Tuna Salad and the Rest of the Story

Most of them are wonderful human beings because someone gave them a leg up somewhere along the line, and they remember that. At least the good ones do. Over our 25 years, HEARTLIGHT.org has passed along the creative blessings of many famous authors who graciously shared their writing with our readers. This year as we celebrate “Shining the Light” for a quarter-century, we will highlight these special authors. Today, please enjoy one of Philip Gulley’s witty, folksy, and insightful stories. Paul Jr. wrote the introduction of one of my books. One day I was in Chicago on business with my friend, Stan. I remembered Paul Jr.’s address and decided to stop in to say hello and thank him for his help. It was lunchtime, so Paul Jr. invited us to stay and eat. “We’re having tuna salad sandwiches,” he said. “Is that okay?” My parents had taught me to eat what was put before me, so I said tuna salad was fine. Truthfully, tuna salad is not my favorite food, but since we hadn’t told him we were stopping by, I didn’t feel I should be picky. Stan said, “I really don’t care for tuna salad. Do you have anything else?” I wanted to slap him. Then Paul Jr. said, “We eat lunch with my mother and father, so we need to go next door.” I’ve listened to Paul Harvey on the radio all my life. (Few media people have been as well known and beloved for four decades as Paul Harvey. Listen below to a couple of classic and moving radio excerpts from November 1963, broadcasts concerning the assignation of President John F. Kennedy.) My father has listened to him for the past forty years. Now Stan and I were walking across his yard to have lunch with him! We went to the living room to wait for Mr. Harvey. There was a Bose Wave radio on the table. Mr. Harvey’s been telling us for years how wonderful they sound. Paul Jr. turned it on for me. We listened to a guy named Monty Vonny, or something like that. He’s not from these parts, so I’d never heard of him. The only Monty I knew was Monty Chadwick, who owned the Jiffy Carwash back in my hometown of Danville. But it was pretty music. I may save up and buy one of his CDs. Then Mr. Harvey walked into the room. He looked at me and said, “Well, I’ll be; Phil Gulley is standing in my living room. I can’t believe it!” I couldn’t believe it, either. I shook his hand and introduced him to Stan. “Is this the guy who doesn’t like tuna salad?” he asked, pointing to Stan. “The same,” I answered. Mr. Harvey asked me if I liked that Monty Vonny fellow. I told him I didn’t know; I’d never met him. Then I told him all about Monty Chadwick and the Jiffy Carwash. If Mr. Harvey ever comes to Danville, we’re going to take our cars there and get them washed. My treat, I told him. They’ve added a foaming brush that really gets the dirt off. Mr. Harvey said he’s looking forward to it. We ate in the breakfast nook just off their kitchen. Stan ate chicken salad and toasted cheese. I ate my tuna salad. They put three of those little tomatoes on my plate, but I didn’t eat them. Tomatoes make me burp, and I didn’t want to do that in front of Mr. Harvey. He told me how he got his start in radio. He is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. After lunch, we sat around the table and visited awhile. Then it was time to go. They walked us out to our car. As we drove away, Stan turned to me and said, “I can’t believe we just ate lunch in Paul Harvey’s kitchen.” I said, “I can’t believe you told them you didn’t like tuna salad.” He said, “I can’t help it. I tell the truth without even thinking about it.” I told him it was obvious he wasn’t thinking. As famous as Mr. Harvey is, I wasn’t too nervous about meeting him. I’ve been around famous people before. I met Michael Landon back when he was Little Joe on Bonanza and came to Danville to give a speech on the courthouse lawn. I was six years old and remembered being mad he didn’t bring his horse. My cousin, Matt Griffith, once dated a beauty queen from Florida. She was Miss Navel Orange of 1972. He brought her to our house for a visit. She was wearing a sash and a crown topped with a gold-orange. She signed a Sunkist for me, but the next day my brother Glenn ate it for breakfast. Here’s what I learned about famous people. Most of them are wonderful human beings because someone gave them a leg up somewhere along the line, and they remember that. At least the good ones do. When Paul Harvey was fourteen years old, his teacher took him in hand and introduced him to the folks at the local radio station. Over half a century later, he remembers it still. None of us ever got anywhere except through the kindness of others. Sometimes we boast about being self-made, but that’s just a lie we tell ourselves to feel important. We’re all indebted to someone. Next time you’re driving by the house of someone who has done you a good turn, knock on his door and thank him. He’ll appreciate it. Who knows, you might even be offered a tuna salad sandwich. If you are, sit down and eat it. And be sure to put the napkin on your lap instead of tucking it into your shirt collar like my friend Stan did. Boy, I can’t take that guy anywhere. And, as Mr. Harvey so famously said, “Now you know the rest of the story!” Most of us who were alive on this fateful day

