Editorials

Traveling around the UK recently, I’ve noted certain self-proclaimed Christian spokespeople standing in town centers preaching the gospel. While I salute their willingness to stand up in public as followers of Christ, my heart sinks as I hear many of them shout at passersby that they are sinners destined to end up in hell.

If you were asked to name some “worthy causes,” you could probably identify quite a few.   You might begin simply by recalling some solicitations in the regular mail—from organizations wanting to prevent cruelty to animals, possibly, or save the whales or preserve the environment.

“Church of the lighted lamps. ” There was a village church known by this name.

“He is risen”! This joyful exclamation marked Jesus arising from death after his crucifixion (see Mark 16:6). It was first spoken by the angel at Jesus’ empty tomb to the women who came to look for him, and quickly became the happy greeting of the early Christians as a triumphant reminder of Jesus’ proof of everlasting Life.

Climbing a picker’s ladder to the top of a peach tree in late August in Michigan, when the morning sun has just begun to warm the fruit and dry the dew, one breathes the essence of peach to the exclusion of all else. A lone peach doesn’t achieve that effect, but a tree’s-worth does.

You don’t need to be perfect to have a healing. So, what is needed to experience healing?

A familiar feeling returns whenever I read a great book with a large cast of characters. I get interested in the characters and events in a particular chapter.

One of my very early memories of Christmas is of an evening when I was probably about twelve. My parents had gone out briefly for some shopping, and it was a new feeling for me, being entirely alone in a silent house but with all the familiar decorations—the fresh green boughs on the mantel, the lighted candles in the windows.

As friendships go , this one was a while in the making. Unlike many who love the Scriptures, I needed help to cherish the Bible.

“Your job is to find what the world is trying to be. ” It’s a line from a poem entitled “Vocation” by the American poet William Stafford.