The following story could be used as a basis to point out some of the plights we need to be delivered from.

In one story of the Holy Grail, a knight rode forth in searth of fulfillment. He came to a singing brook, deep meadows, trees plentiful with fruit. But even as he ate the fruit, it turned to dust. No feeding of the flesh could satisfy his deepest hunger.

Further on he saw a home, a lovely woman standing in its open door, her eyes innocent and kind and all her bearing gracious, and he thought that surely the love of a woman and the shelter of a home would be his answer; but she, too, fell into dust at his touch and the home crumbled into a broken shed.

Later in his journey, the knight came to a warrior clad in golden armor; but the warrior, too, turned into dust, for the deepest meaning of life is not in the pride of battle. And still later he saw a city on the hill, at its gates a great throng shouting his praises as he climbed the slope, so that he felt that surely civic honor and the esteem of others would be his deepest need, but the city and its people were gone when he reached the crest of the hill. So he cried out, in Tennyson’s words, "Lo, if I find the Holy Grail itself and touch it, it will crumble into dust!"

A concluding point could be made that God’s triumphant grace offers us deliverance from the disappointments that always follow when we look for salvation in the contemporary equivalents of the points made above, as surely we do.

Someone writing in The Upper Room a few years ago told of a school-days experience when the music teacher drew a profusion of black dots on a white sheet of paper. None of the pupils could make anything of them. Then the teacher drew a few connecting lines, put in a few rests, and a clef at the beginning. It was then seen that the black dots took the form of a musical score. On sounding the notes, the pupils found themselves singing The Doxology: "Praise God from whom all blessings flow ..."

Here in worship we can connect our life's disconnected dots. Daily living is made up of a little of this and a little of that, small events and brief moments that occur now and then along the way. And often it is difficult for us to see that these have any meaning, or, if so, what the meaning is.

In worship we seek a God's-eye view of what we are; we seek to see ourselves as we are seen by him. This is to see our life in perspective and entire - not as a meaningless scattering of random dots on a blank page, but as a musical score that sings "Praise God from whom all blessings flow ..." Then each new day of living, each common task, becomes simply another note in this one majestic song.

An ancient legend tells us that when the Great Lord of All Being created all things - animals, birds, mountains, seas, and human persons - when he finished his work, there was only silence. No sound was anywhere. The angels, having examined the creation, reported to the Great Creator that, to be complete, it needed the sound of the Creator's praise. So then the Lord God put a song in the throats of birds, gave a murmur to running brooks, gave the wind a voice to whisper as it moved among the trees, and put a melody in the heart of humankind.

In worship here today let's let the sound of God's praise be heard. Let us joyously participate in creation's song of praise; let us supply some of that without which creation is incomplete. Don't be timid about it, the psalmist says - "O bless our God, you people, and make the voice of his praise to be heard!"

Let us then give voice to the melody that is implanted within us. Let it be heard - from our lips and from our hearts, in our singing and in our living, now and always.

The Board of Bethlehem Community Church gathered for its monthly meeting with solemn resolve. They were the largest, most prestigious congregation in their region, and with that honor came some serious responsibility. Every other year they hosted the Bishop's Winter Renewal Retreat for forty to fifty area pastors. Bethlehem Church's beautiful facility provided meeting rooms and meals for the specially invited clergy and guest speakers. The details were always impeccably managed. Each retreat closed with the Bishop preaching the Sunday morning sermon for the guests and congregation. Participants left feeling pampered and refreshed.

But this year the Board faced a potentially embarrassing dilemma. In the two years since the last retreat, Mae Ella Grant had joined the church.

Now, Bethlehem Community Church was known for its classic, high-church liturgy. The pastor's preaching style tended to attract the intellectual, professional members of the community. The organist and music director had both taught music at a local private college for years. They had attracted many professional singers and musicians to the sixty-voice choir and chamber orchestra. Mae Ella Grant's first visit to the church had been at Easter the previous year. After the choir's beautiful presentation of Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," she had spontaneously cried out, "Praise the Lord!" Imagine the congregation's shock!

Most everyone had politely ignored that first, indelicate outburst. But the Grant family returned to worship. During each service she attended, Mae Ella managed to lose control of at least one "Amen!" or "Halleluia!" or "Praise the Lord!" The difficulty was that she was a perfectly charming person in every other way. When her family joined the church, she took an immediate role in Sunday School, the Social Concerns Committee and the Women's Service Society. She volunteered tirelessly to serve at dinners, help put out mailings, and work at the mealsite for the homeless. Everyone came to know and like her. Many tried, directly or indirectly, in gentle and not-so-gentle ways, to tell her how disturbing her outbursts were to the rest of the congregation. Mae Ella would blush and shake her red curls and apologize. But, with a sparkle in her eyes, she would say that, sometimes, there was no controlling the Holy Spirit!

Well, even the most conservative worshipers became accustomed to the outbursts after a year and a half. They could tolerate some spontaneity, especially when they knew Mae Ella was trying to conform. But what would the Bishop and visiting pastors think? The board was solemn, indeed, as they made their preparations.

Another Bishop's Winter Retreat was carried out as impeccably as always after the beginning of the New Year. With tastefully-chosen Christmas decorations still in place, awaiting the arrival of the magi, forty-five pastors were enveloped in the hospitality of Bethlehem Church. Mae Ella Grant was one of the hardest working volunteers that entire weekend. And on Sunday morning she and her husband, a psychology professor at the University, and their three curly-haired children were in their usual places to hear the Bishop speak. Mae Ella, having been cautioned by her many friends to control herself, was on her best behavior.

The choir's moving rendition of "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" nearly did her in. Mae Ella sat on her hands and bit her lip when they were finished. Then one of the guest speakers from the retreat rose to read the Psalm, and his words and the strength of his southern drawl were a balm on Mae Ella's soul. He read:

Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens; praise him in the heights! Praise him, all his angels; praise him, all his host! Praise him, sun and moon; praise him, all you shining stars! ... Kings of the earth and all peoples, princes and all rulers of the earth! Young men and women alike, old and young together! Let them praise the name of the Lord, for his name alone is exalted; his glory is above earth and heaven ... Praise the Lord! (verses 1-3, 11-13, 14b)

The echo of his last words had not finished ringing through the carved oak rafters before Mae Ella's hands clapped before her and she shouted in return, "Oh, praise the Lord!"

Just as abruptly as it began, her applause stopped as Mae Ella's hands clapped over her mouth. She sank back in the pew in horror of what she had done. But her husband tapped her shoulder and pointed to the Bishop, who now stood in the pulpit beaming a warm smile in her direction.

"Thank you so much for that testimony to the glory of God," the Bishop said directly to Mae Ella. And as the crimson color began to recede slowly from her face, she listened in awe. The Bishop proceeded to preach an inspiring sermon on the importance of spontaneous praise in worship. In it he endorsed the expression of such praise as a regular part of the worship experience. When he came to the conclusion, the Bishop smiled impishly in Mae Ella's direction and said, "Will you all say 'Amen'?" Mae Ella's lilting voice led the staid congregation in a surprisingly strong Amen!

Shortly after the turn of the century, Japan invaded, conquered, and occupied Korea. Of all of their oppressors, Japan was the most ruthless. They overwhelmed the Koreans with a brutality that would sicken the strongest of stomachs. Their crimes against women and children were inhuman. Many Koreans live today with the physical and emotional scars from the Japanese occupation.

One group singled out for concentrated oppression was the Christians. When the Japanese army overpowered Korea one of the first things they did was board up the evangelical churches and eject most foreign missionaries. It has always fascinated me how people fail to learn from history. Conquering nations have consistently felt that shutting up churches would shut down Christianity. It didn't work in Rome when the church was established, and it hasn't worked since. Yet somehow the Japanese thought they would have a different success record.

The conquerors started by refusing to allow churches to meet and jailing many of the key Christian spokesmen. The oppression intensified as the Japanese military increased its profile in the South Pacific. The "Land of the Rising Sum" spread its influence through a reign of savage brutality. Anguish filled the hearts of the oppressed and kindled hatred deep in their souls.

One pastor persistently entreated his local Japanese police chief for permission to meet for services. His nagging was finally accommodated, and the police chief offered to unlock his church ... for one meeting. It didn't take long for word to travel. Committed Christians starving for an opportunity for unhindered worship quickly made their plans. Long before dawn on that promised Sunday, Korean families throughout a wide area made their way to the church. They passed the staring eyes of their Japanese captors, but nothing was going to steal their joy. As they closed the doors behind them they shut out the cares of oppression and shut in a burning spirit anxious to glorify their Lord.

The Korean church has always had a reputation as a singing church. Their voices of praise could not be concealed inside the little wooden frame sanctuary. Song after song rang through the open windows into the bright Sunday morning. For a handful of peasants listening nearby, the last two songs this congregation sang seemed suspended in time. It was during a stanza of "Nearer My God to Thee" that the Japanese police chief waiting outside gave the orders. The people toward the back of the church could hear them when they barricaded the doors, but no one realized that they had doused the church with kerosene until they smelled the smoke. The dried wooden skin of the small church quickly ignited. Fumes filled the structure as tongues of flame began to lick the baseboard on the interior walls. There was an immediate rush for the windows. But momentary hope recoiled in horror as the men climbing out the windows came crashing back in their bodies ripped by a hail of bullets.

The good pastor knew it was the end. With a calm that comes from confidence, he led his congregation in a hymn whose words served as a fitting farewell to earth and a loving salutation to heaven. The first few words were all the prompting the terrified worshipers needed. With smoke burning their eyes, they instantly joined as one to sing their hope and leave their legacy. Their song became a serenade to the horrified and helpless witnesses outside. Their words also tugged at the hearts of the cruel men who oversaw this flaming execution of the innocent.

Alas! and did my Savior bleed?
and did my Sovereign die?
Would he devote that sacred head
for such a worm as I?
Just before the roof collapsed they sang the last verse,
their words an eternal testimony to their faith.
But drops of grief can ne'er repay
the debt of love I owe:
Here, Lord, I give myself away
'Tis all that I can do!
At the cross, at the cross
Where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away
It was there by faith I received my sight,
And now I am happy all the day.

