Grosey's Messages

The extensive use of CEM indicates a person has a sexual interest in children given people usually choose the kind of pornography that resembles their sexual interests.171 When a perpetrator is caught with CEM it is often thought they will go onto contact offend when it is most likely they already have. 172

A recent study found 60 per cent of CEM offenders had committed contact sexual offences against children which had not been identified at the time of their arrest.1

qfcc.qld.gov.au

Phil 3  Finally! Rejoice in the Lord

Philippians 3:1-9 ESV - Finally, my brothers, rejoice in the Lord. To write the same things to you is no trouble to me and is safe for you.

2 Look out for the dogs, look out for the evildoers, look out for those who mutilate the flesh. 3 For we are the circumcision, who worship by the Spirit of God and glory in Christ Jesus and put no confidence in the flesh— 4 though I myself have reason for confidence in the flesh also. If anyone else thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more: 5 circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; 6 as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless. 7 But whatever gain I had, I counted as loss for the sake of Christ. 8 Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ 9 and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God that depends on faith

Finally!! lol  most importantly!!

Rejoice in the Lord!!!

Matthew Henry,  "The joy of the Lord is a divine armor against the assaults of our spiritual enemies and puts our mouths out of taste for those pleasures with which the tempter baits his hooks . . . the taste of joy in our mouths makes the tempter's offerings seem bland by comparison." Psalm 34:5, 'They looked unto Him and were radiant.'  'Emerson came into our house this morning with a sunbeam in his face.'  Peter described it as joy unspeakable and full of glory.

1 No more, my God, I boast no more
Of all the duties I have done;
I quit the hopes I held before,
To trust the merits of thy Son.

2 Now, for the love I bear his name,
What was my gain I count my loss;
My former pride I call my shame,
And nail my glory to his cross.

3 Yes, and I must and will esteem
All things but loss for Jesus’ sake;
O may my soul be found in him,
And of his righteousness partake!

4 The best obedience of my hands
Dares not appear before thy throne;
But faith can answer thy demands,
By pleading what my Lord has done.

He was seeking good pearls, and passed from stall to stall with the eye and touch of the connoisseur; but from each stall he turned away dissatisfied. At last he approached one of the sellers, and saw before him on the tray the most exquisite, perfect, and transparent pearl that his eyes had ever lit on. Asking the price, he discovered that it would take all the pearls he had bought, and all the gold in his pouch, to procure it. When he learnt that to win that he must sell everything else; and so he does. He counts the rest a loss and the pearl far better.  He counted all things else but loss.

Have you done this ? 

HOW TED PRINGLE CAME BACK

Christmas, 1949

‘The worst of our work is that nothing ever comes of it!’ pensively observed Archie Harrington, the handsome young minister of Rocky Glen. Neatly attired in a grey suit with a flowing blue tie, Archie seemed to be speaking quietly to himself rather than addressing the men around him.

We were away in the depths of the Australian bush at a spot, close to the water’s edge, at which three huge gum-trees had fallen, their prostrate forms completing a perfect triangle. To this romantic and secluded rendezvous, the men who were attending the Summer Retreat at Silver Falls often came of an evening after the programme of the day had been completed. Many of them mounted the prostrate trees; some lounged against the gigantic trunks that clustered round; whilst others squatted or sprawled among the fern.

On hot nights, it was very pleasant, before retiring, to saunter down to this leafy paradise. As soon as the last session of the day had closed, the men would break up into little knots of two or three, and, under cover of dusk, vanish into the scrub; but by devious routes, they contrived, within an hour, to reach the clearing at the bend of the stream. There, to the accompaniment of the babbling waters, they would sing or chat, or jest, just as the fancy took them. Fred King was a specialist in negro spirituals; and, before we finally broke up, we usually startled the opossums, wallabies, kookaburras, and other denizens of the adjacent forestry with the strains of ‘Moses and Aaron Have Just Gone Along’ or ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ or ‘Steal Away to Jesus’. Most of the members of the retreat were young ministers whose ordinations had taken place only a few years back, and they made no secret of the fact that they regarded these al fresco and informal gatherings at the riverside as among the most attractive features of the Annual Retreat.

Archie Harrington was one of the most popular members of the party. By no means a pessimist or a kill–joy, his sudden explosion seemed completely out of character. What gust of secret disappointment or pang of regret, I wonder, clouded for the moment, his usually sunny spirit. We had been chatting intimately and confidentially about the work of the ministry in general and about our own personal experiences in particular.

