“She’s living on borrowed time.”  That’s the conclusion a friend shared with me in a pensive moment.  He was referring to his wife’s recent bout with cancer.

His remark caught me off guard because his wife has been cleared of any cancer.   Surgery removed every hint of it—and no chemo or radiation was required.  She’s in great health now, with no significant medical problems of any kind.

“The truth is, we’re all living on borrowed time,” said my friend—reading the curious look on my face. I thought about his statement quite a while.  He’s right.

We’re all living on borrowed time—every one of us.  The tragedy is, we simply don’t see it that way.  The fact that you and I might have racked up years of sickness-free living, decades of hospital-free health…does nothing to alter the harsh reality that we are all living on borrowed time.   (:55)

All it takes is…

One distracted glance on a truck-laden highway…

One unlikely fall off a ladder…

One x-ray at the doctor’s office….

And suddenly, the sheer frailty of the slender thread we call life…is seen for what it really is.

The oddity is that we have all peered through the lens of someone else’s tragedy and seen how fine and fragile that thread actually is.  Yet we come away from such a view, stuff our hands in our pockets…and still feel comfortable criticizing a spouse.  Or not forgiving a friend.  Or withholding love from someone desperate for a drop.

The truth is, we DON’T have time.  We DON’T have time to criticize our spouse.  We DON’T have time to not forgive a friend.  We DON’T have time to withhold love.

We are living on borrowed time.  James 4:14, “You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away.”

It’s time we understood “our” time—whatever of it may be left to us—is truly borrowed time.

You’d have thought it was a grenade.

Instead, it was only the Bible.

That's all Phil Robertson of Duck Dynasty was using as he offered a Scriptural perspective on homosexuality. 

A national firestorm followed.  But in the thunder of ideological gun shots, a curious scene played out in the neighborhood where my friend Jack lives.

For a couple of years, now, he's been trying to build bridges into the life of a friend across the street—let's call him Stephen.  Jack relates how it's been a slow go, getting to know Stephen, trying to build into his life.   Stephen is gay...and is aware of Jack’s Christian faith.

They’re friendly… wave at each other...chat in the street while collecting the mail.  But that's about it.  Then a year ago when some heavy snow fell, Jack—at the urging of his wife—went over to Stephen's house with a snow blower and blew out his driveway.

Stephen seemed most appreciative...and returned the favor for Jack.   More snows have provided more opportunities for Jack to reach out and care for Stephen's driveway.  But meanwhile...the conversations between the two of them have grown longer...more comfortable.

So there we were—as a nation—in the middle of this cultural battle over Phil Robertson.  And Jack is sitting at home when someone knocks on the door. It's his neighbor, Stephen.  Jack and his wife welcome him inside enthusiastically.  Of all things, Stephen has brought with him a plate of homemade...extra butter...original toll house chocolate chip cookies—Jack’s favorite.

They had a great time talking together, admiring that plate of big cookies…building an even stronger bridge.

In a world grown skeptical—critical—of Christians, there will always be room for the man or woman who loves people like Jesus did.   Throwing aside the labels.  Throwing aside the caution…and showing real care.

Can’t wait to hear the next chapter in Jack’s story.

I’ll keep you posted.

With Christmas now past, allow me to play Scrooge for a moment as I suggest that for many, December the 25^th might just be one of the most disappointing days of the year.
 
“Heresy!” you say.
“Blasphemous!” you cry.
                                                ...But hear me out...
 
Like you, I love the time off from work at Christmas...the gathering together of family and friends.  Truth is, I actually enjoy wrapping Christmas presents.  And I absolutely love the MUSIC of Christmas.
So...please hear me loud and clear—that I personally love Christmas.
 
Yet I cannot escape the sense that for millions and millions of people, Christmas is—in the end---a huge disappointment.
 
Think of it.
For months and months, little kids  have been exposed to thousands of messages on TV that assure them, if they just have this or that cool toy....life will be completely awesome.
 
For months and months, somewhat older kids have been told, if they just own this hot phone...or nifty tablet...or cool clothing...life will be completely awesome.
 
