Pastoral Resources

A few years ago, the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago had a fascinating display. It showed a checkerboard with 1 grain of wheat on the first square, 2 on the second, 4 on the third, then 8, 16, 32, 64, and so on until they could no longer fit the seeds on the square. Then it asked the question, “At this rate of doubling each successive square, how much would you have on the checkerboard by the 64th square?”

You could punch a button at the bottom of the display to find out. The answer? “Nine sextillion—enough grain to cover the entire subcontinent of India 50 feet deep.” Incredible!

The first section was studying the time-space relationship later formulated by Einstein as his Theory of Relativity. The text was complex and, being unable to comprehend it, I committed the pages to memory. When I was called upon to recite, I solemnly reeled off almost word for word what the book said. Our instructor, Colonel Fieberger, looked at me somewhat quizzically and asked, “Do you understand this theory?” It was a bad moment for me, but I did not hesitate in replying, “No, sir.” You could have heard a pin drop. I braced myself and waited. And then the slow words of the professor: “Neither do I, Mr. MacArthur. Section dismissed.” Gen. Douglas MacArthur in Reminiscences recalling a stratagem he carried out while at West Point.

Douglas MacArthur II, nephew of the famous WWII General, served in the state department when John Foster Dulles was Secretary of state. One evening Mr. Dulles called MacArthur at his home. His wife answered the phone and explained that her husband was not there. Not recognizing who the caller was, she angrily complained, “MacArthur is where MacArthur always is, weekdays, Saturdays, Sundays, and nights—in that office!”

Within minutes Dulles had MacArthur on the phone. He gave him this terse order: “Go home at once, Boy. Your home front is crumbling!”

A British factory worker and his wife were excited when, after many years of marriage, they discovered they were going to have their first child. According to author Jill Briscoe, who told this true story, the man eagerly relayed the good news to his fellow workers. He told them God had answered his prayers. But they made fun of him for asking God for a child.

When the baby was born, he was diagnosed as having Down Syndrome. As the father made his way to work for the first time after the birth, he wondered how to face his co-workers. “God, please give me wisdom,” he prayed. Just as he feared, some said mockingly, “So, God gave you this child!” The new father stood for a long time, silently asking God for help. At last he said, “I’m glad the Lord gave this child to me and not to you.”

As this man accepted his disabled son as God’s gift to him, so David was pleased to show kindness to Saul’s son who was “lame in his feet” (2 Sam. 9:3). Some may have rejected Mephibosheth because he was lame, but David’s action showed that he valued him greatly.

Ashamed of the Gospel, John F. MacArthur, Jr., 1993, Crossway Books, p. 65

A politician awoke after an operation and found the curtains in his hospital room drawn. “Why are the curtains closed?” he asked the nurse. “Is it night time already?”

“No,” the nurse replied, “But there’s a fire across the street, and we didn’t want you to wake and think the operation was unsuccessful.”

In Charles Swindoll’s new book, The Quest for Character (Multnomah), “sociologist and historian Carle Zimmerman, in his 1947 book Family and Civilization, recorded his keen observations as he compared the disintegration of various cultures with the parallel decline of family life in those cultures.

Eight specific patterns of domestic behavior typified the downward spiral of each culture Zimmerman studied:

Marriage loses its sacredness ... is frequently broken by divorce;

Traditional meaning of the marriage ceremony is lost;

Feminist movements abound;

There is increased public disrespect for parents and authority in general;

An acceleration of juvenile delinquency, promiscuity and rebellion occurs;

There is refusal of people with traditional marriages to accept family responsibilities;

A growing desire for, and acceptance of, adultery is evident;

There is increasing interest in, and spread of, sexual perversions and sex-related crimes.

Sociologist and historian Carle Zimmerman, in his 1947 book Family and Civilization, recorded his keen observations as he compared the disintegration of various cultures with the parallel decline of family life in those cultures. Eight specific patterns of domestic behavior typified the downward spiral of each culture Zimmerman studied.

Marriage loses its sacredness...is frequently broken by divorce.

Traditional meaning of the marriage ceremony is lost.

Feminist movements abound.

Increased public disrespect for parents and authority in general.

Acceleration of juvenile delinquency, promiscuity, and rebellion.

Refusal of people with traditional marriages to accept family responsibilities.

Growing desire for and acceptance of adultery.

Increasing interest in and spread of sexual perversions and sex-related crimes.

I recall the comment of the late Dr. Donald Grey Barnhouse, pastor, Tenth Presbyterian Church, Philadelphia, who said, “If I had only three years to serve the Lord, I would spend two of them studying and preparing.”

Dallas Seminary will not be insensitive to the economic struggles and time demands of our students. But this does not mean we will lose the reputation of being a place where the diligent study of the Scriptures occurs.

As C. S. Lewis declared: “If all the world were Christian it might not matter if all the world were uneducated. But a cultural life will exist outside the Church whether it exists inside or not. To be ignorant and simple now—not to be able to meet the enemies on their own ground—would be to throw down our weapons, and betray our uneducated brethren who have no defense but us against intellectual attacks of the heathen.

“Good philosophy must exist, if for no other reason, because bad philosophy needs to be answered. The cool intellect must work not only against cool intellect on the other side, but against muddy heathen mysticisms which deny intellect altogether. Most of all, perhaps, we need intimate knowledge of the past. The learned life is then, for some, a duty.”

Dr. Lewis Sperry Chafer, evangelist and founder of Dallas Theological Seminary, told a simple story from his life. It seems that one day Dr. Chafer was walking along the street when he encountered a flagman sitting in a little house at a railroad crossing. He noticed that the man was reading a large family Bible. Though a sign on the door said, “No Admittance,” Dr. Chafer went boldly through the door to greet the man. In reply to a question from Dr. Chafer, the man said that he read the Bible a lot. So Chafer asked a second question—one most people are too timid to ask these days—“Are you saved?”

