Tag Archives: Jesus Christ

by | November 23, 2017 · 8:20 pm

Thanksgiving of Faith

The eyes of the man were fixed upon the fire before him. If one had been watching, they would have thought him to be somehow studying the flames, but in truth, his mind was not there. He was searching beyond what lay before him and into the distant past. Again, and again, he seemed to return no matter what he did, those thoughts kept coming back; the persecutions so evil, so inhuman they were difficult just to look at. They were simple hand-drawn pictures dating back nearly a thousand years, yet the graphic story of death and torture were so vivid it turned your stomach just to glance at them for a few moments. The flames of inquisition fueled the pyres around those ancient believers. The Roman Catholic Church did all they could to erase their kind off the face of the earth, but God was with them. Their faith tested but never wavered. In his mind, he could see them again, succumbing to the heat and smoke, but fighting to the bitter end, singing praises or quoting scriptures to spite their tormentors. To the world, the stories were unknown. Their plight was hidden, partly by time, partly because that was the way the perceived victors had wanted. Yet, no matter how hard the criminal tries to cover the truth, eventually it is revealed.

In truth, that man is me.

The night before, we had been back at the Trail. My return was to help with the annual Christmas Lights. The rest of the family was to be there, so it was a chance to be with them, if only for a short while. As we sat and talked, the people coming to see the lights began walking into the Visitor’s Center. As they entered, my wife would get up and welcome them in. This was her job now. In the past, when it was my calling, I would be the one to greet them and welcome the chance to explain to them all the Trail offered. It was my opportunity to share with them the Word of God. Last night, it was far different. The wind had been knocked out of my sails, and the Trail was no longer the place of faith I had once pictured. The lights themselves were a huge distraction from what the story of the Trail was really meant to be.

As I sat there listening to person after person enter, part of me wanted to jump up and tell them the truth, the real reason they were here, but that side of me that had been wounded kept me chained to my chair. I knew if I started, I wouldn’t get home until late, beyond what I could safely drive, so I kept quiet. There was nothing I could do but sulk in my own despair.

After leaving for home, I happened upon a friend’s sermon that was going on live. It was Ted Alexander’s message on the Waldenses at a Baptist Bible conference. I had never heard Ted speak before. I had only read the book he had written that included my timeline research. Interestingly enough, earlier in the week I had prayed to God to give me a renewed strength in my faith, somehow to wake me up, recharge my belief. Ted’s sermon did just that.

One main theme Ted was sharing was how the Baptist history must include the story of the Waldenses; they were the forefathers of the modern-day Baptists. It was because of the Waldenses that there was no need for a Reformation because the original Church of Jesus Christ had never died, and as such, never needed a Martin Luther to Reform it. As I listened to Ted speak, the waves of memory returned. The pages of transcripts and historical writings that I had reviewed were made anew, and my passion was rekindled once more. Ted spoke like the wind, his words compacted into an untold wealth of information that I’m certain was overwhelming his audience, as it was myself as I drove. Soon enough, my cell coverage died, and I had to take a break. Since I had missed Wednesday night service at Church, I swung by to say hello. They had just finished watching a video on John Wycliffe, the person that first started my research journey back in 2001. I shared with Pastor Joe this fact and how that I had just been listening to Ted on my drive home. We talked a bit longer about Wycliffe, and some of the other reformers we too had been studying only recently. It was another moment of biblical clarification that I needed. Shortly after saying goodbye, I left for home and watched the rest of Ted’s presentation as well as started it over to catch the parts that I had missed. I was weary and soon found myself falling asleep even though the information was more than interesting.

That’s where I had left it the previous night.

As I began stirring this morning, my mind was perusing through Ted’s message and how I might trim it down to fit a sermon that I will try to deliver in a couple weeks at a local Church. It was as if a reawakening in my soul had given me new hope, new strength.

Once more, God is opening doors that I had almost given up on. Prayers were being answered once again.

The scripture Ted began with in his sermon was Hebrews 11: 32-40 where it talks about the good things that happened to the prophets of the Old Testament, but then begins to talk about the bad things that happened to believers later on. At least on the surface, it is perceived as bad, but in truth, God has a plan in all that we do, be it good or bad. No matter the difficulty, the persecution, or the torture, there is a reason for all that we do. In this manner, I had come full circle as I sat watching the fire before me tonight. The chill in the air was kept at bay by the warmth. In the right amount, it was a comfort, but too much made me move back, farther from the raging billows of spark and heat.

Some would not be so lucky as to be able to move, for their bindings held them in place until their skin began to melt from their bones and their blood boiled within their veins. Their last breaths were consumed by the broiling smoke fuming beneath their very feet. The last sounds of God’s word being spoken were drifted into the skies above, their vestiges mixed in the smoke as the two became one.

There are so many things for which I can give thanks, but one that is above all others, is my thanks for all those forefathers of our faith, that no matter the difficulty, no matter the obstacles in their way, kept the faith. They had received the Word of God from the Apostles and kept the early Church alive for over a thousand years. Their blood became the seeds of the Reformation that would eventually sweep across Europe. Their passion for the Word now feeds my own until I too am consumed, not by the flames of torture, but for the desire to want to do more for my faith. To say I am thankful for all that they did to preserve the Word is putting it mildly.

On this day of Thanksgiving, I am thankful that God answers prayer, and that we are not forgotten. There will come a day when we find our maker welcoming us home. We are promised a home in glory when we become one with our maker. Now it is my turn, to go out and to make others find that path, to awaken to their calling, and to share the precious gift I’ve been given.

No, it’s not Christmas yet, it just Thanksgiving.

Thanks be to God.

” And what shall I more say? for the time would fail me to tell of Gedeon, and of Barak, and of Samson, and of Jephthae; of David also, and Samuel, and of the prophets: 33 Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions. 34 Quenched the violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens. 35 Women received their dead raised to life again: and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection: 36 And others had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of bonds and imprisonment: 37 They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; 38 (Of whom the world was not worthy:) they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. 39 And these all, having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise: 40 God having provided some better thing for us, that they without us should not be made perfect.”-Hebrews 11:32-40

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by | November 2, 2017 · 8:57 pm

The Pre-Reformation Celebration…Lux Lucet in Tenebris

“But ye are a chosen generation, a royal priesthood, an holy nation, a peculiar people; that ye should shew forth the praises of him who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous light;” – 1 Peter 2:9

This morning’s scripture was heavy on my mind as my little blue car ascended the mountainside.

Just two days ago, the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation was celebrated. The tiny footnote of those that had gone on before that had made that day, 500 years ago possible was barely mentioned, if at all. For those to know the truth, the light must have been passed from the Apostolic times until that date, but by whom? The truth was made known in Peter’s writing which, if the rest of the story were known, would make perfect sense. For to know the truth, the Word of God becomes all that much more significant.

Where once inhabitants of the remote mountain valleys were known simply as barbarians, they eventually, by the grace of God, became known by another, which eventually made them targets for centuries to come. Their firm belief in the Word of God, their strict adherence to its every letter would lead them to be Apostolic in belief, but make them an object of aberration by the corrupted state Church because of their faith’s immovable tolerance for anything beyond the truth, the way, and the light of Jesus Christ. They would be sought for annihilation, purposeful extinction by the Church of Rome. In essence, theirs was the holocaust of the Alps.

