Author: Jon Gauger

It was a desperate search.  A Hail Mary.  I was looking for a misplaced check.  A big one. Previous attempts had turned up nothing. 

So there I was, pulling out the large drawer under our bed.  The one where I keep my cards.  All of them.  That’s when I knew this was going to take some time.

There were cards from my wife, Diana: birthday cards and Christmas cards and Valentine’s cards and cards for no other occasion than her simple desire to express her love. By far, these took up the most space.  It was fun to read through many of them (though the ticking grandfather clock several feet away reminded me I hadn’t time to look at them all).

There were cards from our kids.  Some with little squiggly letters when they could barely write their names.  Notes and letters and jokes and drawings.

There were cards from my parents, many of them homemade or accompanied by kind notes and letters.  And I was touched to see cards from my mother and father-in-law, both of whom are now in heaven. 

An emerging category of cards was also there: those from our little grandchildren.  These were really hard to resist reading. To me, owning these is better than owning stock certificates.

With the drawer nearly empty and the elusive check still eluding me, I decided it wasn’t all a waste. After all, I ended up sorting the cards and stuffing them into cardboard folders (more organization than I’ve shown in thirty-plus years).

Before my hike down memory lane concluded, there were two unexpected moments. The first happened when, having concluded the check was simply not in that drawer, I finally found it wedged at the oddest angle in the very back, almost defying gravity (time out for a prayer of thanks).

The second moment came when staring at the piles of cards cascading all around. It was this humbling sense that, “I guess I really am loved.”  A wife who sends me love cards…kids who say kind things…grandkids and parents who express their affection. The cumulative effect was almost overpowering.

I don't know how long it’s been since someone told you were loved.  Maybe it’s been way too long.  Maybe the one you love the most can no longer even send you a card because they aren't around, or their mind has gone.  Then let me say it for them.  You are loved! They would want you to read that—hear that.

And as much as they want you to know that, God wants you to know it even more. In Jeremiah 31:3 God says to you, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.”

How can you really know that?  John 3:16 tells us, “God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.”

You are loved.

Really.

Loved.

His ship was in flames.

His path was blocked.

But Jim Downing had a job to do.

Sprinting toward the harbor, he dodged machine gun bullets from an overhead fighter plane, and then slid across the five-inch gun barrel of a neighboring vessel to launch himself onto the inflamed deck of the battleship West Virginia.   December 7, 1941. 

If the gun magazines aboard Jim’s 624 foot long boat were to overheat from the fires, the explosions would be enormous.  So he grabbed a hose and aimed at the flames.  “Several times that day, I was sure I would shortly be in heaven,” Jim recalled. 

Once off the ship (which eventually sank) Jim circulated among the burned and bleeding memorizing dog tags, assuring these mortally wounded soldiers he would write their loved ones—which he did.

Exactly who was this fearless fighter?  Jim Downing of the United States Navy—second oldest survivor of Pearl Harbor.  In a rare moment, my son Tim and I got to meet and interview Jim this past December 14.

What’s it like to shake hands with a man who is 104 years old?  I wondered. Answer: Jim extended a manly meaty grip.  His reflexes and wit were off-the-charts fast.  For example, I asked if he remembered the Bible verse his wife quoted to him as he headed down to the embattled Pearl Harbor.  “Yes!  Deuteronomy 33:27—The eternal God is your refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

I confessed to Jim that had it been me, I would probably have run away from the burning ship that he risked his life to save.  He calmly replied, “On December 6th, I woke up with a job to do, and I did it.  On December 7th, I woke up with a different job to do—and I did it.”  No false humility.  Just the facts.  And Jim Downing had a long lifetime of jobs to do, including serving the Navigators organization for many years.

On February 13, almost exactly two months after our interview, Jim Downing went to heaven.  But his testimony lives on–and recalls the words of Jesus in Luke 17:10, “So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”

Jim Downing lived that way.   Now numbered with the “great cloud of witnesses,” he bids us do the same

Imagine that you are 23 years old, standing outside a door.  On the other side is the confidant of presidents and princes—the most famous evangelist of our time—Billy Graham.  You are there for an interview.  But what will he say to you?  What will he actually be like?

That was me, along with my friend Dave, waiting for our appointment  in Amsterdam’s Rai Convention Center.  It was a muggy July afternoon more than 30 years ago.  Feels like an hour ago, though.  

Had we prepped enough?  Would we come across as hicks?  And what about the formalities—do you call him Dr. Graham or Reverend Graham or Mr. Graham or what?