The strains of music and wails of children were lost in a roar of flames. The elements that once formed bone and flesh mixed with the smoke and dissipated into the air. The bodies that once housed life fused with the charred rubble of a building that once housed a church. But the souls who left singing finished their chorus in the throne room of God. Clearing the incinerated remains was the easy part. Erasing the hate would take decades. For some of the relatives of the victims, this carnage was too much. Evil had stooped to a new low, and there seemed to be no way to curb their bitter loathing of the Japanese.

In the decades that followed, that bitterness was passed on to a new generation. The Japanese, although conquered, remained a hated enemy. The monument the Koreans built at the location of the fire not only memorialized the people who died, but stood as a mute reminder of their pain.

Inner rest? How could rest coexist with a bitterness deep as marrow in the bones? Suffering, of course, is a part of life. People hurt people. Almost all of us have experienced it at some time. Maybe you felt it when you came home to find that your spouse had abandoned you, or when your integrity was destroyed by a series of well-timed lies, or when your company was bled dry by a partner. It kills you inside. Bitterness clamps down on your soul like iron shackles.

The Korean people who found it too hard to forgive could not enjoy the "peace that passes all understanding." Hatred choked their joy.

It wasn't until 1972 that any hope came. A group of Japanese pastors traveling through Korea came upon the memorial. When they read the details of the tragedy and the names of the spiritual brothers and sisters who had perished, they were overcome with shame. Their country had sinned, and even though none of them were personally involved (some were not even born at the time of the tragedy), they still felt a national guilt that could not be excused. They returned to Japan committed to right a wrong. There was an immediate outpouring of love from their fellow believers. They raised ten million yen ($25,000). The money was transferred through proper channels and a beautiful white church building was erected on the sight of the tragedy. When the dedication service for the new building was held, a delegation from Japan joined the relatives and special guests.

Although their generosity was acknowledged and their attempts at making peace appreciated, the memories were still there. Hatred preserves pain. It keeps the wounds open and the hurts fresh. The Koreans' bitterness had festered for decades. Christian brothers or not, these Japanese were descendants of a ruthless enemy. The speeches were made, the details of the tragedy recalled, and the names of the dead honored. It was time to bring the service to a close. Someone in charge of the agenda thought it would be appropriate to conclude with the same two songs that were sung the day the church was burned.  The song leader began the words to "Nearer My God to Thee."

But something remarkable happened as the voices mingled on the familiar melody. As the memories of the past mixed with the truth of the song, resistance started to melt. The inspiration that gave hope to a doomed collection of churchgoers in a past generation gave hope once more. The song leader closed the service with the hymn "At the Cross." The normally stoic Japanese could not contain themselves. The tears that began to fill their eyes during the song suddenly gushed from deep inside. They turned to their Korean spiritual relatives and begged them to forgive. The guarded, calloused hearts of the Koreans were not quick to surrender. But the love of the Japanese believers not intimidated by decades of hatred tore at the Koreans' emotions.

At the cross, at the cross
Where I first saw the light,
And the burden of my heart rolled away ...

One Korean turned toward a Japanese brother. Then another. And then the floodgates holding back a wave of emotion let go. The Koreans met their new Japanese friends in the middle. They clung to each other and wept. Japanese tears of repentance and Korean tears of forgiveness intermingled to bathe the site of an old nightmare. Heaven had sent the gift of reconciliation to a little white church in Korea.

To worship God is to recognize his worth or worthiness; to look God-ward, and to acknowledge in all appropriate ways the value of what we see. The Bible calls this activity "glorifying God" or "giving glory to God," and views it as the ultimate end, and from one point of view, the whole duty of man (Ps. 29:2; 96:6; 1 Cor. 10:31).

Scripture views the glorifying of God as a sixfold activity: praising God for all that he is and all his achievements; thanking him for his gifts and his goodness to us; asking him to meet our own and others' needs; offering him our gifts, our service, and ourselves; learning of him from his word, read and preached, and obeying his voice; telling others of his worth, both by public confession and testimony to what he has done for us. Thus we might say that the basic formulas of worship are these: "Lord, you are wonderful"; "Thank you, Lord"; "Please Lord"; "Take this, Lord"; "Yes, Lord"; "Listen everybody!"

This then is worship in its largest sense: petition as well as praise, preaching as well as prayer, hearing as well as speaking, actions as well as words, obeying as well as offering, loving people as well as loving God. However, the primary acts of worship are those which focus on God directly and we must not imagine that work for God in the world is a substitute for direct fellowship with him in praise and prayer and devotion.

A body is not crippled 'til its heart has ceased to praise. Louis Albert Banks tells of an elderly Christian man, a fine singer, who learned that he had cancer of the tongue and that surgery was required. In the hospital after everything was ready for the operation, the man said to the doctor, "Are you sure I will never sing again?" The surgeon found it difficult to answer his question. He simply shook his head no.

The patient then asked if he could sit up for a moment. "I've had many good times singing the praises of God," he said. "And now you tell me I can never sing again. I have one song that will be my last. It will be of gratitude and praise to God." There in the doctor's presence the man sang softly the words of Isaac Watts' hymn,

"I'll praise my Maker while I've breath,
And when my voice is lost in death,
Praise shall employ my nobler power;

My days of praise shall ne'er be past,
While life, and thought, and being last,
Or immortality endures."

Judges 21:23 - "And the Benjamites did so, and took their wives according to their number, from the dancers whom they carried off; then they went and returned to their inheritance, and rebuilt the towns, and dwelt in them."

Psalm 87:7 - "Singers and dancers alike will say, ‘All my springs are in you.’ "

Dancing has formed a part of religious rites and has been associated with war and hunting, with marriage, birth, and other occasions, since the recorded history of man. It grew out of three basic human reactions: 1. the desire to imitate the movements of beasts, birds, even the sun and moon; 2. the desire to express emotions by gestures; 3. gregarious impulses.

Throughout past ages dancing has been associated with worship. Closely related to religious praises was the sacramental dance in which worshipers sought to express through bodily movements praise or penitence, worship or prayer. Out of the primitive dances the esthetic dance of civilized ancient nations slowly developed. In these the primary concern of the dancers was to reveal grace, speed, and rhythm, often to appeal to the carnal nature of both participants and spectators. Vashti refused to expose herself because of this (Esther 1:12).

The Hebrews developed their own type of dancing, associated with worship. Basically, it was like modern religious shouting by individuals, or processions of exuberant groups. Three things characterized it: 1. sexes never intermingled in it, except where pagan influences had crept in; 2. usually dancing was done by women, with one leading, as in the case of Miriam; 3. dancing usually took place out of doors.

Hebrew contains six verbs to describe the actions of dance:

1. sahok - usually translated as sporting or playing and conveys the expression of joy in dancing.
2. rakod - original meaning was "to leap like a lamb"
3. karkar - suggests a round dance and may refer to turning on the heel in one sport
4. hol - to writhe or to turn
5. pesah - refers to a limping dance
6. hag - means "holiday," possibly from the word hug meaning "circle" or "dancing in a circle"

For ages, dancing has been accompanied by clapping of the hands, and percussion and other noise-making instruments seem to be native to it. In some cases, antiphonal singing accompanied the dancing. The Romans introduced the Greek dance to Palestine. At first the Primitive Christian churches allowed the dance, but it soon caused degeneracy, and was forbidden.

Today we have dancers of just about every tradition, and many churches are using the dance as re-interpretations of the biblical message. Also, considering the athletic nature of many of the dances, it is not at all off base to say that the modern gymnast can also be considered as a counterpart of the ancient dancer. Certainly the fluidity of movement and the grace inherent in gymnastics would allow this.

It was one of the most wonderful and exciting moments in the history of the Christian faith. The Holy Spirit had fallen fresh on the lives of believers. People were filled with the passion and fires of the Holy Ghost. They were shouting joy from all directions. They were gathered from every persuasion and city, every nation and province, all glorifying God, speaking in foreign tongues but understanding each other, expressing different voices but still in one accord. This was the time of Pentecost, when God saw fit to pour out the spirit which spawned the birth of the Christian Church.

Today we need the fervor, fire, tongues, passion, and Spirit of Pentecost. Today the Christian Church needs a rebirth of the spirit, where souls are on fire with the love of Christ, where barriers are broken down and superficial divisions which sequester and divide people are bridged through a unity of the Spirit. Today more than ever the church needs to recapture the fires of Pentecost so that souls can break free from bondage, and healing, deliverance, and the full power of God's anointing can be experienced in every medium and every idiom by people filled with Holy Ghost madness.

Too many churches today are devoid of the Spirit of Pentecost because they are dry, stale, and discordant, where parishioners are in a somnambulist stupor; where worship services are vapid, staid, and wooden; where the preaching is dull, flat, and insipid; where the singing is Geritol-tired and without the vim, verve, and verse which speaks of a crucified, died and risen Lord; where if anyone taps his foot and says, "Amen," he is stared into silence, and if anyone shouts, "Thank you, Jesus," or "Help me, Holy Ghost," parishioners call EMS, the DS or 911! Too many churches have become mausoleums for the dead rather than coliseums of praise for a living God. They have lost the spirit of Pentecost! They have lost their enthusiasm. They have lost their joy for Jesus and find themselves suffering from what William Willimon calls "Institutional and Spiritual Dry Rot." Pentecost marks the beginning of a new spiritual movement in Christ; a movement birthed through the fires of the Holy Spirit; a movement steeped in the spirit of hope, renewal, and spiritual transformation. It is a movement where souls are on fire with the passion of the Holy Spirit and the Church today more than ever needs to recapture that spirit. If the Church is to survive the next millennium it must recapture some of the praise and enthusiasm it had two millennia ago. The spiritual energy and vitality of Pentecost has sustained the Church through two millennia.

On July 23, 2002, nine miners in Western Pennsylvania became trapped in a flooded mine. The injured and desperate men tied themselves together so that the stronger ones could sustain the weaker ones as they waited to be rescued. Journalists from across the nation reported the rescue effort, which took five long days. No one could believe it when all nine miners emerged safely from the mine.

On July 30, the people of the small mining community gathered for a worship service to thank God for saving the miners' lives. At the ceremony, there were ten miners' lamps set up on the altar, even though there were only nine miners. According to the pastor who presided over the worship celebration, the tenth lamp represented God's presence, which the miners claimed they could feel as they waited to be rescued. It was this "10th Man" they honored as they read Psalm 103: "Praise the Lord . . . Who redeems your life from the pit."  Welcome to this celebration of our "tenth man" the One who has rescued us from the pit.

