Pastoral Resources

Two teenagers burst through the front door and raced to the counter with an empty pillow case.

“Put it in,” they demanded of the clerk.

“Put what in?” the attendant asked.

“The money. Put it in and nobody’ll get hurt,” they barked.

The puzzled library attendant, who had less than $1 in collected fines in the petty cash box, ducked out the door and called the police. They, too, were dumbfounded.

It’s the first attempted library robbery I ever heard of,” said one cop, scratching his head.

The only plausible explanation was that the two careless crooks got the Grandon City, Kansas, bank mixed up with the library. The two buildings are a block apart on corner locations, and at the time, the bank’s exterior was partially obstructed by scaffolding.

The youths, believed to be runaways from Florida, were nabbed by police hours after the bungled heist. In keeping with their crime, the bonehead bandits were taken into custody and promptly “booked”.

On September 23, 1908, at the Polo Grounds in New York City, there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning. The New York Giants and the Chicago Cubs were battling for the National League pennant, with the score tied at 1-1. The Giants had two men on base: 19-year-old Fred Merkle on first and Moose McCormick on third. Al Bridwell slapped a single up the middle, scoring McCormick.

The game seemed to be over. But instead of tagging second base, Fred Merkle trotted off the field to the Giants’ locker room. The Cubs threw the ball to second, forcing out Merkel. The run didn’t count, the Giants lost the pennant, and Fred Merkle picked up the name, “Bonehead Merkle.”

But that’s not the end of the story. Fred Merkle got another chance and went on to play for 14 more seasons, including five trips to the World Series.

There are four main bones in every organization.

1. The wish-bones: Wishing somebody would do something about the problem.

2. The jaw-bones: Doing all the talking but very little else.

3. The knuckle-bones: Those who knock everything.

4. The back-bones: Those who carry the brunt of the load and do most of the work.

English raconteur T. H. White recalls in the BOOK OF MERLYN a boyhood experience: “My father made me a wooden castle big enough to get into, and he fixed real pistol barrels beneath its battlements to fire a salute on my birthday, but made me sit in front the first night . . . to receive the salute, and I, believing I was to be shot, cried,” How many times have we, too, misinterpreted the ambiguity of life and though ourselves to be “shot” when delight was intended? One translation of Psalm 94:19 read, “In the middle of all my troubles, you roll me over with rollicking delight.” The psalmist is right; God’s festive gaiety is somehow to be discerned in the midst of our own troubled fears. God often plays rough before breaking into laughter, and only a bold and rowdy playfulness can draw the whole of what we are to such a God. Yet, we’re not always able to grasp that truth. Ever expecting to be shot, we are often dumbfounded by a grace we can’t conceive.

Excellence is to do a common thing is an uncommon way.

- Booker T. Washington

The Rev. Dr. Robert South, while preaching one day in 1689, looked up from his notes to observe that his entire congregation was fast asleep—including the King! Appropriately mortified by this discovery, he interrupted his sermon to call out, “Lord Lauderdale, rouse yourself. You snore so loudly that you will wake the King.”

Tennis star Boris Becker was at the very top of the tennis world—yet he was on the brink of suicide. He said, “I had won Wimbledon twice before, once as the youngest player. I was rich. I had all the material possessions I needed ... It’s the old song of movie stars and pop stars who commit suicide. They have everything, and yet they are so unhappy. I had no inner peace. I was a puppet on a string.”

Becker is not the only one to feel that sense of emptiness. The echoes of a hollow life pervade our culture. One doesn’t have to read many contemporary biographies to find the same frustration and disappointment. Jack Higgens, author of such successful novels and The Eagle Has Landed, was asked what he would like to have known as a boy. His answer: “That when you get to the top, there’s nothing there.”

Elderly Christians tend to be thoughtful, kind, patient and loving. Through years of imitating Christ they have grown more and more into his image. Physical health may be failing, or the eyesight growing dim, the hearing failing, but there is no reason to lose heart. Why? "The inner nature is being renewed every day." And these saints are more lovely than they have ever been.

For those who resent the passing years, an interesting possibility has been suggested by Charles L. Allen. He writes, "Just suppose the process were reversed. You would start living at an old age and every day be a little younger. Now that would be terrible. Every day you would know a little less than you knew the day before. You would start off with your grandchildren but in a few years they would all be gone. Your family, instead of growing, would constantly be diminishing. You would eventually get to the age where you start to college. You would start off a senior and end up in the first grade. Now, little first graders are cute with their short pants or little pink dresses, but I would hate to think I would have to be one again.

"Tottering old age has its drawbacks, but being a tiny baby is a lot worse. If you were getting younger, you would have to look forward to losing everything and end up by being a helpless baby with a bottle. Finally, you would just fade away into nothing. Babies do not have a previous existence, so complete oblivion would be the end."

When it is put like that, it is easy to see the advantage of growing older rather than shrinking younger. In the spiritual realm, who would want his faith to grow weaker day by day? Who would want to see his Christ-like qualities diminish with the passing of time? Who would want to give up the personal experiences where God has proven His faithfulness time and again in one's own life? Not me!

Experience is a great teacher. We are confident that:

They who wait for the Lord

shall renew their strength,

they shall mount up with wings

like eagles,

they shall run and not be weary,

they shall walk and not faint. (Isa 40:31)

“Leadership should be born out of the understanding of the needs of those who would be affected by it.”

Born to be battered…the loving phone call book. Underline it, circle things, write in the margins, turn down page corners, the more you use it, the more valuable it gets to be.

I read a story recently that made me smile and set me to thinking.