The door swung open and there we were, shaking hands, exchanging smiles.  Reverend Graham’s opening statement shocked me.  In that North Carolina drawl of his he said with a slight grin, “Would you like a Coke?”

No air conditioning on a hot day. Saying yes to a Coke was a no-brainer.  But then came a follow up from the man who graced the cover of Time Magazine not once but twice.  “Would you like some ice?” 

I’d never been to Europe before and was shocked at the lack of ice.  So we readily agreed to his offer and did our best to express appreciation.  Yet in my mind, this was all so surreal.  THE Billy Graham is offering me a Coke and a glass of ice?

But that’s the way he was—and who he was: common, courteous, affable.  No one was less impressed with Billy Graham than Billy himself. 

Our entire conversation revealed nothing other than a North Carolina boy who loved Jesus and still seemed a bit caught off guard that God had put him on the world’s largest stages. 

I suppose  a profound theological truth or golden biblical nugget from one of his addresses at the International Conference for Itinerant Evangelists should have stuck with me.  But it was Billy’s servant attitude that blew me away.

Pundits and preachers will seek to define Dr. Graham’s legacy.  But for me, it has always been—and will always be—his humility.  I saw a tiny glimpse of it for myself in his kind offer, “Would you like a Coke?”

Thank you, Billy Graham.

One name.  That’s all it took to send toddler Sadie into a joyful romp.  She squealed from the next room and then trotted over once she heard that name, hoping for a little face time on FaceTime.  

What name generated all this excitement and anticipation?  “Di-Di,” the moniker our little grandkids have affectionately chosen for my wife, Diana. Guess that’s a lot easier for them to pronounce.  So Di-Di it is.

Once, when Sadie’s brother Caleb was just learning to talk, we went to McDonald’s and enjoyed a visit to the play area after lunch. Caleb made a grand show of climbing up and through the labyrinth of plastic tunnels, then skittering down the slides—over and over again.  Zooming right by me, he flashed a silly grin as he repeatedly giggled, “Di-Di.”  Mind you, he was looking straight at me, not my wife (who was enjoying some peace and quiet back at our booth).   Yup, her name is apparently that wonderful to those kids.  

I, too, have always loved my wife’s name.  From the day I met her, the name has been magical.  I love to say it, to hear it (and I’ve been known to call her Di-Di myself, or  Lady Di).  

Charming thoughts, this fascination with a name.   But indulge me just a moment further as I ask pointedly, do we ever feel that kind of excitement when we hear the name of Jesus?  How often do we break out in a smile at the thought of Him?  When we approach our prayer time, do we squeal with delight that Jesus Himself is interceding for us to His Father? Do we drop what we are doing just to be with Him?

I’m just asking here, kinda “thinking out loud.”  Couldn’t there—shouldn’t there—be regular moments when we are overwhelmed at the mere mention of His name?

Do we love the name of Jesus…or merely like it?  Big difference between the two.  And despite what you or I might say or do in public to impress others with how much we love Jesus, He knows the truth.  He knows exactly how we feel about His name.  

So…do you love the name of Jesus?

The knock at the orphanage door brought a little child with no birth certificate and almost no background.  Would they take in this little one? 

Not many will ever hear this saga of a young Mexican mother whose child was taken from her. You, however, are among a handful who will know the truth (minus a few key details I must hold back for security reasons). 

This lady had once thought her boyfriend the man of her dreams, so they married and had a baby.  But the dreams turned to nightmares when her husband immersed himself in a life of crime, ultimately kidnapping his child from his wife.

When arrested, the father cruelly told police that the child’s mother was dead.   The father was then hauled off to jail. That’s when the little one was taken to a Christian orphanage, launching an odyssey fit for Hollywood.

At the orphanage, the administration worked tirelessly with authorities, pushing them to uncover the truth. At the same time, the mother plugged away relentlessly—searching, looking, hoping.

Ultimately, the mother finally learned the truth, trekked to the orphanage and identified her beloved.  But authorities demanded a DNA test before they would let the child go—a financial roadblock for this Mexican mother who had pursued her child for so long. In God’s kindness, the test was finally performed, proving the birth connection. Yet there was no fairytale reunion.

In fact, the mother cried herself to sleep for the first few nights when the child, separated for so long, refused to leave the orphanage. The orphanage leaders proposed that if the child would get into the car with the mom, they would ride together with them to the mother’s home. The idea worked.

But upon arrival, there was initial resistance to entering the house!  Finally, at the sight of many family members eagerly welcoming the long lost child, the door opened and the little one walked in.  Home.

Quietly, the orphanage workers left the scene, confident that though the adjustment would take more time, it would surely succeed.  And it has.

