1900
The People's Forum
Where was the first church set up? By whom, and when? — T. J. W., Glouster, O.
There seems more or less confusion on this subject. Christians in those troublous times met in small bands from house to house, and while collectively they might be called the Church of Jerusalem, or of Antioch, or the Seven Churches in Asia, it is doubtful if it is possible to give any exact information as to priority. It is clearly stated that the disciples were called Christians first at Antioch. On the other hand, if our subscriber will read St. John, the fourth chapter, he will receive some valuable information on this subject in Christ's own words to the woman of Samaria. She says: "Our fathers worshipped in this mountain; and ye say, that in Jerusalem is the place where men ought to worship." Christ replied: "The hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth; for the Father seeketh such to worship him." This would seem to answer our correspondent. It was here at Jacob's well that Christ set up a universal church, not bounded by brick and mortar, but united by those unbreakable ties of spiritual communion with the Father of all. The members of this church were called "worshippers." Its creed was, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ." It was founded on Christ and Christ alone. Its gospel was the gospel proclaimed by Christ. Nineteen hundred years have passed away and with all the progress which has been made the words of Christ to the woman of Samaria are hardly yet comprehended.
—The Ram's Horn, March 17, 1900, p. 8.
Showing posts with label first. Show all posts
Showing posts with label first. Show all posts
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The First Sermon — "Six Feet Above Contradiction"
The First Sermon
1921
LONDON — Aspiring orators frequently wonder how a minister feels while delivering his sermon. Is he momentarily "scared," or does he possess the habitual self-assurance and confidence of the public speaker in other walks of life. The London Mail presents a word-picture from "A Curate" which describes in humorous detail his first sermon.
"The 'hymn before the sermon' is drawing to its close. I have ascended the pulpit steps, and am standing 'six feet above contradiction'," he writes.
"The Gothic nave is still ringing with the organ's final chords, when some official at the west end turns down the lights — all except the one over the pulpit. I wish he hadn't — it makes me feel so conspicuous.
"There is a dreadful pause; seven hundred pairs of eyes are on me. My first instinct is to duck. Then I remember myself and the vicar's final words: 'Don't forget the invocation before and the ascription afterwards.'
"Good gracious! I have started. It sounds like a stranger speaking, and I seem far away, but I glue my eyes on my manuscript and carry on. My knees are simply banging together as I discourse on the doctrine of sanctification.
"Then someone in the congregation coughs; it seems to hit me right in the face. Simultaneously a choir boy drops a psalter; I almost leap out of my skin. I have lost my place; there is a long pause — at least five minutes it seems to me — someone coughs again, barks it this time.
"Then a strange thing happens. I get angry. I push aside my manuscript; I say the first thing that comes into my mind. I find myself ten minutes later at the end of an earnest exhortation to sanctity of life.
"Then I remember the ascription — relief at last! Out it comes, and I go back to my stall feeling an absolute wreck.
" 'Not at all bad for a first attempt,' says the vicar afterwards. 'I thought at first you were going to be deadly dull, but you warmed up to it nicely — earnestness tells.
" 'By the way, more pauses would be an improvement; that long pause of yours was very effective.' "
1921
LONDON — Aspiring orators frequently wonder how a minister feels while delivering his sermon. Is he momentarily "scared," or does he possess the habitual self-assurance and confidence of the public speaker in other walks of life. The London Mail presents a word-picture from "A Curate" which describes in humorous detail his first sermon.
"The 'hymn before the sermon' is drawing to its close. I have ascended the pulpit steps, and am standing 'six feet above contradiction'," he writes.
"The Gothic nave is still ringing with the organ's final chords, when some official at the west end turns down the lights — all except the one over the pulpit. I wish he hadn't — it makes me feel so conspicuous.
"There is a dreadful pause; seven hundred pairs of eyes are on me. My first instinct is to duck. Then I remember myself and the vicar's final words: 'Don't forget the invocation before and the ascription afterwards.'
"Good gracious! I have started. It sounds like a stranger speaking, and I seem far away, but I glue my eyes on my manuscript and carry on. My knees are simply banging together as I discourse on the doctrine of sanctification.
"Then someone in the congregation coughs; it seems to hit me right in the face. Simultaneously a choir boy drops a psalter; I almost leap out of my skin. I have lost my place; there is a long pause — at least five minutes it seems to me — someone coughs again, barks it this time.
"Then a strange thing happens. I get angry. I push aside my manuscript; I say the first thing that comes into my mind. I find myself ten minutes later at the end of an earnest exhortation to sanctity of life.