One dark rainy night a salesman had a flat tire on a lonely road. But to his dismay he had no lug wrench. Seeing a nearby farmhouse, he set out on foot. Surely the farmer would have a lug wrench, he thought. But would he even come to the door? And if he did, he’d probably be furious at being bothered. He’s say, “What’s the big idea getting me out of bed in the middle of the night?” This thought made the salesman angry. Why, that farmer is a selfish old clod to refuse to help me.

Finally the man reached the house. Frustrated and drenched, he banged on the door. “Who’s there?” a voice called out from a window overhead. “You know good and well who it is,” yelled the salesman, his face red with anger. “It’s me! And you can keep your old lug wrench! I wouldn’t borrow it is it was the last one in the county.”

A man found himself staggering alone under a load that was heavy enough to crush half a dozen strong men. Out of sheer exhaustion, he put it down and had a good look at it. He found that it was all borrowed!

Part of it belonged to the following day; part of it belonged to the following week; and here he was borrowing it that it might crush him now! It was a very stupid but a very ancient (and also modern) blunder.

Glen Davidson, of Dalkena Community Church, felt God’s call to the ministry while working as a successful businessman. He began taking Bible courses at night, and eventually obtained his Bible school degree. Prior to graduation, he informed his boss that he’d be leaving shortly to work as a pastor in a rural church. Neither the owner of the company or the boss believed it, and they neglected to obtain a replacement for Glen. Eventually Glen told the boss that he really was leaving and they needed to locate a replacement as soon as possible. The owner of the company still doubting Glen’s sincerity, instructed Glen’s boss, “Offer him a $500.00 raise, and if he takes it, fire him on the spot!”

Back in Boston in the mid-1960s, Bill Russell was the star basketball center for the world-champion Celtics. It was fun watching him and his team play at the Boston Garden. He dominated the boards, and with effortless ease, he seemed to take charge of the whole court once the game got underway. The whole team revolved around his larger-than-life presence. Sports fans watch him from a distance, respecting his command of the sport. Then, in a radio interview, I heard a comment from Russell that immediately made me feel closer to him, though I have never met the man. The sports reporter asked the all-pro basketball star if he ever got nervous. Russell’s answer was surprising. He said, in his inimitable style of blunt honesty, “Before every game, I vomit.” Shocked, the sportscaster asked what he did if they played two games the same day. Unflappable Russell replied, “I vomit twice.”

A minister must be learned, on pain of being utterly incompetent for his work. But before and above being learned, a minister must be godly. Nothing could be more fatal, however, than to set these two things over against one another. Recruiting officers do not dispute whether it is better for soldiers to have a right leg or a left leg: soldiers should have both legs.

Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the first African Secretary General of the United Nations, has more than a passing interest in politics. His grandfather, Boutros Ghali, the only Christian prime minister of Egypt, was shot by an assassin in 1910. Cairo crowds hailed his Moslem killer, but the family did not intend anyone to forget the grandfather. They adopted his given name, Boutros (Peter), and anointed the new grandchild with the same given name. The family then built a church in Cairo to honor the martyred patriarch. “On his tomb were the words ‘God is witness that I served my country to the best of my ability,’” says Boutros-Ghali.

“For a boy to grow up with such things creates an impact. I felt I would betray the tradition of our family if I didn’t play a political role.”

And bowling? Odds against rolling a perfect 300 in the game are about 225,000 to one. And one bowler appropriately collapsed when he qualified to join that brotherhood of 300. Another bowler just couldn’t bring himself to play the final ball of an otherwise perfect game. Instead he silently packed his shoes and ball and walked out—and never again set foot inside a bowling alley!

The legendary bare-knuckles boxing champion John L. Sullivan was confronted by a runt of a man who, suffering from the effects of too much drink, challenged the burly champion to a fight. Sullivan, who once battled toe-to-toe with an opponent for 75rounds, growled, “Listen, you, if you hit me just once—and I find out about it ...” The Champ didn’t need to finish the sentence!

The small boy had been consistently late for dinner. One particular day his parents had warned him to be on time, but he arrived later than ever. He found his parents already seated at the table, about to start eating. Quickly he sat at his place, then noticed what was set before him—a slice of bread and a glass of water. There was silence as he sat staring at his plate, crushed. Suddenly he saw his father’s hand reach over, pick up his plate and set it before himself. Then his dad put his own full plate in front of his son, smiling warmly as he made the exchange. When the boy became a man, he said, “All my life I’ve known what God was like by what my father did that night.”

A 12 year old boy named David was born without an immune system. He underwent a bone marrow transplant in order to correct the deficiency. Up to that point he had spent his entire life in a plastic bubble in order to prevent exposure to common germs, bacteria, and viruses that could kill him. He lived without ever knowing human contact. When asked what he’d like to do if and when released from his protective bubble, he replied, “I want to walk barefoot on grass, and touch my mother’s hand.”

Some years ago I read an account that went something like this:

A group of scientists and botanists were exploring remote regions of the Alps in search of new species of flowers. One day they noticed through binoculars a flower of such rarity and beauty that its value to science was incalculable. But it lay deep in a ravine with cliffs on both sides. To get the flower someone had to be lowered over the cliff on a rope.

A curious young boy was watching nearby, and the scientists told him they would pay him well if he would agree to be lowered over the cliff to retrieve the flower below.

The boy took one long look down the steep, dizzy depths and said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” A short time later he returned, followed by a gray-haired man. Approaching the botanist, the boy said, “I’ll go over that cliff and get that flower for you if this man holds the rope. He’s my dad.”

Many years ago in England a circus elephant named Bozo was very popular with the public. Children especially loved to crowd around his cage and throw him peanuts. Then one day there was a sudden change in the elephant’s personality. Several times he tried to kill his keeper and when the children came near his cage he would charge toward them as if wanting to trample them to death. It was obvious he would have to be destroyed. The circus owner, a greedy and crude man, decided to stage a public execution of the animal. In this way, he could sell tickets and try to recoup some of the cost of losing such a valuable property. The day came and the huge circus tent was packed.