The answer of the flagman carries the sentiments of many: “I never could be good enough to be saved.”

Dr. Chafer countered, “Friend, if God would make an exception of your case, and give you salvation outright as a gift, would you receive it?”

“Mister,” the flagman replied, “I don’t know what brand of fool you think I am that I wouldn’t take a gift like that!”

Chafer asked the flagman to read John 10:28. It took the man awhile to find the passage, but then he read, “I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish...” Then Chafer directed him to Romans 6:23, where he read, “the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

The flagman was amazed. He said to Dr. Chafer, “Stranger, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve done more for me today than any other man.”

Chafer crisply replied, “What have I done for you? I’ve got you in a trap. You told me that if it was a gift, you’d accept it. Now, what are you going to do about that?”

“I will accept it right now,” the flagman responded. And he did. Dr. Chafer prayed with him and left.

That is the simplicity of the gospel. The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

I remember when Dr. Arnott, who has gone to God, was delivering a sermon, he used this illustration. The sermon and text have all gone, but that illustration is fresh upon my mind to-night and brings home the truth. He said: "You have been sometimes out at dinner with a friend, and you have seen the faithful household dog standing watching every mouthful his master takes. All the crumbs that fall on the floor he picks up, and seems eager for them, but when his master takes a plate of beef and puts it on the floor and says, 'Rover, here's something for you,' he comes up and smells of it, looks at his master, and goes away to a corner of the room. He was willing to eat the crumbs, but he wouldn't touch the roast beef--thought it was too good for him." That is the way with a good many Christians. They are willing to eat the crumbs, but not willing to take all God wants. Come boldly to the throne of grace and get the help we need; there is an abundance for every man, woman and child in the assemblage.

Faith in God makes great optimists. Over in Burma, Judson was lying in a foul jail with 32 lbs. of chains on his ankles, his feet bound to a bamboo pole. A fellow prisoner said, “Dr. Judson, what about the prospect of the conversion of the heather?”, with a sneer on his face.

His instant reply was, “The prospects are just as bright as the promises of God.”

Postwar Americans always cherished the expectation that their standard of living would improve with each generation. In polls at the onset of the Reagan era, 2 of every 3 respondents said they expected to be better off than their parents. Now, that figure is being reversed. Almost three fourths of the 1,000 people who answered a Roper poll for Shearson Lehman Brothers say the American Dream is “harder to attain” than a generation ago. And 60 percent say achieving the dream requires more financial risk than it did for their parents. The poll also finds that some of the values held most dear during the 1980s—like wealth, power and fame—are those that Americans are now most likely to deem “unimportant.” The most important elements of today’s American Dream center on family and friends. But money remains something to dream about. For Americans with household incomes under $25,000, it would take $54,000 a year to fulfill the American dream. Those who make $100,000 plus crave an average of $192,000. In other words, the American Dream usually lies nearly twice the distance away.

500,000 people will be slaughtered on America’s highways during the 1980’s because of alcohol-imbibed drivers. 80% of all fire-related fatalities in America involved the use of alcohol. The same could be said for: 65% of the drownings, 65% of the murders, 35% of the rapes, 30% of the suicides, 60% of the cases of child abuse, 55% of wife beatings and other assaults in the home, and 40 % of the aircraft accidents.

When you lose hope of doing better, you lose everything that makes life worth living. A great artist was once asked, "What's the best picture you've ever painted?" "The next one," he replied confidently. But another artist was heard to lament, "Too bad I failed," though he was at the very height of his glory. "Why do you say that?" asked a friend of his in astonishment. "Because I've lost any hope of improvement," he said. He was right; the person who has stopped hoping has truly failed.

Living without Christ is like driving a car with its front end out of line. You can stay on the road IF you grip the steering wheel with both hands and hang on tightly. Any lapse of attention, however, and you head straight for the ditch.

Society in general—educators, political leaders, parents—exhorts us to drive straight and curb our destructive tendencies. But it is a ceaseless struggle.

Coming to Christ is a little like getting a front-end alignment. The pull toward the ditch is corrected from the inside. Not to say there won’t be bumps and potholes ahead that will still try to jar us off the road. Temptations and challenges will always test our alertness to steer a straight course. We can hardly afford to fall asleep at the wheel. But the basic skew in the moral mechanism has been repaired.

During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln said that he could get any number of men who were “willing to shed their last drop of blood.” The problem, said Lincoln, was that he found it difficult to get anyone willing to shed that first drop!

For every person raised without religion who adopts a church, three persons forsake the churches for no institutional affiliation.

Steve Lyons will be remembered as the player who dropped his pants.

He could be remembered as an outstanding infielder . as the player who played every position for the Chicago White Sox . as the guy who always dove into first base . as a favorite of the fans who high fived the guy who caught the foul ball in the bleachers. He could be remembered as an above-average player who made it with an average ability.

But he won’t. He’ll be remembered as the player who dropped his pants on July 16, 1990.

The White Sox were playing the Tigers in Detroit. Lyons bunted and raced down the first-base line. He knew it was going to be tight, so he dove at the bag. Safe! The Tiger’s pitcher disagreed. He and the umpire got into a shouting match, and Lyons stepped in to voice his opinion.

Absorbed in the game and the debate, Lyons felt dirt trickling down the inside of his pants. Without missing a beat he dropped his britches, wiped away the dirt, and . uh oh .twenty thousand jaws hit the bleachers’ floor.

And, as you can imagine, the jokes began. Women behind the White Sox dugout waved dollar bills when he came onto the field. “No one,” wrote one columnist, “had ever dropped his drawers on the field. Not Wally Moon. Not Blue Moon Odom. Not even Heinie Manush.” Within twenty-four hours of the “exposure,” he received more exposure than he’d gotten his entire career; seven live television and approximately twenty radio interviews.