I read that a member of a United Methodist church in North Carolina was once convicted in court for disrupting church services because of his atrocious singing. It was in 1873 that William Linkhaw was hauled into county court in Lumberton, Robeson County, N.C., by fellow Methodists who charged that Linkhaw’s singing repeatedly created havoc during worship services. Not only was his voice offensive to the ear, but he was given to singing long after the rest of the congregation had stopped. Things had become so disconcerting that even the minister refused to sing. Consequently, Linkhaw was found guilty of a misdemeanor and ordered to remain silent in church. However, the state supreme court overturned the conviction, sympathetic to Linkhaw’s claim that singing was a part of his service to God. I was interested in this particular item because I well remember when an old fellow in my home church was asked to surrender his choir robe on the same grounds. As a boy, it struck me as rather ridiculous that those of us in the choir, many of whom could not carry a tune in a wheelbarrow, should presume to single out Mr. X. After all, he was an affable gentlemen who had been a member of the choir for probably fifty years. He was not a person of means and not physically able to participate in the church’s visitation program or serve on any committee. His days were spent sitting at home with his good wife who had been in poor health for as long as I could remember. He could however, do one thing for his church. He could manage to get away for a couple of hours on Sunday morning and sing in the choir. His service though, as precious as it was to him, was no longer appreciated. I suppose the rationale behind the choir’s decision was the Mr. X’s service was no longer "proper."

What is one’s proper service to God? In Isaiah’s day, the supreme service was considered to be "fasting." Widely practiced as a kind of personal purge and expression of humility, fasting was a common experience among the devout throughout the ancient world. The Israelites incorporated fasting in national religious life more prominently after Jerusalem fell to the Babylonians in 586 B.C. Unfortunately, the Jews mistook this particular gesture as a guarantee of spiritual righteousness; a kind of "automatic purification" which placed them blameless before God. Consequently, it was inconceivable to them that hardships would continue following their dedicated "service." When hardships would continue, they felt an explanation was in order: "Why have we fasted and thou seest it not? Why have we humbled ourselves, and thou takest no knowledge of it" (58:3). Listen to God’s answer: "Behold, in the day of your fast you seek your own pleasure, and oppress all your workers. Behold, you fast only to quarrel and to fight and to hit with wicked fist. Fasting like yours this day will not make your voice to be heard on high" (58:3, 4). Their service was unacceptable. In a word, it was mechanical; in another word, it was self-serving. In still yet another word, it was presumptuous. The service which God seeks involves the extension of his love for others and in an attitude of praise. In the words of John Wesley, serving God means, "serving neighbors, whether they be friends or adversaries, doing good to every man and willingly hurting no man." Wesley practiced what he preached. He traveled about 225,000 miles, preached about 50,000 times to crowds small and large, often up to 20,000, occasionally facing hostile mobs and barrages of stone and mud. But he had a plucky, game spirit, going on to the next town, leaving his class and "bands" to multiply. The service of outreach performed by Wesley, even with our precise statistics and access to his faithfully kept journals, is measureless.

Isaiah scored the people of Israel for indulging in perfunctory rituals, mistaking them for "service." Instead, he laid down God’s prescription for service: "to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke ... to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him" (58:6-7).

William Linkhaw believed that a part of his service to God was to sing in the church choir. I am inclined to agree with him. His voice may have been off key, but his comprehension of service to God was not. What is your service to God?

I imagine that different letters in the New Testament were written with varying degrees of haste. Paul wrote an angry letter to the church at Corinth. You can tell that as he wrote it he had a lot of things on his mind. On the other hand, the Book of 1st Thessalonians consists almost entirely of prayers and praise. Obviously, there was not a great sense of urgency about the letter. When Paul wrote his brief letter to Philemon, he told his friend and former slave, Onesimus, to personally deliver it. It could have gotten there a lot faster if it had gone by the regular mail, but Paul wanted this letter hand delivered.

Then there was the letter written to the Hebrews, from which our scripture text for this morning comes. It was a thick letter. Probably took three stamps to mail it. And on the front of that letter I feel sure that the wrote: Special Delivery. There is a sense of urgency about this letter. The moment you open the letter up you know why. Hold on, it says. How many times does the author write—hold on. Don’t shrink back. Don’t despair. Don’t give up. Stir up each other. Encourage each other. Don’t stop going to your worship assemblies. Don’t get discouraged. All the way through that is the tone. The writer, who is a pastor, is trying his best to revive a church.

What is wrong with the church? When you read the letter you discover that it was once a church that was full of love and joy and fellowship. It took delight in serving each other and serving the Lord. But that is now no longer the case. Between that time of wonderful joy and the writing of this letter something dreadful has happened to this church. What has gone wrong?

I. There is heresy.
II. There is pagan worship.
III. There is persecution.
IV. But primarily they no longer care.

In the 1500s, there lived a "prophet" named Nostradamus who upheld the Copernican theory that the world is round and circles the sun more than one hundred years before Galileo was prosecuted for the same belief. He was also widely known as a healer, a dabbler in the occult, and predictor of events far into the future. A present day book, The Prophecies of Nostradamus, purports to show that he predicted such specific events as the assassination of John F. Kennnedy, Hitler’s rise to power, the Blockade of Britain, the Common Market, and other far sweeping events. The writings of Nostradamus are, however, exceedingly ambiguous, requiring a great deal of imagination on the part of the reader to even remotely apply them to events claimed as "fulfillments." I personally place no stock in this ancient mystic’s poetic "prophecies." But there is no ambiguity in the prophecies of Isaiah: (1) "Behold my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights; I have put my spirit upon him, he will bring forth justice to the nations" (42:1). Let us now turn to Matthew 3:16: "As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my son whom I love; with him I am well pleased.’ "

The servant described in Isaiah 53 was to be (2) a suffering servant; "Surely, he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed" (vv. 4, 5). The entire New Testament is testimony to the "Song of the Servant," and in the remarkable economy of God, the wounds and bruises resulted in inclusive wholeness and healing. Unfortunately, there are those who have not embraced the vicarious suffering Christ as relevant for their own cases. Even on Christmas day, combat raged in eastern El Salvador between government troops and leftist rebels. A Roman Catholic priest claims that nearly 7,000 persons died in "blind violence" in the country during the past year. We will not dwell upon world violence and political unrest here, except to say that there are those who remain outside of the peace made possible by the redemptive work of Christ. But for those who have experienced the power of Christ in their lives personally, they have found it to be a strong potion, even in difficult times.

Slightly more than one hundred years ago, an especially gifted young man enrolled in Glasgow University. Anxious to begin academic studies and anticipating his forthcoming marriage, his spirits soared. But how rapidly the wheels of fortune turn. He was suddenly stricken by blindness, and his fiance, not wanting to be married to an invalid, rejected him. The tide had turned against him in a manner which would have devastated a lesser person. However, despite his adversities, he graduated from the university and went on to become one of the greatest preachers in the Church of Scotland. Not out of his despair, but out of his personal relationship with Christ, he wrote a hymn which we lift in praise until this day: "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go ..." Consequently, not only the New Testament, but individuals like George Matheson the hymnwriter and scores of others who have named the name of Christ, affirm that Isaiah’s prophecy has indeed come to pass.

There is more. The vicarious suffering of Christ was (3) once done, for all, and for all time. Such a sacrifice need never be repeated. I have read where each year, beginning on Ash Wednesday, thousands of Filipino Christians begin Lenten observances by flagellating themselves with whips and heavy branches. The whips have sharp stones and broken pieces of glass affixed to leathered ends. Certain others submit themselves to be actually crucified. Their devotion is admirable, but the gestures in which they engage are both barbaric and unnecessary. We continue to sin, yes, but the redemptive work of Christ at Calvary endures, once done for all time.

Let your actions praise the Lord. Praise is something you do more than something you say. It is an act of kindness which demonstrates that you are a child of God. You can worship God better with your life than with your words. The New Testament book of James says we will be judged at the end of time on whether or not we are doing what Christ wants us to do.

Faith without works is dead. Sure we are saved by faith in Jesus Christ, but true faith produces good works. To say, "Jesus, I love you," and then go through life without showing it, helps absolutely no one. When we stand before the Lord on Judgment Day, he’ll ask us, "What have you done? What do you have to show for your life? How have you served me and my church?" And if we respond, "Well Lord, I was planning on it, but you know how busy I was all week, and the weekend was about the only time I had for myself. I enjoyed church when I went, and I tried to lead a good life. Lord, I didn’t ask for the heart attack ... I really didn’t expect to die so soon." Then the Lord is going to say, "I’m sorry. You didn’t have time for me and my work in your life now I don’t have time for you in death."

Albert Schweitzer once said, "If there is something you own that you can’t give away, then you don’t own it, it owns you." What owns you? What makes you tick? What is important enough in life to keep us awake at night thinking about it? If we call Jesus Christ our Lord and really mean it, he must be number one in our life. God’s revealed truth in Christ must be the one thing that owns us. We must constantly desire to get really close to Jesus. And in our quest, our Bible must wind up with fingerprints all over it. Our presence in church must be weekly, and our contribution to God’s work must be felt and known because it’s so evident.

Let us begin each day with the words, "Lord what will you have me do today? Fill my mind with your mind." Only then can we go about our day giving praise to him, especially in our doing.

The Army chaplain of the 106th Division was captured in the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Along with many other Americans, he was herded on to a freight car and taken into the heart of Germany.

On the evening of December 23rd, the men were in the railroad yard of a German city, when a devastating attack was made by the British Royal Air Force. Many of the American prisoners were killed as well as many Germans. The next night, Christmas Eve, the air raid was repeated. When the planes began to fly over, there was fear and alarm among the prisoners who were packed like sardines into these freight cars. The chaplain persuaded the German officer in charge to let him go up and down the line of the cars and talk to the men. As he passed by he said, "Boys, this is Christmas Eve and we are in a tough spot. But, if you have your Bibles, get them out and read the story of the birth of Jesus and you will know that He is with us even here. If you can't read because of the darkness, then let's sing."