Bozo, in his cage, was in the center ring. Nearby stood a firing squad with high-powered rifles. The manager, standing near the cage, was about ready to give the signal to fire, when out of the crowd came a short, inconspicuous man in a brown derby hat. “There is no need for this,” he told the manager quietly. The manager brushed him aside. “He is a bad elephant. He must die before he kills someone.” “You are wrong,” insisted the man. “Give me two minutes in the cage alone with him and I will prove you are wrong.” The manager turned and stared in amazement. “You will be killed,” he said. “I don’t think so,” said the man. “Do I have your permission?” The manager, being the kind of man he was, was not one to pass up such a dramatic spectacle. Even if the man were killed, the publicity alone would be worth millions. “All right,” he said, “but first you will have to sign a release absolving the circus of all responsibility.”

The small man signed the paper. As he removed his coat and hat, preparing to enter the cage, the manager told the people what was about to happen. A hush fell over the crowd. The door to the cage was unlocked, the man stepped inside, then the door was locked behind him. At the sight of this stranger in his cage the elephant threw back his trunk, let out a might roar, then bent his head preparing to charge. The man stood quite still, a faint smile on his face as he began to talk to the animal. The audience was so quiet that those nearest the cage could hear the man talking but couldn’t make out the words; he seemed to be speaking some foreign language. Slowly, as the man continued to talk, the elephant raised his head. Then the crowd heard an almost piteous cry from the elephant as his enormous head began to sway gently from side to side. Smiling, the man walked confidently to the animal and began to stroke the long trunk. All aggression seemed suddenly to have been drained from the elephant. Docile as a pup now he wound his trunk around the man’s waist and the two walked slowly around the ring. The astounded audience could bear the silence no longer and broke out in cheers and clapping. After a while the man bade farewell to the elephant and left the cage.

“He’ll be all right now,” he told the manager. “You see, he’s an Indian elephant and none of you spoke his language, Hindustani. I would advise you to get someone around here who speaks Hindustani. He was just homesick.” And with that the little man put on his coat and hat and left. The astounded manager looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. The name the man had signed was Rudyard Kipling.

Three kids bragging about fathers:

First: My dad’s so smart he can talk for one hour on any subject.

Second: My dad’s so smart he can talk for two hours on any subject.

Third: My dad’s so smart he can talk for 3 hours and doesn’t even need a subject.

Three kids bragging about fathers:

First: My dad’s so smart he can talk for one hour on any subject.

Second: My dad’s so smart he can talk for two hours on any subject.

Third: My dad’s so smart he can talk for 3 hours and doesn’t even need a subject.

The Brahmans of southern India have traditionally prohibited a younger brother from marrying before an elder brother. So when a suitable bride can’t be found for the senior sibling, he may be ceremonially married to a tree, leaving the younger brother free to take a wife. Sometimes the two marriages take place at the same time in the hopes that any bad luck that might befall the happy human newlyweds would be diverted to the tree

It was 1818 in France, and Louis, a boy of 9, was sitting in his father’s workshop. The father was a harness-maker and the boy loved to watch his father work the leather. “Someday Father,” said Louis, “I want to be a harness-maker, just like you.” “Why not start now?” said the father. He took a piece of leather and drew a design on it. “Now, my son,” he said, “take the hole-puncher and a hammer and follow this design, but be careful that you don’t hit your hand.” Excited, the boy began to work, but when he hit the hole-puncher, it flew out of his hand and pierced his eye! He lost the sight of that eye immediately. Later, sight in the other eye failed. Louis was now totally blind. A few years later, Louis was sitting in the family garden when a friend handed him a pine cone. As he ran his sensitive fingers over the cone, an idea came to him. He became enthusiastic and began to create an alphabet of raised dots on paper so that the blind could feel and interpret what was written. Thus, Louis Braille opened up a whole new world for the blind—all because of an accident!

A fellow heard about an operation which would enable him to get a new brain. He went to the hospital where the surgery had been perfected and asked the doctors what was in stock. “Well,” they said, “here is an excellent engineer’s brain—a finely honed, precise bit of gray matter. It will cost you $500 an ounce.”

“What else?” the man wanted to know.

“This,” they told him, “Is a lawyer’s brain—a collection of shrewd, tricky little gray cells. It is $1000 an ounce.”

“Is that all you have?”

“No,” they said. “Here is a doctor’s brain, packed full of anatomical knowledge. It is $5000 an ounce.”

“I don’t know,” the fellow said. “Don’t you have anything else?”

The doctors looked at each other then motioned for the man to step over to a covered container. “This,” they said in hushed tones, “is a legislator’s brain. It costs $250,000 an ounce.”

“Wow!” exclaimed the fellow. “Why so expensive?”

“In the first place,” the doctors told him, “it is hardly used. In the second place, do you realize how many legislators you need to get an ounce of brains?”

John Wesley’s father, Samuel, was a dedicated pastor, but there were those in his parish who did not like him. On February 9, 1709, a fire broke out in the rectory at Epworth, possibly set by one of the rector’s enemies. Young John, not yet six years old, was stranded on an upper floor of the building. Two neighbors rescued the lad just seconds before the roof crashed in. One neighbor stood on the other’s shoulders and pulled young John through the window. Samuel Wesley said, “Come, neighbors, let us kneel down. Let us give thanks to God. He has given me all my eight children. Let the house go. I am rich enough.” John Wesley often referred to himself as a “brand plucked out of the fire” (Zech 3:2; Amos 4:11). In later years he often noted February 9 in his journal and gave thanks to God for His mercy. Samuel Wesley labored for 40 years at Epworth and saw very little fruit; but consider what his family accomplished!

