Author: Jon Gauger

It's a big week for four-year-old Lucy.

At her church’s Vacation Bible School, she was challenged to receive Christ as her Savior—and she did!  One might not expect to see much dramatic life transformation in a four-year-old (not exactly a "life of sin" from which to turn away).  But one would be wrong.

Lucy is suddenly a fearless (if not fiery) preacher.  Her mother calls her an evangelist.   She regularly gets into the face of her two-year-old sister and proclaims, “Sadie, you need to make a decision!”  But Lucy’s gospel witness is more than lip service.

At the VBS, students hear daily talks from missionaries who serve in Papua New Guinea.  Lucy now bubbles over with tidbits about life in Papua New Guinea, and the vast needs they have there.

So taken is Lucy with the spiritual condition of Papua New Guinea and the enterprising work of the missionaries, she boldly announced to her mother that she wanted to give her money to “the Michigans.” 

With due respect to our Michigan readers, Lucy’s spiritual journey is worth noting.  She wants her money (not somebody else’s) to get to “the Michigans.”

Lucy is living proof:

When Jesus touches your heart, He also touches your wallet.

And maybe that’s the reason so many of us give so little—we’ve only let Him touch our hearts a little.  But if He’s touched us—really touched us—then we can’t help but give.

To the church.

To the homeless.

To “the Michigans."

A splash in the eye is what got my attention.

Huffing in the heat of the late morning, I gingerly hopped over several lines of train track coming out of Chicago’s Union train station.  Having cleared the last of the rails, something wet plopped on my head. 

The only place it could have come from was the high-rise off to my right, known as “The Residences at Riverbend.”  Currently, you can buy a one-bedroom condo for 404,900.  Need a little more elbow room?  A two-bedroom unit will set you back between $539,000 and $825,000.  But if you really want to spread out (and if you have just shy of a million bucks on hand), grab a three-bedroom unit.

I looked up and around and saw nothing that might have caused the splash on my face. Then I looked higher—and found the source.  Two squeegee-wielding window washers slathered suds on windows so high, I could barely make them out.

The Riverbend condo building is 37 stories tall.  Short by Chicago standards—but plenty high enough when you’re standing next to it.  Or washing windows outside of it!

Several hundred feet up, two men dangled from ropes whose knotted ends danced lazily on the sidewalk in front of me. The workers might as well have been ants on a distant limb. I paused.  Pondered.  Took pictures.   And zoomed in on these daredevils with my iPad camera.

Who in the world would do this?  Who would willingly suspend themselves several hundred feet above the pavement with nothing but a couple of ropes to guarantee their safety?  No doubt those ropes are reasonably reliable—but the hefty insurance premiums these workers pay bear testimony to the inherent danger.

A more sobering question then followed.  When it comes to eternal life, who in the world would be so foolish as to suspend themselves over the flimsy hope that God might let them into heaven if their good deeds outweigh their bad? 

Nowhere in Scripture do we find such a hope, but the idea is rampant in our culture.  Nothing less than receiving the forgiveness of Jesus and His rule over your life will grant you eternal life. 

Precisely what do you depend on to get you into heaven?

The Bible says, “These things I have written to you who believe in the name of Jesus Christ so that you may KNOW that you have eternal life.”

Are you dangling from a risky rope…or certain of eternal life?

Out at the camper, we inherited somebody else's deck. 

With the help of a lot of friends—and a John Deere tractor—we managed to move two 8×8 foot wooden sections to our site.  The repurposed deck then got a thorough power-washing.  The next step was…a step.  Actually, we needed to build three sets of steps.

Like most "morning" projects, the construction of those steps turned out to be an all-day affair.  So I measured, sawed, and fastened, all the while vaguely aware of a cloud of gnats swirling and swarming.

After taking a much-needed shower and changing into some comfortable clothes, I took a look in the mirror.  More than 24 bites encircled my neck (yup, I counted).  They grew red and slightly swollen—but didn't itch too severely.   Looking back, it struck me as odd that I had worked the entire day with only a vague sense of their presence.  That said, their bite marks were anything but vague. Amazing the damage a nearly invisible insect can inflict.

But isn't it also true of you and me that we cause the most damage to our treasured relationships—with small things?  Am I the only one with a history of hurting loved ones with small grunts of ingratitude, tiny criticisms, snippets of cynicism?

Haven't you found it true that you can often avoid the "big sins," but you cause great trouble with the small stuff—the gnats of life?  Ecclesiastes 10:1 says, "Dead flies make the perfumer's ointment give off a stench."  And James 3:6 points out that tiny tongue of yours is "a fire, a world of unrighteousness."