The people of whom I speak are those of the Waldensian Valleys, located in the Cottien Region of the Alps situated in the northwest corner of Italy. They became a people, known as the “People of the Bible,” because of their memorization and preservation of its original content. Their families, generation after generation, would pass down these teachings until they would become one with them. In a sense, they would become a “holy nation” without borders, without a king, without a distinct leader. They would turn from pagan worship to that of the most ardent believers of Christianity; truly, they were called of the darkness and into the light, yes, the most marvelous light.

Although many shunned the spotlight of notoriety, they would become preachers, missionaries, and evangelists of the Word.  Their ordination was by God, a royal priesthood if any. Yes, they were chosen by God for a reason, for a purpose, for a time, and thanks be to God, I have been blessed to have been born into that lineage, to which I now try to uphold some substance, some modicum of forbearance of what those that gave their lives so vividly upheld in their time. We are called into a time such as this to carry on the truth, to shed light upon the world wherever we may go.

My fervent prayer is that I may be able to continue to be a light to those around me in all that I do, each, and every day until my last breath on this earth.

Lux Lucet in Tenebris, The Light Shine in the Darkness.

Thanks be to God.

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by | September 17, 2017 · 8:36 pm

Stumped…

For days, I had passed over it; the unobtrusive, worn maple stump.

The tires of my tractor occasionally bumped into the hard gray knob, but it was low enough that it didn’t impede the progress of the building site. Back and forth, pushing the soft, red dirt with the front-end loader of my tractor the land began to take shape. The ground was slowly beginning to resemble the start of a foundation for the future out-building.

This wasn’t my first.

I can still hear J.W. Parson’s voice telling me, as he grinned from ear to ear, “Boy, you’re married, right?” We had paused between me trying to play the song on my fiddle he had just shown me and the next few minutes when we would begin the painful process once more. The room in which we sat was lit by one weak bulb hanging down from the ceiling. The string that you pulled to turn it off and on with lay draped across its yellow luminance. Around us implements of killing hogs hung on the walls; saws, knives, and axes. Their clean, sharp edges glowed in the dim light. There was an air of reality in J.W.’s out-building that only aged blood on wooden floors can exude. Reno Sharpe and an elderly friend of mine who had tagged along for the evening’s entertainment sat on an empty upturned five-gallon bucket nearby smiling as he probably already knew what was coming.

“Yes sir,” I replied unsure of where this was going.

“You got you an outbuilding to play in?”

“No, not yet.”

He laughed and winked over at Reno.

“Well, you better git to building yourself one if you want to stay married,” which he followed up with a roaring laugh as he slapped his knee. Reno and I joined in, for it was apparent what he meant.

In a matter of speaking, the lack of having a place to practice as a beginning fiddler was my stump back then. Before I could really go further, that outbuilding had to be built. Yet, to become the fiddler I had hoped would take countless hours of isolated study and practice.

Nothing would come easy.

Not long following that evening’s lesson, I began constructing my studio in the barn where for several years my violin would eventually sound more like that of J.W.’s, but never entirely. In that isolated home-away-from-home, we would find a retreat from which music, art, and writing flowed. It was more than just an out-building; it became our sanctuary of sorts.

To begin, it was necessary to take a step back.

That was then, this is now.

Once more, we are beginning again; starting over; seeking to find that special place where we can feel the hand of our Lord reach and speak through us. What we hope to achieve will not be easy. Yet, there is so much for which to be thankful. In this journey of faith, we are constantly reminded of the world we left behind and how we are made anew.

So, once more, we begin again.

From the forest, the opening was carved. The aged, rotting maple seemed an easy target when the trees were selected to be cut. Its stump remained all through the clearing process, never presenting itself an obstacle other than the occasional bump under the tires. It wasn’t until the land was leveled and the string lines were pulled that it became obvious; the stump had to go. The very foundation could not be set without it being completely removed. What once seemed a trivial matter now halted the entire construction process. It seemed nothing more than a grayish-mud splattered annoyance that would be gone in a matter of minutes.

Then reality struck.

When the blade of the scoop began trying to find the outer edges of the root ball, it quickly became apparent, this was a much bigger problem than first imagined. In essence, I was going to have to take a step back even further than imagined in order to extract the now, unavoidable barrier.

Last week, working with the Christian club students, we found a similar reality check.

There again was the stump; one that at first seemed to have little if no consequence in what we were planning. But as we progressed in what we had hoped to achieve; evangelizing the Word of God to the rest of the student body, it became apparent that there was something daunting sitting in the path of our progress; an unavoidable root ball of sorts; fear.

When we began to do more than speak about what we should do as Christians, when we would actually go out and witness to others, it was then that we realized how ill-prepared we really were. The very act of approaching others in order to speak to them about Christ froze our students, stopping their very progression of growth. Like those students, when we try to evangelize to the world around us, some of us quickly find our shortcomings. We hear that voice in the back of our head reminding us, “You are not ready.” It is then obvious, like the tree stump, we must go back to the beginning and start over, learning what we must do to witness as those early disciples.
Digging deep into the earth surrounding the remains of the tree we would begin to hack away at the tenuous arms that held the once massive tree in place. Like membranes of bone, the ancient arms stretched in all directions. Like embedded fears from childhood, our inhibitions to speaking to others about our faith can only be overcome when we remove the restraints we put upon ourselves; our self-imposed root ball. With time, study, and trust in the Lord, our faith will grow until we understand there is no fear in serving Him; for He is with us in all that we do.

The back-breaking work was eventually rewarded this past weekend when the massive root ball gave way. It was an enormous relief. Once the obstruction was gone, the re-leveling of the building site took only a few minutes.
Likewise, the work with the students will take time. It won’t be easy, and at times it will seem as if we can’t win but in the end, the reward we will obtain will be far greater than that of removing even the most stubborn tree stump. Once they have found their confidence, their personal stumps will be gone, leaving the ground from which to build.

Bringing salvation to the lost will be something they, and each of us will never forget, and the heavenly reward will be for all eternity.

Thanks be to God.

“The preparations of the heart in man, and the answer of the tongue, is from the Lord. All the ways of a man are clean in his own eyes; but the Lord weigheth the spirits. Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established. …” – Proverbs 16

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by | August 11, 2017 · 8:04 pm

Day 3: Baziglia: A Day Unlike Any Other…

The coolness of the morning still lingered as they pulled into the parking lot. A small, unassuming building built partly of stone with stucco façade shouldered a small sign indicating it was the museum. The structure stood in the shadows of the granite walls nearby, its contents holding memories that were etched into the surrounding mountain. On a dark night, when the wind blows through the recesses of stone, if you listen close, you might hear the screams of the dying; martyrs whose blood became the seeds of the Reformation.

The doors and windows of the little heritage center were still shut, it was obviously closed. There was no disappointment. Nearby, the sound of the crashing water beckoned. History on gallery walls could wait, there was much to see today, much more. The four men spilled out of the van, grabbing their walking gear and backpacks in preparation for what lay ahead. Glancing back across the threshold of the valley, there in the right-hand bend of the river were familiar peaks; the Baziglia stood tallest.  The sun was just beginning to kiss its peak. The mountain’s history was well known to each of the four. They had all studied about the last stand made by Henri Arnaud during the Glorious Return, and the remnants of the thousand-strong fighting force that departed the shores of Lake Geneva on August 16th, 1689.

