Sermon Illustrations
EASTER MINORITY REPORT
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EASTER: THE MINORITY REPORT
By O. Benjamin Sparks
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It was distinctly a minority report, what the women told the apostles.
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Jesus was dead. The 11 knew he was dead; some of them, with the women, had watched him die on the hillside outside Jerusalem, had watched his pitiful, lifeless body lowered from the cross. And three of these women, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary, the mother of James, dutifully, graciously, lovingly carried the spices and ointments to the tomb where the corpse of Jesus lay, there to anoint the dead body. Jesus was dead.
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Why do you seek the living among the dead? He told you
he would be crucified by sinners and rise on the third day.
Why do you seek the living among the dead?
(Luke 24:5-7)
So the women ran to tell the news in faith to those who waited. And they were overruled. The voices of the apostles
prevailed. The joy of their discovery, The truth of their remembering and the astonishment all were dismissed as an idle tale, a foolish tale, fey nonsense. The women appeared to have lost it!
Of course, Peter's curiosity was piqued, and off he ran to investigate, to fondle the graveclothes, and to wonder what had happened to the body.
Only the women believed, and their witness was a minority report.
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NOT JUST on Resurrection morn, however, has the news of Christ's rising been received as a minority report. We might understandably ask if such news, to be trusted in life and in death, has ever made headway in the world, has ever
been a majority report anywhere.
Certainly against the drum rolls of human history, the Resurrection, if you can hear it at all, is but the faintest melody, now heard, now drowned out, soon forgotten.
History is our majority report, to be sure: full of nobility, grandeur, beauty; full of self-sacrifice, honor, and service (we are made, after all, in the image of God).
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But our conquests and strivings, our explorations and discoveries, our symphonies and political systems, our precious documents and ideas — we know only how to protect those accomplishments with spears and bayonets, with the raising of armies, with weapons of unparalleled destruction.
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Through it all, we are making a name for ourselves. We are writing our majority report across the centuries of certain
anonymity.
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Persy Bysshe Shelley captured human striving as well as anyone. In his sonnet, he describes the broken statue of a king, lying shattered in the desert. On every side, as far as the eye can see, long reaches of sand stretch as if into eternity. Yet cut into one of the crumbling pieces of monument are these words: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair."
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In time, even monuments come to look like tombstones, and tombstones crumble and turn to dust and the long stretches of sand reach as if into eternity. Human history is our majority report, and in the end, human history is nothing but a graveyard.
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And then, faintly, comes news of Resurrection. Over against our clamoring after eternity, over against our trying to make a name for ourselves, comes the name that is above every name, the minority report of Easter mom. It is something we humans cannot do for ourselves.
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Why do we keep on seeking eternal life in the graveyard of history? Why do we seek the living among the dead?
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Thank God there is a minority report.
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THERE IS another minority report. It is not only in history, but in creation.
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What a glorious day: the perfect Easter, lawns alive with daffodils and tulips; hedges of forsythia; peach and quince
in full blossom. Intimations of immortality all around us —so we believe.
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We play with eggs; we dye them, paint them, decorate them; we hide them, we roll them, we find them. Bunnies and bonnets abound. Fertility and rebirth are celebrated. Winter is over and the earth is robed in the blooming garb of spring.
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We rejoice in nature's way of putting a brave face on decay and death that come as surely as winter comes. And so we mimic nature, with our powders and creams and balms, our hot tubs and stress clinics and exercise fads, trying valiantly to put our own brave face on fat, on wrinkles, on muscles and bones that have an inescapable tendency to let us down at last, just as surely as spring eventually turns to winter.
Spring is a majority report on death, and if spring is all there is, if spring is our only intimation of immortality, then T.S. Eliot is absolutely right:
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April is the crudest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land...
stirring dull roots with spring rain...
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Without the minority report of Easter morning, without those women running back to tell the obtuse disciples, the beauty of this spring day is a cruel commentary on nature. For all of creation (flowers and bunnies, flesh and bones) is destined for dust, and will return to carbon and oxygen and nitrogen.
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Why do we seek eternal life in the fragile beauty of nature, destined for decay? Why do we seek the living among the dead? Why do we carry flowers to the tombs?
Thank God there is a minority report.
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Resurrection is a gracious postlude to the cycle of death-draped abundance in God's creation.
Resurrection is a faint, pleading melody, sometimes overheard and sometimes believed, above the crashing drum rolls, of history.
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And resurrection is a minority report to the dread and foreboding of the human heart.
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WHAT WILL IT BE that gets us in the end? Cancer? A car crash coming out of nowhere? The death of a beloved child?
The stray missile, the unsought, unpopular war? AIDS? Alzheimers? One of the hundred murders in the city of Richmond? What tragedy has our name etched upon it?
