If Christ be not the Substitute, He is nothing to the sinner. If He did not die as the Sin-bearer, He has died in vain. Let us not be deceived on this point, or misled by those who, when they announce Christ as the Deliverer, think they have preached the Gospel. If I throw a rope to a drowning man, I am a deliverer. But is Christ no more than that? If I cast myself into the sea, and risk my life to save another, I am a deliverer. But is Christ no more? Did He but risk His life? The very essence of Christ’s deliverance is the substitution of Himself for us, His life for ours. He did not come to risk His life; He came to die! He did not redeem us by a little loss, a little sacrifice, a little labor, a little suffering. “He redeemed us to God by his blood,” “the precious blood of Christ” (Rev 5:9; 1Pe 1:19). He gave all He had, even His life, for us.
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THIS IS THE BEST EMAIL I'VE EVER READ

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#1 · November 4, 2003, 10:29 am

Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>

 
<>< This Is The Best E Mail I've Ever Read ><>
 
 
It's a Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot yelling, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio!"
 
And while the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made: "Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from a 'mystery' flu." Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country.
 
People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working! California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts.
 
It's as though it's just sweeping in from the borders.
 
And then, all of a sudden, the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It's going to take the blood of somebody who hasn't been infected, and so, sure enough,all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting,
 
everyone is asked to do one simple thing: Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That's all we ask of you. When you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals.
 
Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it.
 
Your wife and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, "Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home."
 
You stand around, scared, with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on and if this is the end of the world.
 
Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He's yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy, that's me."
 
Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. Wait a minute!
 
Hold on! And they say, "It's okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure.
 
We want to make sure he doesn't have the disease. We think he has got the right type." Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another ... some are even laughing. It's the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son's blood type is perfect. It's clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine." As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying.
 
Then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and your wife aside and says, "May we see you for moment? We didn't realize that the donor would be a minor and we need ....... we need you to sign a consent form." You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken has been left blank.
 
"H-how many pints?", you ask.
 
And that is when the old doctor's smile fades and he says, "We had no idea it would be little child. We weren't prepared. I'm sorry sir, we need it all!"
 
"But but .. You don't understand."
 
"We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We need it all!"
 
"But can't you give him a transfusion?"
 
"If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?"
 
In numb silence, you do.
 
Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?"
 
Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy? What's going on?" Can you take his hands and say, "Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn't just have to be. Do you understand that?"
 
And when that old doctor comes back in and says, "I'm sorry, we've GOT to get started! People all over the world are dying.
 
Can you leave?"
 
Can you walk out while he is saying, "Daddy? Mommy? Daddy?
 
"Why, why have you forsaken me?"
 
And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son some folks sleep through it ... some folks don't even come because they go to the lake or the seashore ... some folks come with a pretentious smile and just "pretend" to care. Would you want to jump up and say, "MY SON DIED FOR YOU! DON'T YOU CARE?"
 
Is that what GOD wants to say? "MY SON DIED FOR YOU. DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?"
 
"FATHER, Seeing it from YOUR eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great Love YOU have for us."

<>< The Garbageman ><>
 
 
I had been working much too long on this job. I guess things could have been worse. I certainly wasn't doing hard labor. But going door to door asking questions as a representative of the federal government wasn't the most satisfying position either.
 
It was August. It was hot. I had to wear a tie.
 
"Hello. My name is Bob Perks and we are doing a survey in this neighborhood...
"I'm not interested!
Good bye!"...slam, lock.
 
You can't imagine how many times I heard that. I finally caught on and began with, "Before you slam the door, I am not selling anything and I just need to ask a few questions about yourself and the community."
The young woman inside the doorway, paused for a moment, raised her eyebrows as she shrugged her shoulders, confused by my rude introduction.
 
"Sure. Come on in. Don't mind the mess. It's tough keeping up with my kids."
It was an older home in a section of the valley where people with meager income found affordable shelter. With the little they had, the home looked comfortable and welcoming.
 
"I just need to ask a few questions about yourself and family. Although this may sound personal, I won't need to use your names. This information will be used..."
 
She interrupted me. "Would you like a glass of cold water? You look like you've had a rough day."
 
"Why yes!" I said eagerly.
 
Just as she returned with the water, a man came walking in the front door. It was her husband. "Joe, this man is here to do a survey." I stood and politely introduced myself.
 
Joe was tall and lean. His face was rough and aged looking although I figured he was in his early twenties. His hands were like leather. The kind of hands you get from working hard, not pushing pencils.
She leaned toward him and kissed him gently on the cheek. As they looked at each other you could see the love that held them together. She smiled and titled her head, laying it on his shoulder. He touched her face with his hands and softly said, "I love you!"
 
They may not have had material wealth, but these two were richer than most people I know. They had a powerful love. The kind of love that keeps your head up when things are looking down.
"Joe works for the borough," she said.
 
"What do you do?" I asked.
 
She jumped right in not letting him answer.
 
"Joe collects garbage. You know I'm so proud of him."
"Honey, I'm sure the man doesn't want to hear this," said Joe.
"No, really I do," I said.
 
"You see Bob, Joe is the best garbage man in the borough. He can stack more garbage on the truck than anyone else. He gets so much in one truck that they don't have to make as many runs," she said with such passion.
"In the long run," Joe continues, "I save the borough money. Man hours are down and the cost per truck is less."
There was silence. I didn't know what to say. I shook my head searching for the right words.
 
"That's incredible! Most people would gripe about a job like that. It certainly is a difficult one. But your attitude about it is amazing," I said.
 
She walked over to the shelf next to the couch. As she turned she held in her hand a small framed paper.
 
"When we had our third child Joe lost his job. We were on unemployment for a time and then eventually welfare. He couldn't find work anywhere. Then one day he was sent on an interview here in this community. They offered him the job he now holds. He came home depressed and ashamed, telling me this was the best he could do. It actually paid less than we got on welfare."
 
She paused for a moment and walked toward Joe.
 
"I have always been proud of him and always will be. You see I don't think the job makes the man. I believe the man makes the job!"
 
"We needed to live in the borough in order to work here. So we rented this home," Joe said.
"When we moved in, this quote was hanging on the wall just inside the front door. It has made all the difference to us, Bob. I knew that Joe was doing the right thing," she said as she handed me the frame.
 
It said: If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep the streets even as Michelangelo painted or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, "Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well." Martin Luther King
 
"I love him for who he is. But what he does he does the best.
I love my garbage man!"
So how was your day? Did you give it your best? Or did your attitude get the best of you?
 
 
Have a Blessed Day
Dave and Barbara
 
 
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