Author: Jon Gauger

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

 

 

 

Charlie Daniels—dead?  It can't be true!  Talk about a guy who was larger than life.  If you ever saw his iconic beard or watched him play the fiddle or heard him sing (country, rock, or Christian—he did it all), you never forgot him.

A few years ago, Diana and I met Charlie Daniels as part of an interview for Moody Radio.  Like most truly great people, he was as humble and homespun as his blue jeans.  Jeans accompanied by a large brass belt buckle that read, "Jesus is Lord."

Most of us know CD’s music—but not as many know that he used his platform to support the military, underprivileged children and others in need.  Or that he closed every one of his famous “Soap Box” blogs (last one posted July 3) with “Pray for our troops, and for the peace of Jerusalem.”

Charlie toured Israel in 2008, and he never got over it. During our 15-minute interview, he bubbled about the wonder of all that God has done in and through Israel.  And boy—could he quote the Bible!  It was amazing to hear so much memorized Scripture rolling off his tongue.

Given backstage passes, we marveled as this 80-year-old hopped up the stairs when the lights came on.  And when Charlie reached the edge of the stage, he jumped high and landed with a stomp that kicked the whole concert into high gear that never backed down.

Not that Charlie Daniels backed down from much of anything. From his faith to his firearms, Charlie was bold.  May we be the same for Christ.

The devil may have gone down to Georgia–but Charlie Daniels has gone to heaven!

It’s one in the morning.  We are jolted awake by the sound of an alarm—our LP gas sensor.  What to do?  I remove the tanks from our camper and set them out in the yard. But the camper now wreaks of gas. 

Is it safe to breathe?  Should we even be in the camper?  Are we an inch away from a Hollywood explosion?

Ultimately, we spent most of the night in our minivan. Not exactly restful—but at least breathable. And safe.

What was maddening was that over the weeks that followed, we continued to notice a sort of rotten egg smell in our camper, even with those gas tanks removed! 

At 6:00 am last Sunday, my wife rolled out of bed, unable to sleep–again–because of the smell.  Diana determined that we were going to find the source of the problem.  

Know what it was?  Our battery.   It was running hot, leaking fumes, and threatening to explode.  Literally. So we swapped it out for a replacement.  The tech guy pointed out that even the sides of our old battery were swollen and bulging. 

To my way of thinking, this is a fitting metaphor for unresolved anger.  Anger makes us hot, makes us fume and—left unchecked—-can cause us to explode.  Even when it doesn't, unresolved anger leaves us bulging with bitterness, a noxious cloud all around us, endangering anyone that comes near.

No wonder we’re told in Ephesians 4:31, “Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior.”

I'm hoping this weekend we'll breathe easier and sleep better out at our camper.  More than that, I'm hoping this unpleasant experience will lodge in my brain, sufficient to jolt me (and maybe you?) away from anger–the next time I start to heat up!

To my way of thinking, it’s the worst part of Coronavirus: wearing a face mask.  No matter how it’s made—and despite claims to the contrary—a face mask is hot, confining and uncomfortable. It’s also one more thing you have to remember to take with you the second you leave home.  

 

I’m intrigued by the creativity, though, that people have injected into this new tradition. You see all kinds of face masks—have you noticed? Some feature the logo of a favorite sports team.  Or a sticker.  Or the colors of a favorite university.  

 

I’ve noticed that if you want to be trendy—way cooler than the crowd—you simply wear a bandanna, preferably hanging around your neck, as opposed to covering your face (go figure).  Perhaps I’m the product of too many westerns, but all I can think of is how much these folks look like bandits and bank robbers of old. 

 

At the airport this week, I was asked by a TSA security agent, “Please remove your mask.  I need to see your face.”  I happily obliged, gulping cool fresh air. 

 

Know what? I wonder if Jesus is ever tempted to say the same thing to me, but for different reasons.  “Please remove your mask, Jon.  I heard those selfish (unconfessed!) words coming out of your mouth on the way to church. You think you’re fooling me with your plastic piety?  Let’s make things right.”

 

I wonder if Jesus wants to say that a hundred times a day to you and me.  Actually, He does.  In fact, there’s a standing invitation in Isaiah 1:18, “Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

 

Time to get clean.

Time to take the mask off!

They say that troubles and tragedies come in threes. 

First, there was the washing machine.  Aged and infirmed, it died an inconvenient death when we were in the middle of building a room addition and were stretched for cash.

The next week, on a  bitterly cold night, we woke to the sound of our smoke detectors.  It was our furnace—nearly melted and ready to explode.  Replacement cost: five thousand dollars.

A 66-passenger school bus rammed into our car just one week later, totaling the thing—another few thousand bucks we didn't have.  Though there were no injuries on the bus (which thankfully was empty)— my wife ultimately needed shoulder surgery.

This trio of disasters put us so far into the hole there was little hope of finishing off the room addition—essentially a wooden shell with insulation, electrical, and drywall all waiting to be done.

So there I was in the check-out line with a bunch of conduit pipe and assorted electrical supplies.  My dad was with me, as I knew nothing about electrical work (or most of the work that was needed!). 

As the cashier rang up the parts, I got out my credit card.  We'd long run out of available cash.  But my dad waved me off.  Instead, he pulled out his own credit card—and paid the whole bill.  Approaching $100, as I recall.

