My wife, daughter, grandson, and I
returned from our European vacation six weeks ago. Jean and I had talked about
doing it for years, and since we are turning the “Big 70” next year, we thought
we better make it happen sooner, rather than later.
It is no exaggeration to say it was
the trip of a lifetime.
One of the highlights of our vacation
was our visit to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland. This particular
location features two eight or ten story stacks of symmetrical, six-sided, flat
topped stone pillars. I had seen photographs of this tourist site in the past,
but (as Forrest Gump once said) it was “a whole ‘nother country” to actually
see the place in person.
Anyone who knows me knows there was no
way I was going that far, and not climb those rugged rocky mounds. And much to
my wife’s chagrin, I followed through with my intent to conquer them.
For no reason in particular, I first
chose the one on my right. As I surveyed the rocky challenge, I noticed a causeway
employee standing about a third of the way up. She was a young lady of,
perhaps, twenty and wore a pair of jeans, and a florescent yellow
construction-style vest.
As I made my way up the hill, and neared
the young woman I smiled a half smile, and asked,
“Are we allowed to climb to the top?”
To which the attendant responded in a
charming Irish accent,
“Yes, but walk up behind me.”
With this, I once again queried,
“Oh, are you going to lead the way?”
To which she replied,
“Uhmmm, No. I mean walk up the mound
directly behind where I’m standing.”
Subsequently, I recall asking the
young girl whether anyone had broken an ankle or bruised a knee in their
pursuit of fame there, and she acknowledged that,
“Yes, they certainly have.”
Pt. 2
I resumed my trek up the strangest
hill I had ever climbed. I chose my steps with some deliberation, as the edges
of some of the multiplied, foot tall pillars were covered with mold or algae,
and their flat six-sided surfaces were wet with moisture from the ocean surf;
which pounded the lower recesses of the mound.
My wife, who was standing at the
bottom of the incline, followed my every move, and snapped several photos of my
progress; including a couple when I arrived at the summit, and raised my arms like
Richard Nixon in that famous piece of film footage.
Ultimately, I also attacked, and
conquered the other hill, and found it to be a bit more tenuous, as the pillars
seemed somewhat larger, and wetter than heretofore. My feet slipped a bit as I
steadily made my way upwards, but having reached the top, and gazed out at the
Irish Sea, I made my way down again. And as with the first mound, I found the walk
down a bit more difficult, and I was careful to step carefully, and was forced
to reduce my pace.
It was only after we returned home
that my wife did a Google search of injuries which had been sustained at the
Giant’s Causeway. And “lo and behold,” she discovered that a man had fallen and,
subsequently, died as the result of a fall there a year almost to the day,
before our own visit to the site.
Pt. 3
And while I have written approximately
400 words in which I recounted one stop on our European vacation, and
specifically our visit to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland, allow me to
diverge in favor of my true intent for having detailed my climb up a couple of
hundred foot high mounds; composed of thousands of geometrically-shaped
pillars.
I take you back to the young employee
whom I met a third of the way up the first hill which I summited that day.
You recall that when I asked her
whether visitors were allowed to climb to the top, she has responded with,
“Yes, but walk up behind me.”
However, as I soon discovered, the
meaning of her words, and my interpretation of her meaning were two entirely
different things. She had no intention, whatever, of leading me to the top; (which
was, in this case, fine by me).
However, there is a moral to this
story.
I think there is a dearth of
discipleship, both secular and spiritual, in our society. I think there are
just too few people willing to say, “Follow Me.”
In the New Testament book of
Philippians, the Apostle Paul admonished those to whom his letter was intended
to,
“Join together in following my example,
brothers and sisters, and just as you have us as a model, keep your eyes on
those who live as we do.” (Phil. 3:17)
He might just as well have said,
“Copy me.”
As a Christian mentor, I have
witnessed the power of discipleship, role modeling and setting a standard for
those who will ‘carry on’ long after we have gone on to our reward.
The entire dynamic is that much more
‘there there’ for me since no one ever stepped forward in my own life and
offered to act as a mentor for me.
Pt. 4
Following is a compilation which
includes something which both I, and another individual wrote, and which expresses
the foregoing topic well.
The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus
Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school
graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby
Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian
liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).
As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be
charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a
pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the
auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,
“I traveled down a lonely road and no one
seemed to care
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to
despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were
treating me
And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”
There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song;
which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and
experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he
attempted to express to his audience.
It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the
hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’
permeated the building that morning.
As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed
across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked
to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had
not been privy, ‘til now.
“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He
is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Maoist rebels in Africa just
four years ago.”
Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just
something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and
having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had
lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.
Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often
reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to
every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And
over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and
never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol.s 50 & 83
Pt. 5
A HERO OF THE FAITH
Originally Posted on March 11, 2014
It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.
J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.
For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”
During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.
When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.
When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.
Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”
My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.
Harold Walls
(Manna for the Journey Devotions)
Pt. 6
FOLLOW ME
Ira Stanphill
“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,”
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,
"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."
"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,
"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."
“Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,”
"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,
"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.
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