A New York family bought a ranch out West where they intended to raise cattle. Friends visited and asked if the ranch had a name.

“Well,” said the would-be cattleman, “I wanted to name it the Bar-J. My wife favored Suzy-Q, one son liked the Flying-W, and the other wanted the Lazy-Y. So we’re calling it the Bar-J-Suzy-Q-Flying-W-Lazy-Y.”

“But where are all your cattle?” the friends asked.

“None survived the branding.” - D.A.C. News

The Little Sisters of the Poor were going from door to door in a French city, soliciting alms for old people. One nun called at the house of a rich free-thinker who said he would give 1000 francs if she would have a glass of champagne with him. It was an embarrassing situation for the nun, and she hesitated. But the hesitation was short—after all, 1000 francs meant many loaves of bread. A servant brought the bottle and poured, and the brave little nun emptied the glass. And then she said, “And now, sir, another glass, please, at the same price.” She got it.

In his book One Crowded Hour, Tim Bowden describes an incident in Borneo in 1964. Nepalese fighters known as Gurkhas were asked if they would be willing to jump from airplanes into combat against the Indonesians. The Gurkhas didn’t clearly understand what was involved, but they bravely said they would do it, asking only that the plane fly slowly over a swampy area and no higher than 100 feet. When they were told that the parachutes would not have time to open at that height, the Gurkhas replied, “Oh, you didn’t mention parachutes before!”

One problem I remember was a time when our son Bob broke our trust and lied to his mother and me. He was still young, dating Linda, his wife-to-be, and was only allowed to see her on certain nights. Well, one night he wanted to see her without permission and told us he was at his friend’s house. When we found out the truth, there was a real scene between us. He had violated our trust; it was like a crack in a fine cup that marred its appearance. In the confrontation, I smashed a fine English tea cup on the floor and told Bob that to restore our trust would be like gluing that cup back together again. He said, “I don’t know if I can do that.” And I said, “Well, that’s how hard it is to build confidence and trust again.” The outcome was that Bob spent literally weeks carefully gluing the pieces together until he finished. He learned a very important lesson.

In his autobiography, Breaking Barriers, syndicated columnist Carl Rowan tells about a teacher who greatly influenced his life. Rowan relates:

Miss Thompson reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a piece of paper containing a quote attributed to Chicago architect Daniel Burnham. I listened intently as she read: ‘Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans, aim high in hope and work. Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things that would stagger us.’

More than 30 years later, I gave a speech in which I said that Frances Thompson had given me a desperately needed belief in myself. A newspaper printed the story, and someone mailed the clipping to my beloved teacher.

She wrote me: “You have no idea what that newspaper story meant to me. For years, I endured my brother’s arguments that I had wasted my life. That I should have married and had a family. When I read that you gave me credit for helping to launch a marvelous career, I put the clipping in front of my brother. After he’d read it, I said, ‘You see, I didn’t really waste my life, did I?’“

As Vice President, George Bush represented the U.S. at the funeral of former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev. Bush was deeply moved by a silent protest carried out by Brezhnev’s widow. She stood motionless by the coffin until seconds before it was closed. Then, just as the soldiers touched the lid, Brezhnev’s wife performed an act of great courage and hope, a gesture that must surely rank as one of the most profound acts of civil disobedience ever committed: She reached down and made the sign of the cross on her husband’s chest. There in the citadel of secular, atheistic power, the wife of the man who had run it all hoped that her husband was wrong. She hoped that there was another life, and that that life was best represented by Jesus who died on the cross, and that the same Jesus might yet have mercy on her husband.

I was just twelve when my Boy Scout troop planned a father-son campout. I was thrilled and could hardly wait to rush home and give my father all the information. I wanted so much to show him all I’d learned in scouting, and I was so proud when he said he’d go with me.

The Friday of the campout finally came, and I had all my gear out on the porch, ready to stuff it in his car the moment he arrived. We were to meet at the local school at 5 p.m. car pool to the campground.

But Dad didn’t get home from work until 7 p.m. as frantic, but he explained how things had gone wrong at work and told me not to worry. We could still get up first thing in the morning and join the others. After all, we had a map. I was disappointed, of course, but decided to just make the best of it.

First thing in the morning, I was up and had everything in his car while it was still getting light, all ready for us to catch up with my friends and their fathers at the campground. He had said we’d leave around 7 a.m., and I was ready a half hour before that. But he never came out of his room until 9 a.m.

When he saw me standing out front with the camping gear, he finally explained that he had a bad back and couldn’t sleep on the ground. He hoped I’d understand and that I’d be a “big boy” about it … but could I please get my things out of his car, because he had several commitments he had to keep.

Just about the hardest thing I’ve ever done was to go to the car and take out my sleeping bag, cooking stove, pup tent, and supplies. And then, while I was putting my stuff away in the storage shed and he thought I couldn’t see, I watched my father carry his golf clubs out and throw them in his trunk and drive away to keep his “commitment.”

That’s when I realized my dad never meant to go with me to the campout. I didn’t matter to him, but his golfing buddies did.

Why do toymakers watch the divorce rate? When it rises, so do toy sales. According to the analyzers, four parents and eight grandparents tend to compete for children’s affections, so buy toys.

Prospective father-in-law to daughter’s suitor: “How much money do you have in the bank?”

Young man: “I don’t know. I haven’t shaken it lately.”

Charles Eliet had a problem. He had a contract to build an engineering marvel—a suspension bridge over the Niagara River. But he had no way of stretching his first cable between the shores. Then Eliet had an idea: fly a kite across the river and use the cord to pull a larger cable across. Eliet announced a kite-flying contest, and young man named Homan Walsh responded. On Walsh’s second try he succeeded in flying his kite to the opposite shore of the river. The vital link was established and the bridge was built.