There on that peak the glowed with the morning sunrise, 300 of the surviving Waldensian warriors resisted the onrushing force of over 24,000 soldiers and Catholic mercenaries. Lasting through the winter on what God had provided when they found potatoes while digging trenches for their ramparts, they withstood an onslaught of firepower from cannons that had literally surrounded the summit. Obliterating their defenses, the soldiers prepared to scale the steep walls the next morning to claim their prize; capturing the heretics and ending their resistance, once and for all. That evening, Arnaud and his men prayed yet again for divine intervention. Within a few hours, a great fog fell upon the mountain top, obscuring the bonfires of the celebrating forces below. The amber glow of the hangman’s gallows faded as the shroud grew thicker, eventually totally erasing any sign of light from the valley beneath. The fog was so thick you could not see your hand in front of your face. Captain Paulat Tron, one of the ten original officers appointed by Arnaud when they left Switzerland, had grown up in the area. He came to Arnaud at that moment and said, “I can lead the men out of here, Lord willing. It was on this mountain that I first learned to walk, and here that God hath delivered me unto this day to save us if it be His will.” Later, that night, Arnaud and his men, led by Captain Tron, crawled on their hands and knees, blindly following the one before the other, as they slipped past the sleeping enemy. Their path was nothing more than goat trails carved into the rock, on precipices that fell thousands of feet away below. One slip would have meant certain death. By the grace of God, they survived, and when the next morning’s sunrise began to light the mountain peak, much like this day, Arnaud and his men were seen crawling along the opposite peak, like ants, safely escaping once again. This was the moment the Duke of Savoy finally realized that the hand of God was with the Waldensians, those people of the valleys that had felt his wrath for so long. It was then that the Duke sent his army to unite with the heretics and resist the Papal authority. It was then, at that moment, the persecutions finally ended, once and for all.

Freedom would come, slowly.

Like newborns learning to walk, they would eventually find a new world of unfettered faith, one that would allow them the freedom to make decisions meant to appeal to their Christian goodness, while forfeiting the strict tenants that had previously kept them separate from the world around them. Choices that seemed minor at the time would eventually affect their heritage for centuries to come. Sadly, their choices would be the very thing that would force many to leave, or give up their ancient faith.

Freedom wasn’t free.

As cramped legs were stretched and arrangements made for the rendezvous later that afternoon, one of the men paused on the bridge that crossed the raging torrent. His mind reflecting upon that memory of the past as he watched the sunrise slowly encompass the rest of the historic peak before him. He himself, another Tron, had only recently learned of his ancestor’s heroic legacy. Its revelation had been another miraculous moment in his life; one that had already been blessed beyond measure. But this day was not intent upon reliving the past, for it was a day of firsts, another day of discovery. United with two traveling companions, they continued their ascent into the Baziglia valley. Passing a fountain tank made of granite slabs, they saw bottles of wine and beer placed by others that had already started their hike earlier in the day; celebratory drinks for the return. Their reason for being there would become clear, but only later that day.

They passed through the small village of ancient stone cottages. Their construction could easily be placed within the first millennium. One might close his eyes and open them thinking he had been transported back to medieval times. Through narrow cart paths, the trail wound until they turned the switch back and quickly realized they had already climbed to a height above the small cluster of homes below. Stone roofs and tiny gardens with boxes of flowers of all colors hailed up at them from beneath. Dark figures of wood and rock made a picturesque background to the bouquet that seemed to grow in abundance wherever one looked. The trail was rocky but lined by tall grasses, some of which had been recently cut and lay upon the hard stone making it slippery in spots. As the foot slipped on stone, the body could feel the strain. The climb already starting to tax leg muscles that would need every ounce of strength this day. Heartbeats increased as did the breathing, each matching the excitement for wanting to see what stood around the next bend. The air was refreshing, even cool, but with the rigors of the climb, tiny beads of perspiration began to find their way along one’s hatband. One of the men that had been there the year before mentioned that they would soon reach a point where the ancient village of Col De Magne would appear as if out of nowhere. Sure enough, before there was time to consider the pace, they came upon a rise in the ground, and there it lay before them, the deserted remains of Col De Magne; an even more ancient village than the one through which they had already passed. It was now uninhabited save for a couple of buildings where shepherds claimed temporary shelter.

The rise in the ground was covered with all manner of wild flowers, interspersed amongst the native grasses. Above it all, the clear blue bird sky breathed life into everything beneath. The rush of the torrent down the hill echoed off the granite walls of Baziglia as the whispers of the past called between stone walls of the abandoned village. Like spirits inviting their guests, the open doors and windows seemed to call to them. They crossed a crystal-clear stream, treading lightly on rocks to keep their feet from getting wet, and walked down the hill in a setting so beautiful it almost seemed surreal. Once upon a time, there were children running along this path, chasing one another in play, enjoying the beauty of the moment, knowing that days like this were few and far between. Nearby, sheep would be grazing on the lush summer grasses. The icy grip of winter would leave them wanting more of the lazy days of plenty, and remind them of the harshness of the world in which they lived. They were well suited for this life, but one couldn’t help to think that once in a while, there was a respite for even the most ardent student of puritanism.

It was almost too much to pass, as the three men were inspired around each turn. The distance ahead seemed to be negligible, nor matter.

We find in life, we are much like this time as well. In our youth, we are intrigued by the beauty of the world. The nature that surrounds us is almost too appealing to deny its existence, so we chase one scenic vista after another, failing to realize as life passes by, we are taking in what lies on the surface without revealing the truth behind what is beneath. We linger in places momentarily when we should consider them with more resolution; instead, we admire them only in passing. If we were to look deeper, we would find what awaits us in those higher realms of consciousness are far greater than what we first consider the greatest spectacle in our time.

One of the men, realizing there was too much to dismiss, stayed behind to capture more of the lost village. Meanwhile, the other two continued on, pushed by something within. Like drifting leaves upon the wind, they passed the tiny hamlet to the next bend in the valley. Each traveling separate, they found themselves exploring one rock outpost after another. Seemingly, without trying, they found themselves reunited and began their climb together again. As they walked, they shared in the Glory of God on this day and how it was so inspiring to see all that they had already seen, not even thinking of what lay ahead.

As the pair crested a small ridge, the ice pack of the winter still lay frozen before them, like a giant glacier. Azure blue water swirled in a pool below the waterfall that flowed beneath the white layer of ice above. Beneath the still water, they took a drink, refreshing themselves with the bounty God had provided. The twenty-third Psalm came to mind, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside still waters…” They paused to drink from the pool, sipping from the life-giving fluid and refreshing their tiring bodies. They pushed on, for each new turn brought more amazing revelations.

Not long after, they closed in at the base of the last, and tallest climb, they gave pause. High above where they stood, tiny figures climbed toward the peak. “The bottles in the trough must be theirs,” one of the men said to the other. “Yep,” the other nodded in reply. As their eyes followed the trail between the climbing party above them and to where they stood, they reflected upon the daunting task. Looking high into the sky overhead they thought out loud, “Could they do it,” they asked each other? The waterfalls that now surrounded them whispered back, “Go tell it on the Mountain.”

“Yes, let’s do it,” they told one another.

When we finally awaken to what matters most in life, for some, it is too late. There are many that would never make it beyond the still water. There would be many that would never make it to the deserted village. So many become distracted and lost in life that they give up before they even get started. We see them wandering in a world in which they cannot escape. When we try to reach out to them, it is as if they can’t understand the words we say to them, so foreign is the concept of what awaits them in the eternal life, so caught up are they now in this worldly life. When Jesus found the two men on the road to Emmaus, he opened their minds so that they could comprehend all he had to tell them, and so it is with us.

