(I wrote this devotional for my own children.)
Do these surnames mean anything to you?
Wales. Connolly. Kemp. Courtney. Fletcher. Walker. O’Leary. Thompson. Davis. McBride. Womack. McCoy. Middleton. Washington. Dixon. Tucker. Campbell. Pope. Childers. Puckett. Drinkwater. Simpson. Cox. Brickers. Carter. Anderson. Presley. Claiborne. Woodson. Smith. Dandridge. Dennis.
These are ancestral names of my grandfather Willie Wales. I could fill the page with names from the tree. It’s astounding. Yet, it means little. Who were these long-dead family members? Did they lead good lives or bad? (Finding their names at all lends them “some” credibility, because criminals often live on the run and off the grid.)
Nevertheless, your family is just a whole lotta’ nuttin.’ There’s no “master race.”
No culture is better than any other except to the extent that that culture honors God. (That is, even if a people does not know God, if they obey His rules which they sense in their conscience, He will bless them.)
But we remain lost without Christ.
“You inherited from your fathers an empty way of life, but you were redeemed, not with perishable things, like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without spot or blemish…. But now you are a CHOSEN RACE, a ROYAL PRIESTHOOD, a holy nation, a people for God’s own possession, so that you may proclaim the praises of THE ONE WHO CALLED YOU OUT OF DARKNESS INTO HIS MARVELOUS LIGHT” 1 Peter 1:18-19; 2:9.
I love history, family history, and genealogy. But much is shrouded in darkness. There must be heroes there. And villains. Poets, artists, builders, leaders, teachers, writers, judges, preachers. And burglars, cheaters, deserters, deadbeats, slave owners, and horse thieves. I cannot be blamed for the bad nor take credit for the good. Their stories are finished, water under the bridge in the ever-flowing stream of time.
But I am a child of God—a member of His Chosen Race, a Royal Priesthood. Let’s embrace that humbly and go forth to build HIS kingdom!
“Time, like an ever-flowing stream, bears all its sons away. They fly forgotten as a dream dies at break of day.” –from the hymn, ‘O God Our Help in Ages Past,’ by Isaac Watts.
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