Somewhat experienced poster
Posts: 12
Location: In the gheto of california
|
sproylie2314 wrote: | scmia wrote: | | But some will attempt to discount your faith, but it does not make your faith any less, because it is only their thoughts and beliefs. |
I don't think that ice was trying to protect his faith; if he thought it needed protecting, he wouldn't be here. I think the goal is to share his faith in a way that makes people unoffended with anything but his message. You don't have to believe it or accept it or even respect it, you don't have to do anything. I would ask, however, (and I think he'll back me up) that you give it a shot. He's trying to explain the Truth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Not push it on people, not scream that they're all wrong and he's all right. Simply to share. |
Yes i was only trying to share my faith becuse God commanded me too like the book of Matthew says[Quote] Go therefore and make deciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the father and the son and the holy spirit,teaching them to observe all things that i have commaned you; and lo, I am with you always even to the end of the age.''amen.(19-20) and im sharing becuse its true all scripture is God breathed wich means he spoke it down to the last letter, he doesint need any of us but he loved us enough to send his son for us. here srry its a little long but these are storys and tell me what you think.
You're driving home from work next Monday after a long day. You tune in your radio. You hear a blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It's not influenza, but
three or four people are dead, and it's kind of interesting, and they are sending some doctors over there to investigate it. You don't think much about it, but coming home from church on Sunday you hear another radio spot. Only they say it's not three villagers, it's 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it's on TV that night. CNN runs a little blurb:
people are heading there from the disease center in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before. By Monday morning when you get up, it's the lead story. It's not just India; it's Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you're hearing this story everywhere, and they have now coined it as "the mystery flu." The President has made some comment that he and his family are praying and hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is wondering, "How are we going to contain it?"
That's when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the
countries where this thing has been seen. And that's why that night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated into English from a French news program. There's a man lying in a hospital in Paris, dying of the mystery flu. It has come to Europe. Panic strikes. As best they can tell, after contracting the disease, you have it for a week before you even know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. And then you die. Britain closes its borders, but it's too late. Southampton, Liverpool, London, and it's Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: "Due to a national-security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I'm sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing." Within four days, our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are wondering, "What if it comes to this country?" And preachers on Tuesday are saying it's the scourge of God. It's Wednesday night, and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and yells, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio!" And while everyone in church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made. Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital, dying from the mystery flu. Within hours it seems, the disease envelops the country. People are working around the clock, trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida,
Massachusetts. It's as though it's just sweeping in from the borders. And then all of a sudden the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It's going to take the blood of somebody who hasn't been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all
those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood analyzed. That's all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals. Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your spouse and your kids are out there, and they take your blood and say, "Wait here in the parking lot, and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home." You stand around, scared, with your neighbors, wondering what on earth is going on, and if this is the end of the world. Suddenly, a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He's yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy, that's me." Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. "Wait a minute. Hold on!" And they say, "It's okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn't have the disease. We think he has the right blood type." Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses crying and hugging one another - some are even laughing. It's the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son's blood is perfect. It's clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine." As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, "May we see you for a moment? We didn't realize that the donor would be a minor and we... we need you to sign a consent form."
You begin to sign, and then you see that the box for the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty. "H-h-h-how many pints?" And that is when the old doctor's smile fades, and he says, "We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren't prepared. We need it all!"
"But... but . . . I don't understand. He's my only
son!" "We are talking about the
whole world here. Please sign. We... we... need to hurry!"
"But can't you give him a transfusion?"
"If we had clean blood we would. Please, will you please sign?" In numb silence you do. Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?"
Could you walk back? Could you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy? What's going on?" Could you take his hands and say, "Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never, ever let anything happen to you that didn't just have to be! Do you understand that?" And when that old doctor comes back in and says, "I'm sorry, we've got to get started.
People all over the world are dying," could you leave? Could you walk out while he is saying, "Dad? Mom? Dad? Why ... why have you abandoned me?"
And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some folks don't even bother to come because they have better things to do, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care, would you want to jump up and say, "EXCUSE ME! MY SON DIED FOR YOU! DON'T YOU EVEN CARE? DOES IT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?" I wonder, is that what God wants to say? "MY SON DIED FOR YOU! DOES IT MEAN NOTHING? DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?"
Now after God gives his son here is what he did for us.
THE ROOM-TRUE STORY
17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write an essay for a school project. The subject was "What Heaven was like?" "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce. "It's killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.
Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teays Valley High School. Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them-notes from classmates and teachers, his homework. Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven. "It makes such
an impact that people want to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore said. Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. "I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it, " Mrs. Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him. " Brian's Essay: The Room...
In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the
room.
There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered
with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that
list
titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which
stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either
direction,
had very different headings.
As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one
that read "Girls I have liked." I opened it and began flipping through
the
cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names
written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I
was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my
life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in
a
detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled
with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and
exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a
sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder
to
see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I have
betrayed."
The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have
Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed
at." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled
at
my brothers " Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done in My
Anger",
"Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to
be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than
I
hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.
Could
it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these
thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth.
Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched", I realized
the
files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and
yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut
it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time
I
knew that file represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run
through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test
its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.
I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost
animal
rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see
these
cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an
insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to
empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began
pounding
it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate
and
pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to
tear
it.
Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning
my
forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With."
The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I
pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell
into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt.
They
started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried.
I
cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of
file
shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of
this
room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the
tears, I saw Him.
No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly
as
He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch
His
response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I
saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst
boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at
me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this
was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with
my
hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me.
He
could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried
with me.
Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end
of
the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over
mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to
say
was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on
these
cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The
name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took
the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't
think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant
it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.
He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up,
and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were
still cards to be written.
I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."-Phil. 4:13 "For
God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes
in
Him shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel the same way
forward it to as many people as you can so the love of Jesus will touch
their lives also. My "People I shared the gospel with" file just got
bigger, how about yours?
IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO GO AROUND THE
WORLD,
IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW, CHRISTIAN OR NOT!
LET'S
FILL OUR OWN "FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!
Any questions at all please ''PM me''
|
or b) we face judgment (Matthew 7:21-23; Revelation 20:14-15) Revelation 20:13 says that those who physically died without Christ will be resurrected, but as the passage surrounding v13 shows, it wo't be pretty...