The word "pontiff," used to designate the highest religious order of the Roman Catholic Church, namely the Pope, has an interesting history. This was the name which, in the old pagan religion of ancient Rome, was given to the chief priests. The pontiffs were those who were invested with pontifical power. The name as it was first applied meant "the makers of bridges." Why it was used to designate a religious order we hardly know. Perhaps those old Roman pontiffs were specially employed in consecrating those mighty instruments of earthly peace and civilization, the great roads and bridges by which the old Romans tamed and subdued the world. But in a moral and spiritual sense we ought all to be makers of bridges. Pontiff or no pontiff, minister or no minister, every Christian who walks in his Master's steps ought to make it his special business to throw bridges across those moral rents and fissures which divide us one from the other. Across these various gulfs and chasms let every one lend a helping hand to build such bridges as best we can. There cannot be a more truly pontifical work.

She was only a tiny girl, unused to traveling, and it happened that in the course of the day, her train crossed two branches of a river and several wide streams. The water awakened doubts and fears in the child. She did not understand how it could be safe to cross. As they drew near the river, however, she saw a bridge across a body of water. Two or three times the same thing happened: finally, the child leaned back and relaxed. “Somebody has put bridges for us all the way!” she sighed with relief.

The National Association of Suggestion Systems, a 900-member trade organization based in Chicago, says a quarter of the 1.3 million suggestions received last year by its member companies were used. The result? Companies were able to save over $1.25 billion and awarded employees $128 million for their bright ideas.

There are so many stony ground hearers who receive the Word with joy that I have determined to suspend my judgment till I know the tree by its fruits.

Do you think any farmer would have crop of corn next year unless he plowed now? You may as well expect a crop of corn on unplowed ground as a crop of grace until he soul is convinced of its being undone without a Savior. That’s the reason we have so many mushroom converts, so many persons that are always happy! happy! happy! and never were miserable. Why? Because their stony ground is not plowed up; they have not got a conviction of the law … they fall away … That makes me so cautious now, which I was not thirty years ago, of dubbing converts too soon. Now I wait a little, and see if people bring forth fruit; for there are so many blossoms which March winds blow away that I cannot believe they are converts till I see fruit brought forth.

- George Whitefield (1714-1770)

The early morning crash of a Brink’s armored truck on a Miami highway in January held up a mirror to our nation’s cultural decline. While the driver and a fellow Brink’s officer lay bruised and bleeding, a festive atmosphere broke loose outside the truck as thousands of dollars blew n the breeze.

Motorists stopped in rush hour traffic, then scooped up cash before resuming their commutes to the office. Thousands of crisp bills and shiny coins rained down an overpass onto a Miami neighborhood. Below, mothers with babies grabbed coins and piled them into strollers. An elderly woman filled a box. A young school girl dumped her book bag and loaded it with coins and bills.

Onlookers and participants had plenty of justifications and rationalizations.

“Which is more moral,” asked one resident of the impoverished neighborhood, “to return the money and leave your children improvised-or maybe send them to college and enrich the family for generations?”

“We deserve a little something,” said another.

“The Lord was willing for it to happen here,” one man commented. “There’s a lot of poverty. It was a miracle.”

Police estimated that more than 100 people helped themselves to money during the melee. Middle class on their way to work made off with thousands.

Was this a shocking event? It shouldn’t have been. What happened in Miami was born out of a cultural drift that has left us unsure of absolute right and wrong or at least unwilling to live by such a code. We reward rule-breakers and ridicule those who extol morality. Life’s ultimate reward is money and having it is the end to our worries.

Ralph Reed said that the 1996 presidential election was about the character of the American people. Maybe the Miami incident says more about that character than we care to consider. There were some heroes on that day in Miami. Several people came forward and turned money over to authorities.

“I have children, and I needed to set a good example,” said Faye McFadden, a mother who earns $5 an hour at a department store. “It was important for me to do what I felt was right.”

Herbert Tarvin, 11, came forward after his teacher at St. Francis Xavier Elementary School lectured students about making the right decision. He went to police with 85 cents.

“I knew it was wrong for me to keep anything,” Herbert told a television reporter, “and I knew if I kept it I would have been stealing.”

Manny Rodriguez, a firefighter who recovered a bag containing $330,000 in cash, summed things up pretty well. “People were almost killed in that truck and people are calling it a blessing from God. That wasn’t a blessing; it was a test. The rich, the poor, the middle class-everybody should have a conscience.”

“If there is any way it can be misunderstood—by someone, somewhere, sometime—it will be misunderstood.”

British sculptor Sir Jacob Epstein was once visited in his studio by the eminent author and fellow Briton, George Bernard Shaw. The visitor noticed a huge block of stone standing in one corner and asked what it was for.

“I don’t know yet. I’m still making plans.”

Shaw was astounded. “You mean you plan your work. Why, I change my mind several times a day!”

“That’s all very well with a four-ounce manuscript,” replied the sculptor, “but not with a four-ton block.”

A young boy, on an errand for his mother, had just bought a dozen eggs. Walking out of the store, he tripped and dropped the sack. All the eggs broke, and the sidewalk was a mess. The boy tried not to cry. A few people gathered to see if he was OK and to tell him how sorry they were. In the midst of the works of pity, one man handed the boy a quarter. Then he turned to the group and said, “I care 25 cents worth. How much do the rest of you care?”

I heard a story about a man who invited his neighbor to attend church with him. On the way home, the neighbor said, "I noticed you have a new preacher." "Yes," said his friend, "We fired the old one. He was always telling us unless we repented, we were going to hell." "But," the neighbor replied, "your new preacher said the very same thing this morning." "True," was the reply, "but our old preacher acted like he was happy about the situation. When our new preacher says this, it seems to break his heart."

