Illustration results for relationships
Free Memorial Day Resources
Sermons & Illustrations: Top SermonsTop Illustrations
Sermon & Worship Packages: Time to Remember
IT ALL STARTED BY ONE MAN WANTING TO PRAY
In 1857 there was a 46 year old man named Jeremiah Lamphere who lived in New York City. Jeremiah loved the Lord tremendously, but he didn’t feel that he could do much for the Lord until he began to feel a burden for the lost and accepted an invitation from his church to be an inner city missionary.
So in July of 1857 he started walking up and down the streets of New York passing out tracts and talking to people about Jesus, but he wasn’t having any success. Then God put it on his heart to try prayer. So he printed up a bunch of tracts, and he passed them out to anyone and everyone met. He invited anyone who wanted to come to the 3rd floor of the Old North Dutch Reform Church on Fulton St. in New York City from 12 to 1 on Wednesday to pray. He passed out hundreds and hundreds of fliers and put up posters everywhere he could.
Wednesday came and at noon nobody showed up. So Jeremiah got on his knees and started praying. For 30 minutes he prayed by himself when finally five other people walked in. The next week 20 people came. The next week between 30 and 40 people came. They then decided to meet every day from 12:00 to 1:00 to pray for the city.
Before long a few ministers started coming and they said, "We need to start this at our churches." Within six months there were over 5000 prayer groups meeting everyday in N.Y. Soon the word spread all over the country. Prayer meetings were started in Philadelphia, Detroit, and Washington D.C. In fact President Franklin Pierce started going almost every day to a noonday prayer meeting. By 1859 some 15,000 cities in America were having downtown prayer meetings everyday at noon, and thousands were brought to Christ.
The great thing about this revival is that there is not a famous preacher associated with it. It was all started by one man wanting to pray. People have been seeking God, and seeking a relationship with God through Jesus Christ for centuries.
(From a sermon by Rich Anderson, Seeking The Face Of Jesus Christ 2/18/2011)
Jeffrey Sturdivant
Philippians 4:1-4:9
Ruth 1:1-1:8
1 Corinthians 15:1-21:21
Matthew 13:3-13:23
Psalms 30:11-30:12
Exodus 3:12-3:24
(Suggest a Keyword)
IT DEPENDS WHOSE HANDS IT’S IN
A basketball in my hands is worth about $19
A basketball in Michael Jordan’s hands is
worth about $33 million
It depends whose hands it’s in
A baseball in my hands is worth about $6
A baseball in Mark McGuire’s hands is worth $19 million
It depends whose hands it’s in
A tennis racket is useless in my hands
A tennis racket in Pete Sampras’ hands
is a Wimbledon Championship
It depends whose hands it’s in
A rod in my hands will keep away a wild animal
A rod in Moses’ hands will part the mighty sea
It depends whose hands it’s in
A sling shot in my hands is a kid’s toy
A sling shot in David’s hand is a mighty weapon.
It depends whose hands it’s in
Two fish and 5 loaves of bread in my hands
is a couple of fish sandwiches.
Two fish and 5 loaves of bread in God’s
hands will feed thousands It depends whose hands it’s in
Nails in my hands might produce a birdhouse
Nails in Jesus Christ’s hands will produce
salvation for the entire world.
It depends whose hands it’s in
As you see now it depends whose hands it’s in.
So put your concerns, your worries, your fears,
your hopes, your dreams, your families and
your relationships in God’s hands because
It depends whose hands it’s in.(Author Unknown)
Why would God go to all the trouble to endure our bad choices and our flagrant sinning in order to have relationship with us? Hear the story of the lost son from the modern setting as told by Philip Yancey in his book What’s so Amazing about Grace.
Yancey tells the story of a prodigal daughter who grows up in Traverse City, Michigan. Disgusted with her old fashioned parents who overreact to her nose ring, the music she listens to, the length of her skirts, she runs away. She ends up in Detroit where she meets a man who drives the biggest car she’s ever seen. The man with the big car – she calls him “Boss” – recognizes that since she’s underage, men would pay premium for her. So she goes to work for him. Things are good for a while. Life is good. But she gets sick for a few days, and it amazes her how quickly the boss turns mean. Before she knows it, she’s out on the street without a penny to her name. She still turns a couple of tricks a night, and all the money goes to support her drug habit.