We Christian folks have a history of warning our kind about the big sins of life.  But I'm not sure we've adequately estimated the damage caused by "smaller sins." As they say, nobody ever woke up and decided to ruin their life—or someone else's.  But it happens.  A bit at a time.  A bite at a time.

Beware the gnats.

At Ben’s Pretzels, they mix flour, water, and salt—and make magic.

At Ben’s Pretzels, they thank you for stopping by calling out, “Have a pretzel day!”

At Ben’s Pretzels, you hear Christian music playing over the speakers and read Bible verses on the walls.

No visit to Shipshewana, Indiana would possibly be complete without a pretzel at Ben’s. As I’m blessed with a wife who agrees, we recently sat down to a steamy hot twist slathered in butter and bursting with bits of crunchy crystal salt.  

Munching while marveling at this delectable (but hardly diet-worthy) treat, my eye caught sight of an antique stove. To be precise, it was a “Direct Action Lorain Oven Heat Regulator”—circa 1920s.   Resting on top of its built-in pie rack were half a dozen Ball jars and two Bibles.

Nestled directly on top of its modest stovetop surface, I saw a boxy looking basket, along with some Post-it notes and pens.  A sign next to them read, “Need prayer?  Write it down and put it in the box.  God bless!” 

Know what? Quite a few people had written down prayer requests and put them in that basket. 

Got me to thinking. What if Christian-owned businesses everywhere started doing that?  What if Christian doctors had such a basket at the counter where you sign in for your appointment?  What if Christian lawyers welcomed prayer requests in a basket in their front offices? 

Observe that with such a basket, nobody is preaching a sermon.  Not even a sentence.  Just offering to pray.  

I get that certain businesses face restrictions.  I understand that for lots of reasons, lots of places couldn’t offer a prayer basket.  But some could.  Many could!  So why not today?

And if you don’t happen to own a business, why not offer to pray for someone you know is hurting?  We can—and should—pray for and with our unsaved friends.

Again—why not today?

When I first began preaching,  I ran every sermon outline by my friend and mentor, Mike Kellogg of Moody Radio.  Peering over his glasses, he matched his steely stare with a deep-throated warning I’ve never forgotten: “This had better be about the Bible.”  

Throughout my ordination process, that same truth chiseled itself into my soul.  In truth, I still think about it every time I’m crafting a sermon outline.   It is the yardstick I use to measure my own sermons—and those of others. 

A few weeks ago we traveled to Florida, our flight taking place during Sunday morning church hours.  Later that day, my wife and I decided we’d watch a sermon on the iPad. I selected a pastor whose book was released by the largest Christian publisher in America. 

We listened carefully, expecting solid Bible content.  But we heard precious little.  There were many stories and many good points and lots of good truths to ponder.  But most of the sermon could honestly have been transcribed and handed off for delivery by a secular self-help speaker.

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love stories.  At heart, I am little more than a story teller.  And stories are great.  Jesus told tons of them.  Yet when it comes to a Sunday morning message, I am keenly aware that my stories must never overshadow the Bible text, but instead, reinforce it or illustrate it. 

As a minister of the gospel, I am standing as God’s representative, opening God’s Word to God’s people.  This ought to put a holy fear into the hearts of those of us who would presume to preach.

Wondering if perhaps I was being a bit harsh on the iPad preacher, or if our initial impressions were wrong, I went back and watched that same sermon again—this time with a careful eye on the clock. 

The sermon itself was 35:06 in length. I ran a stopwatch app, noting every single instance the preacher either read from the Bible, referenced a passage, or tried to explain the passage. The most generous of measurements shows a maximum of 6:25 of actual Bible content.  Meaning just 19% of the message quoted or explained Scripture. 

In a day when 69% of churchgoers believe that everyone will go to heaven…In a day when 56% of churchgoers don’t believe that sharing their faith is an essential obligation of their Christian life…how can a sermon with 19% biblical content be okay?

It isn’t!

This Sunday, your church will feature a sermon. It had better be about the Bible

 

Preach the Word; be ready in season and out of season; reprove, rebuke, and exhort, with complete patience and teaching.        –2 Timothy 4:2

 

 

“I seen ‘em way before I got to the intersection,” recalled my friend, Jack.  “They were on the sidewalk just outside a Starbucks in downtown Chicago, waving iPads as they gestured.”  I knew a story was brewing with Jack. There always is.

“Who were they?” I asked, taking Jack’s bait.

“At first, I wasn’t sure. Since I go that way a lot, I figured it was probably an environmental group like Sierra.  You see them a lot.  Young folks hungry for conversations and contributions—mostly the latter,” Jack chuckled.

“So if it wasn’t Sierra, who was it?”