There is no class of people exempt from broken hearts. The rich and the poor suffer alike. There was a time when I used to visit the poor that I thought all the broken hearts were to be found among them, but within the last few years I have found there are as many broken hearts among the learned as the unlearned, the cultured as the uncultured, the rich as the poor. If you could but go up one of our avenues and down another and reach the hearts of the people; and get them to tell their whole story, you would be astonished at the wonderful history of every family. I remember a few years ago I had been out of the city for some weeks. When I returned I started out to make some calls. The first place I went to I found a mother; her eyes were red with weeping. I tried to find out what was troubling her, and she reluctantly opened her heart and told me all. She said: "Last night my only boy came home about midnight, drunk. I didn't know that he was addicted to drunkenness, but this morning I found out that he had been drinking for weeks, and," she continued, "I would rather have seen him laid in the grave than have have had him brought home in the condition I saw him in last night." I tried to comfort her as best I could when she told me her sad story. When I went away from that house I didn't want to go into any other house where there was family trouble. The very next house I went to, however, where some of the children who attended my Sunday school resided, I found that death had been there and laid his hand on one of them. The mother spoke to me of her afflictions, and brought to me the playthings and the little shoes of the child, and the tears trickled down that mother's cheeks as she related to me her sorrow. I got out as soon as possible, and hoped I would see no more family trouble that day.

The next visit I made was to a home where I found a wife with a bitter story. Her husband had been neglecting her for a long time; "and now," she said, "he has left me, and I don't know where he has gone. Winter is coming on, and I don't know what is going to become of my family." I tried to comfort her, and prayed with her, and endeavored to get her to lay all her sorrows on Christ. The next home I entered I found a woman crushed and broken-hearted. She told me her boy had forsaken her, and she had no idea where he had gone. That afternoon I made five calls, and in every home I found a broken heart. Everyone had a sad tale to tell, and if you visited every house in Chicago you would find the truth in the saying that "there is a skeleton in every house." I suppose while I am talking you are thinking of the great sorrow in your own bosom. I do not know anything about you, but if I were to come around to everyone of you, and you were to tell me the truth I would hear a tale of sorrow. The very last man I spoke to last night was a young mercantile man who told me his load of sorrow had been so great that many times during the last few weeks he had gone down to the lake and had been tempted to plunge in and end his existence. His burden seemed too much for him. Think of the broken hearts in Chicago tonight! They could be numbered by hundreds--yea, thousands. All over this city are broken hearts.

If all the sorrow represented in this great city were written in a book, this building couldn't hold that book, and you couldn't read it in a long lifetime. This earth is not a stranger to tears, neither is the present the only time when they could be found in abundance. From Adam's days to ours tears have been shed, and a wail has been going up to heaven from the broken-hearted. And I say it again, it is a mystery to me how all those broken hearts can keep away from Him who has come to heal them.

Kings of Italy and Bohemia both promised safe transport and safe custody to the great pre-Reformation Bohemian reformer, John Hus. Both, however, broke their promises, leading to Hus’s martyrdom in 1415. Earlier, Thomas Wentworth had carried a document signed by King Charles I which read, “Upon the word of a king you shall not suffer in life, honour, or fortune.” It was not long, however, before Wentworth’s death warrant was signed by the same monarch!

Five broken things in the Bible and the results achieved by them:

1) Broken pitchers (Judges 7:18,19) and the light shone out

2) A Broken Box (Mark 14:3) and the ointment was poured out

3) Broken Bread (Matt 14:10) and the hungry were fed

4) A Broken Body (I Cor 11:24) and the world was saved

5) A Broken will (Psa 51:17) and a life of fulfillment in Christ

One problem I remember was a time when our son Bob broke our trust and lied to his mother and me. He was still young, dating Linda, his wife-to-be, and was only allowed to see her on certain nights. Well, one night he wanted to see her without permission and told us he was at his friend’s house. When we found out the truth, there was a real scene between us. He had violated our trust; it was like a crack in a fine cup that marred its appearance. In the confrontation, I smashed a fine English tea cup on the floor and told Bob that to restore our trust would be like gluing that cup back together again.

He said, “I don’t know if I can do that.”

And I said, “Well, that’s how hard it is to build confidence and trust again.”

The outcome was that Bob spent literally weeks carefully gluing the pieces together until he finished. He learned a very important lesson.

God uses broken things. It takes broken soil to produce a crop, broken clouds to produce rain, broken grain to give bread and broken bread to give strength. It is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume. It is the broken Peter, weeping bitterly, who returns to greater power than ever.

According to a study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, bronze medal winners are generally happier with their prizes than are silver medalists. Why? Bronze medalists are thrilled to win a medal at all, while silver medalists can’t stop thinking about how close they came to gold.

Take Edwin Thomas, for instance. Edwin Thomas Booth, that is. At age fifteen he debuted on the stage playing Tressel to his father’s Richard III. Within a few short years he was playing the lead in Shakespearean tragedies throughout the United States and Europe. He was the Olivier of his time. He brought a spirit of tragedy that put him in a class by himself.

Edwin had a younger brother, John, who was also an actor. Although he could not compare with his older brother, he did give a memorable interpretation of Brutus in the 1863 production of Julius Caesar, by the New York Winter Garden Theater. Two years later, he performed his last role in a theater when he jumped from the box of a bloodied President Lincoln to the stage of Ford’s Theater. John Wilkes Booth met the end he deserved. But his murderous life placed a stigma over the life of his brother Edwin.

An invisible asterisk now stood beside his name in the minds of the people. He was no longer Edwin Booth the consummate tragedian, but Edwin Booth the brother of the assassin. He retired from the stage to ponder the question why?

