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One Stone Upon the Next

One Stone Upon the Next

By Timothy W. Tron

 

Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.” – Matthew 7:24

Block upon block, stone upon stone, the process can be extremely laborious when working with masonry. It would be all the more easy to throw up a building built with any other foundation, like a pole barn for example. But for a long-lasting, secure underpinning, one must work with the bedrock of building materials. It can be very taxing upon the body, especially when you don’t lay block or stone for a living. Slowly, one block, one brick at a time, the wall begins to take shape. As I step back and wonder if it will ever get done, a message from the past floods into my mind. It’s the voice of my father speaking in my ear, “Once you get it down, you’re done, and you’ll never have to do it again. It may take a while, but you’ll get there.”

Walking in faith is likewise never easy. One step at a time, another scripture memorized, another theological lesson learned and soon, like a stone wall, your pathway begins to take shape. We are continually and will forever be tempted in our earthly bodies by the world in which we live. Yet, we can stand firm, like that rock wall, withstanding the floods and winds of storms that crash against us.

Many years ago, there was another time when I worked with masonry. Then, as now, the feel of the mud, the right consistency, the flow of buttering the stone, then finding it in place, all come back like something ingrained in who I am. The more I worked with it, the more it felt natural. Eventually, I would learn that it was more than just a feeling, it was part of my heritage.

It was no wonder that our ancestors from the Waldensian Valleys where renowned masons. The word Waldensian simply meant, “People of the Valleys.” The valleys consisted of a 25 square mile area of the northwest corner of Italy, known today as the Cottien Alps.  Living at an altitude where there was always more stone that timber, the natural selection for building material became stone. The ancient villages with the slate rooftops and stone walls speak to a life of living in hardships but being prepared for them as well. The harsh winters required a dwelling place that could withstand the rigors of months of snow and freezing cold temperatures.

Waldensian Community Oven, Trail of Faith, Valdese, NC.

For centuries, they continued to build their homes, barns, and landscaping using the stone that God had provided. Likewise, their faith was based upon the granite bedrock from which they drew strength. They had received the word of God from the Apostles, and as such, held it dear to their hearts. They had become known as the “People of the Bible,” because of their memorization of scripture. Families would commit entire books to memory so that when a community came together, they could recite the entire Bible by heart. For nearly a thousand years, they had been persecuted by the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Their crime was sharing the gospels outside the church walls and possessing the Word of God. For to know the Word to the point it is within you, there is nothing else you can do but to do as the Bible says, “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Yet, they never wavered. The people of the valleys kept the light of Christ alive until the day would come that they could build the bridge that would carry it beyond the valleys into the rest of the world. Their evangelism would spread to all of Europe. From there, and over many centuries, until the Reformers would pick up the mantle and carry forward from that point.

When these Waldensians came to America, where they founded what would become known as Valdese, North Carolina,  they brought with them their inherent talents, one of which was being natural masons. At first, they seemed turned away from who they were in more ways than one. Having no longer been persecuted, it was easy for many of them to eventually join a denomination that didn’t demand the same attention to faith as their ancestors that had died by the sword. So too were they eager to leave behind the toil of working with stone, and instead, tried to build homes made only of wood. Before long, when they finally had time to regroup and reflect more on who and what they were, many went back to working with stone. From there, many churches and WPA projects in and around Burke County were either built or enhanced by these ancient stone smiths from the valleys. But even more dramatic was that some would return to that ancient faith and find more compatible churches to attend. Like myself finding an inherent talent that I didn’t know existed, these Christians of old would return to what felt natural, as they had always done, worshipping God based on the spirit and truth, the Word of God.

Abernathy Methodist Church, Rutherford College, NC.

It was this worshipping God as Christ had asked that determined their course in destiny. “Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock.”

The Waldensians place in the history of Christianity was that of an Ark, of sorts, for the Word of God, a place where God prepared a people in a place that would allow them to protect this word and preserve it until a time when the rest of the world was ready to receive it.

When Andrew took his brother Simon to see Jesus, the first thing Jesus said to him was, “Thou art Simon, son of Jonah, that shall be called Cephas.” The Greek word for Cephas meant stone, or even more precise, a little stone. It was this little stone that Christ would build his church upon, which he himself was the cornerstone; one stone upon the next.

