on the manager’s desk with one of those long poles used to open high windows. That escapade won me my cotton skirt and the thunderous applause of various dignified bank patrons and employees. And my roommate’s too, of course.
“Here are replacement clothespins,” Marta told me on our way back to the dorm, loosing ground to another giggle as she reached into her bag.
Through the weeks, Marta and I walked to campus together through open-air markets with sights and smells that dazzled the senses, and ventured into curious restaurants and intriguing shops. We settled on a cozy bistro and shared tapas for most dinners. We passed through the little central park, pulsating with life: a potpourri of lovers, students, dogs, baby carriages, the young and the old snoozing or at play, seemingly oblivious to the stresses of the outside world. Singing and Celtic rhythms wafted around in the summer night. On corners young men with stringed instruments deliver ballads of love and Galician tradition for anyone who will linger. And linger they do in old Santiago.
I’ll never know exactly what I said or did that God’s Holy Spirit used to touch Marta’s heart. But across the weeks she tried little clichés on me, and I answered with brief testimony and Scripture, prayerfully. In an early conversation she dismissed Jesus as just another great teacher “like Mohammad and others.” I told her Jesus hadn’t allowed the option to be designated as a mere great man. He claimed to be “the way and the truth and the life”—the only way to the Father (John 14:6). He claimed to be one with the Creator God, I added. Marta changed the subject right away.
On our last Sunday, however, as I prepared to go to the cathedral with my Bible, Marta rolled out of her bunk and announced she wanted to come. Without distracting from the Mass in the front of the nave, I was able to read and explain three chapters of the book of John to her that morning in that massive, inspiring edifice. I didn’t press her for a decision but gave her time to mull over all the information the way Jesus did with Nicodemus.
On my last day of classes, I had an opportunity to testify of my faith—in Spanish—to my classmates from various nations. I’ll never know how the Holy Spirit used my words. Looking back, however, I know the Santiago interlude was an appointment with Marta as I lived out my ordinary life before her. She was the prepared heart. “You’re just so comfortable with yourself,” I remember her saying as we packed to leave. And the words were striking to me.
“Well, knowing God loves me and directs my life is a comfortable place to be,” I replied sincerely.
She never began the pottery business and I never returned to teaching. But Marta’s name was written in the Lamb’s Book of Life in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. And shortly after we returned, her husband’s name joined hers. I met with Marta to read Scripture, to answer her lists of questions, and to make certain they were nestled into a good church.
All believers have divine appointments, though they’re usually packaged more mundanely than a fairy tale. Some are ongoing with family and friends. Some come as opportunities to be a compassionate ear for another, as an applicable word of testimony or Scripture, a few moments of prayer together, a reminder of how much God loves, how accessible is His wisdom, or how implacable is His grace.
It’s a source of great joy and compelling humility to realize you’re a vessel that can be used at any time by the Living God, the Creator of the universe, to love and eternally affect others. What could possibly make life a more exciting adventure?
Copyright © 2002 Millie Norwich. All rights reserved.
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Millie Norwich is a free-lance writer in Encinitas, California.
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On Emergency Service for God
by Tommy Neiman
Miraculously, he was alive and awake, but in serious pain. The lower half of his body hit the asphalt first, shattering bones in both legs and puncturing flesh.
This guy’s taken his last step, I thought.
“What happened, man?” I asked.
There was silence.
“What’s your name?”
“Allen,” he answered softly.
“Allen, how’d you fall?”
Again, there was silence.
“Allen, you need to talk to me, OK? You’re badly hurt and I need you to stay awake and help us out with some information, OK?”
Allen said nothing.
We went on with realigning his legs the best we could and splinting them for transport.
“One of the tenants saw him walk to the balcony, climb over the railing, and jump,” a sheriff’s officer told me. “And if that’s not enough, a bystander showed us the car he got out of. He had a gun and some shells—they weren’t the right ones for the gun. It looks like this guy is bent on doing himself in, but is sure having a rough time accomplishing it.”
This guy’s hurting on the inside as much as on the outside, I thought.
We loaded Allen into the ambulance. His vital signs were stable, but I knew he needed the IVs in case things started going downhill.
“Allen, I’m starting these IVs to keep your blood pressure steady in case your legs or any possible internal injuries start to bleed. We are here to help you. Don’t be afraid to talk to me, OK?”
I could sense a feeling of trust. I was also feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit guiding me to be sensitive to what the Lord would have me say during the 20-minute ride to the hospital.
“Lord, have your way,” I prayed silently.
With Allen properly packaged, I shut the back door. “Let’s go!” I yelled up front.
I bent down on one knee at Allen’s side. “Allen, you can trust me, OK? I’m here to help and I realize things must be pretty discouraging.”
Allen took a deep breath. “I can’t even kill myself right,” he said reluctantly. Grimacing with pain, he made eye contact and said, “There’s nothing worth living for.”
I paused a moment before proceeding. “Allen, you know I think the Lord prevented you from taking your life today.”
A puzzled look crossed his face. “Why?” he asked.
“Allen, the Lord watches over us sometimes when we don’t even realize it.”
“Well,” Allen responded, “I went to a Hindu gathering last week, hoping to find some answers, but I got nothing.” Looking away dejectedly, he continued, “What’s the use?”
God was opening a door of opportunity. I took a deep breath and prayed, “Lord, give me the right words.”
Pumping up the blood pressure cuff, I looked at Allen and said, “What you went to last week was a false attempt to know God. The only real knowledge of God and real purpose in your life is through Jesus Christ. You might not know Him, but I believe in my heart He stepped in and kept you from ending your life today. And you know what else? If you think things are bad now, they can’t compare to the misery of how things would be if you’d died today not knowing the Lord.”
Allen looked straight at me and asked, “Do you mean if I had killed myself today I would have gone to hell?”
I responded the only way I knew how. “Allen, the Bible says, ‘He who has the Son has life, and he who has not the Son has not life.’ I’m glad you didn’t die, Allen.”
Despite his extensive pain, Allen appeared receptive to our conversation. We were about seven minutes from the hospital. The remaining time in the ambulance was precious.
