Sometimes on the last day of my Public Speaking class, we do impromptu speeches. When it is their turn to speak, each student will draw two topics out of an envelope. They select the one they want to speak about, and then they have two minutes to prepare a one-minute speech on the topic they chose. I also tell them that after they have all spoken, the class can choose any topic they want me to do (keep it clean! I say), and I will speak on it for one minute, without preparation and without notes.

It is always a lot of fun, and I have been given some wild topics to speak on over the years. My favorite topic was in a class last spring, when they asked me to speak on the question, “Who is your favorite student?” This one surprised me, because I am usually asked to speak about, “Your most embarrassing moment,” or, “Your thoughts on safe sex,” or similar topics.

I said a quick prayer as I walked to the front, really not sure at all how I was going to handle this. I smiled and named the young man right in front of me as my “favorite,” and several students yelled, “I knew it!” I spoke for a few seconds about him, telling the class why this guy was the best.

Then I looked at the next student and said that she was my favorite student, and shared some things about why she comes out on top. When I looked at the student beside her and named him my favorite, the whole class burst into laughter. They realized that I was going to go through the whole class, and I watched them all settle into their seats with eager smiles, as they waited until it was their turn to be praised.

I had a blast doing that and got a round of applause and a few “thank-you” comments as they filed out. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that exercise any, until this week, when I got an email from one of the students who was there that day. She gave me permission to use her comments in this column.

She wrote, “I’m not sure if you knew this about me but I am [a leader] in the school of communication. With this position I had to go on a retreat this weekend to the Outer Banks with the rest of the [student government leaders]. On this retreat we had an awesome presentation on how to deal with biases and pre-judgments and we talked about how that has affected our lives. I said how since I’m a girl with blonde hair and my big/hyper personality, people tend to have this idea that I’m not as smart or shallow. We reflected on this and talked about the best affirmation you’ve ever received. I will never forget the last day of class where you looked at me and said, ‘You are so smart.’ That was the first time a teacher has ever said that to me. It clearly stuck with me for a long time and I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.

“I wanted to let you know how much that small compliment meant to me. I think sometimes people tend to forget how much their words have an impact on someone else positive or negative.”

My former student is right, and we all know it, don’t we? Our words are powerful, and can build up or tear down, and yet we are often much too careless about what we say and how we say it.

The Bible has much to say about our words, but a verse that says it clearly is this one from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians: “Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.”

Lives are changed by grace, and grace-filled speech can bring healing and help. That is powerful truth, and news we can use.

Once as a teenager I went on a double date with my cousin. Halfway through the date, I found out the girl I was with had an insanely jealous boyfriend named Marty. He was also big, she said. “And,” she added, “he has a nasty temper.” I figured that to be a deadly combination, so I filed that information away, reminding myself to avoid this boyfriend of hers at all costs. We were driving home later that night when all of a sudden my cousin said, “Uh-oh.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked, thinking maybe we were running out of gas. “Don’t look now,” he said, “but Marty is right on our tail.” I looked anyway and saw a car about two inches from our bumper, and we were doing 60 miles an hour on the interstate.

Now, up until this point I had only done one thing I regretted, and that was to go out with this girl in the first place. But now I became a willing participant in a series of stupid mistakes. May I say to any teens who happen to be reading this: “Don’t try this at home … or on the interstate.” My cousin floored the car, a 1972 Camaro Z-28, and we took off like a rocket. We were going over 90 with Marty right on our tail, and it is only by the grace of God, gentle readers, that I am here to tell the story.

We finally reached our exit, careened onto the ramp, and headed for my cousin’s house. Marty was only seconds behind us. My cousin realized we weren’t going to outrun him, so he said something like, “Good luck, Mark,” as we screamed into his driveway on two wheels. I was shaking with adrenalin and fear, and could hear the words “big … nasty temper … insanely jealous” reverberating in my skull. My legs felt like jelly, and my mouth was dry as dust.

About that time my cousin slammed on the brakes in his carport, and I managed to fall out of the car to face my attacker, who was leaping from his car as it slid to a stop in the driveway.