It would seem a bitter irony that a man from Lyon France, a wealthy merchant, would sell everything he had to turn to an Apostolic way of life after hearing a traveling troubadour sing about a people from the valleys who lived out their faith as in Apostolic times. Once he heard this tale, he was determined to live and preach the word of God from that point forward. Yet, if he had used his real name, his family would have been persecuted and killed, again because it was against the law of the church-state to do so. So, to hide his identity, he became “Peter Waldo.” The name simply meant a little stone from the valleys. This “Peter of the valleys,” would go on to lead many in Lyon to Christ and would eventually have to flee to safety to the same valleys from which he took his name. Some historians would tell you that this was the beginning of the Waldensians, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Knowing that they could not destroy the people of the valleys by force, for they had tried and failed so many times, eventually, the Catholic Church would use the Peter Waldo tale to sway people away from the truth. When Satan gets a foot in the door, he not only takes an inch but will always take a mile.

Sadly, the story is perpetuated even unto today; some by people who are ignorant of the truth while others purposely continue the lie to diminish the true connection of those ancient people of the valleys to the disciples. Without a doubt, the ancient Waldensians can be traced back to the time of the Apostles, even though their persecutors tried to eliminate or destroy any proof thereof. A good starting point for anyone wanting to research the truth can be found in Ted Alexander’s book, “The Waldenses, of Whom the World Was Not Worthy.” Even with the persecutor’s attempts to hide and slander the truth, one can still search into ancient documents today and find clear evidence of Apostolic ties.

It is no wonder that with the ancient Waldenses connection to the Apostles, many denominations seek them out as their forefathers of faith. The Peter Waldo story was and is still today created to perpetuate a false story which is to diminish this fact, that the ancient Waldensians were the link to the original word of God having received it from the Apostles. If it were not so, the Catholic Church could, and does claim to be the sole inheritor of these rights. Ironically, what the Catholic Church tried to kill never died. Their persecutions of these simple valley people became the voice of martyrs, whose blood planted the seeds of the Reformation.

As we have seen, and hopefully now you too can understand, how those ancient people of the valleys persevered for centuries when they held their faith close to their heart. When the flames of persecution lessened, so did their vigilance. Today, we face the same lessons. When we give in to the world around us, we weaken our diligence to fight the devil. We must not fall away from our focus on the word, for as it is written in Ephesians 6:12, “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

We can never forget the past, should we be tempted to repeat it. To diminish the truth is to void Christ of all that he did to be the salvation for all mankind. It is up to us to carry on the truth, for it is written, “The father seeketh those who worship him in spirit and in truth.”

Do not let the light of Christ go out. Carry on the work of those distant forefathers and speak boldly to others.

Remember, one stone upon the next is all it takes.

Their salvation is in your hands.

Lux Lucet in Tenebris. The light shines in the darkness.

Thanks be to God.

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You Never Know…

They come for many reasons.20160426_084100

Their paths are as varied as there are stars in the night sky.

He passed me as I walked along the road, picking up debris and clutter. It was early afternoon on a crystal clear April day, warmer than usual. He sat up high in his navy-blue Jeep Cherokee, a master of his vessel. The bulk of belongings stowed upon his roof where hidden from view by the royal blue tarp that flapped in the wind catching my attention as he drove by. Something said to me there was a story there; the voice couldn’t have been more prophetic.

As I rounded the corner and began my descent down the stairs to the Visitor Center, I heard the car door shut. From where I was walking, I didn’t see anyone pull in. “It has to be him,” the voice said. Sure enough, by the time I got to the bottom of the stairs and the corner of the building, he was almost at the front door. His small, stout body topped with a thick head of creamy white hair was eager to get started.

“Are you open,” he asked, smiling broadly as we approached the front door.

“Why sure,” I replied, opening the door to invite him in.

“Well, you’re about the only one in town, he joked, “must be a Monday thing around here.”

“Yes, it does seem to be that way sometimes,” I chuckled, thinking of the two places that came to mind.

He began his introduction by telling me his name, Fred Greene. He told me how he had just been through Greensboro and how his great grandfather was part of its founding, although they hadn’t used the “E” at the end of the town’s name in so doing. “They at least had a Greene Street,” he continued, “with the “E” on the end.”

I nodded and waited. I could tell there was more to come; there was something about him that looked weathered and traveled. His skin was deeply tanned from countless hours exposed to the sun. His vessel, the jeep, was just about as dry and aged in its appearance. There had been a day wax once existed on its paint, but that was a distant memory.

“I was traveling down the interstate on my way from Greensboro and saw your sign. I had never heard of the Trail of Faith, so I thought I would stop and see what you were all about.”

“That’s great,” I quickly replied.

“God leads me every day, and I never know where I will end up.”

