Mat.ch5v9, 'the prince o pace' a sermon bi jim campbell.wps

“Hou happie the redders o strow an strife,
for they will be caa’d the childer o God!”
God, it’s said, creâtit relígion sae’s the English wad hae something tae screive about, the Welsh something tae sing about, the Irish something tae fecht about, an the Scots – cuid hae something for naething! Aiblins it’s true, bit it seems a wee bit unfair on oor Irish fríens acause, let’s face it, whan it comes tae faa’n oot, we Scots ar up thair at the tap o the tree! Some o us cuid stert a stramash in a empy room! A Scotsman wis marooned oan a tropical island. Be’n a guid enterprisin Scot, he didnae panic, bit med hissel a fair life on his wee bit island. He biggit hissel a wee shack, plotted oot a wee gairden for growin vegetables, an got meat for his waim an claes for his back bi makin hissel a bow an arra for huntin. Bein a relígous man, he biggit a wee hut forbye, as a semple kin o kirk. Noo, some five- sax year later, the reek frae the lum oan his shack wis sichtit bi a passin ship an at last he wis rescued. He walcomed the captain ashore an offered him a tour afore leavin his wee kinrick foriver. He shawit him his wee but an ben, his weel tendit gairden, the claes he had made hissel frae animal skins, syne the wee kirk he hed biggit for the wurship o the Lord. The captain wis byornar impressed, muived juist tae see the man hed biggit hissel a plece o wurship. Syne the castawa tuik him awa roon the North end, an thair wis anither kirk, like the first in iverie parteeklar! “Weil noo,” says the captain dumfoonert, “I wis fair titched tae see ye had biggit yersel a kirk, bit whit wey this ither ane?” “Ah weel,” qo the castawa, “That’s the ane I cannae agree wi – I’l hae naaething tae dae wi that kirk!” I suspec there’s truith i that tale; a student meenister frae the south o Scotland gaed tae preach in a wee híelan clachan o twae-three hunner sauls - an near got lost amang the sax differin kins o kirk! The Irish guid at fechtin ower relígion! Aye, gif there wis sic a thing as an Olympic medal for causin strife, we Scots wid win gowd ivery time. That minds me o a crack wi a mínister fríen o mine. His faither wis born in Bonnybrig near Fa’kirk, bit like mony a Scot, brocht up faur frae hame - in Winnipeg, Canada. His faither’s faither wad get gey hamesick an sentimental o a Sabbath mornin. Or grayin, he wid lie abed wi tears streamin doon his face singin, ‘It’s O but I’m longing for my Ain Folk.’ “Aye,” said ma mínister fríen, “an my faither telt me at whan they wun hame tae ‘dear auld bonnie Scotland’, his ain folk war aa kil in ane anither! This ane hed hed a faa’n oot wi that ane, an anither yin wis gaun aboot wi a face like a can o wurms acause o whit yit anither hed said. Honest tae guidness, whit a faimily mines!” Bit is that no the story o oor hail human faimily? Iver sen Adam an Eve wis banish’t Eden, it’s bin yin lang tale o strife an war. No for naething the hyme sings: “Oh hush your noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing.” Oor Lord Jesus Christ said “Blissed ar the makars up o strife,” the pace-makars. An whit aboot you an yours? Are you a makar o strife – a stirrer up o bad feelin, or are you a makar up o strife – a redder o strow, a pace-makar? For mind, you at howp in Christ, at he himsel cums as the Makar up o Strife, the Laird o Gudewil , the Prince o Pace. Jim Campbell

Source: http://www.churchofscotland.org.uk/__data/assets/pdf_file/0019/3655/antrin_prince_o_pace.pdf