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If you have seen the movie "Hannah and Her Sisters," you will know that the principal subplot of the film is Woody Allen's coming to terms with just such a question, his foreboding fear of death.
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He portrays a bumbling (but successful) television producer. He has failed at marriage; he is a chronic hypochon-driac, always worrying about his health, seeing first this doctor and then the next, trying first this cure and then the next, mortally afraid of dying, a perfect mirror of our pampered age.
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And then it hits him: blurring vision and dizziness. It could be, he learns after the preliminary examination, a tumor on the brain.
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He imagines the worst and is struck dumb with terror. Then come the extensive tests, the x-rays, CT scans, consultations, until, at last, he confronts his doctor for the final report. He is free! Free of cancer, free of disease, free to live the rest of his life.
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He walks out of the hospital and dances in the street. Suddenly, the dancing stops. Meaninglessness, after an encounter with the real things, knocks the breath out of him. He quits work and searches for meaning: in a brief flirtation with the Hare Krishnas, in a several-months' affair with Roman Catholicism, much to the dismay and consternation qf his Jewish parents who long ago accepted the majority report on human existence and even on the Holocaust.
Allen persists, and, finding nothing to satisfy his longing, in great despair bungles a suicide attempt. Then one day, in deep depression, hw wanders into a movie. Of all things, it is the Marx brothers in a comedy of song and dance and celebration.
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As he later explains to a friend, he knew in the midst of that film as he had never known before that maybe somewhere
there is meaning in existence; maybe there is something after death, but we can't prove it. No one can prove it. "Perhaps,
maybe is enough...."
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It is enough to give Woody Allen what he needs to enjoy the life he has.
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Another majority report.
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In our very protected, privileged lives, where we have the time and grace and even aptitude for seeking after truth and meaning, "maybe" can be enough. Perhaps maybe is enough for all those self-contained souls who worry only
about their own meaning and destiny and who really spend little energy or imagination on the destiny of us all.
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Perhaps maybe is enough, and perhaps maybe is the best majority report available to those who have never over-
heard the tentative, faint melodies of Easter morning. Perhaps "maybe" is the best we can do without Easter.
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But it was not enough for God who, in the Resurrection of Jesus, does not give us something general about all human
flesh just because it's human, but gives us something special about a particular human being: Jesus of Nazareth.
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HERE IS WHAT is most important of all: God raised him, whom sinners crucified. And that means that God vindicated his life of justice and mercy and love. Even one of the thieves and the centurion saw it. "Certainly this man was innocent!," said the centurion.
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It is not human life on its own that gets confirmation at Easter, but specifically the life of Jesus of Nazareth. He went about doing good, healing the sick and teaching the mercy and graciousness of God: like a father who fan out to meet a wayward child; like a mother hen who would gladly have gathered her brood under her wings, but they would not recognize goodness.
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God raised Jesus, who invited women to sit at his feet and feed on the word of life, who touched lepers, and gave the
blessings of almighty God to gentiles, who did not lift the sword to defend himself and forbade his followers from using the sword to protect him; who bore in his body on the cross the majority reports of human greatness and human goodness: Roman power and Jewish religion.
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God raised Jesus, the stone which did not even seek a prominent place in the structure of the building, and which the builders had rejected. God made him the chief corner-stone.
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God's minority report, against all the arrogance and pretense and posturing of our collective and individual lives. We were sure Jesus was dead. We saw it then and we have seen it since. And before we even asked for Jesus to be raised; before we called, before we cried out, God answered! And the women discovered to their everlasting joy (and ours) that God's promises were true; that God could be trusted.
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Resurrection is God's minority report, on the state of the universe, on the destiny of human history, and on the end of creation, and as the ultimate answer to the meaning of your existence and mine. It is only left to us to listen and believe.
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BENJAMIN SPARKS is pastor of Second Presbyterian Church of Richmond, Va.
April 4, 1988 THE PRESBYTERIAN OUTLOOK
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EASTER ATTENDANCE
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PARSON TO PERSON
by the Rev. Kenneth D. Lister
I love family reunions. In a way, Easter is like a family reunion. Everybody and his brother comes to church. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not carping because they are not here every Sunday. I’m merely stating a fact of life.
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Naturally, any minister worth his salt would love to have a full sanctuary every Sunday but few are so blessed. There are
excuses: some good, some not so good. I believe that God is dealing with those people who absent themselves from worship
too. In some instances it takes the realization of spiritual needs to draw people out of homes and into a church on Sunday
morning. Sometimes those internal insights and feelings take time to crystallize. Unfortunately, sometimes a painful crisis is required.
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People may try to rationalize their continued absence but the truth sneaks through the fabricated defenses. God wants his disciples to worship him so they can become and remain strong. Fear of hell will scare nobody into church. The pleadings of a preacher will not win the day. Even growth programs by themself aren’t enough.