Deep Roots

What kind of legacy are we leaving for those around us? Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper (Psalms 1:1-3 KJV). Another tree fell at our church this week. Her name was Mrs. Virginia Beasley, known to her church family as Miss Beasley. For the past 15 years or so, I have sat behind Miss Beasley every Sunday at church. Her white hair has been the focal point of our side of the church. To me, her hair looked like soft, white cotton candy. I don’t know how she felt about it, but I thought it was beautiful. Miss Beasely was known as the candy and gum lady at church. She brought a baggie full of goodies every Sunday and passed it out to the children who sat around her little ones and very big ones. They loved her for it and I know they will miss her just like I will. What We Sometimes Forget I’m sure you probably have a Miss Beasley at your church, too. Someone who sits in the same spot every Sunday. Never misses a service. Loves people and children and sharing what they have with others. What we sometimes forget about these church members is that growing deep roots in our faith doesn’t guarantee an easy life and Miss Beasley didn’t have one. In 1996, Miss Beasley’s daughter, Jo, was taken from her home by someone she knew, driven to a barn and brutally murdered. It was the day before Jo’s birthday. As I sat behind Miss Beasley in church I often wondered how she got past that horrific event. I suspect that like most traumatic events in our lives she didn’t get past it, she just learned to live with it, but it had to have been incredibly hard. Miss Beasley had a necklace with her daughter’s picture on it that she wore frequently. One Sunday, I commented about what a good picture it was of Jo. Her eyes teared up, “Why don’t people ever talk about Jo?” She asked. “It’s like they don’t remember her.” That broke my heart. Of course we remember, but we were trying to spare Miss Beasley more pain, which seems foolish because a mother’s heart can’t know more pain than the death of a child. Even though others may never have mentioned Jo’s death, I know she never stopped thinking about it. In fact, the night Miss Beasley died was 2 days before the anniversary of Jo’s death. I’m sure she went to sleep thinking about her daughter. She died peacefully in her sleep, thus being spared reliving one more time the anniversary of her daughter’s death. The Difference One day last week, my son and I took his 8 year old daughter for a walk on our farm. We stopped to show my granddaughter one of the largest trees I have ever seen. It’s a huge old oak tree. This tree is so big that our arms won’t reach around it. Abby, my granddaughter, was fascinated with this old tree, so I snapped a picture of her hugging it. Now when I look at that picture, I am reminded of Miss Beasley and others like her. These great old souls didn’t waver when the storms of life came. The shadow the oak tree casts is huge. The sphere of influence that a strong Christian shares when they stay firmly rooted in their faith is even bigger and more influential. The hard thing about a large tree with deep roots is that when it falls, it leaves such an empty, vacant space. And every time we see that spot, we ache for the tree that was there. That’s how I feel with the empty spot where Miss Beasley used to sit. I ache for her presence and miss her. Yet the empty spot on the pew in front of me also serves as a reminder of two important realities: I need to continue growing deeper roots to be an influence for good and for God! God wants me to stay busy planting more trees and nurturing them to grow deep roots! I want to be able to proclaim like the old African American spiritual, “I Shall Not Be Moved!” Glory hallelujah, I shall not be moved,Anchored in Jehovah, I shall not be moved;Just like a tree that’s planted by the waters,I shall not be moved! In His love abiding, I shall not be moved,And in Him confiding, I shall not be moved;Just like the tree that’s planted by the water,I shall not be moved! I shall not be, I shall not be moved,I shall not be, I shall not be moved;Just like a tree that’s planted by the waterI shall not be moved! Follow these links for full lyrics or Johnny Cash YouTube video. About the author: Teresa is an accomplished author, speaker, mother, and grandmother. Teresa has been married to Bill for a lifetime of family, faith, and love. They are members of Pleasant Hill Church of Christ in Kentucky. They have 5 children and 4 grandchildren. Teresa is also the author of the popular women’s blog called “NanaHood”!

