Witnesses
Commentary
Abraham Kuyper served two terms as prime minister of the Netherlands in the early 20th century. He was known as a man of faith and sought to incorporate it into every dimension of life, including social and political. But faith was not always so important to Kuyper. At the start of his career, he was a young preacher in a rural village. He had been schooled in the best of modern theology, and his sermons were well-polished masterpieces.
Not all in his congregation were impressed, though. Pietronella Baltus did not care for his preaching, and she spoke her mind to him more than once. Certainly, his sermons were intelligent and well delivered, she said, but they did not declare the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Kuyper was intrigued. Who was this woman to serve as his critic? He began to visit her, and, over tea, she explained Jesus to him. She told him about faith and God and things outside of his experience. With her simple wisdom and vision, Pietronella Baltus silenced the knowledge of the great preacher. He knew his theology, but he did not know her God. He knew his dogmatics, but he did not know her Christ. He knew his church’s history, but he did not know her Lord.
After sitting at her feet, Kuyper rose up a different man. For the rest of his life, he spoke of the woman who had changed his heart, opened his eyes, and swept the cobwebs out of his soul. She was his teacher, his friend, his miracle of faith. She lived on in his heart and mind, ever bracketed by quotation marks.
You see, the quotation marks of our lives surround not only the great ideas we have learned, but also the great people we’ve known. Autobiographies of great people always contain pages of thanks to those who taught and influenced the authors throughout their pilgrimage.
Harry Emerson Fosdick once contrasted the authority of a dictionary with the authority of a mother. A dictionary speaks with power, he said, but it always stays outside of us. A mother’s authority, on the other hand, is entirely different. It is living and vital; it grabs us and sustains us from the inside.
According to Fosdick, “A man, who has had the experience of great motherhood comes to feel that if his mother thinks something very strongly and very persistently, he would better consider that thing well, for the chances are overwhelming that there is truth in it.” The influence of life’s heroes does not let go of us easily. Our heroes are stamped between the quotation marks of our hearts. They are the witnesses who continue to speak to and through us.
Today’s lectionary readings are about witnesses, sometimes silent (the stones at the Jordan River), and sometimes living and vibrant (the Thessalonian congregation and the disciples of Jesus). But all speak loudly in their own ways.
Joshua 3:7-17
The crossing of the wild waters of the Jordan River is told in a way reminiscent of Israel’s movement through the Red Sea a generation earlier (Exodus 14). Both situations required a divine act to overcome a natural barrier. The single significant difference between the former story and this one is that then Moses was the vehicle for dispensing the power of Yahweh as he stood with arm and staff outstretched over the Red Sea, and now it is the visible portable throne of Yahweh (the Ark of the Covenant) which moves ahead of the people to stem the flow. In both instances it was the power of Yahweh that parted the waters; now there is the added luxury of having that royal action expressed in a more direct manifestation of Yahweh’s local movements through the furnishings of the house of the deity resident among the people.
Here, a memorial is created out of twelve stones gathered from the riverbed. These stones would be rounded and smooth from years of polishing as the currents pushed and tumbled them along the riverbed. Therefore, they would look strikingly different from the rocks that littered the torrent’s banks and formed the cliffs at its edges. The Israelites were supposed to take family outings to this site in the subsequent years and have picnics next to the pile. The unusual monument was to be used as a teaching tool, reminding the next generations about what Yahweh had done to create their unique identity and settle them in this land.
For the nation of Israel education was to be rooted in the historical realities that created the nation. This phrase is repeated at key times to underscore the critical elements of instruction. When your children ask:
This reminder, at the start of the conquest of Canaan, recapitulates the message of both Genesis and Exodus, that the world has lost its bearings and has come under the sway of evil forces. The mission of God is the game plan outlined in the Bible—to reclaim the territory and beings created good at the beginning of time, but to do so in a way which enlists a covenantally shaped human community in the enterprise, and maintains general human freedom of choice when calling all back to the Creator.
1 Thessalonians 2:9-13
It was on Paul’s second mission journey (49-51 A.D.) that he and Silas first came to Thessalonica (Acts 17:1–9). For three weeks Paul preached about Jesus in the Jewish synagogue. When Gentiles swelled the crowd of Christ-believers, however, some Jews became jealous and formed a mob to disrupt civic life. The uproar caused city officials to arrest leading members of the new Christian congregation, and the group sent Paul and Silas out of town that evening under the cover of darkness. With brief stops in Berea (Acts 17:10–15) and Athens (Acts 17:16–34), Paul eventually arrived in Corinth.