“We’ve got this pitcher, Melido Perex, who earlier this month pitched a no-hitter,” Lyons stated, “and I’ll guarantee you he didn’t do two live television shots afterwards. I pull my pants down, and I do seven. Something’s pretty skewed toward the zany in this game.”

Fortunately, for Steve, he was wearing sliding pants under his baseball pants. Otherwise the game would be rated “R” instead of “PG-13.”

Now, I don’t know Steve Lyons. I’m not a White Sox fan. Nor am I normally appreciative of men who drop their pants in public. But I think Steve Lyons deserves a salute.

I think anybody who dives into first base deserves a salute. How many guys do you see roaring down the baseline of life more concerned about getting a job done than they are about saving their necks? How often do you see people diving headfirst into anything?

Too seldom, right? But when we do . when we see a gutsy human throwing caution to the wind and taking a few risks . ah, now that’s a person worthy of a pat on the . back.

So here’s to all the Steve Lyons in the world.

Margaret Wilson, a Scottish girl of eighteen, was tied to a stake where the tide was due to come in. The water covered her while she was engaged in prayer; but before life was gone, they pulled her up till she recovered the power of speech, when she was asked by Major Windram, who commanded, if she would pray for the king. She replied that “She wished the salvation of all men, and the damnation of none.”

“Dear Margaret,” said one of the by-standers, deeply affected, “say God save the king.” She answered with great steadiness, “God save him, if he will, for it is his salvation I desire.”

“Sir, they cried to the major, “she has said it; she has said it!”

The major, approaching her on hearing this, offered her the abjuration oath, charging her instantly to swear it, otherwise to return to the water. The poor young woman...firmly replied, “I will not; I am one of Christ’s children! let me go.” Upon which she was again thrust into the water, and drowned.

Margaret Wilson—Early 1680’s/ drowned for faithfulness to the Reformation.

Few college football coaches have made a point against drugs as effectively as Erk Russell of Georgia Southern College. He arranged for a couple of good ol’ country boys to burst into a routine team meeting and throw a writhing, hissing, six-foot-long rattlesnake onto a table in front of the squad. “Everyone screamed and scattered,” Russell recalls. “I told them, ‘When cocaine comes into a room, you’re not nearly as apt to leave as when that rattlesnake comes in. But they’ll both kill you!”

The defense attorney for a drunk driver was asking all the right questions. The arresting officer had testified that the defendant, when asked to produce his car registration, had fumbled around endlessly in the glove compartment.

“But it was dark, was it not?” asked the lawyer.

“Yes,” said the policeman.

“Was the glove compartment cluttered?”

“Yes.”

“How long did he fumble around there?”

“Maybe five minutes,” responded the officer.

“Well,” continued the attorney, “do you find it unusual that a man would take his time looking in a dark and cluttered glove compartment for a small piece of paper?”

“Yes,” replied the officer. “He was sitting in my patrol car at the time.”

The drunk husband snuck up the stairs quietly. He looked in the bathroom mirror and bandaged the bumps and bruises he’d received in a fight earlier that night. He then proceeded to climb into bed, smiling at the thought that he’d pulled one over on his wife. When morning came, he opened his eyes and there stood his wife.

“You were drunk last night weren’t you!”

“No, honey.”

“Well, if you weren’t, then who put all the band-aids on the bathroom mirror?”

Two men worked on a large ocean-going vessel. One day the mate, who normally did not drink, became intoxicated. The captain, who hated him, entered in the daily log: “Mate drunk today.” He knew this was his first offense, but he wanted to get him fired. The mate was aware of his evil intent and begged him to change the record. The captain, however, replied, “It’s a fact, and into the log it goes!” A few days later the mate was keeping the log, and concluded it with: “Captain sober today.” Realizing the implications of this statement, the captain asked that it be removed. In reply the mate said, “It’s a fact, and in the log it stays!”

Writer and Jazz enthusiast Nat Hentoff, on Duke Ellington:

“Ellington talked to me about his music. He composed with each musician in the band particularly in mind. ‘You keep their weaknesses in your head as you write,’ he said, ‘and that way you astonish them with their strengths.”

The Duke of Wellington, the British military leader who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo, was not an easy man to serve under. He was brilliant, demanding, and not one to shower his subordinates with compliments. Yet even Wellington realized that his methods left something to be desired. In his old age a young lady asked him what, if anything, he would do differently if he had his life to live over again. Wellington thought for a moment, then replied. “I’d give more praise,” he said.

Duke University did a study on “peace of mind.” Factors found to contribute greatly to emotional and mental stability are:

1. The absence of suspicion and resentment. Nursing a grudge was a major factor in unhappiness.

2. Not living in the past. An unwholesome preoccupation with old mistakes and failures leads to depression.

3. Not wasting time and energy fighting conditions you cannot change. Cooperate with life, instead of trying to run away from it.

4. Force yourself to stay involved with the living world. Resist the temptation to withdraw and become reclusive during periods of emotional stress.

5. Refuse to indulge in self-pity when life hands you a raw deal. Accept the fact that nobody gets through life without some sorrow and misfortune.

6. Cultivate the old-fashioned virtues—love, humor, compassion and loyalty

7. Do not expect too much of yourself. When there is too wide a gap between self-expectation and your ability to meet the goals you have set, feelings of inadequacy are inevitable.

8. Find something bigger than yourself to believe in. Self-centered egotistical people score lowest in any test for measuring happiness.

One year when Christmas Day came on a Sunday, a farmer decided to go to church. (Like some people, he thought he was fulfilling his religious obligation by going to church twice a year-at Christmas and Easter!) The sermon that day was preached from the text, "The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's crib: but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider" (Isa 1:3). Isaiah is saying that man is dumber than the animals. After church the farmer returned home and stood among his cows. One of them began to lick his hand-a practical demonstration of the sermon he had just heard. Strong man though he was, the farmer began to weep as he thought, "God did much more for me, and yet I never thanked Him. My cow is far more grateful than I am. What do I ever give her other than grass and water?"

