It was Thursday morning. The sun was shining. They were safe from the crisp, cold air of winter’s ways inside their warm homes. Wednesday night Church service had been okay. A few of them met. Many of the regulars and bus children were absent. The snow and cold had kept them home. Others had busy lives which afforded them little time beyond the Sunday morning rituals. Some tried to sing the songs and praise the Lord. Some tried to teach and preach the Words of the Lord from His Holy scriptures. Everyone said nice things. It was a pleasant time for all. They left as the same dried out, crusty, stubborn shells they had come in as an hour and a half earlier.
They were civil but had little to celebrate. They sat in the same room about as widely dispersed as they could be. They read the same words from the same bible. They sang the same songs, prayed together, joked about themselves and their follies. No one was revived. No one gave a roof raising “glory hallelujah”, foot stomping, PRAISE BE to God testimony of how the Hand of God had touch them. And it was hollow, empty, dry and seemed void of any contact with Jesus. The entire purpose they had come together for had been missed. Then they left in their separate cars, went to their separate homes, indulged in their separate activities and forgot about what didn’t happen.
He didn’t come like He promised. He didn’t miraculously touch those in need of healing. He did not restore the vitality to the aging saints. He didn’t feed them with manna from on high. There appeared no spring of living water. There were no cloven tongues of fire, no ecstatic utterances, no miraculous healings, because there was no presence. Oh, He was there. But He must have been sitting by Himself, up near the altar, desiring for His children to come crawl up on His lap; “Suffer the little children and forbid them not”.
They bemoaned the fact that so many other churches no longer have midweek services. Even Sunday nights were becoming rare. Their friends weren’t even bothered by their occasional invitations. There was little wonder. There seemed to be no life in them. There was a dull silence in the existence they called church. The most starving being in the place was the Holy Spirit of God living within them. Two natures beat within my breast. The one is foul, the one is blest. The one I love, the one I hate; The one I feed will dominate. The One who had been so dominate when they were convicted of their sin was now quiet. The One who had convinced them of the truth of God’s Holy Word was now easily resisted. The heart which had dared to believe God for the salvation of their wicked friends and families was now wondering about sports or entertainment or jobs or a million other distractions.
And the thought comes. Not just to one, but each in their own place. At the kitchen sink, in the laundry room, lifting that soft drink before the television, picking the morning paper up off of the table where their Bible laid. Each wonders why. Why had it been that way last night? Why had it been that way for so long? Where had the revival fires gone? Why were the selfish carnal thoughts of a few controlling the minds of so many? Perhaps they could step away and pray, even now. They might feel His presence again. They might hear His voice in the stillness of the moment. They might shout Praises to God and rejoice. And perhaps they might have done that the night before; but they didn’t.
The great evangelists of the past have written marvelous accounts of how their tenacity and perseverance had seen God work exceedingly, abundantly, above all they could think or imagine. The mighty victories of scripture are declared from the old radio programs. The healers have healed. The financial woes have been overcome and Jesus has been rendered Lord of All in the hearts of men and women. That was then. This is now. And for many, ‘now’ feels a lot like life before they knew Him. The power, the presence, where had it gone? The filling and feelings of joy and beyond. The victory of obedience and the triumph of denying the desire of the flesh. The pride of humbly walking in His ways. The mastery of His word. The lengthy prayers, when no one heard, but God alone. All these seemed as distant memories of what had been when God was alive in their lives.
Then comes the cry, “God is NOT dead. He is Surely alive”. The skull rattling shout of “PRAISE to HIS name” stirs the slumbering cords again. The admonition to return to the Faith of the Fathers, to rebuild the old landmarks, and to lay aside every weight which does so easily hinder, are encouraged for those who have an ear to hear. The spark turns into a fire. The longing for a drink of water becomes a river flowing from deep within. The cancer of casual acceptance of sin is cut away by the sword of the Lord. Freely they have received and so generously and freely they give, beyond their own ability.
There is a prayer breakfast coming, a Bible study night, a Christian movie to be seen. There are folks to be visited and prayers to be purposed. There are cleansings to be done and victories in hearts and mouths to be won. There is yet one more soul who needs to come to the altar, where Jesus will wash away their sin. There are saints, young and old, timid and bold, who are His to use. There are children to mold and memory verses to learn. There are lives to dedicate and ministries for which to yearn. All stirred in the soul after that dull, dry, boring Wednesday night. And we wonder, who will hear, who will respond? Or will it be true that a man would rob God?