‘But the worst of it is that nothing ever comes of it!’ Archie abruptly blurted out. His unexpected and disturbing remark drove each man back upon himself. It was as if some spectral form had emerged from the surrounding forestry, dispelling all our previous felicity. A singular silence fell upon us all. Is it true that the work of the Christian ministry returns no dividends? In the soul–searching hush that enfolded us all, the plash of the water seemed strangely turbulent. I caught myself reflecting, with no apparent reason, on a Mosgiel experience of many years before.

I

I had been addressing a Christian Endeavour meeting in Dunedin. Missing the train on which I had set my heart, I had no alternative but to wait for the late train – the terrible train that, leaving the city at eleven twenty, would restore me to my Manse in the wee sma’ ‘oors. Cooling my heels on the bleak and deserted platform, I felt depressed and miserable. When at length the train started, I found myself sharing with one companion, a long compartment, with doors at either extremity and seats along the sides, capable of accommodating fifty people. He sat at one end and I at the other. I expect that I looked to him as woebegone and disconsolate as he looked to me. The train rumbled on through the night. The light was too dim to permit reading; the jolting was too violent to permit sleeping; and I was just about to record a solemn vow never again to accept city engagements when a curious line of thought captivated me.

‘Here I am,’ I said to myself, ‘on this out-of-the-way New Zealand railway at dead of night! I can’t read; I can’t rest; I can do nothing; but I can talk! And there, huddled up in that far corner of the self-same compartment, is another belated unfortunate who can neither read nor sleep, and who, quite possibly, might like to beguile the time with conversation.’

And then it flashed upon me, not only that I could do it, but that I should do it.

‘We two,’ I continued, resuming my comfortless soliloquy, ‘we two have been thrown together for an hour or more in this outlandish way, in this outlandish place, at this outlandish time. We have never seen each other before. We shall never see each other again until we meet on the Day of Judgment. What right have I to let him go his way as though our tracks had never crossed? Is the glorious message that, on Sundays, I deliver to my people, only intended exclusively for them? And is it only to be delivered on Sundays?’

The burden of responsibility grew more and more heavy. I could no longer resist the impulse that burned within me. The train stopped for lengthy shunting operations at Burnside. I stepped out on to the platform and walked up and down for a few moments, inhaling the fresh mountain air. I pulled myself together. I wanted to have all my wits about me and to be at my best. The engine shrieked; and, on returning to the compartment, I was careful to re-enter it by the door near which my companion was sitting. I took the seat immediately facing him. I then saw that he was quite a young fellow, probably a farmer’s son. We soon struck up a pleasant conversation, and then, having created an atmosphere, I expressed the hope that we were fellow-travellers on life’s greater journey.

‘It’s strange that you should ask me that,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about such things lately.’

We soon became so engrossed in our conversation that the train had been standing a minute or so at Mosgiel before we realized that we had reached our destination. I found that our ways took us in diametrically opposite directions. He had a long walk ahead of him.

‘Well,’ I said, in taking farewell of him, ‘you may see your way to a decision as you make your way along the road. If so, remember that you need no one to help you. Lift up your heart to the Saviour; He will understand!’

We parted with a warm handclasp. Long before I reached the Manse I was biting my lips in having omitted to take his name and address. But it was too late: he was gone.

Five years passed. One Monday morning I was seated in the train for Dunedin. The compartment was nearly full. Between Abbotsford and Burnside, the door at one end of the carriage opened, and a tall, dark, bearded man came through, handing each passenger a neat little pamphlet. He gave me a copy of Safety, Certainty and Enjoyment. I looked up to thank him, and, as our eyes met, he recognized me.

‘Why,’ he explained, ‘you’re the very man!’

I made room for him to sit beside me. I told him that his face seemed familiar, although I could not recall a previous meeting.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘don’t you remember that night in the train? You told me if I saw my way to a decision, to lift up my heart to the Saviour on the road. And I did. I‘ve felt sorry ever since that I didn’t ask who you were, so that I could come and tell you. But, as the light came to me through a railway journey, I have always tried to do as much good as possible when I have occasion to travel. I can’t speak to people as you spoke to me; but I always bring a packet of booklets with me.’

It was my turn to feel some emotion, but there was little time for sentiment. He suddenly prepared to leave me.

‘You must excuse me,’ he said, grasping my hand in farewell. ‘We are nearly there, and there are two more carriages in front into which I have not been. Goodbye!’