I was stunned.  Understand that my dad has always been generous.  But there was something about this gesture—the sense of futility I felt about our finances, juxtaposed against the kindness of his gift—that etched this scene into my soul in a flash.  It was a ray of hope, signaling that maybe someday we’d get back on our feet and get that room addition finished.

When I think about Father's Day, that scene never fails to come to mind. And I wonder if maybe it's an image of a more profound truth. While we were morally and spiritually hopelessly in debt, our Heavenly Father sent Jesus and paid our entire sin bill: “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

You might not be blessed with a generous dad like me. But your Heavenly Father has paid the ultimate price to forgive you your sin, by sending Jesus to the Cross.  That’s something to celebrate on Father’s Day—and every day!

 

There’s magic in those undulating waves of orange and red.  Magic in the mesmerizing dance of smoke and ash.  Sitting around a campfire conjures up an uncommon sense of tranquility. 

That tranquility, of course, ebbs and flows when little tykes are around.  Noting the many little ones enjoying the fire with us, my dad started tossing out single-serve packages of M&Ms.  The kids happily snatched them up—all except Ava.

Bundled in a blanket on my wife’s lap, Ava was easy to overlook.  Noting the grand fortune that the other kids were enjoying, she unbundled herself, a three-year-old on a mission.  Skittering off my wife's lap, she announced, "I have to go ask Grandpa something…"   We couldn't help but chuckle at her thinly veneered intention.

But do you think Grandpa could deny her request and leave her without candy? Not on your life!  What good grandpa could?  And in a way,  you have to admire Ava.  She knew what Grandpa had.  She knew he would grant her request.  So she went to him without hesitation.

Not a bad metaphor for the generosity our Heavenly Father extends to us.   He tells us in James 4:2, "You do not have because you do not ask."   And in Matthew 7:11, we're encouraged, "If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!"

So what is it you lack? What is it you need?  Take a cue from Ava.  Unbundle yourself from your anxiety and simply ask your Father.  He can't wait to give you what you need most.  Just ask. 

I miss the fringe kids. The ones with the Mohawk haircuts.  The ones that wore spiked collars and weird shirts.  

Somewhere along the way, we got swept into the high school ministry as small group leaders.  The students in our group didn’t come from church.

At first, it was jarring learning about the boy with severe depression, abusing his medicine.  Or the girl with sexual orientation issues. Every one of these fringe kids had a story—and they were mostly all quite sad.

But over time, we got to know them.  More than that, we loved them.  So the weird hair and clothes and body piercings virtually ceased to be visible. 

When our worldly-wise neighbor saw this same motley crew showing up in our backyard for a cookout, he came over on the sly to ask if everything was okay.  We chuckled and assured him all was well.

The cookout was simple, though hardly nutritious: hotdogs and hamburgers. It was also revealing. My wife was serving one of the girls who grabbed a burger, exclaiming, "This is so nice having a home-cooked meal."  When offered a paper plate, she seemed puzzled and then said, "at my house, we just grab whatever food we can.”

As America continues to boil and broil, I can’t help but wonder if part of the answer is for us to be just a bit more intentional about getting to know people who don’t look like us or dress like us or vote like us (we all look different to folks outside our circle!).

Imagine getting to know them enough that—like those youth group kids—we ceased to underscore the differences, but only knew them as friends.

I'm not suggesting there aren't deep-seated problems.  We can't trivialize brutality of any kind.  But surely, followers of Jesus ought to be the first to say, "Hey, let me hear your story."

“It seemed like an ordinary day at first,” said my friend Jack. “Then we got the call.”

“What call?” I asked, knowing a story was brewing.

“A call to visit Eddie and his family—immediately.”

“Why the rush?”

"Hospice had moved in, and his kidneys were shutting down after a bout with cancer."

“Did you know Eddie well?”

“Well enough to know he didn’t seem to know Jesus.  Eddie was bony and drugged.  He slept mostly, while his two boys took turns stroking his arms or shoulder. Occasionally, they were able to rouse Eddie to share a quick memory or funny story, which he acknowledged with a grunt or nod.  One of the boys tried to show him phone pictures of some recent house remodeling, and Eddie repeatedly reached for the phone, but lacked the strength to hold it.”

“Hard to watch that.  So Jack, were you able to speak with Eddie at all?”

"Briefly. His wife gathered the boys around Eddie's bed and asked me to pray.”

“How do you pray for a guy like that?”

“Not sure.  So I paused and asked God. Then I prayed God’s comfort on Eddie and explained that if he wanted to know he was going to heaven, he could.  I quoted Romans 10:9, ‘If you will confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.'  I said, 'Eddie if you want to be saved, squeeze my hand at the name of Jesus.  I quoted the verse, and he gave my hand a good squeeze."

“Think he meant it, Jack?”

Jack shrugged.  “God knows.  We took a quick iPad photo of Eddie with his wife and two boys—and then left so another friend could have some time.  Three hours later, he was dead.”

“Jack!  I…..”

He looked away, hoping I wouldn't see the tear coursing down his cheek.  Then I had to wipe something in my eye.

“He squeezed my hand,” Jack whispered.

God knows.