Jews Sermon Illustrations

Jews Sermon Illustrations

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Frederick the Great of Prussia asked his chaplain to prove the authenticity of the Bible in two words, and the chaplain immediately replied, 'The Jews, your Majesty!'

(Num. 23. 9; Deut. 4. 25-27)

Amazing race! deprived of land and laws,
A general language and a public cause;
With a religion none can now obey,
With a reproach that none can take away:
A people still whose common ties are gone,
Who, mixed in every race, are lost in none.—George Crabbe

(Num. 23. 9; Deut. 4. 25-27)

The poet, Lord Byron, wrote concerning the Jews:

Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;
Mourn—where their God had dwelt, the godless dwell.

Tribes of the wandering feet and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest?
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave;
Mankind their country, Israel but the grave!

Israel is a miracle. She became a self-governing State in 1948. Right before our eyes now, prophecy concerning them is being fulfilled on every hand.

(Isa. 18. 2, 7; Hos. 3. 4, 5; Matt. 24. 32)

Pride and humiliation hand in hand
Walked with them through the world where'er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
And yet unshaken as the continent.—H. W. Longfellow

(Deut. 28. 37; Isa, 18. 7)

A Rabbi Speaks

Recently, I saw a statement by Rabbi Wise which read, "For eighteen hundred years, certainly most of the time, Jews have not been given an opportunity to know what Christianity is, least of all to understand who Jesus was and what the Christ means. The very ignorance of the Jew, touching Jesus, condemns not the Jew but Christendom."—Courtesy Moody Monthly.

What is the difference between a banana and a Jew? You can skin the banana.

He was quite evidently from the country and he was also quite evidently a Yankee, and from behind his bowed spectacles he peered inquisitively at the little oily Jew who occupied the other half of the car seat with him.

The little Jew looked at him deprecatingly. "Nice day," he began politely.

"You're a Jew, ain't you?" queried the Yankee.

"Yes, sir, I'm a clothing salesman," handing him a card.

"But you're a Jew?"

"Yes, yes, I'm a Jew," came the answer.

"Well," continued the Yankee, "I'm a Yankee, and in the little village in Maine where I come from I'm proud to say there ain't a Jew."

"Dot's why it's a village," replied the little Jew quietly.

The men were arguing as to who was the greatest inventor. One said Stephenson, who invented the locomotive. Another declared it was the man who invented the compass. Another contended for Edison. Still another for the Wrights,

Finally one of them turned to a little man who had remained silent:

"Who do you think?"

"Vell," he said, with a hopeful smile, "the man who invented interest was no slouch."

Levinsky, despairing of his life, made an appointment with a famous specialist. He was surprised to find fifteen or twenty people in the waiting-room.

After a few minutes he leaned over to a gentleman near him and whispered, "Say, mine frient, this must be a pretty goot doctor, ain't he?"

"One of the best," the gentleman told him.

Levinsky seemed to be worrying over something.

"Vell, say," he whispered again, "he must be pretty exbensive, then, ain't he? Vat does he charge?"

The stranger was annoyed by Levinsky's questions and answered rather shortly: "Fifty dollars for the first consultation and twenty-five dollars for each visit thereafter."

"Mine Gott!" gasped Levinsky—"Fifty tollars the first time und twenty-five tollars each time afterwards!"

For several minutes he seemed undecided whether to go or to wait. "Und twenty-five tollars each time afterwards," he kept muttering. Finally, just as he was called into the office, he was seized with a brilliant inspiration. He rushed toward the doctor with outstretched hands.

"Hello, doctor," he said effusively. "Vell, here I am again."

The Jews are among the aristocracy of every land; if a literature is called rich in the possession of a few classic tragedies what shall we say to a national tragedy lasting for fifteen hundred years, in which the poets and the actors were also the heroes.—George Eliot.

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