|Missions without Jesus
|Thursday, February 07, 2019|
The word missionary seems to have evolved. And I’m not sure it’s for the best.
I understand a missionary to be someone who uses their gifting (preaching, teaching, translating, nursing, music, construction, administration, arts, etc.) to share the central gospel message: that our sins now separate us from God and we are in desperate need of the Savior, Jesus.
As we support several different missionaries, my wife and I enjoy reading their updates and newsletters. But Jesus seems to be getting less and less press. We read about construction projects, clean water initiatives, ministries to the poor and other good things. But there’s often very little said about the gospel. How we long to read, “This girl we talked with seemed far from the kingdom. And then she met Christ. Now her life is so different because….”
Drilling wells, feeding the hungry, clothing the poor, freeing sex slaves—are surely noble tasks—and certainly in line with the heart of Christ. Indeed, Christians must be leading the world in these efforts. But they are not in themselves the gospel!
I'm not saying it’s either/or—that we should only preach the gospel and not bother with humanitarian relief or biblical justice. I am asking: Where is the problem of sin and the solution of the cross in our good-deed-doing?
To be clear, we ought never to offer our service, our medical care, our food or water conditionally (“if you accept Jesus, then we will help you”). Christ made no demands before healing or doing good of any kind. He simply helped or healed. But nor did He fail to let people know of their fundamental need to repent, with Himself as the solution to their sin problem.
If there isn’t God in our good or Jesus in our justice, we offer a lesser gospel fashioned of feel-good causes and hipster compassion. For, in the end, there is no real justice without Jesus, no good apart from God.
So let our hands dig wells—while our mouths speak of Christ. Let us advocate for the poor—but be unfailingly courageous in connecting Jesus with our justice. May our spirits be welded to the task of meeting physical needs so that we might address the ultimate need of every heart: Christ and Christ only.
|The Wishing Trees
|Thursday, January 31, 2019|
Wilkes-Barre/Scranton International airport. You’re familiar with it, aren’t you? It’s the airport that spans the border between Luzerne and Lackawanna counties in northeast Pennsylvania.
Actually, I’d never flown there myself until this week. Couldn’t help but notice there were still a few Christmas decorations around, including a lovely set of brightly lit “Wishing Trees.” The ornaments on these trees were round cardboard discs upon which people wrote their wishes for the new year. Here’s a sampling of the wishes I discovered:
There were a few wish zingers from kids. Among the many adult comments, I observed these wee wishes:
Some wishes were haunting. Or profound. Like these:
But the best wish I found wasn’t so much of a wish as a declaration. See if you don’t resonate with this one:
May your “Wishing Tree” be bright with the light of this kind of love—all year long!
|He Did What He Could
|Thursday, January 24, 2019|
He sniffed the winds and smelled trouble.
When Georges Loinger heard Hitler on the radio, he shuddered. When he saw Hitler’s book in the store, he gasped. And began to prepare.
In the late 1930s, Loinger, an engineer by background, became a physical education teacher with the intention of “preparing and training Jewish youth for the ordeal that awaited” (UK Times). When the Nazis invaded France in 1940, Loinger—who fought with the French army—was captured and hauled to a prison camp near Munich. After escaping, he joined the French resistance force.
The blond-hair, blue-eyed Loinger routinely lead groups of Jewish kids on soccer trips “conveniently” hosted near France’s border with neutral Switzerland. “Amazingly,” the ball would often be kicked toward the border, where several students would dive into the woods in pursuit (following their teacher’s careful instructions to flee for their lives). It happened again. And again. And again.
With his excellent command of German, Loinger once convinced a group of Nazi officers that the group of 50 children he was escorting had fled the Allied bombing of Marseille. Reportedly, the Germans gave the Jewish kids candy, even joining along with their singing. Georges Loinger simply did what he could, ultimately saving hundreds of Jewish children.