Returning to his side after fully encoding the medical report, I explained some of the things he could expect at the emergency room. That’s when the Holy Spirit placed an overwhelming realization upon me: our encounter was not a coincidence. It was God’s will that I was at Station 8 that day. He led me to Allen. I knew what God wanted me to say.
“Allen, I’ve been telling you all along that I know God intervened in your life. Well, I also know that God placed me in a position for our paths to cross. I wasn’t supposed to be working today. I know now why God arranged for me to be working in this response area. And I believe God also arranged for you to stop where you did. It was all in His perfect plan for you to know that He loves you and that He spared your life. God is using me to tell you. Can’t you see that, Allen? God meant for me to be on duty to take care of you today.”
Allen still seemed dejected, but he listened to everything I said.
As I finished taking one more set of vitals, we pulled into the emergency entrance. “Allen, we’re at the hospital, OK? I’m sure once they stabilize you they’ll get you something for pain.”
“I need it, man,” Allen moaned.
“I know you do, and listen, Allen, I’m going to be praying for you.”
Allen nodded.
“Listen, Allen, I know things are going to be tough for a while. Just hang in there and remember I’m praying for you. I meant what I said in the truck. I’ve got to go now, but I’m going to be coming back to see you.”
Allen looked at me and said softly, “OK, thank you.” But I sensed he doubted I’d really come back.
Allen needed hope. He needed peace and meaning in life. And I needed God’s guidance.
I visited Allen repeatedly. Each time, I shared new truths of God’s love. I reinforced each truth with an example from my life, where the love of Jesus Christ was evident.
All the while, God was preparing Allen’s heart. About two weeks after Allen’s attempted suicide, a joyous moment took place in his hospital room. Allen prayed with me, receiving Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.
A week and a half later, another miracle occurred. Allen got out of bed and took several slow steps.
Allen was also taking spiritual steps. He was studying the Bible and discussing the Scriptures with me.
A month later, Allen went home—no wheelchair, no crutches, no walker, no cane. Allen walked out of the hospital with no support, and he walked out a new creature in Christ.
Excerpted from Sirens for the Cross by Tommy Neiman. Copyright © 2002 Tommy Neiman. Used with permission. All rights reserved.
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Tommy Neiman is a firefighter/paramedic with the St. Lucie Fire District in Fort Pierce, Florida. You may write to him at sirens4tc@aol.com. For more information about his ministry, visit his Web site at www.tommyneiman.com.
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THE SPARROW AT STARBUCKS
> >
> > by John Thomas Oaks
> >
> >
> > It was chilly in Manhattan but warm inside the Starbucks shop on 51st
> >
> > Street and Broadway, just a skip up from Times Square.
> >
> >
> > For a musician, it's the most lucrative Starbucks location in the
> >
> > world,
> >
> > I'm told, and consequently, the tips can be substantial if you play
> >
> > your
> >
> > tunes right.
> >
> >
> > I was playing keyboard and singing backup for my friend who also added
> >
> > rhythm with an arsenal of percussion instruments. During our emotional
> >
> > rendition of "If You Don't Know Me by Now," I noticed a lady sitting
> >
> > in
> >
> > one of the lounge chairs across from me. She was swaying to the beat
> >
> > and singing along.
> >
> >
> > After the tune was over, she approached me. "I apologize for singing
> >
> > along on that song. Did it bother you?" she asked.
> >
> >
> > "No," I replied. "We love it when the audience joins in. Would you
> >
> > like
> >
> > to sing up front on the next selection?"
> >
> >
> > To my delight, she accepted my invitation.
> >
> >
> > "You choose," I said. "What are you in the mood to sing?"
> >
> >
> > "Well ... do you know any hymns?"
> >
> >
> > Hymns? This woman didn't know who she was dealing with. I cut my teeth
> >
> > on hymns. Before I was even born, I was going to church. I gave our
> >
> > guest singer a knowing look. "Name one."
> >
> >
> > "Oh, I don't know. There are so many good ones. You pick one."
> >
> >
> > "Okay," I replied. "How about 'His Eye is on the Sparrow'?"
> >
> >
> > My new friend was silent, her eyes averted. Then she fixed her eyes on
> >
> > mine again and said, "Yeah. Let's do that one."
> >
> >
> > She slowly nodded her head, put down her purse, straightened her jacket
> >
> > and faced the center of the shop. With my two-bar setup, she began to
> >
> > sing.
> >
> >
> > Why should I be discouraged?
> >
> > Why should the shadows come?
> >
> >
> > The audience of coffee drinkers was transfixed.
> >
> >
> > I sing because I'm happy;
> >
> > I sing because I'm free.
> >
> > For His eye is on the sparrow
> >
> > And I know He watches me.
> >
> >
> > When the last note was sung, the applause crescendo to a deafening
> >
> > roar.
> >
> > Embarrassed, the woman tried to shout over the din, "Oh, y'all go back
> >
> > to your coffee! I didn't come in here to do a concert! I just came in
> >
> > here to get somethin' to drink, just like you!"
> >
> >
> > But the ovation continued. I embraced my new friend. "You, my dear,
> >
> > have made my whole year! That was beautiful!"
> >
> >
> > "It's funny that you picked that particular hymn," she said.
> >
> >
> > "Why is that?"
> >
> >
> > She hesitated again, "That was my daughter's favorite song." She
> >
> > grabbed my hands. By this time, the applause had subsided and it was
> >
> > business as usual. "She was 16. She died of a brain tumor last week."
> >
> >
> > I said the first thing that found its way through my silence. "Are
> >
> > you
> >
> > going to be okay?"
> >
> >
> > She smiled through tear-filled eyes and squeezed my hands. "I'm gonna
> >
> > be okay. I've just got to keep trusting the Lord and singing his
> >
> > songs,
> >
> > and everything's gonna be just fine." She picked up her bag, gave me
> >
> > her card, and then she was gone.
> >
> >
> > Was it just a coincidence that we happened to be singing in that
> >
> > particular coffee shop on that particular November night? Coincidence
> >
> > that this wonderful lady just happened to walk into that particular
> >
> > shop? Coincidence that of all the hymns to choose from, I just happened
> >
> > to pick the very hymn that was the favorite of her daughter, who had
> >
> > died just the week before? I refuse to believe it.