Reclaiming Our Lost Identity

What does God do with those times in our lives we’d like to forget? V.R. Roskam of Wheaton, Illinois, visited Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, three years ago. He and his wife, Martha, were browsing at a souvenir stand. They spotted a wicker basket with a number of items – 37 as it turned out – that looked familiar. They were dog tags lost by U.S. soldiers during the 1960s and ’70s. Roskam, a 75-year-old Korean War veteran, knew immediately what he had to do. He bought them all. For the past three years now, he has been returning them to their rightful owners. So far he has tracked down nine, and he has personally gone to each one to present him his tags. As you might expect, this mission of respect has triggered powerful emotions in all the parties involved. Some people who served in Vietnam have spent decades now putting that chapter of life behind them. Others have been stuck in them and unable to move on. Many bear scars from that time – not only on their bodies but especially in their psyches. Denzil Messman lost his tag when he jumped from a helicopter into a firefight. He was still a teenager when it happened. The Roskams went to Jefferson, Texas, to return his small, thin piece of metal designed to tell a medic a wounded soldier’s blood type or, if he didn’t make it, a chaplain his faith. “This big burly guy just wept when he held it,” Martha Roskam said. “It’s kind of hard to explain,” said Messman, retired at 55 from the postal service. “Them dog tags is a piece of your person. They become you.” Another veteran who received his dog tag from the Roskams wrote them a touching note. “It has been 30-plus years since my return from South Vietnam,” said Regiland Gay, “and no one has said thank you!” Bad memories, good memories, things appreciated, things not, things you barely remember, things you’d give anything to forget – all are part of your life story. Some are whole chapters. Some short paragraphs. Some mere footnotes. One way to think of redemption is in terms of authentic human identity. God doesn’t want to sell you “fire insurance,” but to help you make sense of every step along the path we call life. So he celebrates triumphs, forgives failures, and gives hope for the future. He calls us into community for the sake of learning to treat one another as we would all like to be treated. And his kingdom is among us. You can’t change the past. You can’t un-ring a bell. You can’t recapture lost time. But you can trust God to work everything to the good of those who love him. We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28) About the author: Rubel Shelly preached for decades and served as a professor of medical ethics, Bible, and philosophy at multiple universities. He was a former president of Rochester College and Professor of Philosophy and Religion at Lipscomb University. He was the author of more than 30 books and hundreds of inspirational articles. His commitment to a non-sectarian presentation of the gospel touched countless lives.

Jury Duty

When can a conviction lead to an acquittal? I had jury duty this week and was very happy that I was “excused and thanked” after one day of service. The case, on which I almost served, sounded like it would have been a frustrating and boring experience for me. We had all been questioned for a particular criminal trial and I was relieved when the jury was sworn in. Then, they decided that they needed to pick four alternate jurors. When I was seated in the box, I was hastily dismissed by the defense attorney. Believe me, I didn’t take it personally. I guess it was something that I said during my interviewing process. I certainly empathized with the attorneys in their effort to seek jurors who would perhaps be lenient toward their client. This experience reminded me of growing up with an attorney in the house – my father. Daddy, now age ninety-eight, finally retired from his law practice at age ninety-three, or thereabouts. He had been an attorney in private practice during the early part of his career. He was then appointed to the office of County Attorney of Grayson County, Texas. He was subsequently elected twice after that – serving for approximately twelve years. After his time in public office, my father returned to being a defense attorney. He has always joked that he was a “country lawyer,” but don’t let his modesty fool you. He has handled many cases in his long career – wills, estates, probates, taxes, divorces, and even a murder trial or two. He also used to joke about the first case that he ever handled – a divorce. He successfully got the divorce for his client, and right after that, they remarried each other again. My father served as an elder at church for thirty-nine years. It was remarkable that he not only handled that responsibility very well, but also his coinciding duties as County Attorney. My father had the reputation of being such a good attorney – defense or prosecution – that he could take either side of a case and still win. However, Daddy faced a difficult situation when he had to try a murder case. Without getting into a “hot button” issue, I’ll just tell you what he did because of his own moral, Christian convictions. My father’s job – as an elected official – was to convict the man accused of murder. However, because of his moral and religious feelings about this particular case, he didn’t believe in the death penalty. What was he to do? My father did his duty as a paid official and won the case – convicting the man of murder. He felt badly about it, called a local minister who then studied the Bible with the prisoner. The prisoner was then baptized into Christ. My father helped facilitate a conversion out of a conviction! It was a long time ago, and I don’t know whatever happened to the man after that. However, it’s a true story of a man who was not only convicted of murder, but also of his sins – a lesson that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life! I guess you could say that he had to face one jury that helped him avoid the ultimate jury. Truly, truly, I say to you, he who hears My word, and believes Him who sent Me, has eternal life, and does not come into judgment, but has passed out of death into life. (John 5:24 NAS) Now when they heard this, they were pierced to the heart, and said to Peter and the rest of the apostles, “Brethren, what shall we do?” Peter said to them, “Repent, and each of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off, as many as the Lord our God will call to Himself.” And with many other words he solemnly testified and kept on exhorting them, saying, “Be saved from this perverse generation!” So then, those who had received his word were baptized; and that day there were added about three thousand souls. (Acts 2:37-41) About the author: Katha’s small town upbringing in Sherman, Texas was slow paced, with loving parents, lots of down home cooking, and church attendance. Katha graduated from San Diego State University with a degree in English and continued graduate studies in English at Abilene Christian University. Katha was an editor at a publishing company and has done freelance for businesses as well as writing devotional articles for Power for Today. She and her husband have two grown children and a granddaughter. Katha enjoys reading, crocheting, yoga, and singing in groups and as a soloist.

