Camp meeting time is my favorite time of the year because the 3ABN family comes together from around the world to worship, sing, and glorify the Lord. I have to admit how much I truly enjoy the camaraderie, the music, and the gathering of the saints; but not my aches and pains. The joy of meeting personalities from around the globe is somewhat muted by my own limitations. My flat feet hurt, and my back is crying out in open rebellion after hours and hours of walking and standing. So with humility—and a very sore back—I endure the agony of my feet and resist the agony of defeat… but my countdown to bedrest has nevertheless begun.
Just two more 14-hour days to go.
Just one more 14-hour day to go.
Last day!
Oh, my feet and back!
Dr Scholls where are you?”
These thoughts and more cross my mind as I stroll through the parking lot on my way to the Worship Center. I’m watching a crowd of visitors with a distant curiosity; quietly observing folks who normally go unseen on the other side of that studio camera. I’m roaming in the presence of many sweet souls who also share a sincere love for Christ, and I’m happy. How rare moments like this are. Then I meet an elderly man—a retired pastor and blacksmith from Oregon—and we get to talking a bit.
He tells me about his life, his wife, and what drew him to our camp meeting. We discuss families and friends, challenges and victories, life itself, along with the fabrication of everything from horseshoes to swords. Hammering out the impurities. Sparks. The folding of hot metal. Then into the oil it dips; to harden it and temper its steely character. How it hisses and boils in protest. Polishing and grinding, polishing, and more grinding. Filing the metal against the spinning stone as the swordsmith seeks out that perfect edge.
It is very easy to fascinate me. Overly imaginative, I’m infinitely curious about an infinite number of things. The old man has drawn me into his world.
“So, forging a sword is similar to everything else?” I ask him.
“Ah, now, that it is something quite different!” he answers back. “Swords are not poured into molds like horseshoes; instead, they are formed by affliction. Some swords have millions of layers. New layers forming with each new fold. Building layer after layer, while strengthening the metal, is the role of the swordsmith. Sparks flare with each strike of the mallet. Those are the impurities. They need to go!
“While fashioning the sword, what might seem like a maker’s wrath is actually a creator’s love. A good swordsmith loves his workmanship and the product of his efforts. Each strike of the mallet is a quest to perfect and purify an imperfect tool. Then into the furnace it goes, yet again. Let it remain there for a while. See that color? That temperature? That amber glow? Take careful notice of its radiance. This is when it is ready. No sooner, no later. Now remove it carefully and strike while it’s hot. Let the anvil sing a song that cries out to the ages that, ‘There is a wonderful work being done here!’”
As the old man tells his tale, my imagination has been set loose. I am no longer feeling the sharp pain in my lower back or the soreness of my feet. I glance at my watch. We have been here for over an hour. The parking lot is empty, and his wife has long since moved on; so this afternoon, the old blacksmith is preaching to a choir of one.
Impressed by such wisdom, I dared to ask, “How old are you?”
“I’m quite old,” he answers back with a smile while reaching out to touch my shoulder. “Remember son, God strikes while the metal is hot.”
Whether the old man said that, or it came from within, I’m not sure. But now I have Jesus on my mind. Within every word the blacksmith says, I see the beautiful image of Jesus and His love. This parking lot sermon was by far the best one of the whole camp meeting—because it was tailored just for me.
I could see the fatigue settling into his eyes as his sermon came to an end. We had been here quite a while, indeed. As we parted ways, I concluded silently that when all the impurities are finally gone, all that is left is absolute love. Pure and unbreakable. Such love cuts through all that is evil. Conquers all. Is polished in its perfection and forged in the fires of adversity. A tool ready for eternal service.
I was never to see the old blacksmith again, but I can’t help but remember the words that were spoken: “My son, I strike when the iron is hot.”
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.” Matthew 5:9.
“‘While you have the light, believe in the light, that you may become sons of light.’ These things Jesus spoke, and departed, and was hidden from them.” John 12:36.