When the men pushed onward, it is like when we are finally conscious of what we must do to reach that heavenly land we all seek to find in the life hereafter. The fortunate ones accept Christ and find that they too can become one with our maker, and when we do, the mountain top is only just the beginning. Climbing the ascent, their lungs ached for more breathe as their legs burnt like fire, but they pushed onward. No great triumph ever comes without a sacrifice, and so the same can be said of our salvation; each has a price to be paid. Christ gave all so that we might have life eternal, and so likewise, the men pushed on through the pain, knowing that what awaited would be worth the momentary strains that momentarily pressed upon their bodies.

Push, pant, pause, breath; push, pant, pause, breath; slowly, they ascend the mountain, slowly, the valley below grows more and more distant.

Yet, when the goal seemed so close, there was one last raging torrent. Unlike any seen before, this one’s ferocity seemed unmatched by the others. It roared within massive boulders seemingly uncut by the eroding forces of nature. Frothing through the gap between them and the reachable summit, there seemed no easy way. “Would they have to try to cross this maddening force?”

“There must be a way,” one of the men said to the other.

“If it’s the Lord’s will, then yes, there surely is,” replied the other.

“Let me descend this ridge and see, and I’ll let you know,” he said, disappearing below the other.

The man left behind watching his companion vanish below the brilliant pasture grasses. His legs were beginning to feel the strain of the climb. “There’s not much gas left in the tank,” he thought to himself. “If nothing else, we have already achieved more this day than I had ever asked. If it is God’s will, then we will find our way to that nearing summit, but if not, I’m content to end my journey here.” He breathed a sigh and leaned on his walking stick, drinking in the beauty that enveloped everything around him.

His thoughts were soon interrupted.

“There’s a bridge,” came the cry from below.

“Serious”

“Yeah, come on, we can make it.”

Finally, when there seems to be nothing left in the legs, they reach the peak, one last torrent crossed, they achingly climb that last ridge, and there before them a vista that seems to stretch to the ends of the earth. There were no words, no pictures that could capture what lay at their feet; all of God’s creation spread out before them.

Standing there in that place, they could only think of Jesus and the scene of Satan’s temptation on the mountain. “Then the devil, taking Him up on a high mountain, showed Him[d] all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time. 6 And the devil said to Him, “All this authority I will give You, and their glory; for this has been delivered to me, and I give it to whomever I wish. 7 Therefore, if You will worship before me, all will be Yours. 8 And Jesus answered and said to him, “Get behind Me, Satan![e] For[f] it is written, ‘You shall worship the Lord your God, and Him only you shall serve.’ ””” – Luke 4:5-8

There before them, lay all of God’s creation, a beautiful, magnificent display of the grandeur of our Heavenly Father; and only Him shall we worship.

The men sit and eat, as raptors soar before them, like dancers putting on a show for their guests. On the distant peaks, in snow covered shadows, mountain goats play, romping back and forth in the white and brown terrain. Not far from them, ferrets chase one another. The green grasses full of vibrant wild flowers laugh as the world up there seems so close to Heaven. The men feel the hand of God upon them and soon realize, their time there is nearly spent. The precious memory that this place would put upon their minds would be cherished for years to come. The inspiration alone would come back to them, again and again, whenever the world would seem too much.

For a just a few minutes that day, two men found themselves closer than ever before to God. If only for a brief moment, God had revealed to them the glory that awaits each of us when we reach our heavenly home.

A mere blink of an eye in the realm of eternal time, a glimpse of what can be ours when we choose the path of righteousness. A picnic with God for two sojourners who never imagined nor expected that they would find themselves on top of a mountain dining with their Heavenly Father that day, but yet, there they were.

And for just a few minutes, on a day unlike any other, they were all the more blessed.

Thanks be to God.

Watch a video of their experience by clicking here: God’s Grandeur

 

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by | July 9, 2017 · 8:34 am

An Unforgettable Sunrise…

“…whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away. – James 4:14

We can no more know what will be in 20 years than we can know what tomorrow will bring; it is like being able to see what is not visible. We ourselves are like the mist, as scriptures tell us, “Whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.” Will my body be capable of traversing what my mind’s eye can see? Will there be the breath of life left within my soul? All of these things and more cannot be answered, nor should they. Our faith should sustain us through all that is, and all that will be to come.

One may project themselves mentally into that point beyond their horizon, that which tells of a distant time and place which none can know. From that place, they may reflect back upon all that might have transpired. From such appointed place we may see with more clarity what we should find of value; of meaning; of purpose. We can take away from our reflection in that distant horizon such  that, when our life’s journey has come to fruition, we all would like to say with assurance, “We have run the race well.”

To run that race well, there are a few moments which I hope to find, which many may find as their own: to see my children grow into adulthood, to see them become parents with successful careers; to hold that first grandchild in my arms; to see the end of a successful career of teaching; to see my wife and I gracefully grow old together; to see with mine own eyes, the bridge at Salbertrand; to see the sunrise from the top of the Chisone Valley as did those brave men on their march through the Glorious Return; and lastly, but not least of all, to lead others to Christ through the blessings God has bestowed upon me. These are but a few of all that I hope to find on that day, so far from now.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, it will be here.

Time is a precious commodity none of us can take for granted.

The bridge between now and the end of our time here on earth grows shorter with each passing day. We are aliens upon this earth, put here by our creator, and when we pass, we move on to the place He hath created for us; a home eternal. What we do with the time we have left is as much our choosing as is our choice of deciding if we want to live beyond this life, through the salvation Christ has given to all, should they choose.

When we stand on that future mountain top and look back, one should hope to see how they have lifted up others in their wake, being as Christ-like as possible. To become the light is all we should seek.

To get there from here, we must take one step at a time. Each new footprint, insignificant as each one may seem, leads us to the eventual destination if we can remain focused. In our hearts, we know the words, “Yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me…” All around us, the dark peaks of struggle are pitched against us. The fog of doubt and uncertainty shroud our way. Yet, we push onward, one step at a time. We must not look back when the sorrows pull us down. We cannot relive what has gone on before us. We cannot return the dead to the living; we must push onward.

Closing my eyes, I drift off to that future time and place.

From that distant vantage point, my breath is labored. The height at which we have achieved to gain this point is substantial in altitude. The air is thin up here. In my mind, I’m standing upon the highland overlooking the Chisone Valley; the year is 1689. Darkness is before me, it is night. Behind me, I can hear men struggling up the side trying to reach the summit. We are nearest to Him on this imagined peak. What we left behind to obtain our position is a haunting reminder of how our lives have been shaped by perseverance. Like Arnaud, his men having fought past the bridge at Salbertrand, seeing the miracle of 600 men routing over 2,500, they are now the survivors of the ten days of forced march. They have avoided the main roads, taking the goat paths and cliff faces in their march. They have fought through one village after another. After this late day battle, they are now struggling through the night to reach the summit. Exhausted, they will fall asleep almost before their heads hit the ground. Arnaud stays awake well past what his body will allow making sure the few sentries he has posted remain awake. He doesn’t know I’m here, but together we watch as the coming dawn begins to lighten the eastern sky.

With trepidation, we await, as the sound of men scattered about us sleep in fitful slumber. The wounded moan as they turn to find comfort upon the hard ground; there is little to relieve their pain. The campfire is nearly gone, its embers glowing red, like the horizon that begins to hint of the coming day.

As the dawn broke before them on that glorious morning, the sunlight filtered into their homeland, those ancient valleys of granite and raging torrents. Their faith was at a zenith, they knew this was not the end. Before them lay the unknown. God had surely delivered them to this point for a reason. Yes, they had made it. Yet, the battle to reclaim their valleys had only begun. The dead that they had left behind, now almost half their number, cannot be forgotten; yet, they must not allow the darkness to consume their fate. Before them, the mountain falls away, revealing the Chisone. Some are eager to get down below; family homesteads occupied by the enemy burn in their minds. Liberation of their own farms begins to overwhelm them, but their leader, Pastor Arnaud, recognizes this inner strife and calms them once more with prayer.