> >
> >
> > God has been arranging encounters in human history since the beginning
> >
> > of time, and it's no stretch for me to imagine that he could reach into
> >
> > a coffee shop in midtown Manhattan and turn an ordinary gig into a
> >
> > revival. It was a great reminder that if we keep trusting him and
> >
> > singing his songs, everything's gonna be okay.
Count Conversations, Not Conversions
by Phil Callaway
Thanks in part to our great uncle Air Miles, our family of five spent a week last winter in Mexico, suffering in the sand and pounding the streets of Mazatlan looking for cheap T-shirts. We sampled the local cuisine and interacted with street people—many of them without limbs, most of them without hope. We counted our pennies before going and decided we could wait a year to update our car.
“I have yet to regret a dollar I spent making memories,” I told my wife. She agreed. I suppose you need money to make a living, but you need memories to make a life.
A week out of school has never been a tough sell to our children (nor to their teachers for some strange reason). One principal told me, “Take them. We haven’t had peace around here for years.” I’m quite sure he was kidding. “You go,” he said, getting a little more serious. “Your kids will learn more in a week there than a month here.”
He was right.
On the final night of our vacation we spent 25 pesos on an open-air taxi, complete with a driver who suffered from hoof-and-mouth disease—he drove fast and loved yelling. He also had a craving for loud American music, playing it at 100 decibels through huge speakers lodged between my knees. Shania Twain was feeling like a woman as the taxi bounced along the crumbling concrete. Our children, ages 11 to 14, were grinning from the back seat as I turned to them and crossed my eyes.
Next up was the Bloodhound Gang, whose irresponsible lyrics sum up well a culture in decline: “You and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals, so let’s do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel.” Later that night we enjoyed an hour-long discussion about the choices and consequences of such a culture.
The next morning United Airlines sprinkled our family like a bad saltshaker throughout a packed L-1011. My wife is across the aisle. Our daughter in front of her. The boys behind us. Beside me sits Mike, a 19-year-old, and his pretty girlfriend. Mike turns to me. “Did you get drunk a lot down there?” he asks. Most people do not introduce themselves to me this way.
“No,” I laugh. “I have too much fun sober. How about you?”
“Man, I love their tequila. I got drunk every night,” he says. “It was cool.”
“How did you feel in the morning?”
“Oh…I threw up a lot,” he winces. “It was awful.”
“Not so cool, huh?”
Mike informs me that he and his girlfriend are living together. That they don’t want to marry. Both of their parents are divorced. I inform him that my wife and I are celebrating our 18th year. That there’s nothing like sticking together through the tough times. And I grin across the aisle at the only girl I’ve ever loved.
Overhead a movie flickers on the television screen. A movie I would not have chosen. Beside me the topic turns to religion, a subject Mike is studying in university.
“I’m sort of a Buddhist, but sort of, like, a Christian, you know,” says Mike. “I kind of like Hinduism too. Most of the big religions are sort of cool. My prof says there’s good in everything.”
His girlfriend nods and twirls a cross necklace. “Whatever works,” she says.
“So what religion are you?” Mike asks.
We are flying over Salt Lake City now. I smile. “I’m not into religion,” I say. “I used to be. See out that window? That’s the capital city of Mormonism. It’s like the others. You follow a long list of rules, you’ll be OK. You mess up, you’re in trouble. What about you?”
“Most of all I guess I’m really getting in touch with myself lately,” he says. “I guess I just believe in myself.”
“Did you ever let yourself down?” I ask with a grin.
“Ya,” he smiles reluctantly, “but I’m getting better. I only disappoint myself about 20 percent of the time now.” I laugh, but he is serious. “I just think that whatever path you choose, that’s cool. You just need to respect yourself.”
“So,” Mike asks, “are you an atheist?”
“No,” I laugh, noticing that my daughter is peering back at me. “There’s too much evidence to the contrary.”
I am strangely comfortable sitting there. You see, one of the greatest stresses in my life has always come from something Christians call “witnessing.” I would sit on an airplane knowing that if it crashed and the guy beside me went to hell, it would be my fault alone.
When I told others about my faith, I was as clumsy as a carpenter with 10 thumbs. I took a personal evangelism course once to try to get over it, then I tried preaching on the street. A little girl threw rocks at me. I decided to throw “Four Spiritual Laws” booklets from a moving car, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew they might throw me in jail for littering and I’d have to witness there. In those days, I operated out of guilt, not love. Finally I realized that a closed mouth gathers no foot, so I kept mine shut.
A few years ago I made a surprising discovery: When I simply tell others what I have seen or what God has done, they listen. When I incorporate some humor, their faces light up and sometimes their hearts do, too. I used to count conversions; now I count conversations. I don’t have all the right answers, but I know and care about the questions.
“So what are you?” asks Mike, jarring me from my thoughts. “One of those…what do you call ’em…?”
“Agnostics?”
“Ya.”
“No…I just have a relationship with Jesus. He’s changed everything.”
“Oh,” he says, “Jesus is cool. He was a good teacher. So was Mohammed.”
“Well, I used to think that too. But Jesus can’t just be a good teacher.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is your religion professor a good teacher?”
“He’s OK.”
“But if he came to class one day and said, ‘I have an announcement to make: I’m the Son of God. I’m the way, the truth, and the life—no one comes to God except through me,’ what would you think?”
“I’d think he was crazy,” Mike says. He pauses, considers for a moment, then sees a light come on. “Oh,” he says softly, “I see what you mean.”
“Jesus claimed to be the Son of God, Mike. Either He was lying, or He was crazy, or He was right. You have to choose. They didn’t crucify Him because He was a nice guy or a good teacher. Either He was a liar, a lunatic, or He’s Lord.”
Across the aisle my wife’s head is bowed. I find out later that Rachael is praying too.
“I think I know the answer.” Mike is nodding his head. “He must be Lord.”