Now you have to realize that at this time in my life I had not yet had my growth spurt. In fact, I still haven’t had it, but I was a skinny 16-year-old then, only about 5 feet 6 inches tall, and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. As I recall it, Marty seemed to tower over me by at least a foot. But what I remember most of all was the purple rage that consumed him. He was so filled with wrath that he had no control of his body. He couldn’t swing his fists because his anger controlled them. He couldn’t speak, but sputtered and spat, because the anger had his tongue. As he stumbled toward me I bent over, and he pounded me on my back. The blows were nothing, dissipated by the rage that shook Marty like a ragdoll.

I saw something that day I will never forget. Whatever fills you controls you, whether it is wine, anger, lust or greed. That’s why the Bible says, “Make no friendship with an angry man, and with a furious man do not go.” And, “Do not get drunk with wine, which leads to reckless actions, but be filled with the Spirit.”

After the dust cleared and the rage subsided that day, Marty and I had a friendly exchange. He gave me my life back, and I gave him his girlfriend. Seemed like the right thing at the time.

Imagine this scenario. A man has a teenager who, since he was a child, has been subject to violent seizures. His mouth foams and his teeth grind and his body bucks and lurches, raging with convulsion. The young man is deaf and unable to speak. He cannot talk to his father about the terror that he feels, never knowing when the next attack will occur. He cannot hear his father’s cries of anguish as he prays for his son. He can see his face, though, and the lines of worry have grown deeper on his father’s brow. His hair is gray and his shoulders are stooped and his hope is almost gone. The father has to watch his son every second because the attacks have happened frequently near fire or water and dragging his son from the flames or from the deep has taken its toll on both of them. The scars from the burns are testimonies to the torment a father and his son have endured together. How much longer?

You don’t have to imagine this scene. You can read about it in Mark 9. The story is true. The young man was not just under attack; the source was a demon. When his father heard that Jesus was passing through the region, he had hope for the first time, perhaps, in many years. He took his son to see Jesus, only to find that the Master and His three closest disciples were not there. The father turned to Jesus’ other disciples for help. They tried, but they failed. As the religious leaders of the day taunted the nine and argued with them, Jesus showed up on the scene. This is where the story really gets interesting.

As soon as the demon in the young man sees Jesus, he throws his host into a convulsion. The word in the text literally means the demon “tore him from side to side.” The young man fell on the ground at Jesus’ feet, his mouth foaming and his teeth grinding. Jesus asked the father how long this had been happening to his son, and the man replied, “From childhood.” The he said to Jesus, “If you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.” Jesus responds with the man’s own words: “If you can!” Then He added, “All things are possible for one who believes.” The man cried out with tears, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”

Now, you have to get this picture clear in your mind. This man’s son is possessed and has almost been destroyed many times by a demon. The father is desperate for his son’s deliverance. Jesus sees that. He sees the son writhing at His feet. In perhaps the most astonishing triage in history, Jesus decides that the immediate need is not the son but the father. The greatest evil was not in the boy but in the man. Even the father saw it.

Charles Spurgeon wrote, “It is very noticeable that the man did not say, ‘Lord I believe; help my child!’ Not at all. He perceives that his own unbelief is harder to overcome than the demon. And that to heal him of his spiritual disease was a more needful work than even to heal his child of the sad malady under which he labored.”

Jesus had compassion on the man as He spoke to his unbelief, and compassion on his son as He delivered him to wholeness.

What can be worse than unbelief? Not even a demon. The evil spirit may kill your body, but unbelief will do much worse.

When I was 13 years old, and weighed about 95 pounds, I joined my junior high school football team. At one of the first practices where contact was involved, we got introduced to what the coach called “the meat grinder.”

The name fit. Two boys lined up facing each other, 10 yards apart. On either side were tackling dummies, laid end to end, to create a narrow channel within which the “meat” could be ground. One boy was designated the runner, and handed a football, the other designated the tackler, and was given jeers and whistles and other forms of encouragement by the rest of the team.

I was called into the meat grinder, and the coach gave me the ball. A 14-year-old named C.D. (who as I recall was already shaving, stood 6 feet tall and weighed in at 165 pounds) crouched on the other end, ready to grind me into powder.

If this were a Disney movie, I would have bowled C.D. over, knocking him senseless, and the other boys would have carried me on their shoulders to the locker room, the coach running to catch us, anxious to talk to me about being their star running back that year. This was not a Disney movie.