Immediately there was a medley of response. Some sang revival songs and some sang hymns. Then a rich baritone struck up "Silent Night, Holy Night," and he was joined by others. Carload after carload joined in singing that beautiful Christmas carol. Then something marvelous happened. Other voices, German voices, began to sing the song in the original "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht."  The German voices and American voices blended together in praise of Christ who came to bring all people together in peace.

A Christian salesman was in a strange town over the weekend, so on Sunday morning he went to the church closest to his hotel. He noticed that the worship was a little different but soon became so inspired by the sermon that at one point he just couldn’t control himself and shouted out loud, "Hallelujah!" as he had been accustomed to doing in his home church.

Not noticing the stares of his fellow worshipers, he shouted, "Praise the Lord!" when another stirring sentence came along. After this second outburst, an usher came forward, tapped the man on the shoulder, and whispered sternly, "Nobody can praise the Lord in this church!"

A Christian should be an Hallelujah from head to toe. Long faces, stooped shoulders, the downward glance are products of a life foreign to Christianity. Much of the church must begin to realize that Christianity is more than breast beating and pious pretense.

At Pentecost, spirit came into the church. POW! The Holy Spirit arrived in full power. God rocked that band of fearful, squeaky, sometime-followers right out of their inactivity. Out they came from behind locked doors - right into the streets - telling about Jesus.

The placenta was now broken, the labor subsided and the church was born. Peter and John stood in the market place telling everyone who would listen that Jesus was the Lord. And nobody and nothing except death itself could quiet them.

Hey Christians, listen! Our God is a happening God. He belongs to the living present, the passing moment, the now. His powerful Spirit wants to make its impact upon our lives. God wants to happen in us.

Let him in and your whole being will "Praise the Lord!"

The war-time song "Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition" parallels a truth revealed in a true story of a local Bedford citizen.

During the war this army pilot and his co-pilot and crew were flying a B24. One day its controls jammed as they took off and they skimmed precariously low as they neared the mountains.

The co-pilot folded his arms and said, "Our number is up," but the pilot, helped by the gunner, feverously worked at the controls and finally cleared the controls.

The pilot reports, "I got a transfer to another plane to get rid of the co-pilot. I want no fatalist at my side."

Prayer is not a resignation to fate, but true prayer in Christ's name is employing the power that God makes available for Christian living.

We sing, praise God and pray, but the ammunition to fight life's battles must be employed daily. Prayer is God's channel of power to bless mankind.

We must pray, believe, and work!

Leslie Weatherhead in his book, A Private House Of Prayer, suggests that the structure of the content of prayer be likened to a house of seven rooms. Each room is a division of prayer. There may be some duplication with ACTSS which we just discussed.

The first room is for the affirmation of God's presence. If prayer is a conversation with God, obviously it is necessary for him to be present. When we pray, are we aware of his presence or like Moses do we see only a burning bush? In a hymn Tersteegen sings, "God himself is present; let us now adore him and with awe appear before him." What applies to worship, applies also to prayer. When we pray, we are talking to a real person, not to an idea, or ideal, or ideology, or a theological concept. In prayer we are not talking to ourselves or to the ceiling. In spirit God is there to hear our prayer. We need to realize this and pray accordingly.

The next room is for the thanksgiving and praise. We have been blessed beyond measure and therefore to thank and praise God is in order. Before we begin our prayer, we need to review how good God has been to us. If we are bereft of blessings, our greatest gift is Jesus who loved us enough to die for us.

Go to the next room for the confession of sins. Sin separates us from God. Sin erects an impenetrable curtain which prevents us from seeing God. The separation prevents our hearing the voice of God. We come out of a dirty world with the dirt of sin clinging to us. Before we can be presentable to a holy God we need spiritual cleansing. Thus, in prayer we confess our sins and plead for his mercy.

The fourth room is labelled "Reception of God's grace." We have confessed our sins and begged for mercy. What is God's response? It is grace in terms of pardon and acceptance. At this time in our prayers we remember his promises to be with us always, to forgive us, and to bless us with the Holy Spirit.

Now it is time to go to the room of petition. We have the opportunity to tell God about our personal needs in our own lives, or in our family, or in our work. But, we have petitions not only for ourselves, but others want and need our prayers in their behalf. This takes us to the sixth room of prayer. When we pray for others, it is called intercessory prayer. When his co-worker, Melanchthon, was sick, Luther prayed for him: "I besought the Almighty with great vigor ... quoting from Scripture all the promises I could remember, that prayers should be granted and said that he must grant my prayer, if I was henceforth to put faith in his promises."

The effectiveness of a friend's prayer on our behalf depends on the relationship of the pray-er to God. James wrote, "The prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective" (James 5:16). That is why we want a godly mother or a pious pastor to pray for us. Roman Catholics ask the saints and the Virgin Mary to pray for them. On the eve of a historic boxing match, a friend was visiting the champ in his hotel suite. During the conversation a murmuring feminine voice was heard. "That's my wife," the champ explained. "She's praying for me to win." "Oh, and I suppose you pray, too?" The champ replied, "My wife is more devout than I am. If God won't do it for her, He certainly won't do it for me."

The seventh room in the house of prayer is meditation. Some do not understand what meditation is and consequently do not know how to meditate. It is the act of reflecting, of silence, and listening to God. It calls for thinking about God and our relationship to him. It is a time to review past dealings with God. Then we reflect on how good God has been in those past dealings. After that, we remember God's promises to us: promises of peace, protection, and provision. Meditation can be summed up in three R's: review, reflect, and remember.

Even back then I was searching for hard evidence of God as an alternative to faith. And one day I found it on television, of all places. While randomly flipping a dial, I came across a mass healing service being conducted by Kathryn Kuhlman. I watched for a few minutes as she brought various people up on the stage and interviewed them. Each one told an amazing story of supernatural healing. Cancer, heart conditions, paralysis it was like a medical encyclopedia up there. As I watched Kuhlman's program, my doubts gradually melted away. At last I had found something real and tangible. Kuhlman asked a musician to sing her favorite song, "He Touched Me. That's what I needed, I thought; a touch, a personal touch from God. She held out that promise, and I lunged for it.

Three weeks later when Kathryn Kuhlman came to a neighboring state, I skipped classes and traveled half a day to attend one of her meetings. The atmosphere was unbelievably charged soft organ music in the background; the murmuring sound of people praying aloud, some in strange tongues; and every few minutes a happy interruption when someone would stand and claim, "I'm healed!" One person especially made an impression, a man from Milwaukee who had been carried into the meeting on a stretcher. When he walked yes, walked onstage, we all cheered wildly. He told us he was a physician, and I was even more impressed. He had incurable lung cancer, he said, and was told he had six months to live. But now, tonight, he believed God had healed him. He was walking for the first time in months. He felt great. Praise God! I wrote down the man's name and practically floated out of that meeting. I had never known such certainty of faith before. My search was over; I had seen proof of a living God in those people on the stage. If he could work tangible miracles in them, then surely he had something wonderful in store for me.

I wanted to contact the man of faith I had seen at the meeting, so much so that exactly one week later I phoned Directory Assistance in Milwaukee and got the physician's number. When I dialed it, a woman answered the phone. "May I please speak to Dr. S_____," I said. Long silence. "Who are you?" she said at last. I figured she was just screening calls from patients or something. I gave my name and told her I admired Dr. S_____ and had wanted to talk to him ever since the Kathryn Kuhlman meeting. I had been very moved by his story, I said. Another long silence. Then she spoke in a flat voice, pronouncing each word slowly. "My...husband...is...dead." Just that one sentence, nothing more, and she hung up.

I can't tell you how that devastated me. I was wasted. I half-staggered into the next room, where my sister was sitting. "Richard, what's wrong?" she asked. "Are you all right?" No, I was not all right. But I couldn't talk about it. I was crying. My mother and sister tried to pry some explanation out of me. But what could I tell them? For me, the certainty I had staked my life on had died with that phone call. A flame had flared bright for one fine, shining week and then gone dark, like a dying star.

It was question and answer time at the worship workshop. Pastor and Author Thomas Long had been speaking on the theme of worship all morning to a group of people gathered in a church fellowship hall in a suburban neighborhood in Indiana. Dressed in sweatshirts and jeans, they had given up a Saturday of golf and gardening to sip coffee and listen politely as he rambled through discussions of Vatican II, Calvin's view of the Lord's Supper, the pros and cons of children's sermons, the development of the lectionary, the meanings of baptism, and other assorted topics about worship. Now, the lecturing done, he gulped down a little coffee and asked if there were any questions.

A hand shot into the air. It belonged to a fiftyish man with plump cheeks and rimless glasses who was, judging by the way his hand waved and bobbed, eager to speak. "There's one thing about our worship service here which really gripes me," he complained. "To me it's like fingernails being scraped

across a blackboard."

"What's that?" he cautiously asked, fully expecting him to say something about gender inclusive language, newfangled hymns, politics in the pulpit, or sermons on tithing. But it was not one of these issues which caused his aggravation.

"The announcements," he declared. "I just hate it when the minister spoils the mood of worship with all those dull announcements." Heads bobbed in vigorous agreement all around the room. The announcements were out of favor in that corner of Indiana, no question about it.

Thomas Long said he knew what the man meant. You're soaring above the pews on Sunday, your wings catching the strong breeze of the Spirit carrying you upward from "Joy to the World" toward the choir's lofty "For Unto Us a Child is Born," and then, thud ... the Christian Education Committee will meet in the library on Thursday at 7:30 .... " Like Icarus striving for the sun, you

find your wax wings suddenly melting, and you plummet back to the world of flesh, dust, and committee meetings.

The announcements do seem like a bag of peanuts at the opera, an ungainly moment of mundanity wedging its way into an hour of inspiration. What he tried to say to the questioner was that he understood how he felt and that, yes, the announcements were often rattled off without care or passion, and, yes, they did sometimes seem to be somewhat uninspiring, but that, after all, the details of the church's institutional life were important, and five minutes of them couldn't hurt, and so on.