The Thames, flowing through London, was at low tide, causing the freighter to be anchored a distance from shore. The long plank, which led from the ship across the mud flats to the bank, suddenly began to jiggle precariously.

The smallish man who was carefully pushing his barrow across the plank from the freighter to the shore lost his balance and found himself tumbling into the muddy waters. A roar of laughter erupted from the dockers and from the tall worker on board ship, who had jiggled the plank.

The muddied man’s instinctive reaction was anger. The fall was painful; he was dripping wet and knee deep in muck. “This is your opportunity,” a voice whispered in his heart.

The victim, unknown to his tormentors, was a clergyman disguised as a docker in hopes of getting to know how the dockers felt, lived and struggled. Perhaps as he gained their confidence and made friends, he could tell them of the love of the Savior, who died to give them new life and hope and joy.

George Dempster came up laughing. A docker made his way to where Dempster had been dislodged, dropped some empty boxes into the slush and jumped down to help him out.

“You took that all right,” he said as he helped Dempster clamber back to the boxes he had dropped. His accent was not that of a cockney. He was no ordinary docker.

Dempster told the story of this unusual docker in Finding Men for Christ. He recounted the ensuing events:

“Did I? Well, what’s the use of being otherwise?” I replied and followed this by a challenge.

“You haven’t been at this game long.”

“Neither have you,” he retorted.

“No! And I shan’t be at it much longer if I can help it. Tell me your yarn, and I’ll tell you mine.”

I was watching his face as well as I could with my eyes still half full of mud. He was trying to scrape some of the slime from me and meanwhile becoming almost as filthy as I was.

We agreed to exchange yarns.

I therefore proposed that we should adjourn to a coffee shop nearby and over a warm drink exchange the story of our experiences, and how we came to be “down under” life’s circumstances.

Along we journeyed through Wapping High Street, up Nightingale Lane to London Docks and so “To where I dossed” (slept).

When we reached the Alley and I indicated the door he said, “Do they let beds here?”

“Well,” I replied, “I sleep here, come in and see.”

“Oh! I’ve often passed this place but did not know they put men up here.”

We entered and I instructed that a cup of coffee and something be brought for my friend, while I disappeared without explaining to anybody exactly how I came to be so inelegantly decorated.

Mud baths had not yet become a prescribed treatment for certain human ailments, but never could such a remedy, however well prepared or appropriately prescribed, prove so effectual as this one. It had been involuntarily taken it is true, but for like results who would not undertake even such drastic treatment daily? “His ways are higher than our ways.” His permissions are all for somebody’s good, and in this instance the reason for His permission was not long unrevealed.

A hurried bath soon put me right. After donning my usual attire, while seeking Divine guidance I hastened to return.

“Here we are, now for our yarns,” I began.

He was staring in amazement and was for a few moments lost for reply.

“This is your yarn, is it? What do you do this for?”

The first part of his question needed no reply, but I did not hesitate to answer the second.

“To find you.”

He looked perplexed as we sat gazing at each other; then dropping his eyes before my enquiring look, shook his head sadly and rose as if to depart. Restraining him I said cheerily: “Now, friend, a bargain is a bargain. Thank you for helping me out of the river and thus giving me the privilege of meeting you, but you promised, you know, and I want that story of yours. You can see mine.”

He was a tall, well-built man in middle life. There were indications beyond his speech that his years had not been spent in his present conditions and surroundings. His features gave evidence of intellect, and the obvious deterioration was recent. His expression was softening even as we stood facing each other. The previous callous demeanor was giving place to something finer. I pursued the question, feeling certain now that here was the purpose of my adventure.

“Come now, tell me if I can be of help to you.”

Very decisively he answered at once, “No, you cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve gone too far.”

As I prayed silently, presently he looked me squarely in the face as if measuring whether he could trust me and confide. No words came, so I continued.

“Does it not appeal to you as a very remarkable thing,” I asked, “that we should be sitting here like this if you have really gone too far?”

No answer.

“Was it an accidental thing that I happened to get a job alongside you at that particular wharf this morning? Was it mere chance that those rascals chose me for their rather cruel joke? Is it pure coincidence that of all the crowd you should be the one to fish me out? Or—did Someone know where to find you and is even now answering someone else’s prayer for you?”

From the pocket he drew hastily two photographs. “These are mine,” he said, laying them gently upon the table. One was the picture of a fine-looking lady, the other bore the figures of two bonnie young girls of nearly equal age, obviously the daughters of the elder woman. I was looking closely at them when I heard a groan and then a sob as my friend again dropped his head upon his arms.

“Yours! And you here like this? Why?”

It was a sad story, but, alas, only too familiar. Bit by bit I got it from him; although several times with an almost fierce “it’s too late,” he would have left .He was a fully qualified medical man with a fine record. He had married into a well-known family where there was no lack of money. Having conducted a splendid practice in the south of England, all went well for him for years. Two girls were born to them, and it was a happy home with a very wide circle of friends. But as so frequently happens, the allurements proved too strong for the man whose gifts and natural endowments made him a popular and welcome guest wherever he went. He was too busy to continue his regular attendance at church; gradually he ceased altogether and always had plenty of excuses to offer when his wife urged him to accompany her.

The girls were sent away to school where they were educated with a view to following a medical career, but he who should have been their guide and helper failed in his obligations because he had become addicted to drink.

At first this fact was hidden, but the habit grew stronger until it mastered him. His practice as well as his home and family were neglected. This naturally led to great unhappiness and depression. In spite of the loving devotion and care of his wife and daughters, he went from bad to worse and finally decided to disappear. So by a number of subterfuges he effectually vanished from the world which knew him and became a wanderer.

After years of wander in America and Canada, he returned to London. He had never been discovered; he had never communicated with his kin. Down, down he went, living the life of a casual hand, sometimes finding a job, sometimes literally begging for food.