There’s More to Come

It’s Friday, so how do you really feel about things? In the year 1815, Napoleon gathered his French forces at Waterloo to battle against the Duke of Wellington. Of course, history informs us that Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo, but how did the people living in 1815 learn of the news? To carry the news of the Battle of Waterloo to England, an English ship signaled to a man on shore, who then relayed the word to a man on another hill, and so on across England. The first word that was signaled was “Wellington.” The next word that was signaled was “defeated.” Then a fog rolled in, and the message stopped. As you can image, all across England people wept and were disheartened by the two word message, “Wellington defeated.” But when the fog lifted, the message continued with two additional words, “the enemy.” Hope arose out of despair! Now here’s my point. What do you think the world and even the disciples of Jesus thought when they saw the events that transpired on the Friday of the crucifixion? But, Friday contained only a portion of the message. The rest of the message was shared on Sunday through an empty tomb. Hope arose out of despair! [Jesus] said to them, “The Son of Man is going to be delivered over to human hands. He will be killed, and after three days he will rise.” But they did not understand what he meant and were afraid to ask him about it (Mark 9:31-32 TNIV). About the author: Steve Higginbotham is a native of West Virginia. His father also preached. Steve serves the Karns Church of Christ in Knoxville, TN and is an instructor in the Southeast Institute of Biblical Studies and an editor for Think Magazine. Steve & Kim have four children, Kelli, Michael, Matthew, and Anne Marie.

There You Will See Him!