And that was the last I ever saw of him. But the memory of him has often cheered me with the conviction that many of our daily ministries, apparently futile, are really much more fruitful than they seem.

II

Whilst my wayward mind had been engrossed in this fragment of flotsam cast up by the waves of memory from the shores of long ago, the conversation in the clearing had been resumed, but, completely lost in my brown study, I had no ears for it. All at once, however, I realized with a start that all eyes were upon me and that I was being addressed.

Don Campbell, who, by general consent, usually acted as a kind of master of ceremonies at these go-as-you-please corroborees, asked me for my opinion on the point that Archie Harrington had raised.

‘Well,’ I replied, after a moment’s reflection, ‘I should like to tell you a story; but just look at the time! It’s far too late now, but if you’ll give me a chance tomorrow night, I’ll give you the benefit of an illuminating experience that once came my way.’

It was agreed. Fred King struck up one of his plantation melodies, and, as the last echoes died away in the vast solitude of the surrounding bush, we broke up for the night.

On the following evening, however, we were there again, and after a cataract of chit-chat concerning the sayings and doings of the day, Don Campbell turned to me.

‘How about that story of yours?’ he inquired.

Now, truth to tell, the story that I had in mind when I made my rash promise was, of course, the story of my midnight experience on the Mosgiel train; but, during the twenty-four hours that had since ensued, my mind had darted off in a totally different direction with the inevitable result that I told another story altogether. And this is the tale that, with the music of the stream and the cry of the nightbirds in my ears, I then unfolded.

III

‘What’s to be done about Ted Pringle question?’ – that was the question, a question more easily asked than answered.

It was the quarterly meeting of the teachers of the Mosgiel Sunday School. We had made our way through a lengthy agenda paper and the hour was late. Some of the teachers had a long way to drive home and were showing unmistakable symptoms of impatience. It is under such circumstances that hasty and disastrous decisions are often registered, and I was anxious on that account to close the meeting as soon as possible. Indeed, I was actually rising to pronounce the benediction when Alec Murdoch forestalled me.

‘Mr. Chairman,’ he said, a trifle petulantly, ‘before you close the meeting – what’s to be done about Ted Pringle? Have we got to put up with him any longer?’

Here was a knotty point to have sprung upon us at this late hour! At the mention of Ted Pringle’s name, the meeting took a fresh lease of life. Before I had seen some teachers yawning, and others reaching for hats and umbrellas. But Alec’s question had acted like an electric current and revitalized everybody.

For Ted Pringle was the problem of the entire staff; indeed, he was the storm-centre of the whole congregation. He was a tall, thick-set boy, with ruddy cheeks, laughing eyes, and a great mop of curly hair. He was a born leader: he simply took charge of the boys by whom he happened to be surrounded, and, as if by magic, they all did exactly what he wanted them to do. We transferred Ted from class to class in the hope that the personality of this teacher, or that one, might subdue or captivate him.

Jean Menzies was very frail: she looked as if a puff of wind would blow her away, and she could scarcely speak above a whisper. We put Ted in her class thinking that her very weakness would appeal to his latent chivalry, but, like so many beautiful theories, the scheme did not work; poor Jean came to the superintendent in tears, begging that Ted might be taken from her, or that another teacher, capable of controlling him, be found for her class.

Davie Owens, on the other hand, was an old sailor, with sinews of steel, a face like a flint, and a voice like a foghorn. When we handed Ted over to Davie, he welcomed him into his class with a grip of the hand that made Ted squirm, and we flattered ourselves that the tiresome problem was at length solved.

It is quite possible that, had we allowed things to work their way to a conclusion, Davie might eventually have asserted his mastery. But the trouble was that Davie invariably expressed himself in stentorian tones that rang through the building, and Ted acquired the habit of addressing his teacher in a similarly sonorous register. The consequence was that the conversations between teacher and scholar – sometimes heated, often exciting and always interesting – held the undivided attention of the entire school and rendered teaching in the other classes out of the question.

It had never before occurred to us to discuss Ted Pringle by name at a Teachers’ Meeting, but, now that Alec Murdoch had raised the matter in this pointed and personal way, we all recognized that the question stood more directly related to the success or failure of the school than many of the formal items that we had been drearily considering.