C.D. hit me like a freight train, driving me back past the point where I had started running, and finished the job by landing with his full weight on my skinny frame. I lay there for a few minutes as the team snickered into their hands, and then I slowly raised my body from the dust, mentally checking to see if I still had all of my body parts. The only thing I can figure is, the coach was trying to get me to quit, but I was too stupid or too proud or both. I stayed on the team … but not really.

You see, though our team went undefeated that year, I never saw one minute of playing time. It wasn’t because the coach didn’t try to get me in the game. We would be up by 45 points at halftime, usually, and in the second half the coach would start putting in the scrubs. Eventually he made his way to me.

“Fox, have you been in the game yet?” he would always ask.

“Yes sir!” I would always squeak, mortified that he would call my bluff and make me play. But the coach knew what was going on, and he didn’t push it.

I was a part of a championship team, but I never got in the game. I was on the sidelines the whole year, cheering on my teammates, thankful to be there, but praying I would not have to actually go on the field and face my opponents.

I am still part of a championship team, the undefeatable church of Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul said, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair.” I think he knew something about being in the meat grinder. His response was never to retreat to the bench and the protection of the sideline. Paul, like his Savior, endured the trials, knowing that victory would come to those who put their trust in God.

I have been through a few “meat grinders” since that year in junior high. Not on the football field but in ministry, in marriage, and in the day to day challenges that can leave us all bruised and bewildered. But by God’s grace, I will never retreat to the bench again.

It is possible that one of the greatest untapped resources on the planet is the wealth of spiritual gifts that have been given to followers of Jesus Christ. Many believers simply do not know what has been given, why it has been given, and how to use the gift. Peter answers those questions succinctly in one sentence: “As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God; whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God supplies-in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ.”

Let’s address the questions by looking at this text. Question 1. How many believers have a spiritual gift? Each one. Every single person who is born again has a spiritual gift. Paul said, “But the manifestation of the Spirit is given to each one for the profit of all.” You cannot say something like, “Not me, man. I was looking the other way when God handed out the gifts.” Fact is, you had nothing to do with it.

Question 2. How does each believer get a spiritual gift? He or she receives it. It is a gift, not a wage or a tip or anything else earned. God gives it, which means God decides what he wants you to have. “God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose.”

Question 3. What is the purpose of the gift you and I have received? It is for the service of others, and for the glory of God.

People at a dinner party were puzzled when the host asked each one of them to hold out their arms at the table. The host then strapped two-foot-long planks onto each guest’s arms. A fork was attached to the end of each plank. The blessing was spoken, and the people were invited to begin eating. But there was no way to eat. They could not get the fork to their own mouths because of the planks. They were frustrated at first, but then one of them started laughing as she realized that though they could not feed themselves, they were each uniquely “gifted” to feed the person across the table. What they had been given was not for them but for others.

Question 4. How do I know what gift I have received? This is where we need to read the Bible, pray, and even experiment a little. The fact is, there are several different spiritual gifts; they are part of “God’s varied grace.”

That’s one of the things that makes the church so exciting and so frustrating at the same time. It can be frustrating because everybody is not just like you and does not see things the way you see them. It is exciting for the very same reason. That’s why Paul said, “If the whole body were an eye, where would be the sense of hearing? If the whole body were an ear, where would be the sense of smell?” Each gift is different and all of them are needed.

Some people attend a church service and all they can see is a need for more organization and leadership when it comes to meals for people, baby showers, work-days, and mission trips. Others come in and see a need for people to be taught the Bible. Others believe the church needs more resources so it can better impact the world with the Gospel. Others say, “I think I could help this church just by coming early and setting up chairs or sweeping the floor.” Each believer is uniquely gifted by God to help build and serve his church.

Are you using your spiritual gift to serve the body of Christ? It is never too late to start!

As the story goes, a man was watching TV with his wife when the doorbell rang. He went to see who it was and found his friend on the doorstep. “What are you doing?” the friend asked. He said, “Watching a movie.” The friend said, “Oh, which one?” The man knit his brow and worked on that thought for a moment, then said, “What’s that flower called that smells good but has thorns?” His friend replied, “Rose?” “Yeah, that’s it.” The man then turned and called back into the house, “Hey Rose, what’s the name of that movie we’re watching?” Now there’s a man with a memory problem. His forgetter is working overtime.