Can I really meet Jesus? Distant … faint … soft echoes … like the incessant drip of a faucet, barely audible, but maddening in the pre-twilight of sleeplessness. You want to ignore it … and can for a moment or two … but then it returns … relentlessly … nagging at something in your soul … making sleep impossible. And in grief, this incessant dripping is torturous … agonizing … and mocking. No one knew this better than the women. “And after three days … after three days … after three days …” Now what was it that he said? “After three days … … I will rise again?” No way. Just wishful thinking. Just the disconnection with reality deep grief brings. But, “after three days …” That’s what he had said, wasn’t it? Or did I imagine it? I think he said it when he talked about being rejected and slaughtered like a sheep at their hands. But, I didn’t really get that. But he did say something about “after three days,” didn’t he? Slowly, tortuously, the women made their way to the tomb while the men slept. They wouldn’t wake them because sleep had been hard to come by in their shock and grief and shame. But, who would roll back the stone for them? Moving into place was a one person job, but getting it out of the mouth of the tomb was a chore for three strong men. How could a small band of women perform this? Maybe the soldiers would be accommodating? Or maybe someone else would help, like the caretaker of the tombs? Slowly, tortuously, incessantly, they moved toward the tomb. The faint streaks of sunrise filtered through the clouds making a glowing edge on some of the clouds hanging low in the spring sky. Golds, oranges, reds, and browns blazed against the fading indigo of the moonless night sky. They couldn’t help but be struck by the strange parallel as they brought their oil and spices to anoint his body this last time. Some remembered the anointing just a few days before and remembered Jesus’ sweet words, “She has done a beautiful thing.” This would be the last beautiful thing they would do for him. This one, however, was much harder and bitterer, for by now, the body that had blessed others would carry the pungent odor of death and the awful bruises and spatters of the beating, the gouges from the scourging, the place where flesh had been penetrated and ripped by nails, and the rip in his side from the spear. They came to offer him their love one last time as the sun streaked its first rays over the distant horizon. But still, in the background noise of their hearts, the women heard a distant dripping … an incessant soft echo in their souls. Hadn’t he said something … promised something … something impossible, inconceivable, something … they could not quite recall. The next evening, when the Sabbath ended, Mary Magdalene and Salome and Mary the mother of James went out and purchased burial spices to put on Jesus’ body. Very early on Sunday morning, just at sunrise, they came to the tomb. On the way they were discussing who would roll the stone away from the entrance to the tomb. But when they arrived, they looked up and saw that the stone – a very large one – had already been rolled aside. So they entered the tomb, and there on the right sat a young man clothed in a white robe. The women were startled, but the angel said, “Do not be so surprised. You are looking for Jesus, the Nazarene, who was crucified. He isn’t here! He has been raised from the dead! Look, this is where they laid his body. Now go and give this message to his disciples, including Peter: Jesus is going ahead of you to Galilee. You will see him there, just as he told you before he died!” (Mark 16:1-7 NLT) Astonishment, fear, and awe. That’s their reaction. While we know the rest of the story from the other gospels, Mark wants us to linger with them here in this moment of fearful and astonished awe. He wants us to pause for this awesome moment and hear the words of God’s messenger. Don’t be surprised – literally, “Don’t be afraid!”The Crucified One is not here, he has risen.He will meet you in Galilee! Those are the three words we also need to hear in our day. Don’t be afraid!Life is more than you can master. Life is fragile and will be crushed. You can’t hold it or preserve it or protect it. But don’t be afraid. But how? How can we not be afraid? He is not here, the Crucified One is risen.Jesus, who shared with us our every human struggle and bore with us every human strain and endured with us every human suffering, also suffered with us our very human death … at our own hands. He is the crucified one. There is no escaping that. But, look, the tomb is empty. Death couldn’t hold him. Satan couldn’t have him. The tomb couldn’t contain him. His enemies couldn’t crush him. He is risen. He is alive. He is … and was … is to come. Everything, everything, has changed … for us. He has gone ahead of you to Galilee and you will see him, just as he said.He said he would be rejected. He said he would be killed. And he said he would be … resurrected. Yes, he did say those things. Again and again he said those things. And they are true. They have happened, just as he said. So if what he said about those things is true, then the Galilee thing must be true, too. But why Galilee? Why not Jerusalem? Why not Mt. Sinai? Simple. Galilee is home. They will see him at home. He will be with them … at home! And

Did Jesus Wear Glasses?