I soon learned that he didn’t want to tour the Trail, but only wanted to hear what we were about; a scouting mission of sorts. I began to share with him a brief introduction to hopefully entice him into further discussion. He drank in everything I had to say and was wholefully accepting of every word.

We hadn’t gone far into the story of the Waldensian people when I could tell nature was calling.

“Is there a bathroom here I could use?”

“Sure, down the hall and to the left,” I pointed.

“Great, I’ll be right back,” he said before scurrying off.

Seconds later I could hear the door shut and knew he had found his immediate relief. Thinking he might be thirsty, I poured us a couple of cups of water, one for each of us. Not long after he emerged from the restroom. I offered him his cup of cold water, but he declined to say he had water in the jeep.

It had been a slow day, to say the least. There was enough time for me to begin touching up the sign at the entrance that morning. So when we sat down at the table, seated so I could keep watch of any incoming visitors, Fred began to share with me who he was and what he was about. I was interested to hear the rest of his story.

Every day at the Trail there seems to be another tale of life and inspiration that seems to find its way to us.

As he spoke, the elderly man before me could have easily stepped out of the Bible. His knowledge of scriptures was unbelievable as was his delivery. He used the words I had just spoke to tie in his own beliefs, and his endeavor to win people to Christ. As we talked about how the world had strayed from the truths within the Word, he continued to bring up a certain preacher, someone I had never heard of before. I kept listening and marveling at his ability to quote from memory, long passages of the Bible, feeding his story, one that at times felt somewhat practiced as if he had told many more people than just myself.

Later that day, I would speak to a pastor friend of mine about the visit and he reminded me that we can never be sure that we don’t entertain angels unaware, regardless if they appear sane or not.

When we finally got to the point of his delivery that I was supposed to be moved by the Holy Spirit, something seemed to fall flat. It was then he handed me the cards that displayed the face of the man he had been referring, over and over again, Reverend William Brandham. For a moment, my heart plummeted, like the free falling rock from the cliff’s edge as one’s foot slips. For a split second, your heart races and fear shoots through you to the point your breath is taken away. This was different, in that my heart was sickened at the same pace. Here was a man, knowledgeable, wise and every bit a Biblical scholar who followed someone that was to him, the prophet Elijah incarnate.

My wife would later tell me that maybe that was how those ancient Jews felt when they heard Jesus speak about another way to believe, a gospel they had never heard. It was beyond their ability to grasp this revolutionary way of thinking.

Fred went on to tell me about the miraculous healings and prophecies of Brandham during his lifetime. Later, after I was finally able to peel myself away from Fred, I would learn more about Brandham and his movement that eventually would become a near cult following. Brandham would die in a car crash in 1965 at the age of 56.

For some reason, I don’t think he saw that coming. Of course, I could be wrong.

Now don’t get me wrong, there could have been some truth in all of those wonderful healings that Brandham was purportedly performed. There may have been truth to some of the prophecies he would be attributed to having told. Yet, standing there that day and listening to Fred show me a picture of what was supposed to have been seven angels descending from heaven as reported in Time magazine, I couldn’t help feel a loss for someone that could have totally blown me away had he stuck to the truth, the true Word of God.

I didn’t need healing, prophecies nor miraculous performances by a long passed preacher to bring me to Christ. All I needed to hear were the words that Jesus spoke so long ago, “Knock and the door shall be opened, …ask and ye shall receive.

Fred was another one of the blessings God sends to me every day at the Trail; one of those sweets from God’s box of chocolates. He may not have shared with me the gospel in the context in which I was accustomed, but he also taught me more valuable lessons than I could have ever found on my own.

This morning, at dawn, I went out looking for Fred. He had left the Trail yesterday heading down toward the falls to find a place to stay for the night. I found him parked by the Valdese Fire Department dispatch tower sound asleep. I felt bad that I had no place to offer him to stay. I wasn’t far from living in a jeep myself. When I found him, sleeping like a baby, I quietly placed a note on his windshield to join us for our Tuesday morning prayer breakfast at McDonalds.

Fred never showed.

Later in the day I saw him parked at McDonalds, seated outside at a table sharing his story and gospel with a couple of ladies.

Fred continues to follow God sharing his gospel the only way he knows. I can appreciate his servitude and am thankful to have crossed his path in life. Fred showed me what genuine commitment to giving it all away and following Christ really means, and for that I am thankful.

Fred was inspired long ago by a man many felt was a modern day prophet. So great was Fred’s conviction, he gave his life to serving as a fellow Christian; for that I am grateful.

In all we do, let us not forget, Thanks be to God.

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