God’s best shot at his delinquent children was made many years ago - on a Cross. When the Spirit gets to us and convinces us we cannot turn away such love, we will be sold one hundred percent on worship and service for him. Has he made you a willing captive of his love? He has already won the hearts of many and for all those who worship regularly every week, here’s one minister who is very grateful.
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Blessings and power,
Kenneth D. Lister
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EASTER LAST LAUGH
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God's Last Laugh
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Easter is faith's most serious assertion, but can we not hear in it a kind of holy laughter? This unknown nobody from nowhere, disclaiming every conventional rule of protocol, defying every earthly power, rewriting religion, challenging tradition, reversing values, deliberately choosing the disinherited and the heartbroken, proclaiming hope to all who had no hope, forgiving the undeserving, finally tortured and put to death, sealed in a tomb — the assertion that this is the one God has raised from the dead has thrown everything everyone ever thought off balance.
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Can we not see in it a kind of holy humor? Not a cruel joke, but a joke more in the sense of a surprise gift, something nobody expected — or deserved. No wonder some feared it too good to be true, while others fear it too true to be good (in terms of its demands). No wonder so many take Easter so lightly, for it is indeed a fearsome assertion.
And all the while, God laughs, like some grandparent on the porch swing watching the children at play — so serious at times, so carefree at others. God laughs because God knows what they do not know, cannot know, that the delivery truck is on the way with a gift beyond all expectation.
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Harvey Cox says, "Some people, no matter how hard you try to explain it, simply don't get a joke." The Easter story, he says, is like that. There is no point in trying to explain it or make it more plausible. Easter is the moment when the laughter of the universe breaks through. It fades, of course, like a distant radio signal on a stormy night. A lot of noise and static crowds it out; but, once we have heard it, we know from then on it is there. Cox calls it, in all seriousness, "God's last laugh."
P.C. Ennis Jr., Pastor, Central Presbyterian Church, Atlanta, Ga., from Journal for Preachers, Easter 1988. See Page 6.
on cover page of The Presbyterian Outlook, APRIL 4, 1988
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EAT
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YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT
By Paul A. Corcoran
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Student assistant Andy Ross began his sermon a few weeks ago with the suggestion that we think of what kind of food we
would like to be, if we were going to be food instead of people. The first thing that came to mind was the nutritionist’s slogan, “You are what you eat.”
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Does that mean I’m a bowl of All-Bran?
Actually, I’d rather be a crab casserole with cheddar cheese sauce. I want to be loved. I used to think that as a clergyman, I was gourmet food at bargain prices. Now I feel more like aging food, but I am consoled by the fact that the older cheese gets, the sharper it gets; and old wine is always best, even if it isn’t bursting many wineskins anymore.
Some clergy people are egg foo young: you can’t figure them out. Some think they are chicken soup: good for what ails
you. I could be stewed prunes, just to keep you active. I always considered my sermons soul food, but some people have
been ingracious enough to suggest that they are really junk food.
The legendary Satchel Paige once said that you should never eat fried foods because “it angers the stomach.” Sometimes I’m fried food to the session, but if I get them home by 10, they forgive and forget, as if they’d had some Pepto-Bismol.
ALL THIS ABOUT FOOD makes you wonder whether the church was born with a menu for its first Bible. We do know that it all began with an apple, and it does seem that we manage to eat something at just about every event we have in the church. I wonder if Jesus didn’t say, “Behold, the pot-luck supper is at hand, repent ye!” Some of us have been repenting after pot-luck suppers for a long time, now.
The children of Israel got through the wilderness on frequent ingestion of manna and quail, which caused them such serious gastric repentance that Moses had to go out and get them some tablets.
Jacob and Esau split up over a bowl of red stew, which sounds as if it could split up anybody. John the Baptist invented the Jordan River diet of locusts and wild honey; and you wouldn’t believe the pages of recipes and directions the Bible has for keeping Kosher.
It’s a long way from Eve’s offer of an apple to the Ladies’ Aid hoagie sale and quilt raffle, but it all seems to be on the same text: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and all your soul, and all your appetite, and your cookbook as yourself.” I never knew a church that didn’t have a book of favorite recipes to sell along with its tracts and Bible portions. Right there beside the Ten Commandments and the Beatitudes, we grew up learning Aunt Mary’s favorite recipe for seven-bean salad and tuna surprise.
We teach the toddlers in the nursery to eat cookies even before we have them singing “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam.” Even the rookie preacher learns to get his sermon finished before all the potroasts in the congregation start to burn.