One night while sleeping on the metal grates of the city, she began to feel less like a woman of the world and more like a little girl. She begins to whimper. “God, why did I leave. My dog back home eats better than I do now.” She knows that more than anything in the world, she wants to go home. Three straight calls home get three straight connections with the answering machine. Finally she leaves a message. “Mom, dad, its me. I was wondering about maybe coming home. I’m catching a bus up your way, and it’ll get there about midnight tomorrow. If you’re not there, I‘ll understand.” During the seven hour bus ride, she’s preparing a speech for her father. And when the bus comes to a stop in the Traverse City station, the driver announces the fifteen-minute stop. Fifteen minutes to decide her life.
She walks into the terminal not knowing what to expect. But not one of the thousand scenes that have played out in her mind prepares her for what she sees. There in the bus terminal in Traverse City, Michigan, stands a group of forty brothers and sisters and great-aunts and uncles and cousins and a grandmother and a great-grandmother to boot. They’re all wearing goofy party hats and blowing noise-makers, and taped across the entire wall of the terminal is a computer-generated banner that reads – Welcome Home!
Out of the crowd of well-wishers breaks her dad. She stares out through the tears quivering in her eyes and begins her memorized speech. He interrupts her. “Hush, child. We’ve got no time for that. No time for apologies. We’ll be late. A big party is waiting for you at home.”
The First Billionaire
The very first person to reach the status of billionaire was a man who knew how to set goals and follow through. At the age of 23, he had become a millionaire, by the age of 50 a billionaire. Every decision, attitude, and relationship was tailored to create his personal power and wealth. But three years later at the age of 53 he became ill.
His entire body became racked with pain and he lost all the hair on his head. In complete agony, the world’s only billionaire could buy anything he wanted, but he could only digest milk and crackers. An associate wrote, "He could not sleep, would not smile and nothing in life meant anything to him." His personal, highly skilled physicians predicted he would die within a year.
That year passed agonizingly slow. As he approached death he awoke one morning with the vague remembrances of a dream. He could barely recall the dream but knew it had something to do with not being able to take any of his successes with him into the next world. The man who could control the business world suddenly realized he was not in in control of his own life. He was left with a choice.
He called his attorneys, accountants, and managers and announced that he wanted to channel his assets to hospitals, research, and mission work. On that day John D. Rockefeller established his foundation. This new direction eventually led to the discovery of penicillin, cures for current strains of malaria, tuberculosis and diphtheria. The list of discoveries resulting fr...
Rodney Buchanan
Annie Dillard, in her book The Writing Life, tells of an experiment that was done with butterflies. The experiment involved placing a male butterfly with a female butterfly of his own species. Then they placed a painted cardboard butterfly alongside them. The cardboard butterfly was bigger than the female — bigger than any female could ever be. The male ignored the living female butterfly next to him and went to the painted cardboard butterfly over and over again. Dillard adds, “Nearby, the real, living female opens and closes her wings in vain.” It is a picture of the world in which countless males are trapped today. Staring at painted cardboard butterflies they are squandering their own resources and defrauding the real, living, breathing females in their homes. But then you don’t have to establish a relationship with cardboard butterflies. You don’t have to put up with their failures — nor do they have to live with you and discover yours. There are no expectations from you. You don’t have to communicate with them. An inviting smile is painted on their faces and they don’t even know you. Perhaps it is better that way.
NOW – in life do overs are not the norm… In our Hang Time journal on April 3rd – we read a chapter from max Lucado’s book – “No Wonder They Call Him Savior.”
“Not many second chances exist in the world today.. Just ask the kid who didn’t make the little league team or the fellow who got the pink slip or the mother of three who dumped for a ‘pretty little thing.’ Not many second chances. Nowadays it’s more like, “It’s now or never,” “Around here we don’t tolerate incompetence” Gotta get tough to get along.” “Not much room at the top.” “Three strikes and your out..”