Edwin Booth’s life was a tragic accident simply because of his last name. The sensationalists wouldn’t let him separate himself from the crime.

It is interesting to note that he carried a letter with him that could have vindicated him from the sibling attachment to John Wilkes Booth. It was a letter from General Adams Budeau, Chief Secretary to General Ulysses S. Grant, thanking him for a singular act of bravery. It seems that while he was waiting for a train on the platform at Jersey City, a coach he was about to board bolted forward. He turned in time to see that a young boy had slipped from the edge of the pressing crowd into the path of the oncoming train. Without thinking, Edwin raced to the edge of the platform and, linking his leg around a railing, grabbed the boy by the collar. The grateful boy recognized him, but he didn’t recognize the boy. It wasn’t until he received the letter of thanks that he learned it was Robert Todd Lincoln, the son of his brother’s future victim.

It was reported recently that an enormous pine tree in the mountains of Colorado had fallen victim to a pine beetle and died. According to locals, up to that point the tree was thought to be indestructible. It had survived fourteen lightning strikes and many years of Colorado winters, including avalanches and fires. But it was eventually brought down from within by a tiny insect that did its work silently.

Hideyoshi, a Japanese warlord who ruled over Japan in the late 1500s, commissioned a colossal statue of Buddha for a shrine in Kyoto. It took 50,000 men five years to build, but the work had scarcely been completed when the earthquake of 1596 brought the roof of the shrine crashing down and wrecked the statue. In a rage Hideyoshi shot an arrow at the fallen colossus. “I put you here at great expense,” he shouted, “and you can’t even look after your own temple.”

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Build me a son whose wishbone will not be where his backbone should be; a son who will know Thee and that to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge. Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who fail.

Build me a son whose heart will be clean, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men; one who will learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.

And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the simplicity of greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, the meekness of true strength.

Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, “I have not lived in vain.”

-General Douglas MacArthur

In a great cathedral in Europe, there is a window made by an apprentice out of the bits of stained glass that were thrown away as worthless refuse when the other windows were made; this is the most beautiful window of all. You can build a noble character for yourself, in spite of all the hurts and injuries done consciously or unconsciously by others, with the fragments of the broken hopes, joys and the lost opportunities that lie strewn about your feet. No matter how badly others have hurt and marred you, they cannot prevent you from building a beautiful character for yourself; conversely, others by their best work cannot cause you to build a beautiful character. The fine character of your father or mother is not yours; you've got to build your own.

Leadership is not magnetic personality. That can just as well be a glib tongue.

It is not making friends and influencing people; that is flattery.

Leadership is lifting a person’s vision to higher sights, the raising of a person’s performance to higher standards, the building of a personality beyond its normal limitations.

Norton Sterret, in How to Understand Your Bible, states very concisely some of the major principles that need to be adhered to when building a theological system from one’s own study of the Bible:

1. Base doctrine on the literal statements of the Bible rather than on the figurative portions.

2. Base doctrine on plain statements rather than on obscure ones.

3. Base doctrine on the didactic (teaching) passages rather than on the historical ones.

4. Base doctrine on all the relevant passages, not on just a few.

5. Do a word study to learn some doctrines.

6. There are doctrines which have no one word in the Bible to describe them.

7. There are passages in which a doctrine is presented but the actual word does not occur.

8. Some doctrines have more than one word to express them.

9. Be sure that each passage is understood through the general principles of interpretation.

10. Be cautious in formulating doctrine by inference.

11. Beware of doctrinal speculation.

12. In forming, holding, and teaching doctrine, emphasize what the Scripture emphasizes.

13. Seek the practical import of the doctrine.

An engineer who was responsible for building great factories said that all such construction is now planned with the machines that are to be housed in the factory in mind. The walls and floors of the buildings are constructed so that a machine can be built into the very foundation and structure of the building, rather than set in as an afterthought.

This is the way the Lord builds believers into Christ. We are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone, and in Him all the building is fitly framed together, so that it "groweth unto an holy temple in the Lord" (Eph 2:20-21). That is surpassing even the modern engineers. They can frame their building and foundation and machines together "fitly," but they cannot make the building "grow." The true believers are fused in Christ and grow in Him together with Him and together with one another.

The outstanding Baptist preacher, Dr. George W. Truett, was helping a struggling congregation raise money for their church building. They still needed $6500. Truett found the response weak. With only $3000 pledged he said in exasperation, “Do you expect me to give the other $3500 needed to reach your goal? I’m just a guest here today.” Suddenly, a woman near the back stood. Looking at her husband seated on the platform recording pledges, she said in a shaking voice, “Charlie, I wonder if you would be willing for us to give our little home? We were offered exactly $3500 cash for it yesterday. If the Saviour gave His life for us, shouldn’t we make this sacrifice for Him?”

Truett reported that the fine husband responded with equal generosity. “Yes, Jennie, I was thinking the same thing.” Turning to Truett, he said, “Brother Truett, if it’s needed, we’ll raise our pledge by $3500.” Silence reigned for a few moments. Then some of the folks began to sob. Those who fifteen minutes earlier had refused to do more now either added their names to the list or increased their donations. In a short time, their goal had been achieved, and Charlie and Jennie didn’t have to forfeit their home. Their willingness to sacrifice had stimulated others to similar generosity.

Not long after a wealthy contractor had finished building the Tombs prison in New York, he was found guilty of forgery and sentenced to several years in the prison he had built! As he was escorted into a cell of his own making, the contractor said, “I never dreamed when I built this prison that I would be an inmate one day.”

