Author: Jon Gauger

Shrill—and getting shriller.

Such is the state of our digital demeanor.  Have you noticed? Our public discourse is often just coarse.  If you’re a conservative, every democrat is despicable.  If you’re a liberal, conservatives are kooky. 

Those who disagree with some of the data presented by the Climate Change crowd are “science deniers.”  That’s right!  They deny 100% of everything scientific.  No middle ground—who needs it?

We have all but lost our capacity to disagree, let alone discuss much of anything with others.  Civility is dead.

In our posts, texts, and media, we celebrate the crass, specialize in the snarky, and cherish the choice to demolish.  What was once a stream of anonymous attacks from strangers in a chat room is now publicly endorsed online and on television.

We are shrill and getting shriller. Profanity—proudly used. Vulgarity—very in vogue.  

This is hardly a surprising assessment of our secular culture.  Unredeemed people will act in unredeemed ways.

But my concern is not so much for the wide wicked world out there as it is for the world inside the Church.  I'm seeing an acceleration of Christians attacking other Christians for their views on the election, climate change, and social justice. Worse, we express our opinions with the same meanness as those outside the faith.

How in the world can we call any of this Christian?  What makes us think our Savior would possibly sanction such savagery?

We are shrill and getting shriller, rather than kind and getting kinder. But please note. The song never says, “They’ll know that we are Christians by our tweets.”  It’s our love, folks.  That’s what we’re to be known for.

Shame on us!

Conversations with a 969 Year Old Man

Some people have happy dreams—others, nightmares.  How to describe this?

I found him outside town perched on a rock at an intersection locally known as Three Corners, named for the three counties that come together on three roads emerging out of a forest.

It’s not like I was staring at him or anything. Okay, maybe a little. How could I not? His body gave the appearance of a distressed pup tent—saggy and poked out in places where fragile bones attempted to prop up his shaky limbs.  His skin cascaded down those limbs like melted candle wax—ancient and drizzled and lumpy. His robe looked more scratchy then comfortable and reminded me of a revolutionary war tent I'd seen.

Just who was this relic?  I wanted to meet him, talk to him.  But how?   Could a guy that old even hear?  Or see?  And if he could, would he even give me the time of day?  Curiosity prevailed.

"Excuse me, Sir.  Have you got a second?” I managed to squeak out.

"Maybe. Maybe not.  At my age, very little is certain."  He chuckled at his own humor in a voice that was equal parts gravel and whisper, and I felt myself exhale. At least the guy could hear.

“Sir, I don’t mean to be forward, but do you mind my asking….um….how old are you?”

“969.”

"Months?" I mumbled (an odd way to tell someone your age, I pondered, doing some quick math).  "That'd make you…about eighty."  But he looked older than that.

“Years,” croaked the old guy, poking a crooked walking stick into the ground below.

“That can’t be.  Nobody ever lived to be 969 years…”

“One has,” he smiled, jabbing a thickly knuckled index into the air—and then at himself.”

“Wait a minute!  You can’t be—you couldn’t possibly be….”

“Methuselah," he half-wheezed half-whispered.  "Name's Methuselah.”

Frankly, he almost looked like he could be 969.  Rather than argue, I decided I’d humor the guy and play along. 

“What’s it like being 969 years old?” I asked.

“Lots of answers, depending on your angle,” his voice graveled.  “What’s yours?”  His eyes pierced mine, his wrinkled brow showing more of a dare than an invitation.

“Okay,” I said, seizing on his dare, still wanting him to prove himself.  “Tell me about your righteous grandson.”  A fake Methuselah would struggle here.  Not this geezer. A smile creased his creases deeper still.

“A good boy, that Noah. A godly one. We live today in tough times.  Killings.  Rape.  Sexual extremism.  Brutal violence.  But Noah—my grandson—he loves the Lord.  Obeys Him fully.  He's the only God follower in his generation,” Methuselah trailed off, looking down.

I was sold. "So—if it's okay to ask—why do you think Noah's the only one in your family to follow God?"

“I’ve puzzled over that question for a century or two, boy.  I suppose only the Lord Himself knows.  Be nice to think some of it was related to good parenting—making God a priority.  Faithful prayers of a grandfather, maybe?” He chuckled. 

“I really can’t say. But one thing I do…”

Abruptly, he grew quiet as his head craned skyward. “I pray for him.  Every morning.  Every day.  Every night. I pray for him.”  Tears pooled as his voice cracked. “I pray for all the kids.  All the grandkids.” 

It was an awkward moment, and it felt like something needed to be said.