He slept out at night, often in lodging houses with those with whom he had nothing in common save a degraded and sinful way of life. When he could get drink, he took all he could obtain to drown his sorrows.

Once he was lodged in the Tower Bridge Police cells but was discharged and warned. He had simply been found “drunk and incapable,” and his identity had not been revealed.

Now this thing had happened, and it could not be explained away by saying it was a coincidence. There was more in it than that. “Someone” had known where to find him. Suppose those three whom he had so shamefully deserted had been all the time praying for his recovery? Recovery that he had so foolishly resisted—so often longed for—so often dreamed of.

Suppose it were true that God was now “causing all things to work together for good to them”—those three—”that love Him”? Suppose that He was at this moment giving him another—possibly a last—chance to return?

Such, he later admitted, were his thoughts, and he began to pray for himself. He had known in past days the comforts and consolations of worship. Now he began to pray very deeply and truly as he heard from a friend the old, old message.

Presently he said calmly, “I see,” and kneeling by the table, he and I talked with God.

Never can I forget his prayer.

At first the halting, stumbling petition of a brokenhearted repentant sinner who felt acutely two things. First, his base ingratitude to a merciful God Who had not cut him off in the midst of his sins, and then the cruelty of his conduct toward those who loved him on earth. As he confessed his feelings in these ways, he seemed to become capable of clearer utterance.

How long we thus communed I do not know, but we were both much moved as we stood to shake hands. I seemed to feel again his grip on mine as I now record these happenings.

“And you will stand by me?”

“Yes,” I answered, “as well as another man can.”

“Then I’ll prove what Christ can do.”

We then fell to considering whether it would be advisable to write at once to his wife and tell her the news.

“No! Not yet. Please God we’ll try and improve matters before we do that. I must find out more about the position there first. There are the girls to think about. I must not spoil their careers. About now they must be in the midst of their exams. No! Please wait a while until by God’s help I am a little more like a father they need not be ashamed of—then!”

So we planned. With the aid of a friend who had influence in a certain large, well-known company, he was found a berth in the warehouse, packing drugs and chemicals. In a few weeks, the results were surprising. He was found to be so useful that a better paid job was offered him. Soon it was discovered that he knew a great deal about the contents of the packets he was handling, and when he admitted that the work of a dispenser was not strange to him, he was again promoted.

It was then that he agreed to my suggestions to write to his wife and inform her that he was alive and well. Very carefully I wrote, telling her something of the events above recorded and suggesting that if she would like to see me on the matter I would gladly arrange to meet her.

A letter came back, breathing deep gratitude to God for His wonderful answer to prayer and for His mercy. An expression of appreciation for the human agency He had provided, and an explanation that the two daughters were facing some difficult hospital examinations. It would therefore, she thought, be best to defer any meeting until they were through. But would I please keep her informed of his progress. It was a wonderfully understanding and gracious letter considering all the circumstances.

I showed him the letter.

He was deeply moved as he carefully and eagerly read it, then returning it to me he said quietly, “I must ask you to honor her wishes. Painful as delay is to me, I must submit. I deserve it and much more. Will you now pray with me that I may prove worthy of her confidence and their love?”

Six months passed, each day bringing continuous evidence of the “new birth” and of his loyalty to Christ. There was no wavering or falling back. Whatever struggles he had with the enemy, no one saw the least evidence of any weakness. In every way he was proving that he was “a new creature,” that “old things had passed away.”

Two brief notes had come from the wife asking more details than my letters conveyed. I gladly told her all she desire to learn.

Then one day there came a letter asking me to arrange a time for her to visit me. This was soon done, and without telling either of them what I had planned, I made my own arrangements. He was not informed of the impending visit but patiently awaited developments.

In due time the day arrived, and the wife kept her appointment. I instantly recognized the lady of the photograph, and to my intense delight she had brought her elder daughter with her. Both were much affected as I told them as much as I deemed needful of the facts. I felt it would be wise to leave the husband to give his own version of affairs.

Then, at a suitable moment, I said, “Would you like to see him at once?” I had not revealed to them that I had him in an adjoining room. But when the wife and daughter said eagerly together “Yes, please,” I opened the door and led them in to him. The lady had approached her husband with a smile of welcome and had kissed him; the daughter had put her arms about her father’s neck, and I heard just two words, “Dad, darling. “It was no place for an outsider, so I made for my study and there lay the whole case again before the Father, asking that His will should be done. He heard and answered.

For an hour I left them alone. Then he came to fetch me. His eyes were very red, and I thought he walked with a new and firmer step. No word was said, but he looked his deep gratitude as he beckoned me to return with him.

As I entered the room, the wife approached me with an eager look which spoke eloquently of the tense feelings she had. When, after a few moments, she found voice, it was to tell me that it had been arranged to await the second daughter’s examinations, which were just pending. This girl did not yet know the purport of her mother’s visit to London that day with the sister, who now told me on top of her own success in the exams, she was overjoyed at finding her father.

“Do dare not tell Margery yet. She is rather highly strung, and as Dad says, it might interfere with her progress. But won’t she be just delighted. You know she has never ceased praying for this.” So spake the daughter, still holding her father’s hand, as if unwilling to part again. It was a most affecting scene, and one felt that there was Another present, rejoicing with us. “If all goes well we shall, please God, make home again when Margery is through, and oh what a day that will be.”

The mother was now feeling the stress of it all and needed rest and refreshment. A happy little meal was prepared, and thanks were given to Him Who had thus brought His promises to fulfillment. But the best was yet to be.

A happy home was restored.

In a certain south coast town, a place famous for its exhilarating air and for many of its citizens who have made history, there is held every Sunday afternoon a Bible class for young men. Sixty or more of the finest young fellows in that district meet week by week. It has been the birthplace of many splendid young Christians. Some of them have entered the Civil Service and today hold important positions at Whitehall, where I have had the joy of meeting them.

