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By George Rolph (London)
Many years ago I was in Dartmoor prison. A Christian prisoner. A man who had become a Christian in a jail cell when the Lord my God called me to Christ. I had been the chapel orderly, but the head of the pastoral team in Dartmoor did not like me and had got rid of me. He had given me the sneering soubriquet, 'Bishop Rolph,' because I had a habit of correcting him when he miss-taught the Bible. Something he was prone to doing often before God dealt with his heart and saved him.
Dartmoor prison is a bleak place. Built by Napoleonic prisoners of war, it is the highest elevated prison in Britain. So high, that the clouds which race across the rugged, empty moorland enter the cells and make everything damp, wet and miserable. Even in the height of Summer the weather can become freezing cold. A blanket, not just of cloud, but of intense evil, surrounded the place. An evil atmosphere that seemed so thick you could feel it pressing against you. At times it felt to me as if every evil thought and action ever conceived since the place was built had permeated the cold stone of the place and was living there. Of course, the evil was not in the stone, but in the hearts of the men who lived and worked there.
Dartmoor prison was the place that the toughest prisoners were sent too. On the first day of my incarceration there, the security officer called me to his office. Before him on his desk was a folder containing my prison record. It was about six inches thick and contained details of every prison officer or inmate I had hurt in my long and violent prison career. Every escape or escape attempt was written there. Every spell in solitary. Every infraction of the rules. It was an account of my rebellion against the system, from my youth through to my adulthood. It must of made grim reading.
The security officer looked up at me as I stood before him. He wanted to let me know who was boss in his jail. He was going to warn me. I knew it. I had heard this same lecture and its threats a hundred times before from men just like him. In the past, I sneered and growled at the men who delivered it. I was my own boss. I told them. No one ruled me, but me. Those who thought otherwise would get hurt. The record on the security officers desk was a testament to that philosophy. He cleared his throat, put on his toughest attitude and voice and delivered his lecture. Warning me, as so many others had before him, that if I caused trouble in his jail, the only way I would leave it would be in a wooden box.
The security officer was an old hand at this game. He knew the routine. He would tell me how tough he was, then he expected me to growl back at him that if he crossed me it would be him leaving in a wooden box. That I would tell him that threatening to kill was an offence and that he had just broken the law, and so the only difference between him and me, was that I had been caught doing it. Then I would roar at him that he was a hypocrite and I was not impressed by his attempts to show me how superior he was because he had a stupid 9 to 5 job, and I was a villain making more money than he had ever seen. It was all in the folder on his desk, but it did not pan out the way he expected. Instead, in a soft voice, I told him that I was here to serve both my God and the prison He had sent me too. That I wanted no trouble and any that came, God would deal with. That there was no one tougher or mightier than my God and so I did not need to fight my own battles any more as He would fight for me.
The security officer must have been impressed because it was he who cleared me for the job as chapel orderly. A job that allowed me to leave and re enter the prison at will. A job that allowed me to ask a prison officer to open virtually any door in the prison and let me through and they would do it. Now that job was gone and I was back in my cell for twenty three hours a day. I used those hours to pray, fast, study my Bible and worship God.
One day, the cell door opened. It was the security officer. He told me he had given me a new job. I was to work on the prison farm. I was overjoyed. This meant I would be working outside of those high walls. Out in the real world where I could see, meet and talk with, ordinary people who were not prisoners. More than that, I was overjoyed because it meant I was still trusted. It made me feel like a man again, instead of just a number. In my life, trust was not something many people gave me and so it was important to me to have it. Of course, the number one reason for my joy was because my Lord had brought this about and I was very thankful.
On the first day in my new job the Lord tested me. He did not do so in order to tempt me. He did so in order to fix me.
The officer in charge handed me a shovel and a wheel barrow and ordered me to go into the cattle shed and start cleaning it out. I wheeled the barrow to the shed and opened the big wooden doors to the huge structure. What I saw horrified me. Cow dung, a foot deep and with a hard crust on it, covered every inch of the floor space. I gagged and recoiled. My pride rushed to the surface and rage gripped my heart. How dare they give ME this job! Did they not realise who I am? I am not here to shovel up cow dung for anyone! I turned and walked away from the shed. My heart was in turmoil. All vestiges of peace had left me. It was as if I had never been saved. My heart was back in the state it was as described in the folder on the security officers desk on that first day.