“Sounds like you, um….recommend that to others, then?” I mumbled, feeling immediately like Captain Obvious.

“Praying for them?  You bet your life, sonny. At my age, prayer is the only thing I’ve got left. But think about it.  At any age—it’s the best thing.”

With that, I watched him slide down the rock with surprising agility.

“Let me ask you something,” the old guy said, catching me off guard.

“Sure.”

“Do you have children?”

“Yes, I do.  A son and a daughter.”

“Do you pray for them?”

“Well, sure I do,” I answered a tad defensively.

“Every morning?”

“Probably not every morning. But….”

“All throughout the day?”

“Not…all throughout the day, no.  I guess I don’t.  But sometimes I…” I was defending myself, grasping for something that wasn't there, and Methuselah knew it.

“But you do pray for them every single night, don't you?"  His intonation sounded more like sadness than questioning. 

There was no point in stating what he already knew.  I sort of expected a verbal lashing or a fiery sermon from the ancient.  It never came. Instead, he grabbed his walking stick and trudged back into the woods. 

How I wished he was back!  I wished I could ask him to pray with me.  Pray for me. Teach me to pray—like Methuselah.

Then I woke up.

Crazy dream?  I suppose.  But Methuselah's words about kids and grandkids still haunt:

“Prayer.  It’s the only thing we’ve got left.”

As we Midwesterners begin our slow goodbye to summer, we know that six months of all things dark and drab loom ahead.  Our descent into the dreary is eased somewhat by the bombastic colors of the fall trees.

As if to dare the onslaught of fall’s overwhelming brownness, the leaves emerge in irreverent hues: electric orange, sun-soaked lemon, fierce red. 

My favorites are the variegated shades, like the leaf I saw on a neighbor's driveway.  It was small and featured a bright green center crowned with an orange tint that looked as if God was experimenting with Photoshop. 

After taking a quick phone pic, I gently pocketed the leaf, intending to show it to my wife.  I forgot about it until the next day.  Pulling it out of my jacket, I could see that already, the color had faded a bit.  More noticeably, the thing had started to shrivel.

What a metaphor. Try as we might, we cannot pocket beauty.  We cannot keep it in a jar or hang it in a frame. Or seal it from decay—just one more unintended consequence from the fall.

We can enjoy beauty’s magnificence.

We can take snapshots.

We can inhale its fragrance.

 

But beauty cannot be frozen in time.

We can only enjoy it in time.

So—take the time.

 

Your wife’s smile.

Your son’s eyes.

Your favorite leaf. 

 

These are beautiful gifts from a God of beauty who bids us enjoy His creation. 

 

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.    —Ecclesiastes 3:11

 

It was hard to miss, even walking at the brisk pace I try to maintain on my early morning walks.  There on the side of the road was a magnificent butterfly.  Black and spotted and iridescent, I saw majesty in every flex of its silken wings.

My friend Chris, an outdoor guy with considerable experience, told me I was staring at an Eastern Black Swallowtail.  I had more time to study this creature than I should have.  Because when it attempted to fly, it fluttered and stuttered—but went nowhere. Yet the thing kept trying to get airborne anyway.  Try after try, it failed to leave the ground.

Why? I wondered.  Upon close inspection, the wings appeared to be in great shape—no dings in either antenna.  From what I could see, the head looked fine, and the legs seemed in place.  

The longer I watched its ill-fated flight attempts, the more obvious it became.  This was a butterfly in distress.

Sadly, I was unable to help. So I walked on, wondering what was to become of my non-flying friend. 

On the breeze of that early morning, a thought drifted into my mind.  There is hardly a day that goes by that you and I don’t walk past butterflies in distress.  Not the tiny ones with wings.  I speak of the tall ones on two legs. 

It’s the lady next door, hemorrhaging over the divorce she never wanted.

It’s the friend who got the disturbing phone call from the doctor’s office.

They are often hard to spot because they look just fine on the outside.  Watch long enough, and you'll see that they flutter and stutter—but get nowhere.  I submit…

• There are butterflies in distress where you work.
• There are butterflies in distress where you worship.
• There are butterflies in distress where you live. 

Maybe it’s your spouse.  Or your daughter.  Or your son.  Or even yourself.

We cannot fix them–only Christ can. But we dare not ignore them. Ours is to notice. To care.  To call. To pray. To encourage. But it all begins with seeing them on the side of the road.

Butterflies in distress—they’re everywhere.

 

Bear one another’s burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ.  