Coming one day along one of the corridors in the colonial office, I met a friend who said, “I’m very glad to see you today, because I promised that the next time you came this way I would ask you to come along with me and meet a man who wants to see you. He has another friend in the home office who also wants to meet you. Have you the time to do so?”

I assented and was led to the room indicated. Here was a man holding a responsible position who, upon being introduced, said, “I’m glad to meet you, sir, because I have an idea that you must be the gentleman of whom a very dear friend of mine often spoke. May I ask if you were acquainted with Dr. ______?”

“Yes indeed, I know him very well.”

“Then I guess you are the one of whom he spoke. I owe everything in life after my own parents to Dr. ______. He was a wonderful factor in the shaping of my career and that of many others. How did you come to know him, sir, if I may so question? And do you know his gifted family?”

Of course I could not tell him under what circumstances I had first met the doctor, the beloved physician who had sat in the leader’s chair of that Bible class Sunday by Sunday teaching youths the Way of Life, nor that it was he who had helped me out of the river that day when I had my involuntary mud bath.

He was only a boy of four, so there was nothing unusual about the fact that he did not like soap and water. One day his mother, endeavoring to reason with him, said, "But surely you want to be clean, don't you?" "Yes," the boy replied through his tears, "but can't you just dust me off?"

This is amusing when coming from a boy of four, but pathetic when grownups are content with a once-a-week spiritual dusting. (And some only let the duster be applied a few times a year.) The inner filth goes undisturbed in their lives and they seem content to have it so.

“Duties are ours, events are God’s; When our faith goes to meddle with events, and to hold account upon God’s Providence, and beginneth to say, ‘How wilt Thou do this or that?’ we lose ground; we have nothing to do there; it is our part to let the Almighty exercise His own office, and steer His own helm; there is nothing left for us, but to see how we may be approved of Him, and how we roll the weight of our weak souls upon Him who is God omnipotent, and when we thus essay miscarrieth, it shall be neither our sin nor our cross.”

Over one hundred years ago, G. K. Chesterton asked: “Can anyone tell me two things more vital to the race than these; what man shall marry what woman, and what shall be the first things taught to their first child?” Chesterton goes on to comment that:

the...natural operation surrounded her with very young children, who require to be taught not so much anything but everything. Babies need not to be taught a trade, but to be introduced to a world. To put the matter shortly, a woman is generally shut up in a house with a human being at the time when he asks all the questions that there are, and some that there aren’t...Our race has thought it worth while to cast this burden on women in order to keep common-sense in the world....But when people begin to talk about this domestic duty as not merely difficult but trivial and dreary, I simply give up the question. For I cannot with the utmost energy of imagination conceive what they mean....If drudgery only means dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge (at his work)....But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colorless, and of small import to the soul, then I say give it up....How can it be an (important) career to tell other people’s children about mathematics, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe?...A woman’s function is laborious...not because it is minute, but because it is gigantic. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.

Peter T. Forsythe was right when he said, “The first duty of every soul is to find not its freedom but its Master.”

Norman Geisler, as a child, went to a DVBS because he was invited by some neighbor children. He went back to the same church for Sunday School classes for 400 Sundays. Each week he was faithfully picked up by a bus driver. Week after week he attended church, but never made a commitment to Christ. Finally, during his senior year in High School, after being picked up for church over 400 times, he did commit his life to Christ. What if that bus driver had given up on Geisler at 395? What if the bus driver had said, “This kid is going nowhere spiritually, why waste any more time on him?”

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses’ station on the 7th floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 p.m. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but dropped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. “Nurse, would you—” He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but had changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting. He brushed away a tear. “Would you call my daughter? Tell her I’ve had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have.” His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. “Of course I’ll call her.” I said, studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. “Will you call her right away—as soon as you can?” He was breathing fast—too fast. “I’ll call her the very first thing,” I said, patting his shoulder. I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50-year-old face.

Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.

“Nurse,” he called, “could you get me a pencil and paper?” I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked back to the nurses’ station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.

“Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I’m calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and—”

“No!” she screamed into the phone, startling me. “He’s not dying is he?”

“His condition is stable at the moment,” I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip.

“You must not let him die!” she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.

“He is getting the very best care.”

“But you don’t understand,” she pleaded. “My daddy and I haven’t spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I—I haven’t been back. All these months I’ve wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, ‘I hate you.’” Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, “I love you. As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. “Please, God, let this daughter find forgiveness.”

“I’m coming. Now! I’ll be there in 30 minutes,” she said. Click. She had hung up.

I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn’t concentrate. Room 712. I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. there was none. “Code 99. Room 712. Code 99. Stat.” The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.

Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At 15 I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed. Compressed and breathed. He could not die!

“O God,” I prayed. “His daughter is coming. Don’t let it end this way.” The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing. I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. “God, don’t let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace.”

“Stand back,” cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. William’s chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.

How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside—everywhere—seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?

When I left the room, I saw her against the wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before, stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.

I took her hand and led her into the nurses’ lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking. “Janie, I’m so sorry,” I said. It was pitifully inadequate.

“I never hated him, you know. I loved him,” she said.

God, please help her, I thought. Suddenly she whirled toward me. “I want to see him.”

My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door. We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her, at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:

My dearest Janie, I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too. Daddy

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.

“Thank You, God,” I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again—but there is not a moment to spare.

I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, “I love you.”

Robert Louis Dabney was an outstanding Presbyterian theologian during the mid-19th century. He served as a minister, as a chaplain, as chief of staff to General Stonewall Jackson, and as a seminary professor. He also helped establish a seminary in Austin, Texas.

As he aged, Dabney began to worry about his impending death, and he expressed his fears in a letter to a former student and theologian, C.R. Vaughan. Dabney wondered about his ability to die honorably and to hold on to his Christian faith.