“Men, let us bow our heads, ..God, your hand has been upon us each and every step of the way. We thank you for all that you have given us to this day, but Lord, you know better than we, that if it is your will, this place which you hath prepared for us in the beginning, will once more be returned to us again. We ask for the forgiveness of our sins, for taking another man’s life is something we do not dismiss easily from our hearts, but at the same time, we ask that you forgive those that seek to destroy us. For all we do, we do in servitude in our Holy name. For we thank you, God the Father, and ask that you continue to watch over us as we go forth, so that we may be allowed to restore the faith, truth, and the light back to the valleys from whence we hath come. Thank you for your son Jesus Christ, who died, was buried, and rose on the third day. His blood was shed for our sins, so that we may have life eternal. In all these things, we thank you, in God’s Holy Name,…Amen.”

Painfully, Arnaud and his men arose and began the ascent into the dark valley of the Chisone below to reclaim their homeland. There, hiding in their own homes, churches, and villages, the enemy awaited.

Painfully, in that distant time, we will continue on in our ascent into that dark valley below where the enemy awaits; Satan. There, hiding in our own homes, churches, and villages, he awaits our every move.

We must do all that we can to bring them back to the faith of our ancestors, to bring them the salvation for which they were once freely given.

Each faces an uncertain future.

Each knows from whence they came.

Each knows that the going forward will not be easy. Time is against us all, no matter when we face it, but with our faith, we can find our way is not alone. “We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us,” and in that, we can face tomorrow.

We know not what tomorrow may bring, but with faith, we can face tomorrow.

In all that we do, let us serve Him, and to never forget,

Thanks be to God.

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by | July 5, 2017 · 9:32 pm

Day 1 Cont’d: Full Circle

“But we are not of those who draw back to perdition, but of those who believe to the saving of the soul.” -Jeremiah 10:39

Day 1: Full Circle

Through hardship, through strife, through centuries of life, we push on.

The night before: On our two-hour ride from the airport in Milan to our final destination for the day, Hotel Palavas, we searched the horizon for their approach; the Alps. Time was not on our side; the sun was quickly falling from the sky. We passed verdant green fields of rice, corn, and vineyards. Each of us fighting fatigue and heavy eyelids, watched with anticipation. Slowly, the horizon began to grow in height. Faintly, there began to appear something that one might construe as either clouds or mighty peaks, unbelievably high. Yet, before our eyes could obtain focus on those majestic altitudes, the sun fell below a nearby peak, and a shroud fell upon the light in the sky. Like Christmas Eve, the present would have to wait to be opened in the morning. Some of us drifted off to fitful naps as round-a-bouts and traffic tossed our heads to-and-fro. Before we knew it, our bus approached an Alpine-looking hotel on the outskirts of Villar Pellice, Hotel Palavas. The staff greeted the busload of weary travelers with open arms. They had a prepared a hearty supper in advance for us, even in the late hour. As darkness fell, we unloaded our bags and once more, hauled, lifted, and tugged them to our collective rooms. The bed called loudly, yet hunger made us leave the welcome repose to find ourselves in the community dining room which would serve as our breakfast and supper for the next week during our stay. Here, long tables made and “L” shape, and we seated ourselves wherever we felt comfortable. Most of the students from Andrew’s University collected at one end of the “L” while the rest of us, professors, staff, teachers, preachers, and guests made up the rest of the seating arrangement. In my own assignment, I felt the least of these. The fact that I was even here was still unbelievable. Trying to bring myself to accept that it was real, I looked around the room of this hotel that was well over 500 years of age. The walls were made of stone, covered over with a decorative plaster. The room was very much like one might find at any other Alpine Inn, wood panels below a chair rail, above which the white plaster covering the ancient stones.

Each evening, as was the first, we were served family style, where heaping platters of pasta, vegetables, and bread were brought out to us until we were pleasantly filled.

Our bellies full, and our bodies exhausted from the nearly twenty hours of being awake, we soon found our rooms once more and collapsed upon our beds, eager to find that present awaiting us at sunrise.

The first thing that I recall was the sound of birds singing outside our windows. We had been paired with other members of our group for room assignments, and my roommate was my dear friend, Pastor Barry Mahorney. He was still sleeping when, like that little child wanting to be the first one down to the tree on Christmas morning, I quietly as possible, slipped on my clothes, grabbed my sketchbook, pencils, and phone then headed downstairs and out the front door to greet the day.

As the large, dark wooden front door closed behind me, the chill struck me immediately. Prepared, I pulled the long sleeve shirt closer to my neck and headed off. Past the nearby rooftop, there was the shadow of either a mountain or a very dark cloud. It wasn’t until I passed through a nearby narrow alley and came out on a higher rail of a little back road that I finally got my first glimpse. There, standing taller than I could believe were the peaks of the nearby mountain range above Bobbio Pellice.

“Praise God,” I breathed into the air, as the fog from my breath steamed ahead.

Excited just being here, it all slowly began to unveil before me; the scenery, the miracle of my just being here, the ultimate experience I had yet to find; it was all so much to grasp.

The night before, the staff had eagerly handed me a letter that had been waiting for my arrival. It was an invitation to come to the Ancient Pathways Church on Saturday night. I was to call the Pastor Estaban Janavel when I arrived. But, since we were tired and it was late, I decided to wait until Friday; Day 1.

Below where I walked two men were working moving their irrigation equipment, so I found a spot on an ancient stone wall and began to sketch the world before me, trying to soak in every aspect as it unfolded. It soon became apparent that the arches of water from just two sprinklers, which each one stood about the height of your waist, could cover one of their pastures. In fact, it also became obvious that their cattle were extremely well-behaved compared to those that I once owned, for they only needed a string stretched like an electric wire about twenty-four inches above the ground to keep them contained. My cattle would have laughed at that, and ran across the road into the neighbor’s garden at first glance at such a meager contraption. Later that day, we would actually see farmers moving a herd from one tiny field to the next. This was certainly a different world.

When I finally got back to the hotel and had breakfast, I asked the proprietor to call Pastor Janavel for me and give him the message that we would meet him at noon in Torre Pellice by the statue of Henri Arnaud. The reason being, I didn’t speak enough Italian, and Esteban didn’t speak enough English; thankfully our host, Elmer, could do both very well. After the meeting was confirmed, I then was told of the wonderful surprise that awaited after our trip to Torre Pellice; a journey to the valley from which my ancestors left 320 years earlier. Conrad Demsky, one of my American hosts, was as excited about the day as was I.  Like an archaeological dig of sorts, we were going to the Chisone Valley to see what we might find if anything. We really didn’t have a plan other than to visit the cemetery, a place where many genealogical researchers begin. Conrad’s wife, the leader, and professor to the student’s, Professor Kathy Demsky, would be headed to town for the weekly street fair with her class. Meanwhile, brother Barry, Conrad, and I would ride in Conrad’s van off on our own little adventures, beginning with the trip to Torre Pellice.

While we drove and talked about the possibilities that awaited, a thought began to run through my mind of the significance of the names that were coming together at noon. Let alone that brother Barry knew of another tour group of people he had known in another conference of churches where he once worked that would be visiting the same town next week. There was excitement for everyone it seemed. Conrad was eager to see our reactions, for this was not his first visit. He and Professor Demsky had been making this trip each year with the Architecture School students for the past twenty years. To him, this was another way to see the valleys, through someone else’s eyes, who was witnessing inspiring events; one after another.

