This Kingdom is for the courageous
Communion: Acts 20:22-24 Paul determined to go to Jerusalem
Following in the footsteps of Jesus:
Luke 9:51 When the days were approaching for His ascension, He was determined to go to Jerusalem;
Revelation 21:1-11 He who overcomes…but the cowardly…
¬ Overcome what? The World. Like gravity – makes us live bound to fear of anything beyond our control
¬ Tribulation: the thing all believers will face. In this world…
¬ Each church given some things to adjust – to overcome
EVERYTHING REQUIRED OF US IN THE KINGDOM REQUIRES COURAGE:
It takes courage to admit we need salvation. even more courage to receive the grace for salvation
¬ Willing to be numbered among transgressors, and admit you ARE one!
¬ acknowledging our need for a savior…the willingness to be broken and rebuilt
¬ Receiving the Grace of God – which means now we have to change – no more hiding in fear of failure
o Peter being restored after his act of cowardice
it takes courage to walk by faith and not sight: to Let go of everything familiar (fear of the unknown)
¬ Living on the end of the rope swing
¬ To launch out in faith – living for a World/ and Age that doesn’t yet exist!
o Like the fishermen, the tax collector
¬ NOT ALL MADE IT! (Rich young ruler)
it takes courage to lay down our lives: Willing to risk persecution—even death for obedience to the Lord
¬ This is the Jesus, fearless before Pilate, knowing who was really in control
¬ SLIDE1 Apostles before the Sanhedrin
¬ SLIDE2 Luther before the diet “Here I Stand…”
¬ SLIDE3 A.W Milne (“one way missionary” to New Hebrides (S.Pacific) – headhunters
o “When he came there was no light; when he left there was no darkness”
it takes courage to manifest love: to forgive and live open-hearted – even if you may get hurt again.
¬ Turning the other cheek takes more courage than fighting back
¬ Jackie Robinson VIDEO CLIP
¬ Elisabeth Eliot / Rachel Saint/ Steve Saint– returning to tribe who murdered their husbands – Steve baptized the very man who killed his father Nate
¬ Corrie Ten Boom
It was in a church in Munich that I saw him, a balding heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives. It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander’s mind, I liked to think that that’s where forgiven sins were thrown. “When we confess our sins,” I said, “God casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever.” The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in silence left the room.
And that’s when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights, the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor, the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!
Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at Ravensbrück concentration camp where we were sent. Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: “A fine message, fräulein! How good it is to know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!”
And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course–how could he remember one prisoner among those thousands of women? But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. It was the first time since my release that I had been face to face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.
“You mentioned Ravensbrück in your talk,” he was saying. “I was a guard in there.” No, he did not remember me. “But since that time,” he went on, “I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Fräulein”–again the hand came out–“will you forgive me?”
And I stood there–I whose sins had every day to be forgiven–and could not. Betsie had died in that place–could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the asking? It could not have been many seconds that he stood there, hand held out, but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.
For I had to do it–I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we forgive those who have injured us. “If you do not forgive men their trespasses,” Jesus says, “neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.” I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality.
Those who were able to forgive their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as simple and as horrible as that. And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an emotion–I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart.
“Jesus, help me!” I prayed silently. “I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.” And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.
“I forgive you, brother!” I cried. “With all my heart!” For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely as I did then. And having thus learned to forgive in this hardest of situations, I never again had difficulty in forgiving: I wish I could say it! I wish I could say that merciful and charitable thoughts just naturally flowed from me from then on. But they didn’t.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned at 80 years of age, it’s that I can’t store up good feelings and behavior–but only draw them fresh from God each day.