“The ACLU. That’s who.  Advocating to keep abortion legal.”

“So did you engage them or avoid them?”

“Actually, I wanted to yell at ‘em.  But that’s already been done—and with little impact.  Besides, it didn’t seem consistent with the What would Jesus do? bracelet I still wear.

“Okay, so you didn’t yell, Jack.  But what did you say?”

“For a long time, I just listened to the guy who’d cornered me. I wanted him to get the sense that I cared about him as a human—-that I respected him.  Everything in me wanted to argue.  But honestly, I believe the Holy Spirit was reigning me in.”

“Then what?”

“Then came a pause in the conversation, and he asked me what I thought.  I told him I had heard his perspective but was troubled by the medical reality that an unborn child has a beating heart and fingers and fingerprints very early on.  To abort such a little one seemed cruel.”

“Any response?”

“He made it clear he was comfortable with the idea of taking the life of an unborn kid.  It became obvious we were worlds apart in our thinking, and I knew things were drawing to a close when he stopped showing me stuff on his iPad.”

“So how did it end, Jack?”

“The conversation just naturally came to a close.  But here’s the thing”—Jack stuck his finger in my face. “Nobody yelled. In fact, I even complimented the guy.  Then we shook hands.”

“Very cool, Jack.”

 

Very cool, indeed.  In a culture that is as polarized as it is poisoned with vitriol, a follower of Jesus had a respectful conversation instead of a shouting match.  That sounds quite a bit like something Jesus would do.   Way to go, Jack!

Her name is Agnes. 

She misses her mother. 

 

The shards of her broken life frame a story that redfines tragedy.  I listened to bits and pieces as we sat in her third floor apartment outside of Chicago—a long way from her childhood home in Budapest, Hungary.  At the age of eleven, she awoke to the sound of a gunshot in her front yard, announcing the arrival of German storm troopers.  Black booted soldiers forced their way through the front door—in search of Agnes’ mother. 

 

One week previously, the Nazis hauled away her father in a similar early morning assault after which he was forced into a large truck transport heading for a death camp.  Ironically, the Nazis needed a Hungarian who spoke German to assist them with navigation.  Agnes’ father was fluent, so he volunteered.  Upon arrival, the Germans—perhaps as a thank you gesture—released him and he eventually made it back to Budapest. 

 

November 20, 1944. Agnes recalls that her mother was “herded away at gunpoint, bundled up in her Persian lamb coat with a backpack containing mere necessities.  She tried to put on a brave face as she kissed me goodbye.”

 

Agnes never saw her mother again. Not that she didn’t try.  “For years, I walked up and down streets looking for her.”  Nor was this to be Agnes’ only loss at the hands of the Nazis (her mother died of “natural causes” in a concentration camp. 

 

On a cold winter night, they took her aunt and uncle.  “Along with many others, they were taken to the shore of the icy Danube river where they were shot and left to die in the frigid water.”

 

Only later did she discover that their deaths at the banks of the river were as likely to be the result of drowning as gun fire.  “As ammunition dwindled, the Nazis improvised by wiring several people together before firing one shot…killing as many as ten people with one shot.  They had become masters at exterminating Jews.”

 

Peering into a black and white photo on the wall of her apartment, my eyes locked briefly with this couple whose lives were snuffed out.  I try but cannot process any of this emotionally.  

 

Proudly—and still with a smile—Agnes shows me a photo of her mother and father.  The smiling little kid—the one without a care in the world—is Agnes.  She lost that world nearly 75 years ago.  

 

How could it be that 75 years later one man—Hitler—is still causing so much pain to people like this lady?

 

Her name is Agnes. 

She misses her mother.  

Still. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is earth’s highest mountain above sea level. 

It is also the the most coveted prize in mountain climbing. 

 

At 29,029 feet, Mount Everest pierces high enough into the sky to be on a level with commercial jetliners. Since Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzig Norrgay made the first successful climb in 1953, nearly 4000 others have made the attempt and about 200 have died in the process. 

This season alone, after forking out $25,000 for a climbing permit, at least 11 climbers have died.  Among them is Christopher Kulish, a 62-year-old attorney from Boulder, Colorado. 

Ironically, Mr. Kulish did not die in his attempt to reach the iconic summit.  He successfully climbed to the top (nearly 5.5. Miles up), having finally achieved his dream of climbing the tallest mountains on all seven continents. According to early reports, he died at a camp somewhere below the summit—exact details unknown.

Without in any way wishing to trivialize the death of Attorney Kulish, I see in his tragedy a cautionary spiritual tale.  We followers of Christ often set high goals for ourselves, or envision ourselves ministering in grand ways in grand places and spaces.  Some of that bravado springs from good and noble motives.  Some of it is of the flesh.  