Earlier this month, Loinger died at the remarkable age of 108, his reported last words, “Nobody can destroy Jewish culture.” He surely deserves our heartiest salute as a selfless rescuer.
But might there be a lesson or two for Christ followers in the example of Georges Loinger? Consider:
You don’t have to be a hunting dog to sniff the winds and know that trouble is on the way again. For Jews. For Christians. For many.
It’s time to prepare.
|Thursday, January 17, 2019|
When a ten-year-old jumps into your arms, you had better…
A. Be ready
B. Be thankful
We picked up Joslynn (or rather, intercepted her mid-air) at her church youth group, noting a green balloon with a message on it clutched in her hand. I initially paid little attention to the scribbling on that bulbous bit of latex, because my wife and I were so glad to see Joslynn.
She is just plain fun to have around. Plus, she is helping me transition to a new office at Moody Radio. Frankly, she’s become an excellent administrator, conquering cantankerous copy machines, learning to scan documents while numerically sequencing a library of data DVDs for me. Others have observed Joslynn’s work ethic and are asking if she might work for them!
At some point during Joslynn’s stay at our house, I took a closer look at the message scribbled on her balloon, which prompted a few questions.
ME: So what’s this balloon all about, Joslynn?
HER: You’re supposed to look at it and remember what you need to do.
ME: What do you mean?
HER: It’s something biblical.
ME: And how many kids made balloons with you?
HER: Between 100 and 150.
I have no idea what the others scribbled on their balloons, but here’s what I saw on Joslynn’s: “Help me to be kind, helpful and a better follower of Jesus.”
Ka-Pow! I was touched—and thoroughly challenged. Truth is, I found myself in the middle of a self-inventory with questions like:
There’s something very right about a church youth group that would create a project like that message-on-a-balloon. Something very right about parents that would raise a child to think in the ways Joslynn is thinking.
May her balloon never burst!
|Lessons from a Farmhouse
|Thursday, January 10, 2019|
Saturday morning. We are standing around the massive oak table in the farmhouse where my wife, Diana, grew up. Her brothers are there along with a few other family members.
This place is Christmas and Easter and crowds and kids. This is the table you gather around where smoked ham melts in your mouth. Where your plate is so heaping, melted red Jell-O streams like edible lava down your mountain of mashed potatoes.
The house is empty now. Diana’s mom passed away more than a year ago, her dad 12 years before that. So the estate needs to be cleared out and cleaned up. I find myself angry at the many cobwebs. How dare the spiders claim such a disproportionate amount of space on the walls and in the corners? Such is the inevitable state of a house not lived in.
We are sifting through furniture and dishes and antiques and knick-knacks asking who would like what. Everyone is polite and uncharacteristically reserved. More than decorum, I’m convinced there’s a numbness borne of lingering loss.
It is the oddest of family gatherings.
Stories finally tumble out and dust bunnies dance with the laughter. Whether therapy or harmless reminiscing, it doesn’t matter. Everyone seems hungry to laugh.
As this photo and that knick-knack are parceled out, it feels like a cruel surgery—one without anesthesia, where paintings and pictures are peeled off the wall. These things belong here. In their place. In this home. Except, it’s not really home anymore. Diana’s Mom and Dad are gone. What is left? Just memories—and stuff. But isn’t that the story of us all?
Diana and I both walk away with two lessons from the morning. The first lesson: hold stuff lightly. Even those possessions you and I prize the most will someday be reduced to a dust pasture. Hold stuff lightly.
The other lesson? Hold people tightly. People are not forever. Despite the bravado of youth and the tenacity of folks who seem like they’ll “always” be there, we are all born with an expiration date. Ultimately, the only comfort in this reminiscing is the reality that home is yet to come: Heaven.
I wanted to close this blog with the Bible verse that says “Set your minds on things above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God.” But I was unsure of the reference. So I picked up my iPhone and said to Siri, “Set your minds on things above,” presuming she’d connect me with the reference. Instead, she replied, “I’m not sure I understand.”
Not many do.
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