‘What’s to be done about Ted Pringle?’ demanded Alec Murdoch, looking fixedly at me. I had no intention of answering his question, although I was as much affected as anybody present. For, again and again, my heart has sunk within me as, from my coign of advantage in the pulpit, I had seen Ted enter the church during the singing of the second hymn and slither into the back seat. If the back seat was filled before Ted entered, it made no difference to Ted. Such trifles never baulked him. He always did exactly what he wanted to do, and, therefore, he always sat exactly where he wanted to sit. But when he entered, and took his favorite seat in the back row, I knew that, to all intents and purposes, the service was over. How could I hope to impress the minds or touch the hearts of people who were continually glancing over their shoulders to see what was going on in the back row?

But, although I felt Ted Pringle to be a terrible thorn in my flesh, I was determined that nothing should induce me to regard Alec Murdoch’s question as a personal one. After all, it was a Teachers’ Meeting: it was Ted’s behavior in school, and not in church, that was under review; and, although the question awakened painful memories, I tried to look as if I were as disinterested as Julius Caesar or the Man in the Moon.

‘What’s to be done about Ted Pringle?’ Alec inquired; and, evidently thinking that speech would be superfluous, especially at that hour, he simply asked his question and resumed his seat. There was a silence, during which teachers glanced at each other meaningly, shook their heads despairingly, and generally seemed to assume the attitude that, not being good at riddles, they gave up the conundrum. I therefore turned to Alec.

‘Have you anything definite to propose?’ I inquired.

‘Yes,’ he replied, with an acerbity that indicated that he was smarting under recent wounds, ‘I think he ought to be expelled.’

A concrete proposal having been made, I turned instinctively to the superintendent beside me, raising my eyebrows, according to my custom, as a signal that I should like to have his opinion.

‘I am afraid,’ he began, with evident reluctance, ‘I am afraid that it is the only thing to do. It is intolerable that the discipline and effectiveness of the whole school should be sacrificed to the caprice and waywardness of one boy. But as to whether or not we are prepared to take so drastic a step tonight – that is another question.’

Glad of the opening that the superintendent’s doubt had offered me, I instantly sprang to my feet.

‘We are all grateful to Mr. Murdoch,’ I said, ‘for having brought this troublesome matter so pointedly before us; but he will recognize, I am sure, the justice of the superintendent’s scruples. We ought not to act at this late hour. The matter was not on the agenda; we did not come prepared to consider it; we are all very tired: let us leave it until next month, and, in the interval, I will endeavor to have a talk with Ted himself about it.’ Alec agreed. I pronounced the benediction, and we were soon scattered units in the darkness.

IV

The adjourned discussion was never resumed, for, the very next morning, the matter took quite a new turn. As we sat at breakfast at the Manse, the front-door bell suddenly rang.

‘Mr. Pringle wants to see you: he looks as if there’s something wrong. I’ve shown him into the study.’

To the study I accordingly hastened, a little troubled lest, by some perversity of circumstance, our discussion of the previous night should have reached Mr. Pringle’s ears. But he soon allayed my apprehension.

‘We’re in terrible trouble about Ted,’ he began, speaking with evident emotion. ‘For some time he’s been hankering after the sea. We didn’t take it very seriously. We knew that he’d been reading a lot of stories about smugglers and pirates and corsairs, and all that kind of thing. Whenever he mentioned it, we just put him off: I used to tell him that I had something better than that in store for him. But now he’s disappeared. We haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He didn’t come home to his meals, but we didn’t take very much notice of that; it had happened before. But he hasn’t been home all night. We reported it to the police, but I thought I’d like to come and tell you. If you happen to hear anything, I’ll be glad if you’ll let us know.’

I heard nothing. Nobody heard anything. How Ted got away to sea remained for years an inscrutable mystery. A few months later, however, his mother received a picture postcard from Valparaiso, saying that he was well and happy and that he hoped to come and see her one of these days. Then followed years of silence. A sailor who was spending a week or two with relatives in Mosgiel said that he had crossed Ted’s tracks at San Francisco. He was then on board the Elizabeth Armstrong, and was expecting to sail within a few weeks for Sydney. For months after this, the Pringles could find only one column in the newspaper – the shipping column. They read it from top to bottom every day, hoping against hope to find some news of the Elizabeth Armstrong. But the ship was never mentioned. A year later we heard in a roundabout way that the Elizabeth Armstrong had been totally wrecked on a small island in the Pacific; but as to whether Ted Pringle was a member of her crew at the time of the disaster, we could get no information at all. I happened to be at the street corner when a little group of Mosgiel men were discussing the possibilities of the situation.