Do we know the real Jesus? My son was wearing his new eyeglasses Sunday. He sat there beside me, not knowing I surveyed his every move. I looked down upon his face during the Worship Assembly, just as the communion tray passed by. I enjoyed his innocent, slightly freckled complexion and marveled how a recent trip to the barber was already giving way to the ever determined increase of new hair. His cheeks gently moved as his tongue manipulated a loose front tooth from side to side. As I took of the bread that is to believers the body of Christ, the small hands of my son passed the emblem on to his mother and I wondered about the incarnation. Any Bible Dictionary sets forth how God reveals Himself as human in Jesus. He is the embodiment of the Word, becoming flesh. As the God-Man, He mediates God to humans. As the Man-God, He represents humans to God. Manifestation, personification, and representation: Incarnation. A more practical theology fueled my imagination Sunday. I could not quit admiring the shiny gold rims of my son’s spectacles. Nor could I escape boyish questions that led me to a deeper communion experience. Did Jesus wear glasses? Did He have freckles? Did he look under his bed roll the morning after He lost His first tooth for a coin or two? What chores did his small hands perform for his mother? Who cut his hair? Was it auburn, almost red in the sunshine but brown at first glance? Did He have wavy locks, or did it come straight down like the Jesus of Hollywood so he could easily wear it long in the later years of His ministry? Sitting in that pew last Sunday, though the bread of communion passed me by, the Spirit of God did not. A fresh sense of the body of Christ came over me. Jesus really did become flesh and dwell among us. He really was a man, tempted in every way, just as we are, yet was without sin. The wafer in my mouth and the young boy at my side reminded me of the body of Christ and my place in it. His body … given for me. He enjoyed childhood, endured adolescence, and embraced the cross as a real flesh and blood man. He did this for me and for all little kids everywhere. And now I live and give my life, my son and family for Him. We’re His body today. I suppose Jesus never wore eyeglasses. I’m told the Chinese invented them years after He walked the streets of Jerusalem. Bifocals didn’t come along until Ben Franklin suggested the idea in 1770. But seeing my son there beside me last Sunday with his tiny new glasses made me realize somehow that Jesus was both fully man and fully divine. To remember anew how God sees me through the lenses of His love is a priceless gift. I was reminded in communion last Sunday, looking at my son, seeing God’s son. Pray this prayer with me today: Give me more vision to see you Lord. Thank you for Jesus and His servant, saving heart. Make me more like Him and make the church more and more like His body, broken as a gift to the world. About the author: Danny Sims is the preaching minister at the Altamesa Church of Christ in Fort Worth, Texas, and a longtime Heartlight supporter and friend.

How Sweet Is Revenge?

Is revenge really so great, or is it just a way to sink deeper? Theresa was a woman scorned. When she went to see her ex-boyfriend a few weeks ago now, she found him with another woman! Nobody likes to be rejected. Nobody likes the feeling of humiliation and injury that comes of the experience. We human beings have feelings and don’t appreciate having them stomped and betrayed. Theresa is no exception. So she had a few choice words for him and stormed out – still seething with anger. It was only about an hour later that she spotted him driving on the street in front of her. So she put her frustration in action to ram his car. Not once but twice. After the second slam into his rear bumper, she had forced the car off the road. Only when the driver got out and started toward her did she realize her mistake. It wasn’t her former boyfriend. It was a confused fellow driving a car similar to his! For her out-of-control assault on an unsuspecting and innocent driver, Ms. Wilson was arrested by state troopers on charges of vehicular assault. She not only learned that several different makes of compact cars from the 1980s look very much alike, but that revenge is seldom as sweet as it looks from a distance. Before we are too harsh with an angry woman bent on revenge, maybe the rest of us need to ask ourselves a few questions: How prone am I to harbor a grudge? How inclined to get even when wronged? How quick to take offense? There is a line near the end of Camelot that stuck in my mind the first time I heard it. As King Arthur surveys the ruin and carnage of war, he looks forlornly over the landscape and laments that revenge is “the most worthless of causes.” Countless wars have been fought to avenge tarnished honor. Friendships have been destroyed, marriages broken apart, and children set against their parents for this most worthless of causes. Simply because it leads to such terrible outcomes, most of the great ethical teachers across the centuries have rebuked the urge to retaliate. Jesus not only taught his followers to let offenses pass – to turn the other cheek – but to forgive our enemies. He said to return good for evil. If you have suffered some slight that is haunting you still and tempting you to get even, you might reflect on Theresa’s experience. Is the pettiness of revenge any less if you ram the right car? Hurt the person you intended to injure? Or does retaliation simply diminish you and reveal your lack of character? Revenge is never about getting even but is always a form of falling below another person. Only forgiveness allows you to rise above. Never pay back evil for evil to anyone. Do things in such a way that everyone can see you are honorable. Do your part to live in peace with everyone, as much as possible. (Romans 12:17-18) About the author: Rubel Shelly preached for decades and served as a professor of medical ethics, Bible, and philosophy at multiple universities. He was a former president of Rochester College and Professor of Philosophy and Religion at Lipscomb University. He was the author of more than 30 books and hundreds of inspirational articles. His commitment to a non-sectarian presentation of the gospel touched countless lives.

He Died for Me!