In my head I prayed a furious prayer. 'I am not doing this, Lord.' It was curious that I had appended the word “Lord” to my prayer, even in my rebellion against Him. At the time, the hypocrisy of that escaped me. The answer from God almost floored me.
“Don't do it for them. Do it for me.”
In an instant I suddenly saw what service to God is. It has nothing to do with religious services or rituals. It has nothing to do with 'looking good' so men will think you are wonderful. It has to do with laying aside your will, your feelings and your pride. Understanding that God is in control of everything. That He wants control of you, but only if you want Him to have it.
Letting Him have that control and rule over you is the very definition of being a bond servant; a willing slave. Serving God in all things because He has saved you and Loves you is the only true aim of the Christian. It is not about serving for a reward. Serving because you want a high seat in heaven. It is not about feeling good about yourself, or seeing yourself as special and better than others. It is all about surrender in every circumstance, because you understand that the circumstance you are in, is the circumstanceHe wants you in. It does not matter whether that circumstance is shovelling cow dung or polishing the kings crown. It is about your attitude to the One you call, “Lord.” I realised that I had to serve Him for love, not for position, or to earn merits. Simply because I love Him for all He has done for me in setting me free.
This realization flashed through my mind in a moment of startlingly clear revelation.
'For you, Lord.' I prayed. As I turned to get on with the task He had set me, it did not occur to me until later, that this time, the word “Lord,” was in its right place. It is a word that only fits into the heart of a servant and never fits into the heart of a rebel. Even though it can be on the tongue of both.
As I started the job I was joined by several other men. We worked hard and quickly, soon clearing and hosing down the floor of that shed until every part of it was clean. Hardly noticing the smell. With every scoop of that shovel I knew I was pleasing my Lord and my heart was full of joy. My pride had been dealt a fatal blow in that circumstance and was replaced by the humility of the servant serving his Lord, for the Love of his Lord and towards his Lord.
Many years ago I was in Dartmoor prison. A Christian prisoner. A man who had become a Christian in a jail cell when the Lord my God called me to Christ. I had been the chapel orderly, but the head of the pastoral team in Dartmoor did not like me and had got rid of me. He had given me the sneering soubriquet, 'Bishop Rolph,' because I had a habit of correcting him when he miss-taught the Bible. Something he was prone to doing often before God dealt with his heart and saved him.
Dartmoor prison is a bleak place. Built by Napoleonic prisoners of war, it is the highest elevated prison in Britain. So high, that the clouds which race across the rugged, empty moorland enter the cells and make everything damp, wet and miserable. Even in the height of Summer the weather can become freezing cold. A blanket, not just of cloud, but of intense evil, surrounded the place. An evil atmosphere that seemed so thick you could feel it pressing against you. At times it felt to me as if every evil thought and action ever conceived since the place was built had permeated the cold stone of the place and was living there. Of course, the evil was not in the stone, but in the hearts of the men who lived and worked there.
Dartmoor prison was the place that the toughest prisoners were sent too. On the first day of my incarceration there, the security officer called me to his office. Before him on his desk was a folder containing my prison record. It was about six inches thick and contained details of every prison officer or inmate I had hurt in my long and violent prison career. Every escape or escape attempt was written there. Every spell in solitary. Every infraction of the rules. It was an account of my rebellion against the system, from my youth through to my adulthood. It must of made grim reading.
The security officer looked up at me as I stood before him. He wanted to let me know who was boss in his jail. He was going to warn me. I knew it. I had heard this same lecture and its threats a hundred times before from men just like him. In the past, I sneered and growled at the men who delivered it. I was my own boss. I told them. No one ruled me, but me. Those who thought otherwise would get hurt. The record on the security officers desk was a testament to that philosophy. He cleared his throat, put on his toughest attitude and voice and delivered his lecture. Warning me, as so many others had before him, that if I caused trouble in his jail, the only way I would leave it would be in a wooden box.