Down through the centuries, millions of others have come to that same conclusion. That Jesus Christ, God’s Son, lived a sinless life, was crucified in our place, and miraculously raised from the dead. That He defeated death so that we might live with Him forever—and live abundant lives while we are here.
Before exiting the plane we exchanged addresses so I could send Mike and his girlfriend a Bible. And I told them that if my wife starts praying for them, they won’t have a chance. They laughed and said they wouldn’t mind at all if she did.
When Jesus walked the earth, He seemed too busy to be bothered with trivial pursuits and minor issues and the quest for stuff. But He did have time for the two things that really matter, the two things that last forever: God’s Word and people.
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Taken from Who Put My Life on Fast Forward? by Phil Callaway. Copyright © 2002 Phil Callaway. Published by Harvest House Publishers, Eugene, Oregon. Used by permission.
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Practice Hospitality
by Joel D. Heck
In his book Gentle Persuasion: Creative Ways to Introduce Your Friends to Christ, Joseph Aldrich tells about a radiant Christian from India whose ministry to international students was leading scores of Hindus and Muslims to Jesus Christ.
Each Sunday, this Christian and his wife would host students for dinner. That was a key part of his strategy. There's something about eating a meal with someone that accelerates friendship.
"So you talk about Christ at these meals?" Aldrich asked.
"No," he said. "It is impossible to talk openly of Jesus Christ."
"So how are you able to see so many find Christ?"
"I love them," he replied, "until they ask me why."
What a great title for a book on evangelism: Love Them Until They Ask Why.
I want to encourage you to "love them until they ask you why" by practicing hospitality. You need not do it in the way that Indian Christian did. You need not do it with international students or with Hindus and Muslims. But find your own unique way to love them until they ask you why.
Perhaps you are naturally hospitable. And perhaps you aren't, but you're willing to be hospitable for the sake of Christ. Just how, practically, can this happen?
Before we try to practice hospitality, we must first love people. Love God and then love people. Those are the two tables of the Law. We want to live a life of love because God has loved us first through His Son.
Three Levels of Hospitality
Hospitality can be demonstrated at three levels. After all, hospitality literally means "love for the stranger," and one can express that love to a stranger in a variety of ways and a variety of settings.
The first is the family level of hospitality, which literally provides an open house and warm welcome to those who need food and a place to stay. But it also provides an open house and warm welcome to those in need of friendship.
The second is the congregational level of hospitality, which provides an open house and warm welcome to the sanctuary or other part of the church facility through some form of ministry. This level also operates when members, as a part of an organized congregational effort, invite neighbors into their homes for a home Bible study or other organized ministry.
Third, the community level of hospitality provides a warm welcome to the community. This level is provided by the church when, as a member of the community, it sends newcomers a letter of welcome to the community, it sends visitors to meet newcomers, or it offers a service to the community or meets a community need, such as Mothers' Day Out or the Car Care Clinic that a church in Wyoming offered.
Hospitality, whether practiced in your home, in your church home, or in your community, affects the ability of the church to reach out with the Gospel.
The Family Level
Considered by many to be England's greatest cricket player, C. T. Studd later became a missionary to China. He was also a leader of the Student Volunteer Movement of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, a movement that saw tens of thousands of young people volunteer for missionary service. Studd once said, "Some wish to live within the sound of church bells. I want to build my rescue mission within a yard of hell."
You and I may not become missionaries, but we need to hear that message and apply it in our own neighborhoods. We need to be willing to meet those people whose lifestyles we disagree with. We need to be willing to put up with some of their habits and ungodly behavior long enough to get acquainted and perhaps reach them. It may be a stretch for us at first, but we can learn, for the sake of the salvation of people whom God loves and for whom Christ died, to open our hearts, our homes, our churches, our lives to others. We can love them until they ask us why.
Keith Wright, a Presbyterian pastor, argues that the hospitable person has four important characteristics: preparation, cheerfulness, zeal, and generosity. I would argue for a fifth: humility.
Preparation is necessary, because the opportunity to be hospitable can come at unexpected times.
Cheerfulness indicates that God is at work in the Christian's life. Laughter helps people to feel at ease, especially when they are afraid that they are putting you out. They are also more willing to listen to a life-changing message when they do not feel threatened.
Zeal means that hospitality is not something that merely happens. When we love God and our fellow human beings, we look for opportunities to be hospitable. As Paul wrote, "Practice hospitality" (Romans 12:13), which means "pursue hospitality" intentionally.
The value of generosity is obvious. Christians who extend hospitality must not expect to be paid back. If they do, they probably approach the exercise of hospitality as a duty rather than a privilege. They have failed to allow the divine love of agape to transform the friendship love of philia. God is so generous to us; our payback in the exercise of hospitality carries far greater rewards than any normal reimbursement, and it could include the salvation of a single soul.
Humility is important because its opposite, pride, cannot make the stranger feel welcome in our home. "Hospitality is a test for godliness because those who are selfish do not like strangers (especially needy ones) to intrude upon their private lives," says Erwin Lutzer, senior pastor of Moody Church in Chicago. "They prefer their own friends who share their lifestyle. Only the humble have the necessary resources to give of themselves to those who could never give of themselves in return."
A Potpourri of Ideas
Most people who enjoy practicing hospitality don't have to think about how they are going to be hospitable. For some people, however, hospitality comes more slowly. For them the following list may help in their practice of hospitality. One of the implications of a list like this is that people practice hospitality in different ways. You need not fit into someone else's mold.
Lunch. Invite an unbeliever to lunch. It doesn't sound very evangelistic, but a simple invitation to lunch brings evangelism within the reach of every concerned Christian.
This lunch doesn't have to happen in your home, although that's an excellent place. You could invite one of your colleagues at work out to a restaurant for lunch, just as a gesture of friendship.
Another exciting option is to agree with your spouse to invite a non-Christian family or couple over for supper once a month for the next 12 months. You need not have an agenda; just have them over for a meal. The conversation does not need to cover the basics of the Christian faith. You may talk about whatever you please. Your goal is to make friends with one or two people over a meal. Consider inviting some of these people back; you don't have to invite 12 different couples or families during the year. Add prayer to the mix, and wait for God to open a door for your conversation. Love them until they ask you why.