Although Paul would spend the next year and a half in Corinth, at the outset his heart remained back in Thessalonica. Already when he was traveling through Athens, Paul worried about how the fledgling Thessalonian congregation was faring (1 Thessalonians 2:17–20) and sent Timothy back to find out more and make a report (1 Thessalonians 3:1–5). Paul had already continued to Corinth by the time Timothy caught up with him and was elated at the good word his younger associate brought (1 Thessalonians 3:6–10). With emotions running high, Paul dashed off a letter of appreciation and encouragement to his new friends (1 Thessalonians). In broad outline, these are Paul’s key emphases:
Most of this short letter is given to expressions of praise for the great testimony already being noised about from those who observed the grace and spiritual energy of this newborn congregation. Paul rehearsed briefly (1 Thessalonians 1-3) the recent history that had deeply connected them and told of his aching heart now that they were so quickly “torn away” from one another (1 Thessalonians 2:17). Only after these passionate confessions does Paul spill some ink on a few notes of instruction (1 Thessalonians 4-5).
The central message of Paul’s missionary preaching focused on the resurrection of Jesus. This was, for Paul, the astounding confirmation of Jesus’ divine character. It was the undeniable proof that Jesus was the Messiah, and that his words and teachings had ushered in the new age of God’s final revelation and redemptive activity.
Paul understood that Jesus was the great “day of the Lord” event foretold by the Old Testament prophets (1 Thessalonians 5:1), and that out of gracious forbearance, Jesus had split this cataclysmic occurrence in two, so that the beginning of eternal blessings could be experienced before the final judgment fell (1 Thessalonians 5:2-11). This meant that Jesus had gone back to heaven only briefly and would be returning to earth very soon—probably next week, but maybe next month. It was the generous grace of God which had provided this brief window of opportunity, allowing Jesus’ disciples a chance quickly to tell others the good news, so that those who believed would also reap the benefits of the looming messianic age. Neither Paul nor God wanted anyone to be destroyed in the judgments that were still ahead. Thus, the living witness of these followers of Jesus was part of the great missionary testimony now being noised about the world.
Matthew 23:1-12
The opening sentences of Bonamy Dobree’s famous biography of John Wesley capture his struggle with pride: “It is difficult to be humble. Even if you aim at humility, there is no guarantee that when you have attained the state you will not be proud of the feat.”
Isn’t that the truth? Pride is so subtle. In ancient Greece, the philosopher Diogenes came to Plato’s house one day. He already felt that Plato was not as good a teacher as he, and now he had the proof. On the floor of Plato’s house were several ornate carpets, obviously very exquisite and costly. To show his contempt for such a waste of money, Diogenes walked all over them and then wiped his feet in a show of contempt. “Thus do I trample upon the pride of Plato!” he said.
Plato observed quietly: “With even greater pride, it seems.”
C. S. Lewis observed that “unchastity, anger, greed, drunkenness and all that are mere flea bites in comparison with pride.” So how do we come to the proper expression of our true and faithful testimony without it turning into the prideful dissemination that Jesus noted in religious leaders of his day? And how can we be sure that we aren’t proud of our humility when we get there?
Perhaps it demands, as Jesus indicates, that we take our eyes off ourselves. The truest way to be humble, as Phillips Brooks said, “is not to stoop until you are smaller than yourself, but to stand at your real height against some higher nature that will show you what the real smallness of your greatness is.”
The only way to defeat pride is to make it irrelevant. Once, when conductor Arturo Toscanini was preparing an orchestra and chorus for a performance, he was forced to work with a rather temperamental soprano soloist. His every suggestion was turned aside by her haughty opinions.
At one point she loudly proclaimed: “I am the star of this performance!” Toscanini looked at her with quiet pity. “Madam,” he said, “in this performance there are no stars.” In that moment her pride became irrelevant. It was swallowed up in the larger glory of the music. Personal arrogance was like a third left shoe. Who needs it?
So too with us. As Isaac Watts put it in his well-known hymn:
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
In the light of that witness, our own witnesses can never presume haughtiness.