"Then I remember the ascription — relief at last! Out it comes, and I go back to my stall feeling an absolute wreck.
" 'Not at all bad for a first attempt,' says the vicar afterwards. 'I thought at first you were going to be deadly dull, but you warmed up to it nicely — earnestness tells.
" 'By the way, more pauses would be an improvement; that long pause of yours was very effective.' "
Monday, May 7, 2007
The First Easter
1917
Rosily dawned the day in the far east. On the shore the cool waves broke gently, fluttering foamy drops on the yellow sand. Away from the rocky stretches of green, lilies bloomed slender and tall, while with cups curving to catch the errant little breeze which carried their sweetness beyond the hills. In the stony crevices wild flowers glinted out from dew wet leaves. Half hidden by pale lily blooms, a dark stone guarded the entrance to a cave among the rocks.
Early in the dawning Sabbath glow, two women, gentle voiced and sorrowing, came slowly down a flowered path, bearing in their arms perfumed napkins and precious spices in carved boxes. They were clad in flowing gray garments, and their heads were bent in meek weeping.
As they drew nearer to the lily sentineled tomb, the one who walked ahead raised her eyes, dark with pain, to the open doorway, and quick wonder lighted their depths, and she turned, whispering: "Ah! Mary Magdalene, the stone already is rolled away. He hath done this thing."
With eager steps they left the growing day and entered the darkened sepulcher. But as they went they saw two angels seated at the tomb, two men with strong, glorified faces and glad, bright eyes, and their robes were bright as if the sunlight were shining through. The two Marys paused, startled, awed by the great light.
Then the mother of Christ knelt low and wept but a voice thrillingly tender called to her saying, "Woman, why weepest thou?"
And she lifted her eyes at the words and answered softly, "Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him."
But the voice came again, glad and full of rejoicing: "Fear not ye, for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified He is not here, for he is risen!"
Wondering, the mother gazed, her starry eyes searching the brightened sepulcher. Then she rose and walked with Mary Magdalene from the place.
Descending the path in the golden sunlight, her gray robes brushed against the uplifted flowers, dew flecked, wondrous sweet. Stooping, she bent her head to the shining lilies "Live," she murmured, "as expression of the divine beauty of the Son of Man, as examples of his wondrous mercy and boundless love and as the symbol of his resurrection. Henceforth you shall be the flower of purity and spiritual beauty of the holy Easter day, of the great new life which floods the earth through the power of the Son of God." — Patricia Gray in Philadelphia North American.
Rosily dawned the day in the far east. On the shore the cool waves broke gently, fluttering foamy drops on the yellow sand. Away from the rocky stretches of green, lilies bloomed slender and tall, while with cups curving to catch the errant little breeze which carried their sweetness beyond the hills. In the stony crevices wild flowers glinted out from dew wet leaves. Half hidden by pale lily blooms, a dark stone guarded the entrance to a cave among the rocks.
Early in the dawning Sabbath glow, two women, gentle voiced and sorrowing, came slowly down a flowered path, bearing in their arms perfumed napkins and precious spices in carved boxes. They were clad in flowing gray garments, and their heads were bent in meek weeping.
As they drew nearer to the lily sentineled tomb, the one who walked ahead raised her eyes, dark with pain, to the open doorway, and quick wonder lighted their depths, and she turned, whispering: "Ah! Mary Magdalene, the stone already is rolled away. He hath done this thing."
With eager steps they left the growing day and entered the darkened sepulcher. But as they went they saw two angels seated at the tomb, two men with strong, glorified faces and glad, bright eyes, and their robes were bright as if the sunlight were shining through. The two Marys paused, startled, awed by the great light.
Then the mother of Christ knelt low and wept but a voice thrillingly tender called to her saying, "Woman, why weepest thou?"
And she lifted her eyes at the words and answered softly, "Because they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him."
But the voice came again, glad and full of rejoicing: "Fear not ye, for I know that ye seek Jesus, which was crucified He is not here, for he is risen!"
Wondering, the mother gazed, her starry eyes searching the brightened sepulcher. Then she rose and walked with Mary Magdalene from the place.
Descending the path in the golden sunlight, her gray robes brushed against the uplifted flowers, dew flecked, wondrous sweet. Stooping, she bent her head to the shining lilies "Live," she murmured, "as expression of the divine beauty of the Son of Man, as examples of his wondrous mercy and boundless love and as the symbol of his resurrection. Henceforth you shall be the flower of purity and spiritual beauty of the holy Easter day, of the great new life which floods the earth through the power of the Son of God." — Patricia Gray in Philadelphia North American.
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