‘Well,’ exclaimed one of them, sardonically, ‘it will be a good thing for himself and everybody else if he’s been killed and eaten by cannibals!’

And in that barbarous opinion several other members of that group, cherishing painful memories of Ted’s earlier delinquencies, heartily concurred.

V

All this happened many years ago. It is wonderful how much charity springs up in the most uncharitable heart with the passage of the years. Through the golden haze of that long parenthesis, the villain of long ago looks uncommonly like a hero. You think of him as you think of the highwaymen and pirates of literature: the contemplation of their lawless exploits affords far more pleasure than pain. Sitting beside the fire on a winter’s evening, I had often allowed my mind to wander back into the old days at Mosgiel, and whenever the thought of Ted Pringle had taken its place in the picture, I had caught myself reflecting upon his heart-breaking antics with a smile, half fond and altogether forgiving. And since I took it for granted that his bones were bleaching around the scene of some hideous orgy on a coral Island in the Pacific, I felt under no obligation to temper with justice the softer sentiments I thus indulged.

One night, however, I was a passenger on the Sydney express; and as the great train sped across our vast Australian spaces, the thought of Ted Pringle was as far from my mind as the thought of Ali Baba. At a wayside station, we paused for five minutes, and most of the passengers paced the platform to stretch their legs. All at once, I became conscious that a tall, handsome man in a grey suit – a man whom I somehow imagined to be a commercial traveller – was eyeing me narrowly. He approached me and addressed me by name. I confess that he had taken the advantage over me.

‘Do you really not know me?’ he said, ‘Have a good look!’ I accepted his invitation, but the scrutiny brought no enlightenment.

‘Do you mean to say that you have forgotten Ted Pringle!’

‘No, indeed, I haven’t,’ I replied in amazement. ‘I shall never forget Ted Pringle! But you’re not Ted!’

The whistle blew. ‘I have a reserved compartment,’ he said, ‘with plenty of room. Come in with us for a while.’ I was only too glad to do so, and, as the train gathered pace, he was introducing me to his wife – a sweet-faced, neatly-dressed, gentle- looking lady – and to his two boys, who, like himself, were attractively attired in suits of grey.

We were a happy party on the train that night. Ted, I discovered, owned a fine ship which he himself commanded. He was on his way to put his two boys at a boarding school in Sydney before sailing with his wife for South America.

‘Have you seen the old folks lately?’ I inquired.

‘We’ve just come from New Zealand now,’ he replied. ‘I’ve visited them quite a lot during the past few years. They’ve left Mosgiel, and I’ve done what I can to make them cosy in a little cottage in Dunedin. Your ears must have burned last month, for we talked enough about you, and the old Mosgiel days, in all conscience!’

‘But, Ted’ I remonstrated, ‘you can’t possibly remember much about me and the church: I don’t believe you ever listened to a single word I said!’

‘My word, didn’t I?’ he exclaimed, and then, to my utter astonishment, he reeled off text after text on which I had preached, and repeated bits of sermons that he had remembered and that I had almost forgotten!

‘I always give the men a bit of a service on board on Sundays,’ he said, ‘and you’d be surprised how often the things you told us at Mosgiel come into those talks of mine. I wonder,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘I wonder if you remember a lecture you gave on Mission Work on the Congo? I dare say you thought I wasn’t listening; but I felt that night that I’d give my right arm to be allowed to go out there and work with Grenfell and Cumber and those fellows. Of course,’ he continued, his eyes moistening slightly, ‘that’s impossible now; but Alf here is going in for medicine, and he says that, when he’s through, he’s going to offer for the Congo; so the lecture may bear fruit yet.’

We resumed our reminisces in the morning, and then, as the express steamed into Sydney, I said goodbye to Ted with far more emotion than I ever expected to cherish towards him.

‘Have you any more stories like that up your sleeve?’ asked Don Campbell, with a smile.

‘Dozens!’ I replied, with a secret glance at the memory of my experience in the railway train, hiding shyly in a shadowy corner of my mind, ‘dozens! And so has every other preacher who has enjoyed a few years’ ministerial experience.

‘And those dozens of stories go to show,’ I added, ‘that there is no enterprise on earth that returns such gold dividends as the work of the minister who, with eyes wide-open to the splendor of his opportunity, seeks to lead his fellow man to the Saviour and to magnify the glory of His service!’

Fred King led us all in one or two of his most moving spirituals; and I noticed that, when we broke up for the night, Archie Harrington slipped his hand through my arm, and we walked back through the shades of the forest together.