Consider the extreme lengths this mother went to in bringing her lost child home.

Consider the extreme lengths our heavenly Father went to so He could bring us home!

If this isn’t the ultimate picture of love, what is?

Everyone has heard of Tony Evans.

Okay, I’ll qualify that: almost every single Christian who has a pulse has heard of Tony Evans.

But not as many know Tory.  I met them both last week.

We were at Dr. Evans’ church, Oak Cliff Bible Fellowship in Dallas, to record some audio and video content for Moody Radio.   Now, recording a radio interview doesn’t take much more than a microphone and a portable recorder.  But video?  That requires a camera, tripod, lights, batteries, shotgun microphone, backdrop, etc.  It’s a long list of stuff—and you never seem to have enough of it.

That’s where Tory came in.   The room we were going to record in sounded a bit boomy and we needed to absorb some of the reflections.  Tory quickly found a large throw rug and lugged it inside.  The sound was better, but still not right.  Could we borrow a fabric covered room divider? Tory carted it in.   Acoustics were better…but not good enough. Tory then found some sound-absorptive panels and he schlepped them into the room as well.   Much better. 

About then, I discovered I was in need of an extra microphone stand.  Tory dug around for one and hauled it over. Then we decided I was shy one light (the plant next to where Dr. Evans would be sitting looked a little wimpy in the shadows). Tory came up with a light. 

The truth is, Tory bailed me out again and again.  And he did it all with a cheerful attitude and a kind smile.  People will hear our interview on the radio or watch the video clips and never know that it was Tory who really made it possible.  But I know.  More importantly, God knows.  And God will remember Tory’s servant spirit.

Are you one of those behind-the-scenes people?  Hebrews 6:10 has a word for you: “God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them.”

Thanks for the help, Tory—and your example in godliness!

“Been pokin’ around the gospels a bit,” spouted my friend, Jack, as he shoved a toothpick in his mouth.  The long pause he left dangling meant I was supposed to inquire further. 

“Whatcha find in the gospels lately, Jack?”

“I’ve noticed Jesus spent a surprising amount of time at dinner with lost people—and amazing things often happened at those dinners.”  Here his toothpick waggled in the left corner of his upturned mouth.

“Take me to one of.…”  Jack anticipated my response.  Didn’t let me finish. 

“Luke 19.  The short guy—Zaccheus.  Couldn’t see Jesus so he climbed the sycamore tree.  But Jesus saw him up there and urged him to come down quickly so he could stay at Zaccheus’ home.”

“Sure.  Every Sunday School kid knows this one,” I offered.

“Then you’ll recall that the religious folks were less than thrilled with Christ’s choice of dinner associates.”  With an impressive (and thankfully invisible) swish of his tongue, Jack whisked the toothpick from the left corner of his mouth to the right.  He continued. 

“‘He has gone to be the guest of a sinner!’ Jesus critics charge. And Jesus Himself is silent with regard to any defense for Zaccheus’ character or conduct.  Not even Zaccheus defends himself.”

“Maybe Zaccheus was a bigger man than his short stature suggested,” I offered.

“Not a bigger man.  A changed man.  Zaccheus assures Christ, ‘Half of my possessions I will give to the poor.’  Then comes the show stopper. Jesus gestures toward Zaccheus (here Jack removes the toothpick and jabs at the air) pointing out that ‘today salvation has come to this house because he, too, is a son of Abraham.’  In other words, he is now headed for heaven.  And it all happened over dinner.  Amazing!”  Jack was suddenly silent.

“So what’s your big takeaway?” I asked, my friend still lost in Zaccheus’ story.

“Discipleship—sometimes it begins at dinner.”

Jack could read my mind—I’m sure of it.  He saw me pondering too many of my comfortable dinners with too many comfortable Christian friends.  Yet I’m guessing he saw something else deep inside—a hunger to have dinner with unsaved people.

That’s when he smiled—and popped the toothpick back in his mouth. 

 

 

 

 

Four little kids in a museum filled with priceless objects.  A recipe for disaster, right?   If they were yours, you’d want to keep an eye on those little ones for sure—and we did.

Imagine a porcelain vase standing about two-and-half feet tall.  It was a magnificent shade of blue covered with gilded gold. The thing had a diameter of about two feet, so it was plenty big.

Mythological characters in raised relief walked the entire circumference of the vase, their fantastic appearance engaging the laser focus of Caleb.  Caleb is five and fearless and faith-filled (a tribute to his mom and dad).  He’s also curious. 