The security officer was an old hand at this game. He knew the routine. He would tell me how tough he was, then he expected me to growl back at him that if he crossed me it would be him leaving in a wooden box. That I would tell him that threatening to kill was an offence and that he had just broken the law, and so the only difference between him and me, was that I had been caught doing it. Then I would roar at him that he was a hypocrite and I was not impressed by his attempts to show me how superior he was because he had a stupid 9 to 5 job, and I was a villain making more money than he had ever seen. It was all in the folder on his desk, but it did not pan out the way he expected. Instead, in a soft voice, I told him that I was here to serve both my God and the prison He had sent me too. That I wanted no trouble and any that came, God would deal with. That there was no one tougher or mightier than my God and so I did not need to fight my own battles any more as He would fight for me.
The security officer must have been impressed because it was he who cleared me for the job as chapel orderly. A job that allowed me to leave and re enter the prison at will. A job that allowed me to ask a prison officer to open virtually any door in the prison and let me through and they would do it. Now that job was gone and I was back in my cell for twenty three hours a day. I used those hours to pray, fast, study my Bible and worship God.
One day, the cell door opened. It was the security officer. He told me he had given me a new job. I was to work on the prison farm. I was overjoyed. This meant I would be working outside of those high walls. Out in the real world where I could see, meet and talk with, ordinary people who were not prisoners. More than that, I was overjoyed because it meant I was still trusted. It made me feel like a man again, instead of just a number. In my life, trust was not something many people gave me and so it was important to me to have it. Of course, the number one reason for my joy was because my Lord had brought this about and I was very thankful.
On the first day in my new job the Lord tested me. He did not do so in order to tempt me. He did so in order to fix me.
The officer in charge handed me a shovel and a wheel barrow and ordered me to go into the cattle shed and start cleaning it out. I wheeled the barrow to the shed and opened the big wooden doors to the huge structure. What I saw horrified me. Cow dung, a foot deep and with a hard crust on it, covered every inch of the floor space. I gagged and recoiled. My pride rushed to the surface and rage gripped my heart. How dare they give ME this job! Did they not realise who I am? I am not here to shovel up cow dung for anyone! I turned and walked away from the shed. My heart was in turmoil. All vestiges of peace had left me. It was as if I had never been saved. My heart was back in the state it was as described in the folder on the security officers desk on that first day.
In my head I prayed a furious prayer. 'I am not doing this, Lord.' It was curious that I had appended the word “Lord” to my prayer, even in my rebellion against Him. At the time, the hypocrisy of that escaped me. The answer from God almost floored me.
“Don't do it for them. Do it for me.”
In an instant I suddenly saw what service to God is. It has nothing to do with religious services or rituals. It has nothing to do with 'looking good' so men will think you are wonderful. It has to do with laying aside your will, your feelings and your pride. Understanding that God is in control of everything. That He wants control of you, but only if you want Him to have it.
Letting Him have that control and rule over you is the very definition of being a bond servant; a willing slave. Serving God in all things because He has saved you and Loves you is the only true aim of the Christian. It is not about serving for a reward. Serving because you want a high seat in heaven. It is not about feeling good about yourself, or seeing yourself as special and better than others. It is all about surrender in every circumstance, because you understand that the circumstance you are in, is the circumstanceHe wants you in. It does not matter whether that circumstance is shovelling cow dung or polishing the kings crown. It is about your attitude to the One you call, “Lord.” I realised that I had to serve Him for love, not for position, or to earn merits. Simply because I love Him for all He has done for me in setting me free.
This realization flashed through my mind in a moment of startlingly clear revelation.
'For you, Lord.' I prayed. As I turned to get on with the task He had set me, it did not occur to me until later, that this time, the word “Lord,” was in its right place. It is a word that only fits into the heart of a servant and never fits into the heart of a rebel. Even though it can be on the tongue of both.
As I started the job I was joined by several other men. We worked hard and quickly, soon clearing and hosing down the floor of that shed until every part of it was clean. Hardly noticing the smell. With every scoop of that shovel I knew I was pleasing my Lord and my heart was full of joy. My pride had been dealt a fatal blow in that circumstance and was replaced by the humility of the servant serving his Lord, for the Love of his Lord and towards his Lord.