After the meeting Rev. Long realized he blew it. He didn’t give the right answer. What he should have said is that, properly understood, the announcements are one of those places where the rubber of the church's theology hits the road. Indeed, it just may be that by moving seamlessly from "Holy, Holy, Holy" to "the telephone crisis counseling ministry is in need of additional volunteers," by punctuating its soaring praise with the commas of the earthy details of its common life, the church is expressing in its worship one of its most basic convictions about the character of God:

"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us....

Every Sunday morning, the people of a church in the Pacific Northwest say, "Peace be with you." They begin the worship service with a hymn of praise. The people confess their sins together, and hear of God's forgiveness. Then they are invited to turn to others around them and pass the peace. It has become an exuberant moment in an otherwise sober occasion. Friends leave their pews to embrace one another. Newcomers are warmly welcomed with a kind word or a hug.

Nobody thought much about the weekly ritual until the pastor received a letter from a man who had recently joined the congregation. The new member was a promising young lawyer from a prestigious downtown law firm. He drafted a brief but pointed letter on his firm's letterhead. "I am writing to complain about the congregational ritual known as 'passing the peace,'" he wrote. "I disagree with it, both personally and professionally, and I am prepared to take legal action to cause this practice to cease." When the pastor phoned to talk with the lawyer about the letter, he asked why the man was so disturbed. The lawyer said, "The passing of the peace is an invasion of my privacy."

I have no doubt that there are people who would take their church to court if too many people shook their hands, or if neighbors were too friendly, or if fellow pewsitters interrupted their private little religious moments. To that end, I think the pastor's response to the lawyer was right on target.

He said, "Like it or not, when you joined the church you gave up some of your privacy, for we believe in a risen Lord who will never leave us alone." Then he added, "You never know when Jesus Christ will intrude on us with a word of peace."

During World War II, the tiny island of Tanna in the South Pacific became one of many outposts that American troops temporarily occupied. The residents of Tanna, previously sheltered from the developed world, were exposed to things like radios, packaged foods, cigarette lighters, and Jeeps. They never forgot the mysterious luxury goods that the G.I.’s brought with them.

After the troops moved away, some of these remote people groups developed “cargo cults,” religions based around the worship of a god who would one day return bearing material gifts, like cars and flashlights.

One of the last known surviving cargo cults still exists on the island of Tanna, where many people identify themselves as members of the John Frum religion. According to the worshipers, John Frum was an American soldier who lived in Tanna during World War II. He brought fascinating luxury items with him, like radios and televisions and Jeeps. And he promised to come back with more goods if the islanders continued to pray to him. Numerous islanders pray to John Frum. They also compose songs of praise to him and to American factories that make luxury goods. Every February 15, the citizens of Tanna celebrate John Frum day with songs, dances, and elaborate ceremonies.

A missionary in Africa was preaching his first sermon in a mission church. When time came for the offering, the people danced their offerings forward. They danced and sang praise to God as they brought their offerings to the altar. It was a beautiful moment. What do you think? Should we get our ushers to do that?

After the service, he asked one of the people, "Why do you dance and sing when you bring your offering forward on Sunday morning?" Back came the answer: "How could we not dance? We are so grateful to God for what He has done for us in sending Jesus Christ to save us, that we have to dance and sing our thanksgiving and besides it says in the Bible, God loves a cheerful giver."

Let me ask you something. Do you feel gratitude to God that strongly? Do you have a strong case of the "can't help its" when it come to gratitude? When you are Christians, gratitude is the spirit of your lifestyle. When you are a Christian, you can't help but be grateful!

Pastor Victor Shepherd tells the story of a missionary surgeon he met who was rather gruff and to the point. On one occasion the surgeon was speaking to a small group of university students about his work in the Gaza Strip. He was telling us that we North American "fat cats" knew nothing about gratitude. Nothing! On one occasion he had stopped a peasant hovel to see a woman on whom he had performed surgery.  She and her husband were dirt poor. Their livestock supply consisted of one Angora rabbit and two chickens. For income the woman combed the hair out of the rabbit, spun the hair into yarn and sold it. For food she and her husband ate the eggs from the chickens. The woman insisted that the missionary surgeon stay for lunch. He accepted the invitation and said he would be back for lunch after he had gone down the road to see another postoperative patient. An hour and a half later he was back.  He peeked into the cooking pot to see what he was going to eat. He saw one rabbit and two chickens. The woman had given up her entire livestock supply -- her income, her food, everything. He wept unashamedly as he told the story no doubt for the 100th time. He concluded his story by reminding us again, that we knew nothing of gratitude. He concluded by saying, the incident will stay with me forever.

There is another incident concerning gratitude that will never be forgotten. It's about a woman who poured costly perfume over our Lord as she wiped his feet with her hair. Make no mistake the perfume was expensive, three hundred denarii, a year's income for a laborer in Palestine. Enough to keep a family alive for twelve months.

Thou hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more—a grateful heart.
Not thankful when it pleases me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart, whose pulse may be Thy praise.

Jermaine Washington, 26, did something that amazes many people. He became a kidney donor, giving a vital organ to a woman he describes as "just a friend." Washington met Michelle Stevens, 23, when they began working together at the Washington, D.C., Department of Employment Services. They used to have lunch with one another and chitchat during breaks. "He was somebody I could talk to," says Stevens. "One day, I cried on his shoulder. I had been on the kidney donor waiting list for 11 months, and I had lost all hope."

She told Washington how depressing it was to spend three days a week, three hours a day, on a kidney dialysis machine. She suffered chronic fatigue and blackouts and was plagued by joint pain. He could already see that she had lost her smile. "I saw my friend dying before my eyes," Washington recalls. "What was I supposed to do? Sit back and watch her die?"

Steven's mother, suffering from hypertension, was ineligible to donate a kidney. Her two brothers were reluctant. "I understood," says Stevens. "They said they loved me very much, but they were just too afraid."

The operation at Washington Hospital Center in April 1991 began with a painful procedure in which doctors inserted a catheter into an artery in Washington's groin. They then injected dye through the catheter into his kidney before taking X rays to determine if it was fit for transplant. A week later, an incision nearly 15 inches long was made from his navel to the middle of his back. After surgery he remained hospitalized for five days.

Today, both Stevens and Washington are fully recovered. "I jog at least twice a week," Washington says. Three times a month, they get together for what they call a "gratitude lunch." Despite occasional pressure by friends, a romantic relationship is not what they want. "We are thankful for the beautiful friendship that we have," Stevens says. "We don't want to mess up a good thing."

To this day, people wonder why Washington did it and even question his sanity. But when one admirer asked him where he had found the courage to give away a kidney, his answer quelled the skeptics. "I prayed for it," Washington replied. "I asked God for guidance and that's what I got."

HERE IS A SHORTER VERSION OF THIS STORY:

Three times a month, Jermaine Washington and Michelle Stevens get together for what they call a "gratitude lunch." With good reason! Washington donated a kidney to Stevens, whom he described as "just a friend." They met at work where they used to have lunch together. One day Michelle wept as she spoke about waiting on a kidney donor list for 11 months. She was being sustained by kidney dialysis, but suffered chronic fatigue and blackouts and was plagued by joint pain. Because Washington couldn't stand the thought of watching his friend die, he gave her one of his kidneys. When you've got something great to be thankful for, having a "gratitude lunch" is a great way to celebrate.

The very first person to reach the status of billionaire was a man who knew how to set goals and follow through. At the age of 23, he had become a millionaire, by the age of 50 a billionaire. Every decision, attitude, and relationship was tailored to create his personal power and wealth. But three years later at the age of 53 he became ill.

His entire body became racked with pain and he lost all the hair on his head. In complete agony, the world's only billionaire could buy anything he wanted, but he could only digest milk and crackers. An associate wrote, "He could not sleep, would not smile and nothing in life meant anything to him." His personal, highly skilled physicians predicted he would die within a year.

That year passed agonizingly slow. As he approached death he awoke one morning with the vague remembrances of a dream. He could barely recall the dream but knew it had something to do with not being able to take any of his successes with him into the next world. The man who could control the business world suddenly realized he was not in in control of his own life.

He was left with a choice.

He called his attorneys, accountants, and managers and announced that he wanted to channel his assets to hospitals, research, and mission work. On that day John D. Rockefeller established his foundation. This new direction eventually led to the discovery of penicillin, cures for current strains of malaria, tuberculosis and diphtheria. The list of discoveries resulting from his choice is enormous.

But perhaps the most amazing part of Rockefeller's story is that the moment he began to give back a portion of all that he had earned, his body's chemistry was altered so significantly that he got better. It looked as if he would die at 53 but he lived to be 98.

Rockefeller learned gratitude and gave back from his wealth. Doing so made him whole. It is one thing to be healed it is another to be made whole. It appears that the one leper who returned and threw himself at Jesus' feet in gratitude was not only healed he was saved by his thanksgiving. "Rise and go," Jesus said, "your faith has made you well."

Some years ago, the Journal of the American Medical Association published an article by Dr. Paul Ruskin on the “Stages of Aging.” In the article, Dr. Ruskin described a case study he had presented to his students when teaching a class in medical school. He described the case study patient under his care like this:

“The patient neither speaks nor comprehends the spoken word. Sometimes she babbles incoherently for hours on end. She is disoriented about person, place, and time. She does, however, respond to her name… I have worked with her for the past six months, but she still shows complete disregard for her physical appearance and makes no effort to assist her own care. She must be fed, bathed, and clothed by others.

“Because she has no teeth, her food must be pureed. Her shirt is usually soiled from almost incessant drooling. She does not walk. Her sleep pattern is erratic. Often she wakes in the middle of the night and her screaming awakens others. Most of the time she is friendly and happy, but several times a day she gets quite agitated without apparent cause. Then she wails until someone comes to comfort her.”

After presenting the class with this challenging case, Dr. Ruskin then asked his students if any of them would like to volunteer to take care of this person. No one volunteered. Then Dr. Ruskin said, “I’m surprised that none of you offered to help, because actually she is my favorite patient. I get immense pleasure from taking care of her and I am learning so much from her. She has taught me a depth of gratitude I never knew before. She has taught me the spirit of unwavering trust. And she has taught me the power of unconditional love.” Then Dr. Ruskin said, “Let me show you her picture.”

He pulled out the picture and passed it around. It was the photo of his six-month-old baby daughter.