In my own mind, the noon meeting and the names connected in that meeting was beginning to grow in significance; the statue of Henri Arnaud; Esteban Janavel, a direct descendent of Joshua Janavel; and myself, Timothy Tron, a distant relative to Captain Tron-Paulette.

Henri Arnaud, who was a pastor turned military leader, led the Glorious Return in 1689. Before Arnaud, another Waldensian hero, Joshua Janavel, would lead a small group of men against unbelievable odds, battling and winning outpost after outpost until they became known as the “Invincibles.” Janavel was known to only accept pure, Christian fighters, so great was his faith. He believed that the body was a vessel and for God to continue to work through them, they had to be at their utmost. Janavel would go on to write instructions for Arnaud to follow on his battle to retake their homelands, the valleys. Janavel’s journal also included instructions on how to select his officers. For the 1,000 men who would leave the shore of Lake Geneva that August day, one of the ten Captains to lead 100 men would be Captain Tron-Paulette. Unbeknownst to me that morning, Captain Tron would become a folk hero, in that he would be attributed to helping save Arnaud and his men. When the French had obliterated their fortifications with cannon fire and were about to storm their position, Arnaud and his men prayed for divine intervention. They were about to meet their doom at the battle of the Balziglia. That evening, a cloud descended upon the mountain so thick, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. It was Captain Tron, that with the hand of God, led the surviving three hundred men out through the dense fog, in the dark, along perilous cliffs to freedom.

In essence, the descendants of Janavel and Tron would meet at the monument to Arnaud, which would bring together three of the namesakes that made the battles to return to their beloved valleys a reality, thanks be to God.

All of this raced through my mind as our van wound its way around twisty turn-a-bouts and tiny roads only wide enough for one car to pass at a time.

We still hadn’t made it to that fateful meeting with Pastor Janavel. We had yet to taste the sweet water that floweth from yonder fountain. Ahead, stood the Chisone Valley and the secrets she held close. Little did we know; dire warnings and miracles were yet to come.

The day was still young.

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 28, 2017 · 5:07 pm

God-Chance with the Wilderness Scouts

Once again, the crisp cool morning was a welcome respite. The weather has been quite welcoming these latter days of June, once more reminding me of the high altitude climate of those distant valleys of my recent travels. So it was this past Monday morning, when other than the Statistics classwork, the only other items on my to-do list were to meet a buyer for some of our furniture at the storage unit and to drop by some friends house to return a book and to share a new one. In the meantime, I thought it would be nice to drop by the Trail where the rest of the family was meeting for lunch, and spend some time together.

If nothing else, it was a beautiful day just to be out.

The early morning passed quickly, as did the chill that had been so refreshing. Soon I found myself on the road and focusing on the tasks at hand. Before long, my car pulled into the parking lot of the Trail to find a van full of students and teachers already unloaded and heading into the Visitor’s Center. The first thing that stood out was that they were dressed much like the rural people of the valleys from where I had just been, with the women wearing long skirts and head scarfs. It was nice to see something that crossed the decades of time and oceans which were a physical reminder of the past. Making my way into the office, past the bustling activity of the visitors preparing for their tour, I settled down for my meal. About that time my wife whispered in my ear, “Would you have time to give them a guided tour if they want to take one?” With almost no thought I replied, “Sure, I can make time.”

In the other room, the group decided to eat lunch first, so without knowing it, our timing would be in sync for what was to come. From the other room I overheard a marvelous tale. As they ate, one of the leaders read a story to the group of a young Waldensian girl and her mother. The story told of how Piedmontese soldiers showed up one day to search their house for any trace of a Bible. They had just been reading scriptures while mixing the dough for the daily bread. Owning or possessing a Bible during this timeframe was punishable by death. Knowing the dire circumstances, the woman had to act quickly. Before the child knew it, her mother had hidden the family Bible in the dough she had been kneading at the time of their arrival and shoved it into the hearth to bake. The mother answered the angry knocks at the door, allowing the men to enter and search as they wanted. Not soon enough, they left, as rudely and briskly as they had entered. They were none the wiser.

“Where did you hide our Bible,” asked the little girl?

“Soon you will see,” she smiled.

Not long after the mother pulled the finished bread from the oven. The mother smiled and nodded toward the loaf sitting before her. The child’s eyebrows raised at the thought.

“You put it in the bread,” she questioned, unbelievably?

“Yes, where else could I have put it?”

The story was a perfect preface for their visit. I hadn’t heard it before and wondered to myself where they had found it. My mental deliberations were momentarily broken when I heard my wife asking them if they might like a guided tour instead of just taking the self-guided tour, “We actually have one of our guides here today,” she was happy to convey. After a short discussion, the group leader replied, “Yes, we’d love to if it is possible.”

Quickly swallowing the last of my sandwich, I found an extra Trail T-Shirt in the closet and donned my uniform for the afternoon.

I was back at the Trail.

Like most tours, we started at the relief map, where we describe the valleys. However, something was much more real to me than before. Looking down at the man-made mountain tops, I now knew where and how these valleys flowed. Although one could spend a lifetime trying to learn every crag and valley path, my journey had allowed me a perspective unique to anything previously thought. As I pointed to the various places, I pulled out my device and opened the gallery, then with pictures displaying in hand, I waved above those points relative to the pictures to bring alive the crude landscape below; it was amazing.

“You need to make that part of the display,” exclaimed one of the leaders.

As we stood watching, one by one, we saw the valleys come to life even before we left the Visitor’s Center.

From there, my previous script for presenting the Trail began to change. The reality from which the exhibits on the Trail were created now had new meaning and purpose. Beyond what was before us, the story behind the story became more concrete, more vivid. From ages of third grade to adult, our tour group listened intently at each new scene before them. Their questions kept bringing to light, additional details that were too important to leave out. What once seemed relevant, and meaningful seemed to diminish in what really was at stake; sharing how the Word was protected, preserved, and evangelized so that all might come to know the one true, living God.

Having been in the real cave with a communion, I was worried that there would be a fakeness to the Trail’s cave which might deter feelings I had once experienced almost every tour. When the group began to sing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the fear quickly disappeared. The tiny little voices mixed with those of the adults made a chorus that was heaven divine. My faith was restored once more.

As we passed through the doors of the church, my mind once more wondered how this too might change. Would it seem less than before? We would soon know.

While sharing the story of the Ciabas and the history behind it, everything seemed the same, up until one of the leaders asked how I had found out I was Waldensian. That’s when things changed once again.

Standing in front of little ones, I was worried about the length of time it might take to share my personal story. Yet, as I began, my eyes kept searching for signs of boredom, idleness, or sleep; there were none. It was as if they were rapt with the moment, so I kept going. Before long, my heart was overflowing as the Holy Spirit poured forth. As my eyes filled with tears of emotion, there was not much more one could say, other than, “Thanks be to God.”

On a beautiful, clear Carolina day, a sweet group of children and adults found their way to a place where a man once called his job, although it really wasn’t a job, because that is something you do for work. If you love what you do, you’ll never work another day; and so it was. But God had plans to push us further than we often think we can go, and usually more than we think we can handle. We may never know where and how He is using us. On this one particular day in June, God’s pathway put us together, where the Lord led us all to the Trail of Faith. He united a wonderful group called the “Wilderness Scouts,” with a former Director and tour guide, who now is simply a servant of the Lord. The result from this servant’s perspective was Godly.