BUT wouldn’t it be great if there were do overs..
A policeman stops you for speeding, you just tear up the ticket and say – Thanks officer but I’ll be taking a do over today… The bank says you bounced a check. Do over you say, no problem they say back…. You get in an argument with a friend and you say something mean & cruel – I think I’ll be taking that do over now – sure thing they say… Fail a test, blow a presentation at work, invest in the wrong company, forget to send in your taxes – JUST take a do over…
BUT LISTEN – in the most important thing there is (our relationship with God) – a do over is not a dream it is a reality….
TALE OF TWO KINGS
Two of the greatest love stories ever told. The one, at Camelot; the other, at Calvary. Two of the noblest kings ever to live. The one, King Arthur; the other, King of the Jews. The one is adorned with a jeweled crown; the other, with a crown of thorns.
The comparisons and contrasts between Camelot and Calvary are many, but one scene from Camelot illustrates a great theological dilemma that only the cross could resolve.
Prior to His appointment with destiny on the brow of that fateful hill, Jesus agonized in the Garden of Gethsemane: "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done" (Lk. 22:42).
Understand, on an emotional level, that this is the pleading of a son to his father. If your child came to you in such agony, wouldn’t you do everything within your power to grant the request?
But this Father, this time, didn’t respond as expected. And that’s the theological rub. He denied the request of His Son, His only Son, His beloved Son. In Gethsemane, that Son was asking:
"Is there no other way?"
The Son is betrayed, arrested, deserted, denied, beaten, tried, mocked, and finally crucified. Tacitly, the Father answers:
"No, there is no other way."
But why? Why was there no other way?
We find the answer to that question in a scene from Camelot, where the adulterous relationship between Queen Guenevere and Arthur’s most trusted knight, Sir Lancelot, has divided the Round Table. When the scheming Mordred catches them in a clandestine encounter, Lancelot escapes. Guenevere is not so fortunate. She faces a trial. The jury finds her guilty and sentences her to the flame.
As the day of execution nears, people come from miles around with one question in their minds: Would the king let her die?
Mordred gleefully captures the complexity of Arthur’s predicament:
Arthur! What a magnificent dilemma!
Let her die, your life is over;
Let her live, your life’s a fraud.
Which will it be, Arthur?
Do you kill the queen or kill the law?
Tragically but resolutely, Arthur decides: "Treason has been committed! The jury has ruled! Let justice be done!"
High from the castle window stands Arthur, as Guenevere enters the courtyard. She walks to her unlit stake, where the executioner stands with waiting torch. Arthur turns away, emotion brimming in his eyes.
A herald mounts the tower where Arthur has withdrawn: "The queen is at the stake, Your Majesty. Shall I signal the torch?"
But the king cannot answer.
Arthur’s love for Jenny spills from his broken heart: "I can’t! I can’t! I can’t let her die!"
Seeing Arthur crumble, Mordred relishes the moment: "Well, you’re human after all, aren’t you, Arthur? Human and helpless."
Tragically, Arthur realizes the truth of Mordred’s remark. Being only human, he is indeed helpless. But where this story ends, the greatest story ever told just begins.
Another Execution Scene.
Another time. Another place. Another king.
The setting: A world lies estranged from the God who loves it. Like Genevere, an unfaithful humanity stands guilty and in bondage, awaiting judgment’s torch.
Could God turn His head from the righteous demands of the law and simply excuse the world’s sin? If not, then could He turn His head from the world He loved? Would the king burn Guenevere?
Like the wicked Mordred, Satan must have looked on in delight:
God! What a magnificent dilemma!
Let them die, Your life is over;
Let them live, Your life’s a fraud;
Which will it be, God?
Do You kill Your world or do You kill the law?
Without even waiting for His Guenevere to look up in repentance, the King stepped down from His throne, took off His crown, laid aside His royal robes, and descended His castle’s polished steps into humanity’s pockmarked streets. Paul’s words in Philippians are thought by some scholars to be the lyrics of an ancient hymn, singing about the King of kings.
Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death-even death on a cross! Phil. 2:6-8
That scene in the movie was an epiphany of understanding. Suddenly, it all made sense. We know now why He had to die, why there was no other way.
When love and justice collide, only the cross offers a happy ending.
Source: Abridged excerpt from Ken Gire’s book Windows of the Soul. Copyright © 1996 by Ken Gire, Jr. Zondervan Publishing Houses.
NEW HOPE FROM NOTHING
In Jim Cymbala’s book, Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire, there is the story of a woman named Roberta Langella. A story she tells in her own words. At the age of 16 she left a broken home to move to New York City where she began living with a man twice her age. A man that got her into IV drug abuse through heroin and cocaine. One night after shooting up, her boyfriend thought she had died. He took off, leaving her on a rooftop where someone discovered her and called 911. The paramedics revived her.
Her feelings of worthlessness led her to one destructive, physcially abusive and drug-centered live-in relationship after another. She began going to underground clubs where she would shoot up and share needles with 20-30 people at a time. Eventually she and her latest boyfriend were out of money, out of food, the utilities had been turned off, and she they were selling their furniture to finance their drug habit.
Faced with this impossible situation, she called her mother back in Florida, who let her move down, and got her into Narcotics Anonymous where she kicked the drug habit and soared with newfound confidence.
But then – everything came crashing down. A visit to the doctor unveiled a horrible fact. She was HIV positive.
After 2 years of being clean she returned to crack cocaine with a vengeance. Wanting the drugs like never before. After a week long cocaine binge, she was truly at the end. Faced with an impossible situation. HIV positive. No money. No love relationship.
Years ago, she had happened to meet a woman in her apartment building who attended Brooklyn Tabernacle. And for some reason, that Tuesday night with nowhere ...
A FATHER’S BLESSING by Morgan Cryar (a Christian music artist) from Decision magazine. From Stories for a Man’s Heart, P 240. Compiled by Alice Gray
Many a morning as a child I stumbled through the darkness to our family’s truck, fell back to sleep, then was awakened by the sound of the truck sputtering to a halt in the Louisiana woods. I can remember, even when I was too young to dress myself, climbing out of that truck alongside my dad - the most important person in my life at the time - and stepping into the gray, early morning light to hunt squirrels or deer.
One morning 10 years ago I was once again headed for the woods to hunt with Dad. But this time I was grown, with a family of my own. I had been touring for months and had promised to make a trip from our home in Nashville, Tennessee, to the swamps outside Lake Charles, Louisiana, where I had grown up. Though I didn’t know it, this would be no ordinary morning. It was the morning that I would find out that Dad approved. This morning he would give me his blessing.
When we got into Dad’s old truck and he turned the ignition key, music began to pour from a cassette in the tape deck. I knew the music well and was surprised to hear it in Dad’s truck. It was my most recent recording, blaring into the morning stillness! I couldn’t help myself; I said, "I didn’t know you even had this. Do you listen to it?"
His answer amazed me. "It’s the only thing I listen to." I glanced around, and sure enough, it was the only cassette in his truck. I was dumbstruck! He said, "This is my favorite," referring to the song playing at the time. I let his words sink in as he turned down the volume to match the morning.
We drove in silence down the road toward the hunting spot, and I wondered at what had just happened. It seems now like such a small thing - a few spoken words. But there seemed to be something different in the air. I sat taller in my seat. I looked at my dad out of the corner of my eye and thought back to two turning points in our relationship.
One turning point happened while I was in college. I remembered having it dawn on me that I had never heard my dad say that he loved me. I knew that he did, but I couldn’t remember having heard him say so. That was something my dad just didn’t do. For some reason it became important to me that I hear those words from his own lips. I knew, however, that he would never initiate it. So that summer, as I drove home from college, I determined to "force his hand" by telling him first that I loved him. Then he’d have to say it back.
It would be simple. Just three little words. I anticipated a glorious new openness once I came home and said, "I love you, Dad," and then he would respond.