–Galatians 6:2

 

 

 

Feasting on a breakfast of presweetened cereal—the kind kids like me love best—I bumped into a curious bit of philosophy. The back of the cereal box offered advice for your “Biggest Week Ever.” 

The box suggested we should be kind, be confident, be adventurous, and a few other “nice” things. One could hardly argue with the list.  Nothing wrong with being a dreamer, as was also suggested. 

Curiously missing from the list, though, were virtues like honesty. Or perseverance. Or integrity.

Since the audience here is young children, why not introduce them to respect as a value worthy of pursuit?Previous generations did.

I get that these virtues are not nearly as fun. And in fairness, we are talking about a cereal box here. Nobody released this as an official lifetime guide for raising kids. Still, when you sniff the cultural air, it feels almost like there’s a kill order on virtues no longer in vogue.

Have you noticed that virtues like temperance and prudence have all but disappeared from public discourse?  One web headline I saw reads, Why be honest if honesty doesn’t pay? 

Increasingly, our culture encourages niceness over integrity, agreeableness over principal.

Which leads to narrative trumping facts and tolerance over truth. 

As Christ-followers, we must resist the seduction of a lexicon of virtues that ignores biblical principles.  Instead, let us endorse what is “true and lovely” (Phil. 4:8) and “speak the truth in love” (Eph. 4:15).   All this while living “above reproach in a world full of crooked and perverse people" (Phil. 2:15).

God help us live a biblically virtuous life!

 

 

 

The beefy hornet dove at me again and again.  I’d had enough, so I grabbed the fly swatter and, with a well-timed swing, sent him on to his reward.  I wondered where he came from and how big was his hive.

The next day I met the family. Several hundred of them buzzed in and out of a nest bigger than a football.  

The problem is, the hive was not far from our bathhouse out at the campground. Time for action!

A search and destroy mission was set for dusk Saturday night, led by special ops team Mike and Gary. From the comfort of lawn chairs, we watched phase one: mega doses of hornet spray. 

At phase two, Gary hoisted a plastic-lined garbage can underneath the hive while Mike's pruning loppers snipped a branch.  The lid snapped shut and was opened only long enough for Mike to tie off the plastic bag.  

Suddenly I found my courage and walked up to Gary, who held the bag of angry insects.  The sound of the buzzing was so intense I recorded it on my phone.  Gave a whole new meaning to the phrase "mad as hornets."  But that all ended at phase three: incineration in a campfire.

Why do I share this story with you?  I see it as a metaphor.  Some people watch crises from the comfort of their lawn chairs, as I did.  Some stand at the point of danger to do what must be done. 

At the risk of sounding alarmist, I gently underscore that we followers of Christ live in dark and dangerous times.  God has always had faithful men and women who do difficult things, despite personal discomfort or danger. People who do the right thing because God says it’s the right thing. 

There aren't many of these folks, mind you.  Their ranks are thin. But make no mistake—you and I are called of God to be among them.

Keep alert. Be firm in your faith. Stay brave and strong.

I Corinthians 16:13

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

267,000 households without electricity. That’s a whole lot of fridges and freezers on the fritz. That’s a whole lot of air conditioners that aren’t conditioning!  But that’s the state of things after a swath of storms cut through northeastern Illinois Monday night.

Gratefully, our home remains spared, though we have friends who needed help.  So I took a generator to their house, fired the thing up, and plugged in a refrigerator and deep freezer.

All was well until I saw a text the next morning: “Generator runs—but no power.”   Huh?

I drove over right away, and sure enough, ol’ Bessie was cranking away noisily.  But at some point in the wee hours of the night,  she ceased being of any use. 

I tried unplugging and restarting the unit.  I tried mashing the reset buttons.  Result: Lots of noise and plenty of action—but no power. I am certainly not an electrical expert—and even less a gas engine guy.  So, for now, I have a generator that does not generate.  It only sounds like it’s doing something.

It’s a perfect metaphor—both visually and aurally—for the lives so many of us live. We're busy.  Very busy.  We satisfy ourselves declaring we're busy at work for Christ.  But we often do what we do in our flesh.  Publicly, we claim we're doing it all for Him, but privately it's really about us and how good we feel "serving Jesus."

Lord, forgive us for being engines without power. Forgive us for mistaking action and noise for godliness.  Lead us away from hurriedness to holiness.  Work your works in us and through us.   Only then can we be found useful for your kingdom.

Amen!

 

 

Candy wrappers. Beer cans.  McDonald’s packaging.  This kind of litter is seen everywhere in my daily quest for 10,000 steps.  But lately, I’ve noticed there’s a new trash in town: face masks. 