It’s important to remember the names of our loved ones, and diseases that strip that ability away are cruel and unusual punishment. But what about those who forget the very reason for their existence simply because they are consumed with lesser things? Why would Paul write to Timothy, “Remember Jesus Christ, risen from the dead”? Surely that is the last thing this young pastor would forget. Not so fast. You might argue that the banner over Israel in the Old Testament was, “They forgot God.” Moses said it this way near the end of his life: “You were unmindful of the Rock that bore you, and you forgot the God who gave you birth.” It is one of the reasons why I believe Jesus gave us the Lord’s Supper. “Do this,” He said, “in remembrance of Me.” It is a regular reminder for the body of Christ that employs all of our five senses as we taste, smell, touch and see the elements, and as we hear the words that he spoke, “This is my body, broken for you…this is my blood, poured out for you.”

The Taj Mahal is perhaps the most beautiful structure in the world. It was built in the 1600′s by an Emperor for his favorite wife after she died giving birth to their fourteenth child. It took twenty thousand men more than twenty years to build this magnificent shrine. The sad irony is that by the time the building was completed, the favorite wife had been gone so long that most in the empire did not know her memory and had no idea why the Taj Mahal had been built. They marveled at the edifice, ignorant of the life it celebrated.

It can be true of a church, can’t it? We build magnificent structures and cathedrals that dazzle the eye. We spare no expense to have the finest architecture, the tallest steeple, the largest sanctuary, or the most ‘cutting-edge’ programs. Then we drift away from center. We forget the reason we started the church in the first place. The stained-glass windows tell the story of the Gospel that we long since quit preaching. “The gospel? It is just too exclusive,” we say. “We need a more tolerant message.” The church bells still play the old hymns through the week, songs that many would be embarrassed to sing on Sunday. Songs like, “We’ve a story to tell to the nations, that shall turn their hearts to the right.” Or songs like, “Jesus shall reign wherever the sun does his successive journeys run; his kingdom spread from shore to shore, till moons shall wax and wane no more.” Those songs speak of the power of a gospel that is able to save in every village, every hamlet, every tribe, every tongue, every nation. They joyfully proclaim a hope that is exclusive and extensive, a hope that is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

Remember Jesus Christ, risen from the dead. We may forget who is enshrined in the Taj Mahal, because she is long gone. Jesus is not. He is risen from the dead. The living Savior is the very reason for our existence.

The greatest struggle of the average pastor in America is with discouragement and sometimes flat-out depression. The source of his discouragement may be the stress of the ministry and the absence of elders who are walking with him in it. Or the feeling that he is not equipped to take care of a flock. Or that he or his wife or children are struggling with their own sins that they believe they have to keep hidden in order to maintain the facade of a “nearly perfect family.” Or the daily struggle of caring for the needs of a church, sometimes going months without hearing a word of encouragement or gratitude from those he is serving. Or the source of his struggle may be financial stress.

Alistair Begg gave a talk at a pastors’ conference years ago entitled, “Dealing With the Blues.” His subject was ministerial depression, and the auditorium was packed with discouraged pastors and elders. After the session, elders from one church asked to talk with Alistair in private. “Our problem is not with the pastor, but his wife,” they said. “She is deeply depressed, and we have tried everything, but nothing has helped. What should we do?” Pastor Begg said, “Increase you pastor’s annual salary by $5000.” The elders were shocked and had no response. Later one of the members of the church who heard about this conversation found Alistair and said, “You don’t know how right on target you were. Our pastor’s wife has never been able to buy new shoes for her children, and the elders wear it as a badge of honor that the pastor’s family has to scrape together pennies to make ends meet. They believe they are helping them trust God. They think they are helping the pastor never to become a lover of money by making sure he doesn’t have any money to love.”

I heard about another pastor who was thrilled when a couple of families in his country church started giving him milk and eggs every week. Until he found out that the cost of the gifts was being deducted from his salary.

Paul addressed this issue of remuneration for pastors a number of times. He said to the church in Corinth, “If we have sown spiritual things for you, is it a great thing if we reap your material things?” To the church in Galatia, Paul wrote, “Let him who is taught the word share in all good things with him who teaches.”