How are we to respond to such an extravagant gift? This week, more than any other week of the year, the world is tuned to remember the last few days of Jesus’ life. Jesus was falsely accused, illegally tried, brazenly beaten, severely scourged, brazenly spat upon, blatantly taunted, viciously ridiculed, openly humiliated, purposely made a public spectacle, and brutally crucified before a jeering mob. He endured all of this even though he could have prevented it, for you and me! The Son of God submitted to the Father’s will and offered himself as a sacrifice for sins. The early followers of Jesus said it clearly and forcefully: For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures … (1 Corinthians 15:4 TNIV). Christ died for our sins! Let’s make this more personal: Jesus died for your sins. The Son of God died for my sins. How should we feel about such a gift? What should our response be to such a great sacrifice? Buddy was 19 years old when he was taken as a prisoner of war. During the 3 1/2 years of his imprisonment, he and his friends worked as slave labor, ate starvation rations, were tortured in unspeakable ways, endured daily abuse, and faced all sorts of diseases. Almost two-thirds of them died. I can’t imagine surviving such horrors for such a long period of time at such a young age. The cost that Buddy and his friends paid is enormous. As I read through Buddy’s now nearly 70-year-old copy of the New Testament, I realized that what I was touching was precious. This Book and these words sustained him during indescribably awful times. I also read the notes Buddy had written about those who endured these horrors with him – some of whom paid the ultimate price and never returned home to their families and friends. As I held this small Bible in my hands, I was moved in ways I can’t verbalize. As I read the Lord’s Prayer out of that Bible at Buddy’s memorial service, I was barely able to hold myself together. Several days prior to Buddy’s funeral, I visited with his family. Their words were filled with memory and admiration. As they told stories of his life, they made it clear that they wanted the cost paid by Buddy and his band of brothers to be remembered, respected, honored and appreciated. They also wanted everyone to know how proud they were of the way Buddy had celebrated life! They felt that Buddy’s life and sacrifice were not only awe-inspiring, but also life-inspiring! They didn’t want us to be sad, but thankful. They didn’t want us to feel guilty, but grateful. Nothing is comparable to Jesus’ sacrifice and his unparalleled gift of mercy and grace. Yet the sacrifice of Buddy and his band of brothers helps me understand a little better what my response should be to such a great sacrifice. While I am deeply saddened that my sins made such a costly sacrifice necessary, my primary focus is not on the sadness of his death, but his love for us in giving such an extravagant and life-transforming gift. (Romans 5:6-11;  Romans 5:6-11;  Ephesians 2:1-10;  Colossians 1:20-22) God wants us to remember, appreciate, and honor his Son’s sacrifice. Yet rather than wanting us to live sullen lives of guilt and muted passion, the Father calls us to live bold and passionate lives of vibrant celebration. Look at the book of Acts and notice the lives of those who were first touched by Jesus’ death and resurrection: they lived passionate, vibrant lives of appreciation and hope. And when we look in the mirror, who are we to see? Aren’t we are the recipients of God’s extravagant love? How can we not respond with passion and celebration. So as we journey through this week, let’s take time to remember Jesus’ sacrifice with humility, reverence, and deep appreciation. But as we do, let’s also celebrate with confidence and joy, know that we are loved and called to live bold and vibrant lives that bring glory to our Lord who sacrificed so much to make us his own! Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him … … to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us … … in order that we, who were the first to put our hope in Christ, might be for the praise of his glory … … to the praise of his glory (Ephesians 2:3-14) When you remember that Jesus died for you – how do you feel? Is it easier for you to feel … … guilty? … sad? … joyous? … victorious? Why? Should we feel each of these different emotions when we remember Jesus’ death for us? Do you think it is significant that the early church celebrated the Lord’s Supper together on the first day of the week, the day of Jesus’ resurrection, and not the day of his trial, persecution, and crucifixion (Acts 20:7)? Jesus told his followers to take the Lord’s Supper “in remembrance of me.” The apostle Paul also adds, “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Corinthians 11:24-26). How does this emphasis on anticipating the return of Jesus as we remember His death change the way we view the Lord’s Supper and the death of Jesus? If our “life-song” is to bring God glory (Ephesians 1:6, 12, 14), then how do we move from sadness to joyously living for the “praise of God’s glorious grace” (Ephesians 2:10) ? About the

When I Can’t, He Can!

