Edward Mote was a Baptist pastor in nineteenth-century England, serving for 26 years at Horshem in Sussex. If American Christians know him at all, it is for the hymn he wrote, "My Hope Is Built." There is a story that Mote was so beloved by his congregation that they once offered him the title to the church building. Mote declined, however, saying, "I do not want the chapel, I only want the pulpit; and when I cease to preach Christ, then turn me out of that."
Thomas Willadsen Christopher Keating Dean Feldmeyer Mary Austin Ron Love George Reed Bethany Peerbolte
For December 16, 2018:
Joice Again! by Tom Willadsen -- Rejoice! I can’t hear you, rejoice!! Joice again. “Joice” isn’t a verb in English, but “rejoice” is. Oh, and rejoicing is commanded. Just take a look at the Philippians reading.
Bill Thomas Bob Ove Mark Ellingsen Bonnie Bates Frank Ramirez Ron Love
Zephaniah 3:14-20 Wow, how can things get any better. God has not only taken our punishment, he has turned back our enemy. What more can we ask. We shouldn’t have to fear anything. God says this to Jerusalem. Can this apply to America also?
Isn’t it love that takes away our worry? When we were little kids we didn’t worry about anything as long as our parents were near us. God is bigger and more powerful.
My wife, who thrives on organization, has a motto: “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” It’s an expression of her passion for keeping a room, a house, or a garage orderly. But I think the principle extends still further. It goes beyond just physical spaces. For what is true of cupboards and closets is even more profoundly true of a human life.
I've had many reports of the Remembrance Sunday service held at Dickleburgh (in Norfolk, England) this year, mostly about the preacher. Since Dickleburgh has a historic connection with the Americans from the time of Second World War, they always invite the American Air Base at Mildenhall in Suffolk to join them for the service, and always invite the current American air force chaplain to preach.
On the Sunday afternoon following Thanksgiving, when I was in seventh grade, it began to snow. It started slowly and undramatically -- much like any number of other snows I had experienced growing up in Detroit. The sky turned the shade of dirty wool and the flakes danced through the wind as in one of those glass balls that you invert. Little by little the sidewalks whitened, and soon the neighborhood was alive with the rasping sound of shovels. Before long the roads were filled and you could no longer see the curb.