Part of the problem is disobedience to the Scriptures with regard to providing for pastors. But there is a deeper problem with disobedience to the Word with regard to giving to the church. The average church in America operates on a 10/90 basis. Ten percent of the people give ninety percent of the money so the church can operate, the pastor and the elders can feed and care for the people (one hundred percent of them), the lights can stay on, and the missionaries the church supports can do their work all over the world. Let me ask you something. What percentage of people in American churches make their mortgage payment, or the payment on their car which provides them with physical transportation, in the same way they give to the church? I would guess that most do not. The few who do pay their bills that way end up losing their cars or their homes. Now, if we pay our bills one hundred percent of the time because we feel an obligation to do so and we want to continue to enjoy the material things that money provides, how much more should we cheerfully give to the church where we are loved, cared for, encouraged, and taught spiritual truth?

I thank God for those churches, including the one I serve, who love and provide for the ones who care for and feed the flock. I thank God for the many who encourage me and let me know they are grateful for our family and for my leadership.

What about you? Does your pastor or his wife have the blues?

If you had asked me five years ago (or at any time in my 37 years of marriage) if I thought I would ever take ballroom dancing lessons, I would have laughed and pointed at the floor while saying, “With these two left feet? Why would I want to do that to my wife?” But here we are, Cindy and I, about to finish up our third class in ballroom dancing, and ready to sign up for the next one. I still can’t believe it. I was the guy in theater productions who would be told by the director, “Mark, you just, uh, stand over there next to the fake tree while everyone is doing this dance number.” Dancing and I have never seen eye to eye, or foot to foot, and probably never will. But I love this ballroom dancing class for a couple of reasons.

First, I love our instructors. Rocky and Mary Lou won the Senior IV International Standard National Championship in 2012, but they don’t sport that bumper sticker on their car. And even though they are national champs, they are also excellent teachers. It is rare for people who have made it to the top to be good at coaching beginners, because their standard for excellence makes it difficult for them to have patience. Rocky and Mary Lou are outliers, in that case. Part of it is their faith: they love God and it shows in how they treat people. Part of it is their humility, which is born out of their faith. They exemplify Paul’s encouragement to, “in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” They are down to earth, funny, kind, and patient. They are excellent in their craft, but Rocky and Mary Lou love to help others learn. And believe me, if I can learn the basics of waltz, foxtrot, rumba, cha-cha, and swing, anybody can. Any. Body. To find out more about their classes at the Alamance Fine Arts Academy in downtown Burlington, go to https://alamancefinearts.com/

Second, I love the people we are learning with. They are mostly beginners like me and Cindy, and we have fun learning together, and laughing with each other’s mistakes. We also learn more about their lives, their joys and their struggles, how to encourage and pray for them.

Third, I love doing this with my wife. Cindy and I look forward to the time together, doing something we both enjoy. It is good exercise, both for our bodies and for our wills. I have had to learn to lead her in each dance, and she has had to learn to follow me. I honestly love to lead in most settings and situations, but would be perfectly content just to follow when it comes to dancing. But that is not the way it works. Rocky has said it to us over and over, that if the man doesn’t lead, the woman will not know what he is doing and will not be able to follow. He has also told us that if we are leading properly, then we never have to exert our will, we never have to force our partner to make the move she is supposed to make. She will simply follow our lead. One of my favorite parts of each class is watching Rocky and Mary Lou demonstrate a step they are going to teach us. We see him leading and her responding and both of them moving together as one. They put “dance is poetry in motion” on display every week, and it is a beautiful thing to behold.

I’m pretty sure that Cindy and I will never enter a ballroom dance competition. But we will keep learning how to dance together, and how to love each other, for the rest of our days.