“For we were once darkness, but now we are light, live as children of the light…”

As one of the leaders expressed as they were about to leave, “It was another God-chance.”

And to that, all one can say is, “Amen.”

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 25, 2017 · 9:56 pm

Your Testimony may save a life…

“And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, and they did not love their lives to the death.” – Revelation 12:11

There was a refreshing coolness that greeted me at the door this morning when I stepped out onto the porch for my morning coffee and worship. It was hard not to think of being somewhere else. Sipping the dark brew from the cup, I closed my eyes and tried to stay, but that distant land called me back, once more.

“How was your trip,” they ask when meeting up with friends and acquaintance aware of the recent journey. A flood of words, scenes, and experiences overwhelm my ability to answer coherently, so most times, the answer is simply, “Great.” Inside my mind’s eye, there is a multitude of moments, vistas, and sheer splendor that would take more time than would be kind to the would-be inquisitor. Most often they seem to be waiting for more, but in honesty, there is too much to tell.

How does one put into words the dramatic landscape that is difficult even now to describe to myself, let alone someone else? How does one convey a deep connection to a place that they had never seen before, until a few days ago? How does one share the emotional roller coaster of a faith journey which reaches the very depths and peaks of comprehension, many times in the same day? How do you share a family’s journey that took three centuries to come full circle? How do you explain how ill prepared to you feel to answer their simple question because, in truth, you know the bottom line is that God had worked a miracle upon miracle for your very existence?

There is a gulf between the here and now; a chasm that separates this world from the one that was left behind. The void is something that only time can bridge. As the water flows over the rocks below the surface, time slips past, beneath the visible there exists those that have been there, since the beginning of creation. Their bones now buried with the stone upon where they once stood. When the torrent shifts, the surface dances exposing for an instant the rocks below. For a brief instant, the flash of what has been becomes known. We are able to perceive something beyond what we can describe, for before our capacity to understand can grasp what is evident, it is gone, hidden once more from view. As if taunting our mind’s ability for conceptualization, we are left with an impression of wanting more. Nothing would satisfy our intellect more than to be able to confirm what we can only now guess.

Soldiers return home from active duty and find themselves having to adjust their mental condition to a pace of life far different from where they had just left. In the worst cases, they have suffered battle scars that will never heal. They are trapped in a world that cannot understand the depths of hell from which they had survived; meanwhile, the reality of living must go on. The trip to the grocery store is no longer a forgettable routine. The images, sounds, and smells can trigger an instant replay of the carnage from which they have come, leaving them shaken and disoriented. As the heartbeat quickens, there is an instinct for survival that returns, and they act out in ways those they have known for a lifetime don’t recognize. These are their battle scars, the acronym known as PTSD.

Similarly, the missionary or peace worker that returns from a war-torn country, a disease riddled death zone, or a horrific life changing event, sometimes face similar, but most often, to a lesser degree, the same experience. There is a gulf created between the world they once knew and who they’ve become from the event. As they try to readjust to the normalcy they once knew, there is so much going on behind the façade they put forth. Deep inside, they are reliving what death and despair can become, while about them, others argue about the difficulty in choosing plain or peanut flavored M&M’s before they find their movie theater seats. In the grocery store, in the next aisle over, a child screams for their favorite Nutella flavored cereal. They blink, and the image of the body of an emaciated child they carried to the medical tent just the week before, sucks the air from their throat. They bite their lip and leave behind the shopping cart, racing for the exit of the store before they must explain to some stranger why tears are running down their cheeks.

In truth, if your journey was severe, if your trip was extremely uplifting, or in the rare case, it really didn’t to seem to change you, a mission trip can leave you feeling more than a little awkward once you return to the life you once had. There is an emotional gulf that cannot be explained to most, and in truth, many really don’t want to hear it. “It’s your choice to go, it was your choice to put yourself through that, so why do we have to hear all about it?” they say.  They may not say it to your face, but many times, they think it silently.

However, we cannot be dissuaded by calloused remarks; it is our duty to share. What our detractors may say and think is the darkness speaking. Satan using their fears of the unknown to keep them frozen in their comfortable lifestyles. As long as the lost can remain afloat in their feeble existence, savoring the brief moments of fleshly pleasures, Satan has won. They’ll never have a reason to change.

Your testimony may be the difference between someone accepting Christ into their lives, or at the very least, making them think twice about why they don’t believe.

When the battle was at hand, we called upon His name, our Father in Heaven. Once more, when we return, we cannot do it alone. To reach the mountaintop and return, there is more than is humanly conceivable one can do, and just like before, we must ask for our Father’s hand. As a disciple for Christ, He prepared you for the journey, and as that disciple returning home, He will prepare you once more.

Miracles made your journey possible, and many more await when your testimony becomes the path for many more to follow. Let your story be told, and with it, the Word be shared, so that others may find their way to the light.

Time is short.

“And do this, knowing the time, that now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now our salvation is nearer than when we first believed. 12 The night is far spent, the day is at hand. Therefore let us cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light.” – Romans 13:11-12

We must not delay.

And in all that we do, give thanks.

Thanks be to God.

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by | June 22, 2017 · 8:14 pm

Day 6: Costelluzza: A Solemn Reminder

Day 6: Costelluzza

The rocks were damp to the touch, but the coolness and relief from the flies was refreshing. The climb through the forest was intense. All around the sparse trail, plush ferns grew, blanketing the forest floor. Here and there, granite boulders peaked above the greenery, their stillness matching that of the tree trunks that stood towering to the canopy overhead. Only two days before, we had scaled a mountain reaching 9137 feet while watching the world from high above the tall waterfall that cascades down into the Germanasca valley. Today’s climb seemed more intense, more purpose-driven.

Briars ripped at my flesh, exposing streaming trails of blood down my forearms. “Battle wounds,” I mused to myself. As I caught the group that had been dropped off ahead of mine, I was stopped by a very caring, dear, EMT trained student who was traveling with us, Nadine, who insisted she bandage my wounds. Looking back, it was just as if we had fought through enemy lines, and one-by-one, we were taking care of the wounded before we ascended further. Once my dressing was complete, and the remainder of my team arrived, we rushed onward.

Mount Costelluzza, overlooking Torre Pellice, Italy.

As we climbed, it felt as if something were driving us.

There was a sense of urgency to the ascent.

In the back of our minds, the story of the people of the valleys fleeing their persecutors, looking for refuge here on this mountain peak which overlooked their village kept driving us onward. Some may have sought shelter from the cave below, but their attackers followed too closely, so in a sheer panic, they tore at the rock, hands, feet, anything that could grasp. The air emptied from their lungs, as their hearts beat in their ears. Their body’s energy spent, they called upon God to deliver them. Inside, a force from on high lifted them, their pains erased as the chill of the Spirit came over their beings. One by one, they reached the summit only to find that the men below, pushed by the darkness that ruled their world, would not stop their pursuit. There on the edge of the earthly terrain, the chasm opening to the depths below; the drop which plummeted beyond where the eye could follow. Nowhere else to run, they turned to meet their attackers.

Some knelt in prayer, others embraced their loved ones, while some chose to resist, but in vain.

The crime for which they were sought for slaughter was only to worship, possess, and evangelize the Bible. To these Waldensians, as they came to be known, the Word was real. Their scriptures came alive, they became part of who they were. Some might imagine them reading the scriptures as thus, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his Glory,” and for this they believed the words written when He said, “ Go therefore[c] and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen.”