Now, I like that story for several reasons. For one thing, it shows us the importance of perspective. And it shows us how essential it is to have all the facts before we make a decision. It reminds us too, that our children have so much to teach us if we will tune in and pay attention. But also, it reminds me of this dramatic scene in the Gospel of Luke where Jesus lingers behind as a 12-year-old boy and gets separated from His family for three days. Eventually they find Him in the Temple discussing theology with the rabbis.

Now, we can imagine that as Jesus was growing up, His parents taught Him many good lessons about life and faith… but imagine, too, the powerful lessons they must have learned from Him. Our children have so much to teach us. With that in mind, let’s think together for a few moments about the great lessons our children are teaching us. There are many of course. Let me mention three of them:

I. First, our children can teach us gratitude.
II. Second, they teach us love.
III. And third, children can teach us faith.

I recall, as a little barefoot boy with a cowlick of snow-white hair on my forehead, standing erect in my classroom and repeating the "Pledge of Allegiance" one Thanksgiving season. Our nation was at war and times were hard. My teacher had lost her husband on the blood washed shores of Normandy. As we later bowed our heads for prayer she wept aloud. I did too. All the class joined in. She stumbled through one of the most moving expressions of gratitude and praise that ever emerged from a soul plunged in pain. At that time in my young life, I fell strangely in love with Thanksgiving. Lost in sympathy and a boy's pity for his teacher, I walked home very slowly that afternoon. Although only a child, I had profound feelings of gratitude for my country . . . my friends . . . my school . . . my church . . . my family. I swore before God that I would fight to the end to keep this land free from foes who would want to take away America's distinctives and the joys of living in this good land. I have never forgotten my childhood promise. I never shall.

Just before takeoff on an airplane flight, the stewardess reminded Mohammed Ali to fasten his seatbelt. "Superman don't need no seatbelt," replied Ali.

"Superman don't need no airplane either," retorted the stewardess. Ali fastened his belt. I like that story for two reasons. One I admire the quick wit and response of the stewardess. Arrogant braggers need to be brought down to size.

Two, no matter who we are, none of us is self-sufficient. We can't make it on our own. There is no Superman. We better fasten our seatbelts. And one of the ways to do it is to practice gratitude.

Back during the dark days of 1929, a group of ministers in the Northeast, all graduates of the Boston School of Theology, gathered to discuss how they should conduct their Thanksgiving Sunday services. Things were about as bad as they could get, with no sign of relief. The bread lines were depressingly long, the stock market had plummeted, and the term Great Depression seemed an apt description for the mood of the country. The ministers thought they should only lightly touch upon the subject Thanksgiving in deference to the human misery all about them. After all, there was to be thankful for. But it was Dr. William L. Stiger, pastor of a large congregation in the city that rallied the group. This was not the time, he suggested, to give mere passing mention to Thanksgiving, just the opposite. This was the time for the nation to get matters in perspective and thank God for blessings always present, but perhaps suppressed due to intense hardship.

I suggest to you the ministers struck upon something. The most intense moments of thankfulness are not found in times of plenty, but when difficulties abound. Think of the Pilgrims that first Thanksgiving. Half their number dead, men without a country, but still there was thanksgiving to God. Their gratitude was not for something but in something. It was that same sense of gratitude that lead Abraham Lincoln to formally establish the first Thanksgiving Day in the midst of national civil war, when the butcher's list of casualties seemed to have no end and the very nation struggled for survival.

Perhaps in your own life, right now, intense hardship. You are experiencing your own personal Great Depression. Why should you be thankful this day? May I suggest three things?

1. We must learn to be thankful or we become bitter.
2. We must learn to be thankful or we will become discouraged.
3. We must learn to be thankful or we will grow arrogant and self-satisfied.

It is interesting to note that it wasn't until we were at war, the Civil War to be exact, that our Thanksgiving holiday was officially recognized by Congress. It had started in the small Plymouth Colony in 1621 when the English Pilgrims feasted with members of the Wampanoag (Wam·pa·no·ag) Indians who brought gifts of food as a gesture of goodwill. The custom grew in various colonies as a means of celebrating the harvest. In 1777, over 100 years later, the continental congress proclaimed a national day of Thanksgiving after the American Revolution victory at the Battle of Saratoga. But it was twelve years later that George Washington proclaimed another national day of thanksgiving in honor of the ratification of the Constitution and requested that the congress finally make it an annual event. They declined and it would be another 100 years and the end of a bloody civil war before President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed the last Thursday in November Thanksgiving. The year was 1865. It might surprise you to learn that it took still another 40 years, the early 1900's, before the tradition really caught on. For you see Lincoln's official Thanksgiving was sanctioned in order to bolster the Union's morale. Many Southerners saw the new holiday as an attempt to impose Northern customs on their conquered land.

Thanksgiving today is a mild-mannered holiday full of football, hot apple pie, and family reunions. But that's not a realistic historical picture of Thanksgiving. It is more often born of adversity and difficult times. So many of the greatest expressions of thanksgiving have occurred under circumstances so debilitating one wonders why people give thanks. It would seem the more reasonable response would be bitterness and ingratitude.

Paul writing from a prison cell and probably knowing that he would soon die by the guillotine writes to the Philippians, "I give thanks to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ." Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German pastor imprisoned in 1943 for his political and Christian opposition to the Nazi regime, was executed two years later. On the day that the sentence was carried out he conducted a service for the other prisoners. One of those prisoners, an English officer who survived, wrote these words:

"Bonhoeffer always seemed to me to spread an atmosphere of happiness and joy over the least incident, and profound gratitude for the mere fact that he was alive... He was one of the very few persons I have ever met for whom God was real and always near... On Sunday, April 8, 1945, Pastor Bonhoeffer conducted a little service of worship and spoke to us in a way that went to the heart of all of us. He found just the right words to express the spirit of our imprisonment, and the thoughts and resolutions it had brought us. He had hardly ended his last prayer when the door opened and two civilians entered. They said, "Prisoner Bonhoeffer, come with us." That had only one meaning for all prisoners--the gallows. We said good-bye to him. He took me aside: "This is the end; but for me it is the beginning of life." The next day he was hanged in Flossenburg.

Out of great suffering have come the greatest expressions of gratitude. And so I suggest to you this morning that in the wake of the terrorist attacks, the Afghan war, the anthrax attacks, the economic turmoil, the market crash, and the flight 587 crash we have all the more reason to celebrate Thanksgiving?

A few years ago there was a true story about a man in New York City who was kidnapped. His kidnappers called his wife and asked for $100,000 ransom. She talked them down to $30,000.

The story had a happy ending: the man returned home unharmed, the money was recovered, and the kidnappers were caught and sent to jail. But, don't you wonder what happened when the man got home and found that his wife got him back for a discount? Calvin Trillin was the writer of this story. He imagined out loud what the negotiations must have been like: "$100,000 for that old guy? You have got to be crazy. Just look at him! Look at that gut! You want $100,000 for that? You've got to be kidding. Give me a break here. $30,000 is my top offer."

Mark Trotter concluded his rendition of the story with this thoughtful comment: "I suppose there are some here this morning who can identify with the wife in that story, but for some reason I find myself identifying with the husband. I'd like to think if I were in a similar situation, there would be people who would spare no expense to get me back. They wouldn't haggle over the price. They wouldn't say, 'Well, let me think about it.' I like to think that they would say, 'We'll do anything for you.'"

The point of that story is this: sometimes it's O.K. to be extravagant! Now, that is precisely what this story in the Gospel of Mark is all about. Remember the story with me. Jesus is on His way to the cross. It is just a few days before Passover. The chief priests and scribes are plotting against Him. Judas is about ready to betray Him. The crucifixion is less than a week away and Jesus knows it. Jesus and His disciples stop at Bethany. just a few days before, Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead there in Bethany. Now, as they are having dinner, a woman comes to Jesus and does a beautiful but extravagant thing for our Lord. The Gospel of John tells us that the woman was Mary, (the sister of Martha and Lazarus). Mary brings an alabaster jar of very expensive ointment. She breaks open the jar and pours the costly perfumed oil on Jesus' head. She anoints His head with oil.

Why did she do that? Some say it was an act of gratitude in which she was thanking Jesus for raising her brother Lazarus from the dead. Some say it was an act of consecration in which she was baptizing Jesus to encourage Him to go into the HolyCity and do what had to be done. Others say it was a foreshadowing, an act of preparation, in which she was anointing His body for the death which was to come in Jerusalem a few days later. All say it was an act of love and kindness.

But Judas said it was a waste. If you lived strictly by the Judas mind-set, you would have no Spire on the church, no flowers on the altar, no art on the wall, no robes for the choir, no fine organ, no beautiful weddings. Your daughter would come to you and say, "I'm in love and I'm so happy. I want to get married." And you would say, "Well, why don't you just elope? It's much cheaper. It would be wasteful to have a wedding." But the Mary mind-set says, "Sometimes in the name of love and kindness and gratefulness; it's O.K. Indeed, it's beautiful to be extravagant." Let me show you what I mean.

1. First Of All, It's OK To Be Extravagant In Our Generosity.

2. Second, It's OK To Be Extravagant In Our Gratitude.

3. Third And Finally, It's OK To Be Extravagant In Our Graciousness.

Some years ago, the Journal of the American Medical Association published an article by Dr. Paul Ruskin on the "Stages of Aging." In the article, Dr. Ruskin described a case study he had presented to his students when teaching a class in medical school. He described the case study patient under his care like this:

"The patient neither speaks nor comprehends the spoken word. Sometimes she babbles incoherently for hours on end.  She is disoriented about person, place, and time. She does, however, respond to her name… I have worked with her for the past six months, but she still shows complete disregard for her physical appearance and makes no effort to assist her own care. She must be fed, bathed, and clothed by others.

"Because she has no teeth, her food must be pureed. Her shirt is usually soiled from almost incessant drooling.  She does not walk. Her sleep pattern is erratic. Often she wakes in the middle of the night and her screaming awakens others. Most of the time she is friendly and happy, but several times a day she gets quite agitated without apparent cause. Then she wails until someone comes to comfort her."

