It was over. They had charged the hill repeatedly, never quite pushing the enemy off their position. Having started with nearly 200 men, they were now less than 20 walking on their own. It didn't matter what his superior officers thought; they weren't the ones wading over the bodies of the dead and dying.
Their ammunition was gone -- what powder was left between them would not fill a man's hand. They had bayonets, sure. But how does one propose to use them when the opposing force had all their weapons loaded and ready? And so the moment came, when almost everyone at the same time, on both sides of the line knew it. The attack simply halted, and all was silence for but a few seconds, just as fingers were tightening for another volley of shots.
In that moment of silence, he summoned his courage while drawing in a ragged breath, tottering on the slope where footing was uncertain. He raised both his arms overhead and gave the order, "Cease!"
He paused to be sure all had heard and seen him, then took the empty revolver from his right hand with his left, holding it by the barrel. With deliberate care, he moved directly to where the enemy commander stood just behind his single row of soldiers. Stopping close enough that he could almost touch the trooper just to his left, who was kneeling behind a fallen tree, he extended his left hand with the pistol butt first. At the same time, he raised his right hand, palm facing outward in an obvious gesture of surrender.
"Sir, I am your prisoner."
The other man breathed a great sigh of relief, and everyone visibly relaxed. Looking away for just a moment, he turned back and said, "I am so glad to hear you say that. This whole business never should have started in the first place. At least we'll have a few good men to go home when it's all over, both of us."
class: a subset of any society; a group with some distinctive trait(s) in common, usually implying a superior group, or a reference to their refined and elegant manner; the best of its kind
I would have added one more item to last lesson's list, but it was worthy of its own lesson. Here it is:
There was a time when I enjoyed watching professional sporting events. While striving for all they were worth, the competitors often remained perfect gentlemen, or proper ladies. Now it's popular to be "in your face" about the game. I suppose for some it's just theater. They act outrageously because that's what paying spectators want. A good fight always brings down the house.
I should hope that true believers are not a part of that crowd. It would be hard to muster respect for someone who considers that normal. Nor do I think highly of pandering to the lowest common denominator, to man's baser instincts. Call me a sissy. Anymore it verges on being a compliment.
Usually, this is where the writer defends his manhood, mentioning his size, strength and prowess. Not this time. Only the insecure feel the need to defend such things. And only the insecure find irresistable the urge to rub your face in it when they win, or to throw a tantrum when they lose. I'm no fan of the legendary American football coach who said, "Winning ain't everything. It's the only thing!"
Of course one hopes to win in competition. The pagan Greeks had one thing quite right, though. The prize for winning in their ancient athletic competitions was a small, leafy cutting from the laurel tree. The victor wore it on his head as a crown. This crown scarcely retained any of its original glory the next day. The competitors were thus reminded that fame based on such things was fleeting.
At one point in my life, I was an avid cyclist. I never competed; I simply enjoyed the act of taking long rides and exploring the scenery. A friend, much younger, was also a rider. He was a serious competitor, pushing himself beyond anything I ever experienced. Oddly, he could never just go out for a ride. Every moment on his bicycle was devoted to full fledged training, pushing each moment to the max, trying to raise the threshold of his tolerance just another notch. When I would tell him of the delights I discoverd in some new vista, he'd say, "Gee! I wish I could just go out for a joy ride. I can't seem to stop competing, even when I'm alone."
Not everything in which we lead can be taken as a sport or hobby. Indeed, the point of this little series was that Christian leadership is too important to take lightly. Still, it's not over until Our Father ends this age, and we all prostrate ourselves before His thone. All that brought us fame and fortune with human kind will then be forgotten. What will matter is how close people were brought to God by our choices.
Even here we find some in silly competitions, notching their holy Gospel Gun for every sinner saved. And how does one know those notches actually represent souls genuinely secured in Christ? We can't know, really. What we can know is whether we kept Him on the throne of our own hearts, and how often, how long, how deep was our communion with Him.
If, from our doing, we fail virtually every time, if our memories are one long string of victories for Satan, have we really lost? I say not. We do not control anything around us, and can't determine the outcomes of anything, really. What is under our control is how we operate, how we reflect the glorious light of His truth revealed. The real battle ground is in us, and our battle is over who will rule within our lives.
Ed Hurst
03 October 2002
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: People of honor need no copyright laws; they are only too happy to give credit where credit is due. Others will ignore copyright laws whenever they please. If you are of the latter, please note what Moses said about dishonorable behavior -- "be sure your sin will find you out" (Numbers 32:23).