But simple is not always easy. The first day came and went, and I thought, "I have to tell him tomorrow!" The next day came and went. Then the next, and the next. Then 12 weeks passed, and it was the last day of my summer break. I was frustrated at not having said those three little words to my dad.
"My little, beat-up car was packed and sitting on the gravel driveway. I promised myself that I would not start the engine until the deed was done. To someone with an emotionally open relationship with his own father, this may all seem a bit silly, but to me it was serious business. My palms were wet and my throat was dry. My knees grew weak as departure time came.
It had been a good summer visit. There was a general sadness in the house because I was headed back to school across the state. Finally I could wait no longer. I hugged my mom, my brother and my sister good-bye, and went back to find my dad.
I walked up to him, looked him in the eyes and said, "I love you, Dad." He smiled a half smile, put his arms around me and said what I needed to hear: "I love you too, son."
It seemed as though a thousand volts of electricity were in the air as we hugged each other (another thing that hasn’t happened since I was a small child). It was such a little thing, but it changed everything!
From that point on, all of our conversations were signed off with: "I love you, Dad." "I love you too, son." It became commonplace to embrace when we greeted each other and when we parted. As plain as it sounds, it resulted in a new sweetness between my dad and me. The memory of it came back to me in the truck that morning on the way to the woods.
The other turning point came after college. I remembered that I had learned at a seminar about clearing my conscience with those whom I had wronged. This was entirely new to me - admitting guilt and receiving forgiveness from those I had offended.
Part of the process was to ask God to show me anyone and everyone with whom I needed to clear my conscience. Sure enough, at the top of the list was Dad.
So I sat down with my dad and started first with the worst things that I had done. I proceeded from there to the least serious offenses. I confessed everything that I knew had hurt him, even from my childhood. Then I simply asked, "Dad, will you forgive me?"
Just as I had expected, Dad was embarrassed and tried to shrug it off: "Aw, it’s all right, son."
I said, "It will mean a lot to me if you will forgive me." He looked right at me and said, "It has already been forgiven."
That was his way of saying that he had not held a grudge. And once again, everything changed. From that moment Dad treated me with new respect. I hadn’t anticipated it, but he also began to treat me like an adult - like a friend.
In the stillness of the morning, on the way to the woods, these things floated through my memory, and I rested in my dad’s approval of my calling, my work, my music.
I had no way of knowing just how precious his blessing would become to me. One short week later, after my family and I had driven back to Nashville, I received the telephone call from my brother, Tommy, telling me that Dad had walked out onto the porch and had died of a heart attack. He had been young and healthy - only 49 years old. It was my darkest day.
Though my family and I tasted intense grief, I still had much for which to be grateful. I had enjoyed 30 years with my dad - some of them as his friend. He had given me a strong enough start that I knew I could meet the challenge of rearing my own children, including my son who was born on Father’s Day six years later.
Even though my dad is gone, in the wee hours of that morning on the way to the woods, he had given me something of great value to pass along - a father’s blessing.
The Powerhouse
Stephen Kuusisto grew up feeling a stigma about being legally blind. For him, sight consisted of a kaleidoscope of shapes, colors, and shadows. Privately he would press his face close to the page of a book and memorize street names in an exhausting attempt to appear more able to see than he really could.
When Stephen was 39, his life changed after he acquired an affectionate and carefully trained guide dog named Corky. In learning to use Corky to lead him, Stephen reflected on the growing trust in their relationship. He said, "Faith moves from belief into conviction, then to certainty. We are a . . . powerhouse!" When Stephen admitted that he needed the help of a sighted companion, a new world of freedom and mobility opened up to him.
Many believers blindly stumble their way through the Christian life in their own strength. Seemingly, they are unaware that God has provided a supernatural Guide to lead the way. Jesus said He would send us a Comforter who would guide us into all truth (John 16:13). When we confess all known sin and then depend on the Holy Spirit to guide us (Gal. 5:16,18), we become a powerhouse for God! For we walk by faith, not by sight (2 Cor. 5:7).
Source: from Our Daily Bread, (Dennis Fisher.) From a sermon by Ed Vasicek, "He Was There All the Time" 8/5/2008
Pastor's MediaVault