After presenting the class with this challenging case, Dr. Ruskin then asked his students if any of them would like to volunteer to take care of this person.  No one volunteered. Then Dr. Ruskin said, "I'm surprised that none of you offered to help, because actually she is my favorite patient. I get immense pleasure from taking care of her and I am learning so much from her. She has taught me a depth of gratitude I never knew before. She has taught me the spirit of unwavering trust. And she has taught me the power of unconditional love." Then Dr. Ruskin said, "Let me show you her picture." He pulled out the picture and passed it around. It was the photo of his six-month-old baby daughter.

Now, I like that story for several reasons. For one thing, it shows us the importance of perspective.  And it shows us how essential it is to have all the facts before we make a decision. It reminds us too, that our children have so much to teach us if we will tune in and pay attention. But also, it reminds me of this dramatic scene in the Gospel of Luke where Jesus lingers behind as a 12-year-old boy and gets separated from His family for three days. Eventually they find Him in the Temple discussing theology with the rabbis.

Now, we can imagine that as Jesus was growing up, His parents taught Him many good lessons about life and faith… but imagine, too, the powerful lessons they must have learned from Him. Our children have so much to teach us. With that in mind, let's think together for a few moments about the great lessons our children are teaching us. There are many of course. Let me mention three of them:

1.  First, our children can teach us gratitude.
2.  Second, they teach us love.
3. And third, children can teach us faith.

The Koh-i-noor diamond is among the most spectacular in the world. Queen Victoria received it as a gift from a maharajah when he was a lad. Later as a grown man this maharajah visited Queen Victoria again. He requested that the stone be brought from the Tower of London to Buckingham Palace. Themaharajah took the diamond and, kneeling before the Queen, gave it back to her, saying, "Your Majesty, I gave this jewel when I was a child, too young to know what I was doing. I want to give it to you again in the fullness of my strength, with all of my heart and affection, and gratitude, now and forever, fully realizing all that I do."

As believers in Jesus Christ, we need to reiterate those words offering again our lives to Jesus Christ: "I want to give You back my life, Lord Jesus, that I gave You several years ago. I want to give it again to You with gratitude, fully cognizant of all that I am doing."

Lydia loved to give things away crafts, baked goods, items she picked up at auctions or sales. It seemed her mind was always thinking about who might enjoy a pick-me-up, an act of encouragement, an expression of love.

When she baked, she baked enough to fill several paper plates to take to neighbors, people at work, her daughter's teacher, some shut-ins at church.

When she learned a new craft, everyone knew it, because Lydia would share with them.

Once, at a garage sale, she spent a dollar for a whole box of old animal figurines ü muddy, greasy, ready-for-the-trash figurines. She cleaned each one with an old toothbrush, glued it to a three-by-five card, and wrote a scripture verse on the card.

On the card with a little bird, she wrote, "Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your Heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"

Placing a sheep on a card, she wrote, "The Lord is my Shepherd."

One figure was an armadillo; on that card, she wrote, "Put on the whole armor of God."

And the figure of the pink and purple mouse, dressed in red bow tie and rainbow colored top hat, she wrote, "Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds."

She greatly enjoyed this project, because she pictured in advance each person to whom she would give that figurine. The zebra was for the nurse who cared for her aunt, the lion for the old man who lives alone in the house behind her, the turtle for the little boy at church who broke his leg. As she delivered them she enjoyed the responses of others and her own joy within.

One day, soon after she had delivered the figurines, Lydia was surprised to see at her door old Mr. Lyons (the one to whom she had given the lion). He handed her a little box which contained a beautifully carved teakwood dove ü smooth, intricately detailed, right down to the feathers and the compassionate eyes.

Lydia's eyes widened. "Oh Mr. Lyons, this is beautiful. Where did you find this?"

His eyes sparked as he said, "Inside a piece of wood; of course I had to whittle away some of the wood to find it."

"I am so overwhelmed. This is so beautiful, such a special part of you. I don't know what to say. I gave you so little. You gave me so much. How can I ever thank you?"

"You already have. This is my gift to you. Your gratitude is your gift to me. They are not dependent on each other; they are both gifts. Like God's gift of grace, and our gifts of gratitude."

He smiled and excused himself to return home. Lydia smiled with a tear in her eye and a rush of joy in her heart. As she walked back to the kitchen, she saw that Mr. Lyons had placed a card in the box. It read, "For we are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life."

Rev. John R. Ramsey tells how in one church a certain person provided him with a rose boutonniere for the lapel of his suit every Sunday. At first he really appreciated it but then it sort of became routine. Then one Sunday it became very special.

As he was leaving the Sunday Service a young boy walked up to him and said, "Sir, what are you going to do with your flower?" At first the preacher didn't know what the boy was talking about. When it sank in, he pointed to the rose on his lapel and asked the boy, "Do you mean this?"

The boy said, "Yes, sir. If you're just going to throw it away, I would like it."

The preacher smiled and told him he could have the flower and then casually asked what he was going to do with it. The boy, who was probably no more than 10 years old, looked up at the preacher and said, "Sir, I'm going to give it to my granny. My mother and father divorced last year. I was living with my mother, but she married again, and wanted me to live with my father. I lived with him for a while, but he said I couldn't stay, so he sent me to live with my grandmother. She is so good to me. She cooks for me and takes care of me. She has been so good to me that I wanted to give her that pretty flower for loving me."

When the little boy finished, the preacher could hardly speak. His eyes filled with tears and he knew he had been touched by God. He reached up and unpinned the rose. With the flower in his hand, he looked at the boy and said, "Son, that is the nicest thing that I've ever heard but you can't have this flower because it's not enough. If you'll look in front of the pulpit, you'll see a big bouquet of flowers. Different families buy them for the Church each week. Please take those flowers to your granny because she deserves the very best."

Then the boy made one last statement which Rev. Ramsey said he will always treasure. The boy said, "What a wonderful day! I asked for one flower but got a beautiful bunch of flowers."

That's the thankful spirit. That's the gratitude attitude. And it's that attitude that should guide our giving and our lives. Like that boy's granny, God has blessed us so much. God has been so good to us that giving shouldn't even be a question. It should just flow from us naturally.

If we are not thankful then we can become bitter. If we are not thankful, then it becomes too easy to sit around and ponder the question: why me?

Dr. Jim Moore, pastor of St. Luke's UMC in Houston wrote a book entitled "You Can Grow Bitter or You Can Grow Better". He writes that he got the idea for the title from a young woman who once came to him in a most tragic moment in her life. She had tears in her eyes and her knuckles were white as she twisted a handkerchief. She had just received word that her twenty-six year old husband had been killed in a farming accident, leaving her alone with three pre-school age children. One moment he was alive and vibrant, the next moment gone. "I don't know how I am going to be able to get along without him," she sobbed. "But I do know one thing. I can either get bitter or I can get better."

One way that we can get better rather than bitter is to develop a thankful heart. We must learn to be grateful to the Lord with whom we shall spend eternity. Our morning prayer should always begin: O Thou who has given me so much, I pray that you give me yet one more thing a grateful heart.

If we are not thankful then we can become bitter. If we are not thankful, then it becomes too easy to sit around and ponder the question: why me?

Dr. Jim Moore, pastor of St. Luke's UMC in Houston wrote a book entitled "You Can Grow Bitter or You Can Grow Better." He writes that he got the idea for the title from a young woman who once came to him in a most tragic moment in her life. She had tears in her eyes and her knuckles were white as she twisted a handkerchief. She had just received word that her twenty-six year old husband had been killed in a farming accident, leaving her alone with three pre-school age children. One moment he was alive and vibrant, the next moment gone. "I don't know how I am going to be able to get along without him," she sobbed. "But I do know one thing. I can either get bitter or I can get better."

One way that we can get better rather than bitter is to develop a thankful heart. We must learn to be grateful to the Lord with whom we shall spend eternity. Our morning prayer should always begin: O Thou who has given me so much, I pray that you give me yet one more thing a grateful heart.

If we are not thankful then we can become bitter. If we are not thankful, then it becomes too easy to sit around and ponder the question: why me?

Dr. Jim Moore, pastor of St. Luke's UMC in Houston wrote a book entitled "You Can Grow Bitter or You Can Grow Better". He writes that he got the idea for the title from a young woman who once came to him in a most tragic moment in her life. She had tears in her eyes and her knuckles were white as she twisted a handkerchief. She had just received word that her twenty-six year old husband had been killed in a farming accident, leaving her alone with three pre-school age children. One moment he was alive and vibrant, the next moment gone. "I don't know how I am going to be able to get along without him," she sobbed. "But I do know one thing. I can either get bitter or I can get better."

One way that we can get better rather than bitter is to develop a thankful heart. We must learn to be grateful to the Lord with whom we shall spend eternity. Our morning prayer should always begin: O Thou who has given me so much, I pray that you give me yet one more thing--a grateful heart.

Rabbi Harold Kushner tells a wonderful story about a bright young man, who was a sophomore Stanford pre-med student To reward him for having done so well in school, his parents gave him a trip to the Far East for the summer vacation before the start of his junior year. While there he met a guru who said to him, "Don't you see how you are poisoning your soul with this success oriented way of life? Your idea of happiness is to stay up all night studying for an exam so you can get a better grade than your best friend. Your idea of a good marriage is not to find the woman who will make you whole, but to win the girl that everyone else wants. That's not how people are supposed to live. Give it up; come join us in an atmosphere where we all share and love each other." The young man had completed four years at a competitive high school to get into Stanford, plus two years of pre-med courses at the university. He was ripe for this sort of approach. He called his parents from Tokyo and told them he would not be coming home. He was dropping out of school to live in an ashram (a spiritual retreat).

"Six months later, his parents got a letter from him: "Dear Mom and Dad, I know you weren't happy with the decision I made last summer, but I want to tell you how happy it has made me. For the first time in my life, I am at peace. Here there is no competing, no hustling, no trying to get ahead of anyone else. Here we are all equal, and we all share. This way of life is so much in harmony with the inner essence of my soul that in only six months I've become the number two disciple in the entire ashram, and I think I can be number one by June!"

They say that all good humor must have one crucial element: Truth. And how is this story. The young man's intentions are noble but he is not able to follow through. Before long he is competing in this "monastery" to be the star pupil.

Our leaders have been giving us good advice these past two weeks. They have been urging American to get back to work, to make this economy strong again, to invest in the market, to get back into the friendly skies, and get down in to the trenches of our jobs. I think all of us understand the implications if we do not return wholeheartedly to our daily task. We have all been wondering what we can do to help. We have been told our greatest contribution is returning to our normal routine.

