I never met the man, but I wish I could have. He was my great-grandfather on my mother’s and grandmother’s side of the family. I am told that he died when my grandmother was a baby in the early 1920s. The rub is that no one knows where he was buried. More than likely, it was in some small village just south of the US-Mexico border. His story, though, could have been different.
My understanding is that he was a medical doctor from the East Coast. Prestige and a somewhat easy lifestyle were certainly within his reach. But for some reason, he gave all that up to live in the dust and poverty of another place far from home. In my office I have a picture of this mysterious man. His name was Christian Saxton, and I believe he was of German descent. He is pictured next to his horse, in sharp riding clothing of the time, with a cigarette in his fingers. It’s hard to comprehend how a medical doctor would feel at ease inhaling smoke into his lungs. Maybe he didn’t know the science of smoking yet, or perhaps the habit just helped him calm down. I mean, he did have a more than exciting and dangerous life.
But again, why would an intelligent and accomplished doctor give up everything to travel between small villages in northern Mexico tending to the poor and sick? Maybe we can get a glimpse of an answer from a story of one of his treks that my mother told me about. In the second decade of the 20th century, while the US was experiencing the Roaring 20s, Mexico, on the other hand, was muddled in numerous civil wars and uprisings. Various factions fought the Federal government and each other. One of the most famous leaders of that era was a man of almost mythic charisma named Poncho Villa. Yes, the guy really did exist.
“Why would an intelligent and accomplished doctor give everything up to travel between small villages in northern Mexico tending to the poor and sick?”
It’s funny, but just over a year ago, I saw a picture of Villa on the wall of an auto mechanic’s shop whose owner is of Mexican heritage. I thought I recognized the picture and asked the girl behind the desk who he was. Responding with a sheepish gaze, she confirmed my thinking. Maybe the question worried her as Villa is considered an outlaw by some and a hero by others and she didn’t know where I stood on the matter. But her shy demeanor somewhat changed to a smile, and she laughed when I told her the story of my great-grandfather.
Oh, yes, my story. Apparently, at that time, one way you would identify your loyalty and who you supported in the country was to declare who you “rode for.” Which makes sense as there were very few cars in the region. So, basically, one “rode” for the Federalists, Poncho Villa, or some other faction leader. It is a real possibility that your answer, on who you said you rode for, could quite possibly determine the difference between life and death.
So, on this day, between villages and underneath the hot sun beating down on him, my great-grandfather was stopped by some of Poncho Villa’s men on horses wanting to know his loyalties and, of course, asked, “Who do you ride for?” I don’t know if my great-grandfather took time to process everything or just blurted out his response, but his answer was clear: “I Ride for Jesus!” At that, Villa’s sweat and dust-covered desperados laughed and let him go.
His answer was clear: “I ride for Jesus!”
It’s a fun story, and I suppose I can see it happening. Either way, therein is a hint of the answer we are looking for. Why would an early 20th-century medical doctor leave a high-profile and lucrative life in America for the dust and anonymity of small villages in northern Mexico? Because he knew Jesus and the bigger story of God’s love and eternity.
I have no idea where my great-grandfather’s body was laid to rest. The last report we have is that he died of pneumonia. In looking at timelines, this would have happened shortly after he sent my great-grandmother back north to escape the growing hostilities. I understand that Villa’s nurse was also on the same train as my great-grandmother, who was sent to safety by Poncho himself. I will probably never know many more details of my great-grandfather’s life, but I know what drove him. Today, we’d probably refer to a man like this as a medical missionary. He had dedicated his life to Christ and serving the most needy.
It’s incredible how our choices can affect those around us today and those who will come behind us for generations. Today in my office, I’ve got that yellow and faded picture of Christian Saxton by his horse with a lit cigarette. Why was he getting his picture taken then, and what was he doing? I don’t know. But there was a larger purpose than worldly gain to his life, and now and then, the corner of my eyes catches that picture in the background, and I wonder. I wonder what kind of conversation we might have if he was alive today. I wonder what kind of advice he might give to me. I wonder what he might say to me on those days when I feel like just throwing in the towel. I wonder if he might say something like, “Hang tough, Steve, and keep riding for Jesus.”
“There was a larger purpose than worldly gain to his life.”
None of us have lived through the days of the Mexican Revolution. But we do live in our own corner of history with politics that sometimes feel like an episode right out of the Twilight Zone. So maybe his words to those tough guys over a hundred years ago might have just as much power today as they did then. I mean, Jesus still is and always will be king, regardless of how the politics of any nation fall out. Jesus will ultimately sit on the eternal throne and settle all scores at the end of all things. So, I think of my great-grandfather Saxton and am thankful for the reminder.
I wonder, if Jesus does not come back for at least another 100 years, what my great grandchildren will hear about me, and how will that knowledge influence their lives? We do know that those future recollections are really all products of what we do today. What choices will you make today that will impact the future and maybe even eternity? Whom will you ride for?
From Kingdomology.com. Used with permission.