Vaughan replied: “Dear friend, let me advise you now as you often have me. If you were about to cross a deep chasm, and there were a bridge over it, would you stand there looking in at yourself, wondering if you trusted enough in bridges to be able to cross? Or would you not rather go and examine the beams and timbers of the bridge and the quality of its construction, and determine whether the bridge were trustworthy, and then pass over it in confidence? Our faith is in Christ; spend yourself focusing on Him and His sufficiency, rather than on yourself.”

An old miser called his doctor, lawyer and minister to his deathbed. “They say you can’t take it with you,” the dying man said. “But I’m going to try. I’ve got three envelopes with $30,000 cash in each one. I want each of you to take an envelope, and just when they lower my casket, you throw in the envelopes.”

At the funeral each man tossed in his envelope. On the way home, the minister confessed, “I needed the money for the church, so I took out $10,000 and threw only $20,000 into the grave.”

The doctor said, “I, too, must confess. I’m building a clinic. I took $20,000 and threw in only $10,000.”

The lawyer said, “Gentlemen, I’m ashamed of you. I threw in a check for the full amount.”

Now let us take the contrast. Here are believers in the Lord Jesus Christ who have accepted the grace of God for salvation for both time and eternity.

1. Jordan Antie: "The chariot has come, and I am ready to step in.”

2. Margaret Prior: "Eternity rolls up before me like a sea of glory."

3. Martha McCrackin: "How bright the room! How full of angels."

4. Dr. Cullen: "I wish I had the power of writing: I would describe how pleasant it is to die."

5. B. S. Bangs: "The sun is setting: mine is rising. I go from this bed to a crown. Farewell.

6. John Arthur Lyth: "Can this be death? Why, it is better than living! Tell them I die happy in Jesus."

7. Trotter: "I am in perfect peace, resting alone on the blood of Christ. I find this amply sufficient with which to enter the presence of God."

8. Mrs. Mary Frances: "Oh, that I could tell you what joy I possess! I am full of rapture. The Lord doth shine with such power upon my soul. He is come! He is come!

9. Philip Heck: "How beautiful! The opening heavens around me shine!"

10. Sir David Brewster: inventor of the kaleidoscope: "I will see Jesus: I shall see Him as He is. I have had the light for many years. Oh, how bright it is! I feel so safe and satisfied!

11. Charles Wesley: author of over 4,000 published hymns: "I shall be satisfied with Thy likeness. Satisfied!"

12. John Wesley: "The best of all is, God is with me."

13. Abbott: "Glory to God! I see heaven sweetly opened before me."

14. Augustus Toplady: author of "Rock of Ages": "The consolations of God to such an unworthy wretch are so abundant that He leaves me nothing to pray for but a continuance of them. I enjoy heaven already in my soul."

15. John Quincy Adams: When John Quincy Adams was eighty years of age a friend said to him: "Well, how is John Quincy Adams?" "Thank you," he said, "John Quincy Adams is quite well. But the house where he lives is becoming dilapidated. It is tottering. Time and the seasons have nearly destroyed it, and it is becoming quite uninhabitable. I shall have to move out soon. But John Quincy Adams is quite well, thank you." At death he said: "This is the last of earth. I am content."

16. Mrs. Catherine Booth: wife of the general of the Salvation Army: "The waters are rising, but so am I. I am not going under, but over. Do not be concerned about dying; go on living well, the dying will be right."

17. Elizabeth B. Browning: an English poetess who had said: "We want the touch of Christ's hand upon our literature." At death's door, she said: "It is beautiful!"

18. John Bunyan: author of Pilgrim's Progress: "Weep not for me, but for yourselves. I go to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will, through the mediation of His blessed Son, receive me, though a sinner, where I hope we shall meet to sing the new song, and remain everlastingly happy, world without end."

19. John Calvin: the French Protestant Reformer at Geneva: "Thou, Lord, bruisest me, but I am abundantly satisfied, since it is from Thy hand."

20. Adoniram Judson: American missionary to Burma. He wrote: "Come, Holy Spirit, Dove Divine," and other hymns. He died at sea and his body was committed to the great deep. He said: "I go with the gladness of a boy bounding away from school. I feel so strong in Christ."

21. A. J. Gordon: As he lay in the chamber in West Brookline Street, Boston, looked up and with one radiant burst of joy cried: "Victory! Victory!" and so he went home.

22. Dr. William Anderson: of Dallas, Texas: He seemed better though still very ill. His mother was sitting in the room with him. He gently called to her, "Come over here a minute." As she approached his bed, he said, "I want to tell you something. I am going to beat you to heaven." And with a smile he shut his eyes and was gone.

23. Dr. Sewall: an old Methodist, when dying shouted aloud the praises of God. His friends said, "Dr. Sewall, do not exert yourself; whisper, doctor, whisper." "Let angels whisper, " said he, "but the soul cleansed from sin by the blood of Christ, a soul redeemed from death and hell, just on the threshold of eternal glory—oh, if I had a voice that would reach from pole to pole, I would proclaim it to all the world: Victory! Victory! through the blood of the Lamb!"

24. Samuel Rutherford: When he was dying said: "I am in the happiest pass to which man ever came. Christ is mine, and I am His; and there is nothing now between me and resurrection, except—Paradise."

When you die, on which side of the ledger will your words be?

Listen to the difference in the recorded testimonies of those who died without Christ and those who died with Him. First are those who sowed their lives against the Lord Jesus Christ and the truth of the Word of God, and here is what they reaped in death.

1. Talleyrand Perigord: "I am suffering the pangs of the damned.

2. Merabeau: "Give me laudanum that I may not think of eternity."

3. Francis Newport: "Oh, that I was to lie a thousand years upon the fire that never is quenched, to purchase the favor of God, and be united to Him again! But it is a fruitless wish. Millions of millions of years would bring me no nearer to the end of my torments than one poor hour. Oh, eternity, eternity! forever and forever! Oh, the insufferable pangs of hell!"