What can’t you do? For the past year I have worked with a program that was specifically developed to help teenagers in danger of dropping out of school. To say the job is challenging would be an understatement. I was raised in a home with two parents who loved me and made sure I went to church every Sunday. I grew up thinking that the rest of the world had the same sort of home I did. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The problems my students deal with on a daily basis would make any soap opera on television seem tame. Because I want to protect their privacy, I’m not going to use real names in this story; but I want you to meet a few my students. My life has been enriched by knowing them, and after you read this, I think you will see why. Brenda is a very quiet girl who is fairly new to my program. Her mother died about a year ago, her father is remarried to a woman she doesn’t like and there are no other real family members who live in our area. Brenda is eighteen and lives in the house her mother left her, with only her pet cat for company. She can’t afford to pay her heating bill, so she’s moved a kerosene heater into one room and keeps the door shut to stay warm. She’s trying to work, go to school, and pay her bills. She’s struggling just to survive. She is extremely intelligent, but she is frequently absent from school. She is definitely college material, but will she make it there? I don’t know; she has a mountain of problems to climb. Another girl, Sybil, came to me this week and confessed she was addicted to drugs and wanted help. I spent the day dealing with social services, school personnel and her family. It wasn’t easy to get everyone to cooperate to get her into treatment. Even though she asked for help, the grandparents – who are raising her because the mother gave her up when she was just a baby – didn’t believe anything she told them. In a way, I can see why: Sybil’s lied to them many times. But, she wasn’t lying about this. I’d suspected for awhile that she was using and I wasn’t the only one. Like Brenda, Sybil has a mountain to climb, but hers is Mount Everest. Sybil’s mother has done crank for so long she only has six teeth left. Beside all the problems that come with crank, her mom is schizophrenic. One of Sybil’s greatest fears is that she’ll end up like her mother. Recently, her mother spent time in jail for beating up a man. Sybil was so distressed the whole time her mother was incarcerated that she acted out those frustrations at school. She was in and out of detention for weeks. Then when her mother was finally released, Sybil was thrilled … until her mother told her to find something else to do as she wanted to spend time with her boyfriend. The day Sybil asked me to help her get into rehab, I sat with her at Lifeskills until 6 p.m. When I left her, I kissed her goodbye, hugged her, and tried to keep back my tears. As I write this, she is in a hospital being evaluated. She’ll be there at least 72 hours. After that, it’s possible she’ll be released and go back to her grandparents’ house. Will she be strong enough to say “No!” the next time someone offers her drugs? She’s only sixteen, too young to be climbing Mt. Everest alone. I left Sybil and went to hear one of my students speak to a youth group at a local church. From the first time I met Todd, I knew he was different. It wasn’t until I heard his life story that I knew why. The room where Todd spoke was packed with teenagers. Todd held us spell bound for over an hour. He began by telling us about his childhood. His parents were alcoholics who verbally and physically abused each other on a regular basis. He told us how he became addicted to drugs and eventually joined a gang. He spent years stealing to feed his drug habit and then became a dealer. He eventually broke enough laws that he was wanted by the police; so he fled. For over a year and a half, Todd was on the run. By the time he was 17, he found himself in Michigan, far from the small Kentucky town where he’d grown up. He drifted around with unseemly characters and ended up in a Satanic church. He went to a party, got high and stoned, was beaten, robbed, and almost killed. Driven beyond despair and filled with self hate, Todd put a gun to his head. Before he could pull the trigger, he heard a voice whisper, “Todd, go to church. Go to church.” Todd called the one person he knew who attended church, a distant cousin. Todd not only attended a service, he became a member there. Now he carries a Bible with him wherever he goes – including my classroom – and he counsels troubled teens. He ministers to prisoners at the local jail and speaks to youth groups. After he finished telling his story, he was surrounded by teenagers. I managed to push my way to him, hug him, and then I left. I walked to my car with a lump in my throat and tears on my cheeks. All the way home, my thoughts swirled around in my brain like dark gray storm clouds. So many times I look at the teenagers in my class and think, “No way, they’ll never make it.” But I should be looking at them and thinking, “I can’t change their lives, but God can!” I felt as if Jesus were looking right at me, down into my soul, and saying