Clark Cothern, a regular contributor to our weekly batch of illustrations, shared this short, but intriguing story. Take a moment to read it, and I'd like to offer just a few words on the other side:
Would you consider yourself successful if you had written a novel a year for 52 straight years? Would you feel successful if you had written shelves of books on mythology, biography, folklore, theology, and travel? One man did all of the above—and in only one lifetime. I kid you not! This one man wrote 85 books in his 89 years on Earth. And get this: the same man even once rescued a young girl from drowning!
But I doubt seriously that you know his name.
What's interesting about this man is the fact that he's not remembered for his prolific writing or even for his heroic rescue. He's best known for a little poem he scribbled down when he and some other church leaders couldn't come up with a suitable hymn to play in the background as children walked down the aisles of a church building, carrying banners and a cross for a special worship service.
How could he have known that his little poem would one day be published or that a church organist would later set it to music? In the typical rush of a busy ministry schedule, he had no earthly idea at the time that he was forming his legacy in one simple song.
Does the name Sabine Baring-Gould ring a bell? Unless you're into hymnology, probably not!
How about this: "Onward Christian Soldiers." Is that more familiar?
Baring-Gould's prodigious life gives evidence to the fact that God often uses the tiny, unseen gestures—the off-the-cuff responses and "let's meet the needs of the moment" offerings—to touch many lives for Christ's Kingdom.
It's a noble aim to work diligently to attempt great things for Jesus. But in God's world, often it's the little obediences in the midst of an abiding life that become the most rewarding moments of all.
Clark Cothern, Ypsilanti, Michigan; source: Clint Bonner, "The Author of Eighty-five Books Is Remembered for a Single Poem," A Hymn Is Born (Broadman Press, 1959), pp.81–82
This last weekend, I preached on the topic of who's going to be in heaven. I'll admit that it wasn't a sermon I felt comfortable giving. I'm not too keen on having to pull jury duty, you know? With great fear and trembling, I offered a few observations that seemed faithful to God's picture of heaven (not mine) and a few conclusions and challenges that seemed faithful to God's conclusions and challenges (again, not mine).
I agonized over it. I lost sleep over it. And above all else, I wanted to really accomplish something of kingdom value with it.
Did I? I'll never know, in some regards. I was a pinch hitter. I may very well never see these fine folks again. In the sea of faces, I saw a good number of people nod and mouth an "Amen" as I spoke. That tends to say "they're with me." A few people tugged at my elbow afterward and offered a word of thanks. That tends to hint at appreciation. The worship at the close of the gathering seemed especially passionate. That tends to say folks were ready to respond and stake a claim to some of what we had discussed together.
In the end, though, I climbed into my car and drove away, clinging to the old prophet's promise that God's Word always does at least a little something when it goes out among the people.
I find that I'm also clinging to this little story. It spoke to me the first time I read it, and it spoke to me when I read it again this morning. I'm sure God "did" something with the headings I came up with. I'm sure he "did" something with the creative structure I wove throughout the sermon. I'm sure he "did" take my insights and illustrations and give them a fiery blast of life and energy. But I think he may have done infinitely more than I could ever imagine with the little, last-minute note I jotted down at the edge of a page in my Bible. I think he may have done infinitely more than I could ever imagine with what I whispered to someone when I had climbed out of the pulpit. I think he may have done infinitely more than I could ever imagine with the little things I didn't think were really all that big of a deal. What I thought was awfully quotable, may slip away. What he thinks is quotable, may actually turn out a legacy. He's funny like that. He's thrilling like that. And I'll preach for a God like that.
Posted by Brian Lowery at 7:55 AM on September 10, 2007