Home gatherings. Have non-Christian people into your home on a regular basis for any reason whatever. Too many Christians have few or no non-Christian friends. Build relationships with non-Christians by having them in your home for meals, for a Super Bowl party, for your daughter's piano concert, or for a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.
Holiday get-togethers. Hold a Christmas party, a Thanksgiving gathering, a Fourth of July event, or some other holiday meeting.
Block party. Organize a block party for your neighborhood. Or just invite a few families for a combined backyard barbecue.
Welcome party. Hold a welcome party for a new resident. So many people are wrapped up in their own worlds that they don't even welcome new people who move in next door. Why not break the ice, meet those new people, and provide an occasion for neighbors to meet them, too, in the comfy confines of your house, complete with refreshments? It might be the beginning of a friendship that could result in a witness.
Dinner for eight. Getting some people together for a meal, some of them Christians and some not, will build the kinds of bridges that may one day bear fruit for eternity.
Fondue party. "Who can resist chocolate?" asks Keith Wright. "Invite a group over with the explicit invitation to 'Fondue and a Discussion of the Christian Faith.' Enjoy socializing and dessert. Then have a spiritually mature person make a 10-minute presentation on the relevance of a relationship with Christ. Open a discussion time for guests to ask questions." Variations could include barbecues, coffee-tasting parties, or burrito bars.
For college students: befriend lonely students. On every college campus, the two loneliest groups of students are the freshmen during their first few weeks and international students. Invite such students to your room, take them with you to town, show them around campus, and so on.
Our family hosted a young French student, Arnaud. For three weeks we were his family, providing housing, food, companionship, and the opportunity for him to develop his English language skills. It didn't take long for him to notice that the Christian faith was an important part of our family life, and Christianity became a topic of conversation. Now that he has returned to France, we keep in contact through e-mail and include him regularly in our prayers.
As you "practice hospitality" in your home, remember one other point: Christians are not always the givers. They do not carry on their service for the Lord from an attitude of superiority, but as fellow sinners with the same need for forgiveness as anyone else. Sometimes the God-given humility of a Christian who is willing to benefit from the hospitality of the non-Christian provides the open door for sharing the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
Excerpted from From Guest to Disciple by Joel D. Heck. Copyright © 2001 Concordia Publishing House. Used with permission of Concordia Publishing House.
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Trust Me
by Luis Palau
Susan Warren’s breath crystallized and sparkled in the rays of dawn creeping into the bedroom. The freezing temperature that January morning encouraged her to tug the comforter up to her nose. Then she snuggled closer to her sleeping husband, Andrew. That movement awakened her unborn baby, who stretched and kicked inside her abdomen.
A few moments later, sunlight trumpeted through the flimsy curtains. Susan tapped Andrew lightly.
“It’s time to get up,” she said. “Please go light the heater.”
Their one-bedroom cinder-block home was a mere 500 square feet, and the old kerosene heater struggled like a mighty warrior against the drafts that assaulted the cracks in the 50-year-old house. During the day, with sunlight as an ally, the heater kept their house toasty warm and comfortable. At night they let the old soldier flicker out, preferring instead the brisk Tennessee air.
Andrew groaned and rolled out of bed. Susan heard him shuffle to the family room, then strike a match. The crackle of the wick warmed Andrew’s hands as it heated to a cherry red glow.
As quickly as the wick came to life, it died. That could mean only one thing.
“We’re low on fuel!” Andrew hollered. “I’m going to fill up the tank.”
Susan heard the back door slam. A 50-gallon barrel in the back yard held their winter supply of kerosene. Andrew knew it was more than half full—plenty to get them through the winter.
Susan slipped out of bed and tiptoed to check on their son, sleeping in his crib. His blond hair curled tenderly against his face, and a slight sweat glistened on his brow from the double layer of pajamas he wore. Susan leaned on the door frame, her hand on the life growing within her, and thanked God for providing for their needs during their lean college years.
Andrew was a full-time student in his final year of aviation school; Susan had opted to stay home with their son. Andrew’s sideline, auto-repair jobs, helped keep food on their table and pay their rent, but they rarely had anything left in the bank at month’s end. Their last $40 had just paid the electric bill.
The back door slammed again. When Susan turned and looked at Andrew, her mouth went dry. He had carried in a load of worry and despair. “Our barrel has a leak. The kerosene is gone.”
They stood there in silence, listening to fear keep beat with their hearts. They had no money in the cookie jar; they were eating leftover cornbread from the Wednesday night church supper. What were they going to do?
“We’d better pray,” Andrew said quietly. As he asked the Lord to rescue them, Susan’s heart stormed. Dismay buffeted her faith. Through the rain she heard a voice thunder in her soul, “Trust me,” but she could not see past the dark clouds to hold onto her Savior.
Andrew left for school while Susan started on the housework. A chill invaded the house. Susan bundled their son in another layer and tried to pray again, but all she could feel were waves of despair, tossing her about in an ocean of doubt.
Shortly after lunch, a friend stopped by and asked if Andrew could repair his pickup. He handed Susan the keys and said something about leaving town for the weekend. “I’ll pick up the truck Monday.”
“Well, that will help us buy some groceries,” Susan thought.
When Andrew arrived home two hours later, the house was cold, but a warm smile flickered on his face.
“Guess what we got in our mailbox at school?” he said. He handed Susan an envelope. Inside were two crisp twenty-dollar bills. “Money for the kerosene.”
“From whom?”
Andrew shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know.” Then his smile faded. “But how are we going to fit the barrel into our hatchback?”
It was Susan’s turn to smile. She dangled the pickup keys in front of his wide eyes, and then leaped into his arms.
While Andrew loaded the barrel into the truck, Susan searched the envelope for evidence of their benefactor. A slip of paper was folded between the twenties. She pulled it out, and a chill rippled through her. The note said, “Proverbs 3:5 - ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart.’”
Used with permission from It’s a God Thing (Doubleday). Copyright © 2001 Luis Palau. All rights reserved.