Application
Fifth-century B.C. Roman historian Heroditus told this interesting story: The Egyptians always prided themselves on being the oldest civilization on the earth. However, when Psammetichus became their king in about 660 B.C., he decided that this assumption was not enough. He set out to prove “scientifically” which race on earth was the most ancient.
He took two newborn children of ordinary parentage and gave them to a shepherd who grazed his sheep in a lonely area. He charged the shepherd and his family to keep the children in an isolated dwelling, to care for their physical needs, and to guard them from harm. But, he said, never allow a single word of any speech or language to be uttered within the range of their hearing. Whatever language came naturally to them would obviously be the original language of humankind and thus would serve as a record of the antiquity of the founding people on earth.
So it went for two years. Then one morning, as the shepherd entered the dwelling of the youngsters, they grabbed his legs and stretched out their arms in delight and cried out the word bekos. Knowing the gravity of the situation, the shepherd neither responded orally nor reported this incident until it had recurred several times.
King Psammetichus immediately went to hear the children and their “native” speech. He called in his linguists, demanding from them the source of the word bekos. When they found a group among the Phrygians who used that term for bread, Psammetichus and the noble Egyptians had to concede that their race was derived from older stock. It was a blow to Egyptian pride, but it also has a strange historical twist. This social experiment has been tried by other rulers over the centuries, and most often results in the unfortunate wasting and quick deaths of the infants. “Failure to thrive,” is the descriptive term.
The reason is that we are social creatures, and only through meaningful interaction with others around us can we grow into health and maturity. We are talked into talking. We are walked into walking. We are loved into loving. And we are witnessed into witnessing.
Whatever we are or become, it is an extension of all that has been poured into us. Thus, what we testify to, in our words, in our actions, in our lifestyles, emerges from the witnesses that that testified around us. We become what others model for us.
This means that when we see ourselves in the mirror of our children or our best friends, we are reading the witness we have been making. We shape the lives of others on the basis of our own projected values and identity and meaning.
Many years ago, Dr. Peter Eldersveld was the preacher for a radio ministry. Back in 1965, he preached a sermon based on Acts 16. Most of us are self-made people, he said. At least that’s how we like to think of ourselves: self-made, self-directed, self-sustaining.
Even our Christian testimonies hint in that direction. Dr. Eldersveld told about some of his friends who delighted in telling how, after years of destructive living, they came to know God and got turned round, and then made new commitments of service.
“Then,” said Dr. Eldersveld, “they politely look to me and ask about my ‘personal testimony.’ I always feel like a second-rate Christian,” he said, “because I have no amazing before-and-after stories to spread.” In fact, his whole testimony could be summarized in a single rather “boring” statement. He said, “I have never known a day in all my life when I could not believe that I was a child of God.”
But as he reflected further, he came to realize that this simple statement was really an earth-shaking confession. Is it possible that from the time a child draws its first breath, it could belong to God, be part of the family and community of God, be found in the loving care of God? Is it possible that the first language a youngster could speak would be the language of faith, and the dialect of divine love? What a testimony that is! And what a witness!
Alternative Application (Matthew 23:1-12)
In his autobiography, Donahue, Phil Donahue tells of a mining disaster in Holden, West Virginia. Thirty-eight miners were trapped deep in the earth. Rescue workers struggled day and night to release them. The Red Cross was on hand to offer its aid.
In the middle of it all, a pastor called the trapped miners’ relatives together around an open fire on the cold snow. He led them in a prayer for the men below. Then they held hands and sang, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
“It was beautiful!” says Donahue. He could not remember anything ever moving him so deeply in his spirit. He wanted to broadcast it to the world; he knew it would make great film.
But when he turned to the cameramen, he found that the equipment had frozen. They had been unable to record any of the service. It was not until 2:30 A.M. that the cameras were thawed and ready to roll again. The pastor was still there. Donahue thought he had a second chance. “Would you run through that service again?” he asked. “We have 206 television stations across the country who will hear you pray for these miners.”
It was a great offer, a real challenge, a fantastic opportunity to speak nationwide about the Lord. Still, the pastor knew that his testimony could come out only one way: genuinely.
“No sir,” he said, “I just can’t do it.”
Love talk is that kind of thing. When you try to force it or stage it, you kill it. But when it jumps out of the heart, as Jesus called it from his disciples, it is the most wonderful thing in the world.