When we fail to achieve our dreams, we often ball ourselves up in a tangle of hurt and humiliation.  I'm reminded of a conversation God had in the Old Testament with a character named Baruch. Through the prophet, Jeremiah, God said:

But you, are you seeking great things for yourself? Do not seek them.

—Jeremiah 45:5

 

Some times we wonder why God hasn’t allowed this or that specific ministry dream to materialize.  Could it be that having achieved “the summit” God knows we would collapse on the way down?  After all, every mountain top experience has its downside.   Or maybe, having achieved the goal, we would somehow pronounce our work for God “finished”—and lose our spiritual fervor. 

 

I do not say we should not set goals or attempt great things for God.  I'm simply reminding myself (and perhaps you, as well) that my ultimate goal must be nothing less and nothing other than the glory of God alone. 

 

Not many get shot out of the sky and live to tell about it.

Even fewer reach the age of 100.

Freelin Carlton has done both. 

The World War 2 vet was captain of a B-24 bomber, notoriously tricky to fly.  The “Liberator’s” controls were stiff and heavy.  No cabin pressurization, no heater, no windshield wipers—and no washroom.  Worse, the plane had only one exit—in the tail—which was challenging to access in an emergency evacuation.  Hence, the bomber enjoyed the dubious title, “The Flying Coffin.”  Between 1940 and 1945, the Consolidated Aircraft Corporation built more than 18,000 of the massive planes, more than any other aircraft in the war.

On February 24, 1944, Captain Carlton, nosed his bomber over the Netherlands in an Allied Air offensive known as “Big Week,” when anti-aircraft fire hit his plane.  But the crew managed to limp into Germany until intercepted by Luftwaffe fighters that killed three of the plane’s gunners before delivering a death blow to the aircraft itself. 

All of the remaining seven crew members parachuted, with Captain Carlton—bleeding from a shrapnel wound in his right foot—landing between two trees.  Two hours later, Germans hauled him off to Stalag Luft 1 where he spent the balance of the war as a prisoner.

Fast forward 75 years later.  In Carmel Valley, California, Captain Carlton received an unusual 100th birthday gift: a package that came all the way from Germany.  Aviation History Magazine reports that inside the box were fragments of his ill-fated bomber.  Eberhard Haelbig, a member of a non-profit group that tracks and researches air war relics, had verified the pieces as part of Carlton’s doomed aircraft.

Along with parts of the plane, Haelbig included a note which said, in part, “Thank you, Captain Carlton, and thank you to the Greatest Generation for your fight against evil and for liberating my country.  I’m a German by birth, but an American at heart.”

Consider this blog a Memorial Day salute to  Captain Carlton—along with a nod of appreciation to Eberhard Haelbig, whose comment takes me to Philippians 3:20-21.

But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it, we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body, by the power that enables Him even to subject all things to himself.

 

SOURCE: Aviation History Magazine, July 2019

We are a nation at war.  With each other. 

 

For now, the battles are fought with blogs rather than bombs, tweets rather than tanks.  Still, we appear to be inching toward a civil war of values.   

 

So where does the Bible fit into a culture like ours?  What exactly is the role of Scripture in a divided nation?  And can we really expect the Bible to have a hearing as the fighting heats up?

 

These are the questions that gushed over the banks of my mind as I held a copy of the American Bible Society’s 1864 annual report. Recalling that this book was released right in the middle of a literal Civil War (1861-1865) I was dying to know: What was their perspective on the conflict that ultimately engulfed the nation?  What role did the Bible have during these tumultuous years?

 

 

The testimony in the following excerpts from the 1864 report are profound:

 

Amid national convulsions…producing such untold calamity in the land…there is no check upon the spread of God’s Word.  

The great number of prisoners of war held by the armies of the United States has made a constant demand for the Word of God among them.  Many letters have been received from prisoners requesting reference Bibles for themselves  and for their fellow prisoners, who desire them for use in their Bible classes.  The Word of God has been received with gratitude and eagerness.

Fearful as the war has become, every true friend of the Bible will rejoice that “the Word of God is not bound,” and that the American Bible society, true to its name and principles, has been enabled thus far to carry on its great work above the stormy passions and conflicting interests of the times.

Amid these strange scenes, the Bible, by the power and demonstration of the Holy Spirit, is doing it’s appropriate work.  

 

(End of quote!) 

 

You and I can do little to stop whatever cultural clashes may be ahead.  But we need not doubt the power of God—and the power of His Word.   It’s a lesson America learned in the first Civil War.  May that truth comfort us as we move toward the second.