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International evangelist Luis Palau is author of It’s a God Thing just released this fall by Doubleday. You can write to Luis at lpea@palau.org. To hear his two-minute radio program, “Reaching Your World,” visit www.reachingyourworld.org.
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“But God showed His love for us in this, that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)
The Arranged Marriage
By Lisa Whelchel
Lisa Whelchel shares her story of how God arranged her marriage to pastor Steve Cauble.
- I’m so thankful that I waited to follow the Good Shepherd’s voice to find the man I was supposed to marry. I must admit, though, that it didn’t happen quite the way I imagined it would. I mean, come on, what daughter wants her Father to choose a husband for her?
Steve, and I became friends when I was assigned to a prayer group that he, as a pastor, was appointed to oversee. His boss, Pastor Jack Hayford, had organized “affinity” groups in our church to provide a safe place where members who were in the entertainment industry could be open and transparent about their prayer needs. Our group consisted of four married couples, Michael and Stormie Omartian, Gabri Ferrer and Debbie Boone, Dominic Allen and Charlene Tilton, and Bruce Sudano and Donna Summer. Other than Donna’s manager, Susan Munao and the other pastor, Minnie Whaley, who was an elder in every sense of the word, Steve and I were the only single people in the group. Looking back, I can see that it was a set-up right from the start.
Our group met once a month, and every month I had the same prayer request. At twenty-two I was ready to get married and start a family, and I wanted to find God’s choice of a husband for me. Steve and the others were dutiful to pray. I should have known something was up when Steve asked if he could lay hands on me and pray. Just kidding!
But not entirely.
Over the next two years, Steve and I began to spend a lot of time together, and we became good friends. (Interpretation: I was not at all attracted to him.) Every so often, he would take me out for “the talk”—the one where, because of his integrity and desire not to take advantage of his position as a pastor, he would confess that he was feeling more for me than friendship. I would assure him that although I thought he was a really nice guy (girls, you know what I mean), I was not feeling those same stirrings. We would then resolve to continue going out as friends as long as it didn’t get too uncomfortable for either of us.
I had a plumb deal. I had someone to go to dinner and the movies with, and my boyfriend wasn’t jealous. Oops, did I forget to mention that I had a boyfriend? I’d better fill you in. I had been dating a contemporary Christian singer/musician who was on the road a lot. One weekend when he was home, we were out on a date, and I felt I had to tell him about my relationship with Steve, just to keep everything up front and—even though he wasn’t the Jewish guy—kosher. I mentioned that Steve and I had been spending a lot of time together and said that because he was so “safe,” he was the logical person to escort me to functions when my minstrel was out of town. I watched my music man from across the table as he struggled to place the name with a face, “Steve, Steve.… Oh yeah, the church organist! I don’t have to worry about him.”
So now I had all my little ducks in a row. Well, actually, I was not so sure about one little duckie—Steve’s feelings. He was so sweet; I just couldn’t bear the thought of his feelings getting hurt because of unrequited love. This time I initiated “the talk.” As gingerly as possible, I suggested that we not spend as much time together. I encouraged him not to take it personally; after all, I was planning to break up with my boyfriend as well.
I explained that I was going through a personal revival with the Lord. I was even considering joining YWAM (Youth with a Mission) on a mission trip for a year after the last taping of The Facts of Life. I told him that it would be best if I just concentrated on my relationship with God for a while. There. I had said it.
I relaxed back in my chair at the same time Steve leaned forward in his. He looked me straight in the eye and declared, “Lisa, I could be good for you.”
Where did that come from? Talk about out of the blue. Who had sneaked into the restaurant, kidnapped “Mr. Milquetoast,” and replaced him with “Mr. Big”? I was speechless, which is saying a lot. (Actually, it’s not really saying anything, is it? Oh, never mind.) I didn’t know how to reply, especially since there was something incredibly attractive about what Steve had just done. I decided that it was best not to respond at all, so we ordered dessert and pretended that the entire conversation hadn’t happened.
Many weeks passed, Steve and I as friend-ly as ever, while I continued to wholeheartedly pursue my relationship with God. I registered for a seminar at our church conducted by a visiting evangelist. The last session was to be an anointing service. There were hundreds of people in attendance, and she was praying for them one at a time, so the rest of us sat waiting quietly on the Lord in worship.
I had my hands lifted to the Lord as a gesture of praise when I felt the sensation of a gentle weight descend upon me. I recognized this feeling as the presence of the Holy Spirit. And because this kind of thing doesn’t happen every day, or even every year, I knew enough to pay attention. As I waited expectantly, the thought popped into my head, Would you ever consider marrying Steve Cauble? I knew this was God talking because it was the last thing I would have ever thought to think on my own. My knee-jerk response was: No. Are you kidding?
I shrugged the Holy Spirit off my shoulders and got back to the business of worship. But the thought would not go away. So I purposed to ponder it in my heart, but I certainly was never going to tell Steve about it.
The next day Steve was leaving town for a week, so after the seminar I visited Steve at his house. We chatted as he packed; then it was time for me to head home. Just as I turned to leave, he took my hand, led me to sit down on the couch, and looked at me with unusual urgency. “Listen,” he implored. “Before you leave, I have to ask you one question. Would you ever consider marrying me?”
Wow! This guy doesn’t say much, but when he does…it’s a doozy. I laughed nervously. “Funny you should mention that,” I said. Then I told him what had happened earlier at church, and we agreed that this was probably something we should pray about. Yeah, I know, pretty discerning, huh?
In my opinion, this called for more than praying—this called for fasting! If you know anything at all about me, you know that something has to be mighty serious for me to think about giving up food. But considering the fact that I had suddenly lost my appetite, it wasn’t such a tough decision.
Proverbs 11:14 says that safety comes with a multitude of counselors, and during the following week, I met with every pastor or elder I could schedule an appointment with. They all loved Steve and me and thought this was a fabulous idea. But by the time Steve got back from his trip, I was more confused than ever. How could this be God’s will? I mean, weren’t you supposed to want to kiss the guy you were going to marry? And I really wanted children. How was I going to do that?
We concluded that what we really needed was council from the Big Kahuna himself, Pastor Jack. He would know what we should do. So Steve called him up, and he invited us up to his house after the Sunday evening service.
