I want to thank all of you who BRAVED THE RAIN last Sunday morning to attend church. Such sacrifice and suffering humbled me. I can imagine how it must be to awaken to the petrifying noise of rain. Dedication hangs in the balance. The silky voice of the Tempter whispers in your ear: “Don’t be foolish! Why risk your life?”
Suddenly, your shoulders snap to attention, the jaw sets in determination. “Get thee behind me, Satan!” you shout, “and hang the crease in my pants.” Then, counting not your life dear unto yourself and side-stepping treacherous mud holes, you splash through the deluge to your waiting car.
Demonstrating raw courage, you navigate your four-wheeled ark over three blocks of slippery streets, while the rain slams against your windshield like silver bullets. Surely, this deserves a place among those other heroic exploits of the faithful: “they were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tortured, THEY BRAVED THE RAIN.”
Reaching the church, you once again take your life into your hands and with nerves of steel, plunge from the drenched car and over soppy sidewalks to the dry haven of the classroom.
As I stand at my window watching this spectacle, my heart swells. I hear distant applause — strange applause–wings clapping?
I can hardly preach. I feel I must write a new edition of Fox’s Book of Christian Martyrs. How the world must have gasped in unbelief and admiration as they saw you BRAVE THE RAIN.
If that’s not in the book of Acts, it ought to be.