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The Lord’s army does, indeed, seem to travel on its stomach. So, I guess that when the egg roll is called up yonder, we’ll all be there, chomping and munching and sipping and wondering if there will be seconds. Of course, the only reason we’ll make it at
all is because Jesus himself wanted to be food. He took bread and broke it, and a cup of wine and held it up, and he said,
“Here’s what I am ... for you.”
Without that, we would all be on the outside of the banquet hall, looking in.
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-In the Presbyterian Outlook back in the 20th century (I don't remember the date)
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EASTER (EGG) - SYMBOL
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Easter Egg Information
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The egg is an ancient symbol of renewed life. For pagans it symbolized the universe (the Persians believed the earth hatched from a giant egg). Ancient Egyptians dyed eggs. For Christians it is a symbol of the Resurrection. Early Christians of Mesopotamia first used colored eggs for Easter. 13th Century English decorated eggs at Easter. Greek Christians color eggs all red to show joy.
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The egg was prominent in the spring festivals of many different cultures. The hard shell of the egg is a reminder of the stone that covered the tomb and was rolled away as Christ emerged triumphantly conquering even death. The frail shell like the tomb is unable to hold the new life which is inside.
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Eggs are gently knocked together. One person says, ’’Christ is risen!” and the other responds, "Christ is risen indeed!".
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The egg was part of the festival (Passover) offering accompanying the sacrifice in the temple. That is why it is found on the Seder plate today.
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In northern Europe people called their spring festival EASTRE - after the goddess of Spring. The word Estre and the word East, where the sun rises, both come from the old word meaning Dawn or To Riseth. Her name was given to the month of April, which the people called 'Eastre Monath'. The symbols were the egg and the rabbit - both stood for new life. This old Estre festival celebrated the awakening and new life in nature. Thon, in the first century A.D. something very wonderful happened which changed the world. It also changed the meaning of the Spring Festival. The birth of Jesus gave the world Christmas - his
death and resurrection gave the world Easter.
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The egg stands for new life (II Corinthians 5:17). Many eggs were colored yellow for the returning sun, and red for joy and life. The egg is the oldest Easter gift. Before the time of Christ, it was customary to exchange eggs during Passover, and at early spring. The Christians saw it as the sign of the resurrection and believed it should signify the new birth of the risen Lord.
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PASSOVER EXPLANATIONS (SEDER) - The egg was first on the Passover plate to signify the River Nile. It was a symbol of the grave. The Nile was to be the watery grave of the Israelites. Pharaoh had decreed that every male child born to this people be cast into the river. This meant that, after a few generations with the male seed destroyed, Israel would have ceased to exist. The hard boiled egg enclosed in the shell is a vivid picture of Israel’s plight - as good as dead. From the human viewpoint there was no hope for them. Wo are reminded that the Divine sentence has been passed on mankind in the decree, “The soul that sinneth it shall die”. Unless God intervenes there is no hope for the human race.
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The egg is to be roasted. It symbolizes the free-will offering brought every day to the temple in Jerusalem during the Passover Feast. It is found in architecture of many early churches.
"Gathered from many sources."
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ETHICS (Joke)
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Juniors "Dad, what is ethics?"
Dad: "What is ethics? Well, I will show you. Suppose a lady comes into the store, buys a lot of goods and pays ten dollars too much when she goes out. Then comes in the ethics. Should I or should I not tell my partner?"
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Msgr. Arthur Tonne, Jokes Priests Can Tell, Vol. 2, 1984
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EVANGELISM - CONVERSION RATE
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Evangelistic Math = One Plus One
LISTENING TO THE WORD - MATTHEW 28:20
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How long would it take for Christians to convert the entire world? The answer may surprise you! Charles Allen writes: “Suppose that there were only one real believer on earth and that during an entire year that believer made one convert. Then there would be two. Suppose that during the next year the two made one convert apiece, then there would be four.
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"Suppose that the next year the four made one convert apiece, then there would be eight. Suppose that they kept the pace of
each winning one every year, how long would it take to convert every person in the entire world?"
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What's your answer? 500 years? 1,000 years? Before you reach for your calculator, Mr. Allen has the answer for us. He
says: “It has now been two thousand years since our Lord was on earth. Has that been enough time? Actually, there has been time enough, with just one winning one other per year, to convert sixty-five worlds like ours. Starting with just one and doubling each year, at the end of 31 years there would be 2,147,483,648 souls filled with God’s righteousness. The next year they could convert another world the size of this one.”
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Thirty-one years! That’s not very long! And it begins with just one person. We have an advantage, we can begin with two: you
and me. Let’s get started today!
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-N. C. N.
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EVENTS AND CONTINUITY
"We anticipate trends, extrapolate them into the future, but we remember not trends but particular incidents."
-Charles Hartshorne in "The Development of Process Philosophy," in Process Theology, Newman Press, NY, 1971
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