It is written that the blood of the martyrs became the seeds of the Reformation.

Some say over three-thousand were thrown to their deaths that day. John Milton would be so moved, that he would pen the words to the sonnet, “On the Late Massacre in Piedmont.”

“Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold, Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones; Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”

I sat on the cool boulder within the shadows of the cave. Looking out on that solemn stone surface, the edge of the earth disappearing before me, the mist of the sky becoming one with the feeling of sorrow filling my soul. I ate in silence, feeding my body’s need for nourishment. From the protection of the stones, I sat and chewed, trying to absorb the moment. There was no joy in that sustenance, only that it would allow me the strength to descend from this point. Something inside me wanted to hold onto this place. Part of me wanted to keep its memory in me, but fear of feeling that pain of remorse, the depths of which paled in comparison to the heights at which so many fell from when they met their fate on the horrific Easter day so many years ago, it all was so difficult to comprehend.

The sheer tragedy so long ago was still here; its mark forever cast upon the granite, like gravestones of the perished.

They did not all die. For if it were so, I would not be here to tell you of this story today.

Our tale continues.

Yes, the light still continues to shine in the darkness.

The students came, slowly, painfully, but they came. The pestilence of flies flew in clouds about our bodies. Satan himself vying for attention in a place he had claimed his own, its darkness could still not overpower the faith that was shared. As the testimony was called upon, the air seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. His Word was spoken, out loud, freely with no fear.

God wiped his hand across our vestiges, and the darkness subsided; the cloud of flies dispersed. In the distance, thunder rumbled a warning. Not yet fully recuperated, we began racing for the trail to descend. Weary legs were called upon to carry us safely down the rocky path, winding back and forth in a seemingly never-ending drop down the backside of this monolithic reminder of the martyrs that have gone on before.

Our time at the summit was brief, yet the impact of its solemnness will live with us forever.

There is so much more to tell, but the gravity of this journey weighs heavy upon the soul. It will take time for its meaning and purpose to come to fruition in my life, as well as all those that made the journey that day.

I’m thankful beyond measure and blessed beyond belief to have made the trip, for with God, all things are possible. To know the obstacles that stood in the way, would in itself be enough to write about, but there is so much more to the story.

With time, it will come.

In all that we do, let us give thanks.

Thanks be to God.

{Events described herein were from the recent Mission to R.I.D.E, my first ever, journey to the Waldensian Valleys in the Cottien Region of the Italian Alps. My trip was made possible in part to many wonderful contributors, to whom I cannot thank enough, and to Andrews University, for allowing me to ride along with their inspiring group of young adults, to whom I will forever be thankful. Thanks to Professor Kathy Demsky and her husband Conrad, for being such an inspiration.  My journey would not have been the same without my traveling companion and brother in Christ, Barry Mahorney. Lastly, but not least, I give thanks to God the Father, for all that he has blessed us with, both at home and around the world. Thanks be to God.}

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by | May 21, 2017 · 4:20 pm

Every Mountain has Two Sides…

“His foundation is in the holy mountains.” -Psalm 87:1

For every mountain has two sides, like every story has two tales.

He stood looking as the sunset washed against the granite walls making the monolith perpetuate itself against an azure sky. Long shadows cast about where he stood as the nearby peaks already beckoned the coming night. He had not seen Grandfather from this angle before, facing east. Heretofore, his sunsets were always on his eastern side facing west. Tonight, he was on the other side, in more ways than one.

A few feet from where the man stood, the entrance sign to the Hugh Chapman Center began to flicker, attempting to illuminate the letters. The beautiful YMCA facility set against the backdrop of Grandfather Mountain was a picture postcard scene, one which all of Avery County could be proud. A chill began to blow across the collar of his sports coat reminding him that he had not dressed for the duty to which he was now assigned; standing guard at the entrance of the High School Prom. As the temperature dropped and the sun slid behind distant peaks, his mind began to wander.

Ironically, even after all these years, this would be his first Prom…ever.

Across the many miles of life, the soul hath traveled.

In his youth, he sought to climb the mountain before him, the beast in his mind’s eye, the obstacle in his path which prevented him from becoming what he thought he was meant to be. There were so many unknowns. The mountain before him in his youth was shadowed from the sun, dark and ominous; he seemed to face another uphill battle around every corner he turned. The child fought against himself as much as he clashed against the world around him. Many had sought to help him along his way, and as such, he was no stranger to the Word. Even in the midst of all the struggles, he heard the preacher tell his congregation one Sunday that if you wanted to find a home in eternity, you needed to find the Lord; and at the tender age of 13,  he was saved. Yet, like those finding salvation in their youth, he seemed to lose his way. As a teen, he continued to try to run from God, making bad choice after bad choice, while many times being saved only by the grace of God. However, with time, and the prayers of those who loved him, he eventually found his path, the one that leads to the top; success would eventually be within his grasp.

Accolade after another began to pour in when he finally made something of his life. From nothing to something, this was his story; the world was in his pocket, or so he thought.

One day, after having achieved the summit, the man realized he was still bound to his earthly domain, stuck in a rut from which there was little escape. What once seemed to be the prize had now become his prison. Distraught with denial he had chosen incorrectly, he began to question where he now stood in life. His thoughts turned to his salvation and what it all had meant.

Still the prayers were lifted on his behalf, and at last, his own were added to the chorus.

“Many are called, but few are chosen…”

When the realization of who he had become, and who he served, the man realized the truth; he had been following the wrong master, for God was not the center of his life. Seeking answers from the only place he knew, the man turned to the Word of God. In the corner of the bookshelf, he found the dust covered volume he had so long neglected. When he opened it, there seemed to be a voice speak from within, “I AM with you.” Page after page, the light began to shine upon where he must go and what he must do. He was finally awakening to what God had called him to be; following Him, the creator of all, God the Father.

A new world began to open before the man, and with the new world, he found new friends and a new beginning. The prison in which he thought he had been trapped suddenly released him and the mountain of debt was dissolved; the shackles of his life had been removed like Paul and Silas’s; God had set him free.

But where do you go when you are finally freed from someplace you never thought you would escape, let alone survive?

You must begin life anew.

Once the man set out upon his new journey in life, he soon realized, he was now back in the deepest, darkest valley, far below that distant mountain top. He was starting over, like a babe in the woods. Yet, he feared no evil, he feared no darkness, for the Lord was with him. When he tired, he rested, when he thirsted, the Lord provided him nutriment. Step by step, he learned how to survive in this new world. Unlike the struggles he had found in his former life when trying to reach the summit, these new obstacles didn’t dissuade him from his path. Instead of becoming distraught, he sought answers in prayer. When he was overwhelmed with trials, he sought the Lord in prayer. Every new challenge he found he was never alone.

One day, after several months of hiking, he looked up. There before him stood the same mountain as before, but now, he looked upon it from the other side. Unlike before, he could now see the beauty in its splendor for the sunset was no longer shadowed in its path. Alit in a miraculous glow, the glory of the Father beckoned him onward, and upward, calling him to the summit above.

As the night air swirled around him, he pulled his collar up a little tighter. He stamped his slowly numbing feet to keep the up the circulation. However, the elements bothered him little. He was here for a purpose. Deep in his heart, he knew the decision was right; he had finally chosen wisely.

Yes, he had never been to a Prom before, but oh how beautiful it was now that he had finally made it.

The day we step into our Heavenly home, will be the greatest day of all, and then, we shall all rejoice in His glory, the Prom of all Proms.

Thanks be to God.

 

 

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