‘I'm Not A Christian, But I Play One On Sunday'Written by Rev. James L. Snyder
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I could tell Ralph knew God about as well as I knew President of United States. It was then an idea hit me. While he talked to me, I was trying to figure out how I could convince him that he really didn't know God. Sure, he knew a lot of things about God and could quote a bushel full of Bible verses as though that would impress me. Entrance into heaven is not contingent upon impressing some preacher. I knew Ralph really did not know God personally. My problem was to persuade him of that fact. It's almost like someone who smokes cigarettes trying to convince someone who doesn't smoke that they don't smoke. The smoker does not smell smoke but non-smoker smells it right away. Similarly, I can readily tell when someone doesn't know God personally. As we were talking, an idea came to mind. Ralph was sitting across my desk from me and between us was my telephone. So I said to Ralph, "Do you know President of United States?" Ralph looked at me a little perplexed with this question out of blue and said, "Sure, I do. It's George W. Bush." "Great," I said pushing telephone towards him, "use my telephone and call him for me." He laughed and pushed telephone back. Thrusting phone back toward him I said, "You do know President of United States, don't you?" He laughed a nervous little chuckle. "The president of United States is George W. Bush." Then he shoved phone back toward me. "You know him?" I persisted. As he nodded in affirmative, a worried look embraced his face. I could see he didn't quite understand what I was getting at. "Ralph," I explained, "you may know who President of United States is and you may know a lot about him. But you don't know George W. Bush enough to call him on phone." People who say they know God only know things about God. People who say they know Jesus Christ only know things about him. If you don't know God enough to reach Him when you need Him, you don't know Him at all. I like Apostle Paul's testimony. He said, "That I may know him, and power of his resurrection, and fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death;" (Philippians 3:10 KJV.) A friend of mine has a favorite saying that he likes to quote; "Either Jesus is Lord of all or he is not Lord at all." That about sums up whole matter.
Rev. James L. Snyder. Reverend Snyder is currently ministering at the "Family of God Fellowship" in Ocala, Florida. More of his articles are available for reprint at his website: http://www.godspenman.com/ Rev. Snyder is available as a guest speaker. He writes a weekly column and is the author of "You Can Always Tell a Pastor; But Not Very Much " available at: http://www.jamessnyderministries.com/
| | The Ride of his LifeWritten by Jelbaby
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‘Oh no!’ I thought to myself, not fully certain what he was about to do. “What are you doing?” I protested, a feeling of dread gripping my stomach. “What does it look like?” He snapped at me, leading Paragon Prince onto racetrack. “Dad.” I protested again. “What heck?” Suddenly comprehending what he was about to do. Dad was going to ride flipping horse himself. “If this lazy jockey ain’t going to show up son, then I’ll ride track work.” Came his immediate retort. “You can’t.” I argued. “I can so, it’s my blasted horse.” He shouted stubbornly. I didn’t argue, that would have been useless. You didn’t argue with Dad when he was like this, he was not kidding. I wasn’t even sure if he could ride or not. I had never seen him mount a horse. “Dad.” I yelled, feeling just a bit cheeky, “Can you even ride?” “How hard can it be?’ He asked me, meanwhile hauling himself into saddle. He turned horse and guided him out onto course, not training track, but on course proper which was forbidden territory for track work galloping. “Oh My Lord!” I cursed to myself, thinking that there are a million reasons why he shouldn’t do this. He’s not wearing a hard hat, just a stupid blue floppy thing. He can’t ride, obviously. Mum is going to be livid and will probably kill him, if he doesn’t kill himself in process. Thoroughbreds are mad at best of times, but with my crazy father, with his erratic irish temper who couldn’t ride a horse to save his life on a nervous thoroughbred, this was not going to be constructive track gallop. “Damn!” I muttered to myself. Where was my mother when I needed her? If she were witnessing this, she would have a cow. A total melt down. “Dad, you can’t!” I shouted, but it was too late. He couldn’t hear me anyway, it was a futile attempt. He walked Paragon Prince around to 1200 metre starting area and gathered up reins. He lent forward, giving horse an unnecessary sharp kick in guts and they took off at a flat out gallop. Dad just clung on for dear life, grasping at handfuls of mane and reins. I guess he was hoping horse would just carry him to winning post. They galloped around corner into straight, heading for winning post. I ran down towards straight and stood at rail watching, still expecting worst to come. Then all of a sudden, Dad saw it, I saw it and horse saw it. The piece of metal wire that had been placed across track to prevent idiots - like my father, galloping their horses on course proper. My father tried and tried to pull him up, but to rein in a thoroughbred without warning, traveling at around sixty kilometres per hour is virtally impossible. He leaned back and dragged on reins using every ounce of strength he possessed, but it was hopeless and he knew it. I stood there rooted to spot, thinking for sure that my father’s number was up. He didn’t have a chance in hell of stopping Paragon Prince before they reached that metal wire. All of a sudden, Dad did only thing he could do under circumstances; he bailed. He just plain jumped out of saddle on to ground still holding reins and it was funniest thing you ever saw; my crazy father running alongside this horse, which he somehow managed to pull away from that lethal looking piece of wire across track. Don’t ask me how he did it. It was all so fast, but he did it. I sighed in total exasperation and relief, leaning against rails. Dad walked over leading horse behind him. “Well.” he said, trying to catch his breath, his expression giving away nothing, “That was hairy.” I said nothing, thinking that his words were a huge understatement and also knowing full well if I even opened my mouth Dad would be right in my face, justifying his actions. I decided then and there to just shut up and agree with him. I decided leave this task to my mother. Mum would and did lock horns with him later, she literally had him for breakfast and then some. As for ‘no show’ jockey, well did he cop a well deserved dressing-down from both Mum and Dad. I don’t recall him ever riding for us again after that day. I assume my father had to go before turf club officials over that incident and furthermore, he probably got into an abundance of trouble over it. I’m not really sure, I was only about twelve at time, so I don’t recollect all that eventuated after that day. However, when I witness that determined, stubborn, cantankerous expression on Dad’s face, I know ever -dependable hissy fit is just around corner and to hell with consequences. As far as I know, after events of that morning my father never again attempted to ride a horse.
A funny story, about a friend of mine and his trials and tribulation with thoroughbreds, trainers and jockeys
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