The enemies of Jesus wanted him dead. “And the chief priests and the scribes were seeking how to put him to death…” They wanted him dead so badly that they were willing to do anything to make it happen. It must have been because Jesus was a good teacher. That’s what some say. The last time I drove through the college campus, I didn’t see any teachers being tied to a whipping post. OK, maybe they wanted to kill Jesus because He performed miracles. You mean, like giving blind men their sight and dumb men their speech and deaf men their hearing? You mean like raising dead people to life? I just can’t wrap my brain around the idea that the religious leaders would want to kill a man who was healing people of afflictions and diseases. The last time I walked through the hospital, I didn’t see doctors and nurses being dragged away from patients and carted off to be executed. OK, maybe they wanted to kill Jesus because he was such a good man. Forget “random acts of kindness.” Everything Jesus did was on purpose and for good, and no one could ever accuse him of any sin. So, the religious leaders killed him to make him stop doing good? The last time I went shopping around Christmas time, I don’t remember seeing policemen holding down Salvation Army volunteers, clubbing them senseless because they were collecting money for the poor.

Stop with the nonsense, already. The enemies of Jesus wanted him dead for one reason alone. He claimed to be God. Isn’t that what steams the clams of the “religious leaders” today? Those who want to silence Jesus and all his followers do not care one whit when you talk about him being a good teacher. Or a great healer. Or a good man. They would even agree with you on those counts. But they get their undershorts all in a wad when you talk about Jesus being “God come in the flesh.” Their necks begin to redden when you suggest that there is no way to forgiveness except through Jesus. They go apoplectic when you say that Jesus Christ is the only way to salvation. Let them. Ultimately, their argument is with him, not you and me. And if Jesus Christ is God, which the Gospels make clear that he is, then his Word is true, sufficient, and authoritative.

Here’s what C.S. Lewis said about Jesus in his classic, Mere Christianity: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic–on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg–or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”

Either Jesus was a lunatic, a liar, or Lord of all. There is no other choice. But don’t take my word for it. Go read the Bible for yourself. Start with the Gospels and read the life of Jesus. I dare you to stop with the nonsense and read the Bible for the plain sense. Double dare you.

It was dark outside, but I scoffed at the thought in my mind that said, “You should take a flashlight so you can see what you are doing.” That was the logical side of my brain talking. My testosterone spoke up and said, “You don’t need no stinking light! You know where the cinderblocks are in the back yard, and this will take exactly thirty seconds to do.” I was putting up our Christmas tree and needed a cinderblock to help it stand up. Cheap tree stand, don’t ask. Anyway, my glands won the argument with my brain, and that is never a good thing, so I walked out and picked up the cinderblock. I didn’t bother to wear work gloves, either, for the same reason: “I don’t need no stinkin’…”

I set the block down on the back stoop and was reaching for the doorknob when I saw it. Just inches from my hand was the biggest, healthiest black widow I had ever seen. I screamed and dropped the cinderblock. As far as I know, the spider didn’t make a sound. She didn’t look nearly as surprised as I was, either, but maybe that’s because the black widow thrives in darkness, but you and I were made for the light. My problem that night wasn’t that I had no light, but that I was too proud to use it. I trusted myself, and my abilities. I did not want any help, which describes the most common disease known to man. In fact, the entire human race is dying from it.

It is still dark outside, and there is danger to our souls that makes the black widow look like a cuddly toy. How can we find our way? The psalmist puts it like this: “The entrance of Your words gives light; it gives understanding to the simple.”

Michael Billester visited a small hamlet in Poland before World War II. He gave a Bible to a peasant, who was converted by reading it. The new believer then passed the Bible on to others. The cycle of conversions and sharing continued until 200 people had become believers through that one Bible. When Billester returned a few years later, this group of Christians met together for a worship service in which he was to preach the Word. He normally asked for testimonies, but this time he suggested that several in the audience recite verses of Scripture. One man stood and said, “Perhaps we have misunderstood. Did you mean verses or chapters?” These villagers had not memorized a few select verses of the Bible but whole chapters and books. Thirteen people knew Matthew, Luke, and half of Genesis. Another person had committed to memory the Psalms. Combined, these 200 people knew virtually the entire Bible by memory. That single copy of the Bible given by Billester had done its work. The entrance of the words of God had brought light and transformed lives.

There are some who hear that story and say, “Oh, that is wonderful. The Bible is an amazing book.” But the evidence that they don’t really believe what they say is that their Bible is collecting dust. They couldn’t begin to tell you the last time they read it or the last time something in it changed their lives. They couldn’t tell you the last time they went to a Bible Study where real study took place. They have a Bible, but they are no different from those who do not have one.

They keep it in their drawer, right next to the flashlight and the work gloves.