We arrived just as Pastor Jack and Annas’s favorite television show, “Murder She Wrote,” was beginning. We had to sit there trying to act interested in a show that anyone could figure out within the first five minutes. I wanted to shout, “The butler did it! Now, can’t we get on with something a little less trivial, like the rest of my life?” But I stifled my impatience—thank goodness I’m an actress.
Mercifully the program ended, and it was time to receive from the hand of the master. We gave a full account of all that had transpired over the past few months. We covered the friendship aspect of our relationship; we addressed our age difference (Steve is thirteen years older than me); we talked about what we thought the Lord might be saying; and we reiterated our desire, above all, to do God’s will. The only thing I failed to mention was the tiny detail of the lack of physical attraction on my part.
Pastor Jack paused just long enough to break into a broad smile before he delivered his blessing, “Sounds good to me,” he beamed. “I think you should go for it!” What? That’s it? No alliterated three-point sermon? No big words that I would have to look up when I got home? I was stunned. Before I could react, Anna was offering me a piece of strawberry cheesecake, and we were talking about Jessica Fletcher and that stupid television show again. Help! I’m on a freight train, and I can’t get off.
Little did I know that this “little engine that couldn’t” was about to become a bullet train. Steve left the next day to accompany Pastor Jack to the Foursquare denomination’s district conference. After Pastor Jack was introduced, but before he began to preach, a huge grin burst across his face. Steve was like a son to him and he couldn’t wait any longer to act the proud papa. “Before I begin,” he began, “I have some happy news to announce. Our very own Steve Cauble is engaged to be married to Lisa Whelchel.” Gasps and applause erupted from the crowd.
Let me make sure you have the full picture. Steve knew full well that immediately after the benediction, the Foursquare grapevine would swing into action. It just so happened that Steve’s parents are Foursquare pastors themselves. So he sneaked out of the service and raced to a payphone to call me. I could tell from his voice that something was wrong as he tiptoed on the other line, “Uh…Lisa…you may want to get a hold of your mother before someone else informs her of our impending marriage.”
“Come again,” I said, hoping we just had a really bad connection and I hadn’t actually heard him say that we were engaged and I didn’t even know about it. He tried to explain that there apparently had been a little miscommunication: We obviously hadn’t made it clear to Pastor Jack that we had gone to him for his counsel, not his blessing. “Yowser, Bowser!” he exclaimed.
We hung up and it hit me: I’m engaged to a man who says, “Yowser, Bowser.”
I knew immediately that I would have to leave the church. There was no way I could go through with this. I mean, isn’t there a place in a wedding ceremony where the preacher says, “You may now kiss the bride”? It might be a bit embarrassing if I offered Steve my cheek. No, I would definitely have to leave the church. I realized that I couldn’t continue to attend, knowing that every little old lady I passed in the sanctuary would be whispering, “There goes the Jezebel who broke sweet Steve Cauble’s heart.”
When Steve got back to town, we met for dinner. I anticipated an intense evening of wrestling through our options as we figured out how to clear up this terrible misunderstanding. I was not prepared for how excited Steve was. Did he sincerely believe that just because all of Foursquaredom was thrilled about our engagement that I was too?
Apparently so, because the next thing he said was, “Well, I guess if we are engaged, I ought to buy you a ring.” Why was it so hard for me to say no? Did I really think that I could avoid hurting Steve’s feelings forever by continuing this charade? Sooner or later, I was going to have to do the loving thing and break his heart.
I was able to postpone the inevitable one more time when he said, “My friend Doug bought Christa an engagement ring at the mall. Let’s go look there.” Whew, I was off the hook. The truth is, I’d known for a long time what kind of engagement ring I wanted. I also knew—no offense—that I certainly wasn’t going to find it at the mall. I was sure that it would have to be designed specifically for me. I mean, really now.
As we drove to the mall, I rested secure in my superior taste in jewelry. The man behind the counter asked me if I had anything in particular in mind. “Well, frankly, I do. But I’ve never actually seen the ring; I’ve just imagined it. Perhaps it would help if I drew it.” The gentleman handed me a piece of paper, and I proceeded to draw an emerald-cut diamond in the center surrounded by two triangular, trillion cuts on each side.
The jeweler studied the slip of paper and then reached into the case and pulled out a ring. “You mean this one?” he asked.
There it was—my ring—the one I had never actually seen before. Oh no, I thought. I had drawn it! I couldn’t take it back and say, “Well, no, come to think of it, it was more circular in shape.”
Steve was elated. He whipped out his credit card and bought it on the spot. I’m pretty sure I even heard him say, “Praise the Lord.” But the Lord obviously had nothing to do with this. I mean, God created man and woman; He created the way they created babies. He knows about these things. He surely wasn’t a part of all these “coincidences.”
A few days later I panicked and caught the first flight to Nashville to visit my childhood friend, Michelle. Either she would help me figure out what to do or I could just have my belongings shipped to Tennessee. When I got there I went to the local Christian bookstore and bought every book in the shelf on “how to find the will of God.”
I spent the next three days in bed, alternately pouring over these books and pouring out my heart to God. This had gotten way out of hand and had escalated into a crisis of faith. It was more than an issue of whether Steve was the man I was to marry; this was now about whether God was the God I was to serve.
The way I saw it, either this was all a big joke and God had capriciously manipulated our lives for His own sick entertainment, or this was all my fault for not having the courage to say no or this was God’s plan for my life and I was destined to marry a man for whom I felt very little attraction. To me, all the options were devastating.
Because either my past was all a lie or my future was to be lived as one, I had to find the truth. What did I know for certain? Let’s start at the beginning: Okay, I believe there is a God. I have met Him personally, and He has proven Himself trustworthy in my life many times. I know that I know that He adores me and that He is good through and through. He is stronger than the devil’s schemes, and He is more powerful than circumstances, coincidences, or cowardliness. I could rest in this because I also knew for certain that I had sought His will with a pure heart.