4. Thomas Hobbs: a skeptic: "If I had the whole world, I would give it to live one day. I shall be glad to find a hole to creep out of the world at. About to take a leap into the dark!"

5. Thomas Paine: the noted American infidel and author: "I would give worlds if I had them, that The Age of Reason had never been published. O Lord, help me! Christ, help me! O God, what have I done to suffer so much? But there is no God! But if there should be, what will become of me hereafter? Stay with me, for God's sake! Send even a child to stay with me, for it is hell to be alone. If ever the Devil had an agent, I have been that one."

6. Francois Voltaire: the noted French infidel. He was one of the most fertile and talented writers and strove to retard and demolish Christianity. His cry in health concerning Christ was, "Curse the wretch!" He said once, "In twenty years, Christianity will be no more. My single hand shall destroy the edifice it took twelve apostles to rear." Some years after his death, his very printing press was employed in printing New Testaments.

The Christian physician who attended Voltaire during the last illness, has left a testimony concerning the departure of this poor lost soul. He wrote to a friend as follows: "When I compare the death of a righteous man, which is like the close of a beautiful day, with that of Voltaire, I see the difference between bright, serene weather and a black thunderstorm. It was my lot that this man should die under my hands. Often did I tell him the truth.

'Yes, my friend,' he would often say to me, 'you are the only one who has given me good advice. Had I but followed it I would not be in the horrible condition in which I now am. I have swallowed nothing but smoke. I have intoxicated myself with the incense that turned my head. You can do nothing for me. Send me a mad doctor! Have compassion on me-I am mad!'

The physician goes on to say: "I cannot think of it without shuddering. As soon as he saw that all the means he had employed to increase his strength had just the opposite effect, death was constantly before his eyes. From this moment, madness took possession of his soul. He expired under the torments of the furies."

At another time his doctor quoted Voltaire as saying: "I am abandoned by God and man! I will give you half of what I am worth if you will give me six months' life. Then I shall go to hell; and you will go with me. O Christ! O Jesus Christ!"

7. Charles IX: This cruel wretch, urged on by his inhumane mother, gave the order for the massacre of the Huguenots in which 15,000 souls were slaughtered in Paris alone, and 100,000 in other sections of France, for no other reason than that they owned Christ as their master. The guilty King died bathed in blood bursting from his own veins. To his physicians he said in his last hours: "Asleep or awake, I see the mangled forms of the Huguenots passing before me. They drip with blood. They point at their open wounds. Oh! that I had spared at least the little infants at the breast! What blood! I know not where I am. How will all this end? What shall I do? I am lost forever! I know it. Oh, I have done wrong. God pardon me! "

8. David Strauss: outstanding representative of German rationalism, after spending years of his life trying to dispense with God: "My philosophy leaves me utterly forlorn! I feel like one caught in the merciless jaws of an automatic machine, not knowing at what time one of its great hammers may crush me!"

9. Sir Thomas Scott: "Until this moment I thought there was neither a God nor a hell. Now I know and feel that there are both, and I am doomed to perdition by the just judgment of the Almighty."

10. M. F. Rich: an atheist: "I would rather lie on a stove and broil for a million years than go into eternity with eternal horrors that hang over my soul! I have given my immortality for gold; and its weight sinks me into an endless, hopeless, helpless hell."

A wealthy university graduate chose to live frugally in a single room, cooking his own meals. As a result he was able to give two million dollars to foreign missions. In explanation of his choice he wrote these words: "Gladly would I make the floor my bed, a box my chair, and another box my table, rather than men should perish for want of knowledge of Christ." I am not suggesting that all Christians are called upon to forfeit the normal comforts of life; only, when God calls them to a life of sacrifice, they be willing to leave all and follow Him.

Ray had been in a coma for four days. Once powerful and muscular, his arms lay quietly at his flanks. Physically exhausted and consumed by his two-year struggle with colon cancer, he lay in his hospital bed motionless, a living chrysalis in an inverted cocoon. He would soon die, most likely within the day.

My hospital visit that morning brought me to Ray’s room at 5:30. The nursing station and patient rooms were quiet and, in one of the paradoxes of hospital life, even peaceful—if such a thing as peace is possible in a place where life and death constantly vie for dominance. Sitting silently at his bedside, Ray’s wife of 40 years, Jean, had placed her small hand softly on her husband’s right shoulder. No examination would be necessary today. In deference to Jean’s vigil, I pulled a chair abreast of hers and joined her silent watch, conjointly marveling at the physical stamina and endurance of the human body and pondering the mystery of the approach of physical death. Lost in our private thoughts and beset by personal memories of this marvelous man, we sat together, bonded by our grief and captivated by the drama slowly unfolding before us.

Suddenly, an awesome thing happened. Lazarus-like, Ray sat bolt upright in his bed. Fiercely clutching the sides of his bed, Ray contracted his arms as he gasped with apparent abject horror into the void at the foot of his bed. This totally unanticipated activity was immediately followed by an equally unexpected loosening of his vocal cords—silent for these four days—in a terrifying scream that cascaded down the quiet hospital corridor.

In four short clauses that reverberate even today in my mind as I reflect on his death ten years ago, Ray screamed into the early morning surrounding his bed: “No! I don’t want to go...I don’t want to die...I won’t go!” Completely exhausted by this emotional and physical outburst, Ray collapsed into the bed, gasped the humid air of the hospital room two or three times, and died.

King Hezekiah would understand.

“Let me pass over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.” General T.J. “Stonewall” Jackson—wounded by his own men, he died shortly after.

According to sociologist Robert Bellah, “One of our current psychological gurus says that 98 percent of Americans are dysfunctional. No doubt he is right. He has just discovered original sin, though he is mistaken if he things 2 percent are without.”