Not all in his congregation were impressed, though. Pietronella Baltus did not care for his preaching, and she spoke her mind to him more than once. Certainly, his sermons were intelligent and well delivered, she said, but they did not declare the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Kuyper was intrigued. Who was this woman to serve as his critic? He began to visit her, and, over tea, she explained Jesus to him. She told him about faith and God and things outside of his experience. With her simple wisdom and vision, Pietronella Baltus silenced the knowledge of the great preacher. He knew his theology, but he did not know her God. He knew his dogmatics, but he did not know her Christ. He knew his church’s history, but he did not know her Lord.
After sitting at her feet, Kuyper rose up a different man. For the rest of his life, he spoke of the woman who had changed his heart, opened his eyes, and swept the cobwebs out of his soul. She was his teacher, his friend, his miracle of faith. She lived on in his heart and mind, ever bracketed by quotation marks.
You see, the quotation marks of our lives surround not only the great ideas we have learned, but also the great people we’ve known. Autobiographies of great people always contain pages of thanks to those who taught and influenced the authors throughout their pilgrimage.
Harry Emerson Fosdick once contrasted the authority of a dictionary with the authority of a mother. A dictionary speaks with power, he said, but it always stays outside of us. A mother’s authority, on the other hand, is entirely different. It is living and vital; it grabs us and sustains us from the inside.
According to Fosdick, “A man, who has had the experience of great motherhood comes to feel that if his mother thinks something very strongly and very persistently, he would better consider that thing well, for the chances are overwhelming that there is truth in it.” The influence of life’s heroes does not let go of us easily. Our heroes are stamped between the quotation marks of our hearts. They are the witnesses who continue to speak to and through us.
Today’s lectionary readings are about witnesses, sometimes silent (the stones at the Jordan River), and sometimes living and vibrant (the Thessalonian congregation and the disciples of Jesus). But all speak loudly in their own ways.
Joshua 3:7-17
The crossing of the wild waters of the Jordan River is told in a way reminiscent of Israel’s movement through the Red Sea a generation earlier (Exodus 14). Both situations required a divine act to overcome a natural barrier. The single significant difference between the former story and this one is that then Moses was the vehicle for dispensing the power of Yahweh as he stood with arm and staff outstretched over the Red Sea, and now it is the visible portable throne of Yahweh (the Ark of the Covenant) which moves ahead of the people to stem the flow. In both instances it was the power of Yahweh that parted the waters; now there is the added luxury of having that royal action expressed in a more direct manifestation of Yahweh’s local movements through the furnishings of the house of the deity resident among the people.
Here, a memorial is created out of twelve stones gathered from the riverbed. These stones would be rounded and smooth from years of polishing as the currents pushed and tumbled them along the riverbed. Therefore, they would look strikingly different from the rocks that littered the torrent’s banks and formed the cliffs at its edges. The Israelites were supposed to take family outings to this site in the subsequent years and have picnics next to the pile. The unusual monument was to be used as a teaching tool, reminding the next generations about what Yahweh had done to create their unique identity and settle them in this land.
For the nation of Israel education was to be rooted in the historical realities that created the nation. This phrase is repeated at key times to underscore the critical elements of instruction. When your children ask:
- About the Passover (Exodus 12:24–27)
- About Circumcision and Firstborn Redemption (Exodus 13:11–16)
- About Manna (Exodus 16:31–35)
- About the Jordan Stone Memorial (Joshua 4:1–9)
This reminder, at the start of the conquest of Canaan, recapitulates the message of both Genesis and Exodus, that the world has lost its bearings and has come under the sway of evil forces. The mission of God is the game plan outlined in the Bible—to reclaim the territory and beings created good at the beginning of time, but to do so in a way which enlists a covenantally shaped human community in the enterprise, and maintains general human freedom of choice when calling all back to the Creator.
1 Thessalonians 2:9-13
It was on Paul’s second mission journey (49-51 A.D.) that he and Silas first came to Thessalonica (Acts 17:1–9). For three weeks Paul preached about Jesus in the Jewish synagogue. When Gentiles swelled the crowd of Christ-believers, however, some Jews became jealous and formed a mob to disrupt civic life. The uproar caused city officials to arrest leading members of the new Christian congregation, and the group sent Paul and Silas out of town that evening under the cover of darkness. With brief stops in Berea (Acts 17:10–15) and Athens (Acts 17:16–34), Paul eventually arrived in Corinth.