The choice was mine. Was I going to trust God or trust my heart? I knew the decision I had to make, and I felt an unexplainable peace about it. When I boarded a plane home, I was wearing my new engagement ring and carrying the “Now That You Are Engaged” book I had purchased earlier in the week. I figured that since I had decided to marry this man whether the feelings were there or not, I could probably use all the help I could get.
The first suggestion in the book was that I fill out a sheet of paper entitled, “What I love about my fiancé.” I took out a legal pad and began to list all of Steve’s wonderful qualities. There was never a question about how much I admired and respected him, so this was easy. I even recall a time shortly after getting to know Steve when I remarked to a friend, “If the woman who marries Steve Cauble doesn’t realize what a prize she has, I will personally pay her a visit and knock some sense into her.”
Before I realized what was happening to me, somewhere up there around 35,000 feet, I had completed not one, but two legal-size sheets of paper filled with unexaggerated hyperbole extolling the many virtues of Steve Cauble. As I reread my list, something totally unexpected happened.
I fell in love.
When I got off that plane, I ran into my fiancé’s arms and gave him the sloppiest kiss you ever did see!
What do you know that you know that you know about God? Do you believe that He is all-powerful? Do you trust that He is all-good? Is He all-loving and all-holy? These are questions that you need to settle in your heart. There may come a time in your life when the only thing you can count on is the character of God. And that will be enough.
Adapted from The Facts of Life © 2001 by Lisa Whelchel. Used by permission of Multnomah Publishers Inc. Excerpt may not be reproduced without the prior written consent of Multnomah Publishers Inc.
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A Tale of Three Crosses
By Dave Bunnell
If you were to ask some people why Jesus was crucified, they might say, “Because the people rejected Him.”
While it is true that Jesus was rejected by the people, I have to think that isn’t the reason He died. Because the Bible says that He came into the world for the sole purpose of dying. The people had rejected Him long before His crucifixion. When He taught in the temple and proclaimed Himself the Messiah some time earlier, the Bible says that they sought to kill Him. But God’s power was with Him and it was not His time to die. So, it says, He walked untouched through the mob. This Jesus was not a helpless man at the mercy of the people.
His life wasn’t taken on the cross -- it was given. It would have been no difficult task for Him to escape, but He voluntarily walked the narrow road to Calvary to die. As Michael Card put it, it wasn’t the nails that held Jesus to the cross; it was His love for you and me. The reason Jesus died is that we were helpless to find a way to join Him in heaven one day, unless He came from heaven to die for us.
If baptism, good living, praying, fasting, reading the Bible, taking communion, and obedience to the church were all that was necessary to get us to heaven, then God could have stayed home. He wouldn’t have needed to come to Earth as a man to die. Because the prophet John was already baptizing before Jesus’ ministry began. Jesus came into a world that already had baptism, but it needed a savior. Communion had been a part of the Passover Seder feast for thousands of years before the time of Christ. Jesus came into a world that already had Communion, but it needed a savior. He came into a world that already had temples and altars and anointing with oil and sacrifices offered up, but it needed a savior. He came into a world that already had fasting, prayers, and acts of mercy and kindness, but it needed a savior. He came into a world that already had the commands of the Scriptures to follow, but it needed a savior.
Perhaps you, too, already have all of the things this world can offer you in an attempt to become right with God. But you need a savior. We all need a savior. That’s the lesson of the Tale of Three Crosses.
You see, the Bible tells us that Jesus wasn’t the only man crucified that day. There were two other men, one on each side of Him, who were thieves and murderers being put to death for their crimes. They both needed a savior, too. And, the Bible tells us, one of them found one.
While hanging on the cross to bleed and die next to Jesus, he said that he was receiving the punishment he deserved. He recognized that he had been nothing but bad since the day he was born. But he believed that Jesus was the Son of God, and turned to Christ, with nothing to offer but faith, and said, “Remember me when your kingdom comes.”
Jesus answered, “I assure you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” And that was it. Enough said. No purgatory necessary. No acts of penance. No baptism. No giving to the poor. Nothing is required of you. “This very day, you’re going to heaven” was Christ’s message for this thief. All he had done was admit his guilt and ask Jesus for forgiveness, and that forgiveness was granted. Because Jesus, who was innocent, was paying for his sins.
The other thief wasn’t quite so fortunate. Because he treated God in the two ways many misguided people still do today. First, he denied his guilt and that he deserved punishment for his crimes. All too often, people refuse to believe they are bad enough to deserve God’s judgment for sin. Second, he said to Jesus, “If you really are who you say you are, prove it by getting us down off these crosses.” Still today, many people demand that God do something for them to prove Himself before they will believe, as if God owed us something.
We all have one thing in common with these two thieves: we have sinned, and we need Jesus to save us, because there is nothing we can do to take our sins away and make ourselves worthy of heaven. So my question for you today is this: What kind of thief are you? The kind who thinks he or she is good enough to make it on his or her own and won’t believe God unless God jumps through hoops to prove Himself? The kind of thief who depends on religiousness to save him? That kind of thief is eternally condemned.
Or are you the kind of thief who recognizes that God’s word is true and that you have sinned, but He will save you if you come to Him in faith in nothing that you have done, but in what He has done for you? That kind of thief is forgiven.
Today Jesus still stands before the world. And just as it was for Him on the cross that day, on one side of Him are the thieves who believe and are forgiven. And on the other side are those who are condemned for disbelief. What kind of thief are you? You can be eternally saved today, if you call upon Him as the first thief did. Right now, wherever you are, tell Him you have sinned and deserve His judgment. Then tell Him you believe He died for you so that you could be saved, and rose again. Then ask Him to forgive your sins, as you turn from them. And you will be saved.
“Greater love has no one than this: that He lay down His life for His friends.” (John 15:13)
“But God showed His love for us in this, that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)
"Assuredly I say to you, he that hears My word, and believes on Him that sent Me, has everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life." (John 5:24)
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The Most Important Thing...
God loves you so much! He wants you to live with Him forever in heaven.
But your sins against Him make that impossible. So Jesus Christ died in your place, taking all of the punishment you deserve for your sins against God.
Then He rose from the dead, proving His claim to be God is true. If you will believe this, trusting only in Jesus for sa