As we have done so, I have noticed a renewed gratitude, an appreciation for the very jobs we hold. We see ourselves a little more clearly now. We are not people who have limitless rights. We are citizens who have a duty to serve. This is the lesson Jesus would have us learn. It is the meaning of this short parable and it is the standard for every Christian.

Note: Update and adapt the last two paragraphs as you see fit. We have left them in the present tense for historical record.

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas in southern California many years ago. The then assistant pastor of a large local church shared this true story that happened in his own family.

His wife and her sister had been Christmas shopping and were speeding along the freeway on their way home. It was a cold, blustery night, dark and rainy. His wife and her sister were busily chatting in the front seat of the car. My friend’s three-year-old daughter was in the backseat by herself.

Suddenly the two adults were aware of a strange, unnatural, and horrifying set of sounds as they heard the back door of the car open, the whistle of wind, and a sickening muffled sound. Quickly they turned and saw the child had fallen out of the car and was tumbling along the freeway.

Panic! The mother slammed on the brakes and pulled the car to a wrenching stop, jumped out and ran full speed back toward the child. When they arrived at her motionless body, they noticed something strange. All of the traffic was stopped, lined up like a parking lot just behind her body. The child had not been hit by a car. In fact, the car that would have hit her was stopped just a few feet short of her prone form. Wonder number one.

A truck driver jumped down out of his cab and was bending over the girl as they arrived at the scene. He said, "She's still alive. Let's get her to a hospital quickly. There's one nearby." He picked up the child, they all got into his large truck, and sped off to a nearby hospital. The child was unconscious but still breathing. Wonder number two.

When they arrived at the hospital, they rushed into the emergency room and the doctors immediately began to check her vital signs. The room was hushed. Finally, the doctor spoke. "Well, other than the fact that she is unconscious and scraped, she appears to be in good shape. I don't see any broken bones. Her blood pressure is good. Her heart is fine. So far, so good."No apparent gross damage. She was only bruised and skinned from her vicious tumble along the freeway. Wonder number three.

The mother bent over her child. Her eyes were full of tears and her heart was filled with gratitude for such a miracle. Suddenly, without warning, the child’s eyes opened, she looked up at her mother and said, "Mommy, you know, I wasn't afraid." Startled, the mother said, "Oh, what do you mean?"

"Well," she said, "while I was lying on the road waiting for you to get back to me, I wasn't afraid, because I looked up, and right there I saw Jesus holding back the traffic with his arms outstretched."

Wonder after wonder—and every wonder true.

For several weeks, Mrs. Sherman's first-grade class had waited for the field trip to the observatory. Notices had been sent home with instructions about the bus, lunch, and times of departure and return. To the students, waiting for the field trip was like waiting for Christmas.

Finally, the day arrived. We grabbed our lunches and coats and lined up for the bus. In the back of the room, one boy began to cry because he had forgotten to bring a lunch and would have to stay behind with another teacher. In a few minutes, the other children had contributed extra sandwiches, fruit, desserts, and drinks until the boy had a feast for his lunch. With new tears, this time tears of gratitude, he grabbed his coat, lined up, and climbed onto the bus.

We had given him a "cup of cold water." Acts of service are not always dramatic or earth-shattering. Simple caring is all that is needed.  Discipleship means being alert for opportunities to care, to demonstrate God's loving-kindness, and to teach others to do the same.

When our grand-daughter Sarah was two years old, she was extremely active.  She was always busy, always moving and always in a hurry… because at two years of age, she had already realized that there are so many exciting things to do and see and experience in this incredible world God has given us.

One day Sarah interrupted her play-time just long enough to run into the kitchen in search of a mid-afternoon snack. Hurriedly, she said to her mother: "Banana, Momma, Banana!"

Jodi, her mother, handed her a banana. Sarah quickly grabbed the banana and turned to rush back out of the kitchen. However, before she took very many steps, her mother said: "Sarah, come back. What are the magic words?" Sarah screeched to a halt, turned back around and said: "Please! Thank You! You're Welcome! God Bless You! And I Love You, Mommy!"

Now, that's gratitude. That's the healed lepers heart and her mother recognized it, and Sarah got a second banana!... And a warm hug!

It is gratitude that prompted an old man to visit an old broken pier on the eastern seacoast of Florida. Every Friday night, until his death in 1973, he would return, walking slowly and slightly stooped with a large bucket of shrimp. The sea gulls would flock to this old man, and he would feed them from his bucket. Many years before, in October, 1942, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker was on a mission in a B-17 to deliver an important message to General Douglas MacArthur in New Guinea. But there was an unexpected detour which would hurl Captain Eddie into the most harrowing adventure of his life.

Somewhere over the South Pacific the Flying Fortress became lost beyond the reach of radio. Fuel ran dangerously low, so the men ditched their plane in the ocean. For nearly a month Captain Eddie and his companions would fight the water, and the weather, and the scorching sun. They spent many sleepless nights recoiling as giant sharks rammed their rafts. The largest raft was nine by five. The biggest shark...ten feet long. But of all their enemies at sea, one proved most formidable: starvation. Eight days out, their rations were long gone or destroyed by the salt water. It would take a miracle to sustain them. And a miracle occurred.

In Captain Eddie's own words, "Cherry," that was the B- 17 pilot, Captain William Cherry, "read the service that afternoon, and we finished with a prayer for deliverance and a hymn of praise. There was some talk, but it tapered off in the oppressive heat. With my hat pulled down over my eyes to keep out some of the glare, I dozed off."

Now this is still Captian Rickenbacker talking..."Something landed on my head. I knew that it was a sea gull. I don't know how I knew, I just knew. Everyone else knew too. No one said a word, but peering out from under my hat brim without moving my head, I could see the expression on their faces. They were staring at that gull. The gull meant food...if I could catch it."

And the rest, as they say, is history. Captain Eddie caught the gull. Its flesh was eaten. Its intestines were used for bait to catch fish. The survivors were sustained and their hopes renewed because a lone sea gull, uncharacteristically hundreds of miles from land, offered itself as a sacrifice. You know that Captain Eddie made it.

And now you also know...that he never forgot. Because every Friday evening, about sunset...on a lonely stretch along the eastern Florida seacoast...you could see an old man walking...white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, slightly bent. His bucket filled with shrimp was to feed the gulls...to remember that one which, on a day long past, gave itself without a struggle...like manna in the wilderness.

Wallace D. Chappell tells that following one of his sermons a little girl came to the front of the church to meet him. He was the guest evangelist in the church for the week, so he did not know her nor her older sister who stood close by. The older sister was encouraging her to tell something to Chappell, the nature of which was not immediately clear. Finally, after considerable coaxing, the little girl told that on the day before she had received a telephone call from a lady who was visiting in the city from out of state. The lady had dialed the wrong number. Although the little girl did not know who the lady was, she began to talk to her. Reaching to make conversation, as children often do, the girl remembered that there would be preaching at her church that evening so she passed along that bit of information and invited the lady to attend. The little girl, warming to her story as she told it, said, "The lady said she hadn't been inside a church in 20 years." Then, with excitement in her voice, the child said, "She was at church tonight. I talked to her. And when you asked for people to accept Jesus, she was one of those who came forward."

The lady was from out of state. She was in that particular city for a particular purpose and had her own agenda. To go into a strange church and hear a visiting evangelist preach was not a big item on her list of things to do. It was not a good time. But something about the little girl's invitation led her to take advantage of the opportunity. Probably a dozen reasons why she could not go raced through her mind: the circumstances were not right, she didn't have time; you can imagine the other reasons. At some point, however, it came to her that although things were not as she would have arranged them, it was an opportunity and she would seize it.

When you are waiting on the "right time" to come to Christ or if you are delaying your commitment until circumstances are "right," remember the woman in Luke's story who was so full of joy and gratitude that she would take advantage of any opportunity to praise God for what he had done for her through Christ Jesus her Lord! Those who are resolved will "catch as catch can." Those who have no resolve will never catch up to just the right opportunity. It will always be the wrong time.

One morning R.C. Chapman, a devout Christian, was asked how he was feeling. "I'm burdened this morning!" was his reply. But his happy countenance contradicted his words.

So the questioner exclaimed in surprise, "Are you really burdened, Mr. Chapman?"

"Yes, but it's a wonderful burden - it's an overabundance of blessings for which I cannot find enough time or words to express my gratitude!"

Seeing the puzzled look on the face of his friend, Chapman added with a smile, "I am referring to Psalm 68:19, which fully describes my condition. In that verse the Father in heaven reminds us that He 'daily loads us with benefits.'"

Many of you will recognize the name of Eli Wiesel, the renowned Jewish theologian and prolific author. In his book, All Rivers Run To The Sea he tells of his family, living in Hungry during the dark days of the WWII. His family was waiting for their time to come, for the Nazis to arrive at their door and take the to labor camp.

He tells about a peasant woman by the name of Maria. Maria was almost like a member of the family. She was a Christian. During the early years of the war she continued to visit them, but eventually non-Jews were no longer allowed entrance to the ghettos. That did not deter Maria. She found her way through the barbed wire and she came anyway, bringing the Wiesels fruits, vegetables, and cheese.

One day she came knocking at their door. There was a cabin that she had up in the hills. She wanted to take the children, of which Eli was one, and hide them there before the SS came. They decided after much debate to stay together as a family, although they were deeply moved at this gesture. He writes about her:

If other Christians had acted like her, the trains rolling toward the unknown would have been less crowded. If priests and pastors had raised their voices, if the Vatican had broken its silence, the enemy's hand would not have been so free. But most thought only of themselves. A Jewish home was barely emptied of its inhabitants before they descended like vultures.

I think of Maria often, with affection and gratitude, he writes, and with wonder as well. This simple, uneducated woman stood taller that the city's intellectuals, dignitaries and clergy. My father had many acquaintances and even friends in the Christian community, not one of them showed the strength of character of this peasant woman.  Of what value was their faith, their education, their social position, if it did not arouse their love. It was a simple and devout Christian woman who saved the town's honor.

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging symbol. If I have prophetic powers and a faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give everything I have to the poor, but have not love, I am nothing.