Regardless of our opinions about their effectiveness, most of us would at least agree that those who wear them perceive them to be of great value.  Which makes me ask, why are there so many on the ground?  How could something potentially life-saving just tumble out of your pocket?

Now, I myself have been guilty of stuffing one into my pants, only to have it flutter to the ground.  But so far, I’ve been fortunate enough to notice and snatch it off the parking lot or grass. Missing masks are bound to happen—and that’s hardly the end of the world.

Sill, it seems to me there is a disproportionate number of face masks lying around our streets and sidewalks.  These are not mere tissues or candy wrappers.  These are potential lifesavers. So—shouldn’t we treat them a bit more carefully?

Which takes me to the real point of this blog (forgive my bait and switch).  I'm amazed at the number of Bibles I see laying around.  Some are left unattended on tables or chairs.  You'll see other Bibles abandoned on the ground at church. And—I know for a fact—many of them go unclaimed for weeks and months.

Unlike a potentially life-saving face mask, the Bible has a long history of being used by God to save lives from the ultimate virus—sin.  So how could we treat our Bibles so carelessly?  I have Christian friends who were born in Muslim countries.  They tell me that Muslims are shocked at the disrespectful way we Christians treat our holy book.

If the B-I-B-L-E is truly the book for me, I'd better learn to show it some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

They asked me to shoot pictures at the birthday party.  And shoot pictures I did: posed groups, informal shots, family groupings, silly moments—some 462 photos in all. The heat and humidity were so smothering, it's a wonder the lens didn't fog over. Or melt shut. 

Between shutter clicks, I recognized one of the relatives. We’ll call her Sarah.  Years ago, reliable sources told us Sarah and her husband had taken their kids to a Bible-believing church where they got involved in Awana.  But the kids were now in high school.  So was the family still actively attending?

I took her picture and struck up a conversation, eventually asking, “Do you guys have a church home?” 

“We used to,” she said.  Was that a wistful tone in her voice?  “But not any more.” 

"Well, you know," I offered with a smile, “Ya could go back.”  Pause.

“We could.”

“Yep. You could go back.”

She smiled. After that, it was just small talk.  Part of me was sad to learn of their drifting.  Part of me was glad to be able to offer her a welcome back.

Maybe you—or someone you love—has drifted.  Hear me carefully.  Whether you've drifted a little or a lot, God has a word for you: "Come back!"  Come back.  You are still loved, still valued, still precious in His sight.  So—come back.

 

This is how the LORD responds: “If you return to me, I will restore you so you can continue to serve me.” 

—Jeremiah 15:19

 

 

 

Do you have the gift of discouragement?

A surprising amount of people do! 

They’re the ones who text or post things like:

• I don’t have the energy to pretend I like you today.
• Your call will be ignored in the order it was received.
• I don’t understand your specific kind of crazy, but I DO admire your total commitment to it.

The gift of discouragement is everywhere, which is odd. Because most people already have enough of that:

• It's a relationship that burns as sandpaper rubbed across the back of your sunburned hand.
• It’s a job that eats at your soul like battery acid.
• It’s a prodigal who—despite your prayers—seems farther from God than ever.
• It’s the bill you can’t pay. The hurt you can’t share. The sin that won’t quit.

Discouragement is everywhere.  Meaning everybody could use some encouragement.  Yet surprisingly few excel at this.

As followers of Jesus, we're called to a lifestyle of encouraging others. 1 Thessalonians 5:14 commands, “We urge you, brethren, admonish the unruly, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with everyone.”

And why aren’t we better at this business of encouragement?  Calvin Miller observes, “Because we don't want to get involved.  Because most people are so bent on appearing self-sufficient, they all but make it impossible for us to see their hurt.  Only when we train ourselves to see with the eyes of Christ will be able to penetrate people's affable armor and see that in spite of their grinning facade, they are bleeding."

WANTED: An Encourager.  A man or woman committed to building up others more than self.  Must be willing to listen without lecture.  Our ideal candidate is presently enrolled in—or recently graduated from–the School of Hard Knocks. Those who have their act together need not apply. Those too self-absorbed in their hurts—need not apply. BUT…for those willing to walk in the sandals of the Savior…those who themselves are bruised yet committed more to refreshment than judgment, to comfort more than criticism, there's a place for you–on every street in every town. So grab a cup of cold water.  Thirsty folks are everywhere.  Thirsty for encouragement.

Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you also are doing.  –1 Thessalonians 5:11