For months and months, adults have been told, if they just give (or get) a new Audi with a huge red bow on the roof...life will be completely awesome.
 
Then comes Christmas day.  The packages are unwrapped, the paper is shredded and the hoopla reaches a wild fever pitch.
 
By afternoon, reality has settled in.  The toy helicopter isn't quite as great as advertised.
The new tablet is kinda cool....but the screen isn't quite as sharp as you'd hoped  And that new Audi is great but....somehow it didn't revolutionize life the way it was supposed to. 
 
Life is never completely awesome merely because we possess something—however totally cool and shiny that thing may be.
 
While I love to give—and receive gifts—there is only ONE gift that is completely awesome.
Only one gift that simply never disappoints.  Only one gift that never rusts or wears out.   That gift is Jesus.  God...in the flesh.  God...with us.  Immanuel!

Christmas—it’s under assault.  No question about it.  From manger scenes evictedfrom public property to schools refusing to use the word, “Christmas.”  But I’m not here to complain.  No, I’d like to pause…and celebrate.

I wish to celebrate the fact that even as Uncle Sam rushes with sickening speed toward a pluralistic—even pagan--persona, traditional Christmas carols are still heard…virtually everywhere.

It’s true, isn’t it?

We were at a public high school Christmas concert this weekend.  What did we hear?  Silent Night…The First Noel…Do you hear what I Hear?

We’re shopping at a major suburban Chicago mall, and I’m hearing, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.  Let earth receive her king!”

At a restaurant, the strains of Hark the Herald Angels Sing plays boldly over the speakers.  Christmas—or make that—“Holiday” TV specials still sing overtly Christian Christmas carols.  References to Christ, Jesus…King…they’re everywhere—on national television.

More than 11 million people have now seen the Wordless Monks on YouTube performing the Hallelujah Chorus.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

Now, admittedly, for the vast majority of folks, the music is nothing more than wallpaper.  It’s as traditional as egg nogg and the abominable snowman.    Yet still, it ought to give us pause.

Pagan America.  America that long ago kicked God out of the schools and out of the courts and—increasingly—out of the public square…still has a soft spot for Christmas carols…if only out of habit.

With all that great theology in all those great carols playing to hundreds of millions of people…these lyrics have to get through to someone.  Somewhere.

No more let sin and sorrow grow
Nor thorns infest the ground
He comes to make
His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found

Joy to the World!

The Lord is come!

It's been quite a day at the office.  Okay.  So maybe Hyderabad, India isn't my usual work space.  But it was today.

One of our morning objectives was to visit a slum and capture some compelling images illustrating what life is like for a disturbing number of India's lowest caste, the Dalit’s.

Shooting pro grade video is tough enough under optimal circumstances, much more so walking through unimaginable filth, inhaling wretched smelling air.

Then you set up the tripod, unpack the audio gear (regretting the wires trailing lazily in the human muck) and realize you've left a critical filter back in the van.  Running to fetch the gear, you're suddenly aware of the many eyes peering out at you from under blue tarps and the shadows of crude huts.

There were concerns that our presence was unwelcome by some in the slum.  So we got right down to work.  Then it was time to shoot “B-roll”--the various “cutaway” shots that editors use to spice up a video.   This is the stuff I love to shoot best.

But the moment I started shooting, my “slum guide”--a fellow believer--introduced me to a little girl who was blind.  She couldn't have been more than 10 or 11.  Would I please stop and pray with her?  Of course, I did.  We barely got off another shot of some pigs roaming the slum when a woman came up and requested prayer for the cancer that she was battling.  We prayed.  We were guided into another hut where we prayed for still another.   It was touching...but troubling at the same time.  I had come to gather images...but was called upon to give prayers.

Later that afternoon, I had the rare opportunity to interview two women who were formal Hindu temple prostitutes.  When we were done...we prayed together.  Same with two Indian pastors we interviewed, both of whom have  been persecuted.

A lesson God seems to be teaching in all of this?  Perhaps just this: the extent we are willing to be “interrupted” to share another's pain--if only in a prayer—is the measure of a day well spent.

Come to think of it, it's been a good day at the office.  Praise God!