Although Paul would spend the next year and a half in Corinth, at the outset his heart remained back in Thessalonica. Already when he was traveling through Athens, Paul worried about how the fledgling Thessalonian congregation was faring (1 Thessalonians 2:17–20) and sent Timothy back to find out more and make a report (1 Thessalonians 3:1–5). Paul had already continued to Corinth by the time Timothy caught up with him and was elated at the good word his younger associate brought (1 Thessalonians 3:6–10). With emotions running high, Paul dashed off a letter of appreciation and encouragement to his new friends (1 Thessalonians). In broad outline, these are Paul’s key emphases:
- The marvelous witness of this young church even through oppressive circumstances (1–3)
- Living faithfully because Jesus is coming soon (4:1–12)
- What about those who have recently died? (4:13–18)
- Jesus is coming soon! (5)
Most of this short letter is given to expressions of praise for the great testimony already being noised about from those who observed the grace and spiritual energy of this newborn congregation. Paul rehearsed briefly (1 Thessalonians 1-3) the recent history that had deeply connected them and told of his aching heart now that they were so quickly “torn away” from one another (1 Thessalonians 2:17). Only after these passionate confessions does Paul spill some ink on a few notes of instruction (1 Thessalonians 4-5).
The central message of Paul’s missionary preaching focused on the resurrection of Jesus. This was, for Paul, the astounding confirmation of Jesus’ divine character. It was the undeniable proof that Jesus was the Messiah, and that his words and teachings had ushered in the new age of God’s final revelation and redemptive activity.
Paul understood that Jesus was the great “day of the Lord” event foretold by the Old Testament prophets (1 Thessalonians 5:1), and that out of gracious forbearance, Jesus had split this cataclysmic occurrence in two, so that the beginning of eternal blessings could be experienced before the final judgment fell (1 Thessalonians 5:2-11). This meant that Jesus had gone back to heaven only briefly and would be returning to earth very soon—probably next week, but maybe next month. It was the generous grace of God which had provided this brief window of opportunity, allowing Jesus’ disciples a chance quickly to tell others the good news, so that those who believed would also reap the benefits of the looming messianic age. Neither Paul nor God wanted anyone to be destroyed in the judgments that were still ahead. Thus, the living witness of these followers of Jesus was part of the great missionary testimony now being noised about the world.
Matthew 23:1-12
The opening sentences of Bonamy Dobree’s famous biography of John Wesley capture his struggle with pride: “It is difficult to be humble. Even if you aim at humility, there is no guarantee that when you have attained the state you will not be proud of the feat.”
Isn’t that the truth? Pride is so subtle. In ancient Greece, the philosopher Diogenes came to Plato’s house one day. He already felt that Plato was not as good a teacher as he, and now he had the proof. On the floor of Plato’s house were several ornate carpets, obviously very exquisite and costly. To show his contempt for such a waste of money, Diogenes walked all over them and then wiped his feet in a show of contempt. “Thus do I trample upon the pride of Plato!” he said.
Plato observed quietly: “With even greater pride, it seems.”
C. S. Lewis observed that “unchastity, anger, greed, drunkenness and all that are mere flea bites in comparison with pride.” So how do we come to the proper expression of our true and faithful testimony without it turning into the prideful dissemination that Jesus noted in religious leaders of his day? And how can we be sure that we aren’t proud of our humility when we get there?
Perhaps it demands, as Jesus indicates, that we take our eyes off ourselves. The truest way to be humble, as Phillips Brooks said, “is not to stoop until you are smaller than yourself, but to stand at your real height against some higher nature that will show you what the real smallness of your greatness is.”
The only way to defeat pride is to make it irrelevant. Once, when conductor Arturo Toscanini was preparing an orchestra and chorus for a performance, he was forced to work with a rather temperamental soprano soloist. His every suggestion was turned aside by her haughty opinions.
At one point she loudly proclaimed: “I am the star of this performance!” Toscanini looked at her with quiet pity. “Madam,” he said, “in this performance there are no stars.” In that moment her pride became irrelevant. It was swallowed up in the larger glory of the music. Personal arrogance was like a third left shoe. Who needs it?
So too with us. As Isaac Watts put it in his well-known hymn:
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
In the light of that witness, our own witnesses can never presume haughtiness.