Pray unceasingly

1 Thess. 5:17; Eph. 6:18

Praise continually

Eph. 5:19-20; Heb. 13:15

Preach unwearingly

2 Tim. 4:2; 1 Cor. 15:58

From the Book of 750 Bible and Gospel Studies, 1909, George W. Noble, Chicago

Dr. J. B. Gambrel tells an amusing story from General Stonewall Jackson’s famous valley campaign. Jackson’s army found itself on one side of a river when it needed to be on the other side. After telling his engineers to plan and build a bridge so the army could cross, he called his wagon master in to tell him that it was urgent the wagon train cross the river as soon as possible. The wagon master started gathering all the logs, rocks and fence rails he could find and built a bridge.

Long before day light General Jackson was told by his wagon master all the wagons and artillery had crossed the river. General Jackson asked where are the engineers and what are they doing? The wagon master’s only reply was that they were in their tent drawing up plans for a bridge.

The flesh is a built-in law of failure, making it impossible for the natural man to please or serve God. It is a compulsive inner force inherited from man’s fall, which expresses itself in general and specific rebellion against God and His righteousness. The flesh can never be reformed or improved. The only hope for escape from the law of the flesh is its total execution and replacement by a new life in the Lord Jesus Christ.

Recently National Geographic ran an article about the Alaskan bull moose. The males of the species battle for dominance during the fall breeding season, literally going head-to-head with antlers crunching together as they collide. Often the antlers, their only weapon are broken. That ensures defeat. The heftiest moose, with the largest and strongest antlers, triumphs. Therefore, the battle fought in the fall is really won during the summer, when the moose eat continually. The one that consumes the best diet for growing antlers and gaining weight will be the heavyweight in the fight. Those that eat inadequately sport weaker antlers and less bulk. There is a lesson here for us. Spiritual battles await. Satan will choose a season to attack. Will we be victorious, or will we fall? Much depends on what we do now—before the wars begin. The bull-moose principle: Enduring faith, strength, and wisdom for trials are best developed before they’re needed.

Bob Vernon, formerly with the Los Angeles Police Department, tells of how the Department would test bullet-proof vests—and demonstrate to rookie officers their value—by placing them on mannequins and then shooting round after round at them. They’d then check to see if any of the rounds penetrated the vests. Invariably the vests would pass the test with flying colors. Vernon would then turn to the rookie officers and ask, “So who wants to wear it now instead of the mannequin?”

Bob Vernon, formerly with the Los Angeles Police Department, tells of how the Department would test bullet-proof vests—and demonstrate to rookie officers their value—by placing them on mannequins and then shooting round after round at them. They’d then check to see if any of the rounds penetrated the vests. Invariably the vests would pass the test with flying colors. Vernon would then turn to the rookie officers and ask, “So who wants to wear it now instead of the mannequin?”

During 1978 during the fireman’s strike in England, the British army took over emergency firefighting. On January 14 they were called out by an elderly lady in South London to retrieve her cat. They arrived with impressive haste, very cleverly and carefully rescued the cat, and started to drive away. But the lady was so grateful she invited the squad of heroes in for tea. Driving off later with fond farewells and warm waving of arms, they ran over the cat and killed it.

In San Antonio, a man was sentenced to ten years probation for a bungled burglary of a liquor store. The burglar had cut his hand badly when he broke through the roof of the store. He tried to throw a bottle of whiskey out through the hole he had created but missed, causing the bottle to fall to the floor, shatter and set off an alarm. He then fell onto the broken glass, cutting himself again. Reaching the roof for his getaway, he fell off, leaving his wallet on the sidewalk. He also left a trail of blood from the store to his home, just around the corner.

A businessman once overtook a black man trudging through the snow, humming to himself. He talked with him and found that he was very poor. Finally he asked him if he didn't think he'd be happier if he were rich. "No, Boss, all the rich men I work for never laugh."

The St. Bernard dogs in the Alps who seek out travelers lost in a storm take their mission very seriously. One of these dogs returned late one afternoon, wearied from fighting his way through the drifts. He went to his kennel, lay down in a corner, and acted thoroughly despondent, despite the efforts of his master to encourage him. Was he sick? Well, no-not in body, but in heart. He had failed to find anyone to help and had come back ashamed. It is such sorrow of heart, resulting in outbursts of tears on behalf of others, that should characterize the Christian.

An ant was seen carrying a long piece of straw. Finally it came to a crack in the rock which was like a precipice to the tiny creature. After attempting to take its burden across in several ways, the ant went to one end of the straw and pushed it in front of him over the crack till it reached to the other side, crossed over on the straw, and then pulled it after him. There is no burden which you and I carry faithfully and patiently, but will some day become a bridge to carry us. The God of circumstances will not place a burden upon us that is heavier than we can bear. Our burdens are only heavy enough to serve as a bridge to carry us over in such a manner that others may say after we have gone, "Blessed is he who has endured."

Did you ever see a farmer weep as he placed seed in the ground and covered it with the freshly turned earth? Of course not, for that sort of burial causes no grief. The farmer knows that the buried seed will spring up into luxuriant vegetation in due course. Human burial is quite a different matter. It arouses far deeper emotions because of our attachment to the precious form laid in the grave. But for Christians this grief is tempered by the knowledge that those who die in the Lord are safe with Him, and that one day we will be reunited with them, not only in our spirits but in new and glorious bodies that will spring from the grave at our Lord's coming.

"So also is the resurrection of the dead," says Paul, referring again to his analogy of the seed. "It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption" (1Co 15:42)

Peter Kreeft tells us that in the Latin rite for the burial of an Austrian emperor, the people carry the corpse to the door of the great monastic church. They strike the door and say: “Open.” The abbot inside says: “Who is there?” “Emperor Karl, the king of ...” The response from inside: “We know of no such person here.” So the people strike the door again. “Who is there?” asks the abbot. “Emperor Karl.” “We know of no such person here.” So they strike a third time. “Who is there?” asks the abbot again. “Karl,” say the people. And the door is opened.