Application
Fifth-century B.C. Roman historian Heroditus told this interesting story: The Egyptians always prided themselves on being the oldest civilization on the earth. However, when Psammetichus became their king in about 660 B.C., he decided that this assumption was not enough. He set out to prove “scientifically” which race on earth was the most ancient.
He took two newborn children of ordinary parentage and gave them to a shepherd who grazed his sheep in a lonely area. He charged the shepherd and his family to keep the children in an isolated dwelling, to care for their physical needs, and to guard them from harm. But, he said, never allow a single word of any speech or language to be uttered within the range of their hearing. Whatever language came naturally to them would obviously be the original language of humankind and thus would serve as a record of the antiquity of the founding people on earth.
So it went for two years. Then one morning, as the shepherd entered the dwelling of the youngsters, they grabbed his legs and stretched out their arms in delight and cried out the word bekos. Knowing the gravity of the situation, the shepherd neither responded orally nor reported this incident until it had recurred several times.
King Psammetichus immediately went to hear the children and their “native” speech. He called in his linguists, demanding from them the source of the word bekos. When they found a group among the Phrygians who used that term for bread, Psammetichus and the noble Egyptians had to concede that their race was derived from older stock. It was a blow to Egyptian pride, but it also has a strange historical twist. This social experiment has been tried by other rulers over the centuries, and most often results in the unfortunate wasting and quick deaths of the infants. “Failure to thrive,” is the descriptive term.
The reason is that we are social creatures, and only through meaningful interaction with others around us can we grow into health and maturity. We are talked into talking. We are walked into walking. We are loved into loving. And we are witnessed into witnessing.
Whatever we are or become, it is an extension of all that has been poured into us. Thus, what we testify to, in our words, in our actions, in our lifestyles, emerges from the witnesses that that testified around us. We become what others model for us.
This means that when we see ourselves in the mirror of our children or our best friends, we are reading the witness we have been making. We shape the lives of others on the basis of our own projected values and identity and meaning.
Many years ago, Dr. Peter Eldersveld was the preacher for a radio ministry. Back in 1965, he preached a sermon based on Acts 16. Most of us are self-made people, he said. At least that’s how we like to think of ourselves: self-made, self-directed, self-sustaining.
Even our Christian testimonies hint in that direction. Dr. Eldersveld told about some of his friends who delighted in telling how, after years of destructive living, they came to know God and got turned round, and then made new commitments of service.
“Then,” said Dr. Eldersveld, “they politely look to me and ask about my ‘personal testimony.’ I always feel like a second-rate Christian,” he said, “because I have no amazing before-and-after stories to spread.” In fact, his whole testimony could be summarized in a single rather “boring” statement. He said, “I have never known a day in all my life when I could not believe that I was a child of God.”
But as he reflected further, he came to realize that this simple statement was really an earth-shaking confession. Is it possible that from the time a child draws its first breath, it could belong to God, be part of the family and community of God, be found in the loving care of God? Is it possible that the first language a youngster could speak would be the language of faith, and the dialect of divine love? What a testimony that is! And what a witness!
Alternative Application (Matthew 23:1-12)
In his autobiography, Donahue, Phil Donahue tells of a mining disaster in Holden, West Virginia. Thirty-eight miners were trapped deep in the earth. Rescue workers struggled day and night to release them. The Red Cross was on hand to offer its aid.
In the middle of it all, a pastor called the trapped miners’ relatives together around an open fire on the cold snow. He led them in a prayer for the men below. Then they held hands and sang, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
“It was beautiful!” says Donahue. He could not remember anything ever moving him so deeply in his spirit. He wanted to broadcast it to the world; he knew it would make great film.
But when he turned to the cameramen, he found that the equipment had frozen. They had been unable to record any of the service. It was not until 2:30 A.M. that the cameras were thawed and ready to roll again. The pastor was still there. Donahue thought he had a second chance. “Would you run through that service again?” he asked. “We have 206 television stations across the country who will hear you pray for these miners.”
It was a great offer, a real challenge, a fantastic opportunity to speak nationwide about the Lord. Still, the pastor knew that his testimony could come out only one way: genuinely.
“No sir,” he said, “I just can’t do it.”
Love talk is that kind of thing. When you try to force it or stage it, you kill it. But when it jumps out of the heart, as Jesus called it from his disciples, it is the most wonderful thing in the world.