His large brown eyes drank in the images of those creatures as the museum docent pointed to the vase’s rim and explained, “That’s the god of creation….and there’s the god of water…This one here is the god of….”  Abruptly Caleb turned, looked the lady right in the eye and said with equal measures of politeness and boldness, “Excuse me.”

The docent paused.  Caleb continued with an innocent smile on his face proclaiming, “There’s only one God.”

To say the lady was caught off guard would be an understatement.   “Well, yes,” she stammered.  Regaining her groove, she said pleasantly, “You’ll read more about these in school.”  And that’s pretty much how it ended. 

Think of it. We live in a world of museums and media and classrooms and conversations filled with false information about God.  Like the exchange with the museum lady, not all of it is deliberately hostile. Yet it’s there.  Everywhere.

But what if we Christ followers were all a bit more courageous, like Caleb?  What if—instead of angry shouts, boycotts, and protests—we gently but firmly asserted the truth about God when culture says otherwise?  Consistently.  What if we tried Caleb’s way: put a smile on your face and say with your life as well as your mouth, “Excuse me—there’s only one God.”

Caleb is five and fearless and faith-filled.   I hope to grow up to be like him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the age of nine, you haven’t lived long enough to sense greatness—let alone define it.  But there was something special about that summer at Camp Awana in Fredonia, Wisconsin.  

There was a guy there with a flat-top haircut and a twinkle that never left his eye.  He called himself Art.  Decades later, I can still hear him speaking to us kids that night in the “Long House.”  

Art told us the story of how when he was a kid, he really didn’t know Jesus as the leader of His life—His personal Savior.  But his mom and dad did.  So did his brother Roy.   When Roy was struck by Spinal Meningitis, he lay on his bed, dwindling away.  Exactly one night before he died, Roy pled with his mom and dad to challenge Art to receive Christ.   Art overhead the entire conversation and was deeply moved.  The next day, he made Jesus his Lord and Savior.

As Art told us all this, I saw tears forming in his eyes, then trickling down his cheeks.  I’d never seen a man cry before.  As best I could—at the age of nine—I tried to process all of this.  Even at that young age, I knew there was something right about a heart like Art’s.

Over the decades that followed, I continued to observe the heart of Art Rorheim: always tender on this matter of salvation.  Working part-time at Awana Headquarters, I watched as Art traveled the globe with his singular passion: more boys and girls for Christ.  I remember hearing his stories as he came home from far-flung places with engaging photos…exotic souvenirs…and—always—more tears.

It all came together on a Moody Radio trip I took with Awana to Kenya and Zambia.  Watching kids run around an Awana game circle scratched out in the African dust, I was fighting tears of my own as I processed just how far God has taken the Awana ministry that Art helped to create.

And now, Art Rorheim is gone.  He passed away earlier this week. But what a legacy.

Elisha of old asked for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit.  I seek no such thing.  That would be far too great.  Me, I want a heart like Art’s: tender always…easily touched by lost people.  If I could have that legacy, the sun would never set on a day not lived for “more boys and girls for Christ.” 

Saw something weird on a flight to Cincinnati the other day. 

 

We were wheeling away from the gate.  The last of the last-minute fiddling with overhead storage compartments was completed as flight attendants mashed the large plastic doors shut on backpacks, winter coats and roller boards.  Time for the obligatory safety demonstration.

 

It began with a reminder that seatbelts should be worn “low and tight across the waist.”  We were comforted by the knowledge that in the unlikely event of a water landing, our seat cushions could be used as a flotation device.  We were encouraged to look around and find the nearest emergency exit nearest us.   I did.  I always do.  I count the number of seats forward and the number of seats backward and try to commit these to my fragile memory.

 

But I’m pretty sure I was one of the only ones who made the effort.  Craning my head, I didn’t see a single passenger engaged with the fight attendant’s safety demonstration.  No one even appeared to be watching.  People were reading or staring out the window, or fidgeting with their phones (in airplane mode, of course ). 

 

Right about the moment when the attendant held up the plastic yellow cup that—in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure—”will drop down automatically,” I noticed that even the guy doing the demonstration appeared bored.  Disconnected. 

 

Process this with me for just a moment.  Here was a plane full of people and few paid any attention as life and death instructions were shared (albeit in a near monotone voice). The safety card in the seatback was mentioned, but scarcely glanced at.  Yet it offered essential, even critical insights for avoiding death.  And nothing about the person conveying the life-and-death message suggested the least hint of urgency. 

 

You'll forgive me for abruptly grabbing the throttle and steering this blog into two turbulent questions.  First, is it possible this scene is a picture of how many of us react to God’s rescue message?  Is it possible we’ve been so comfortable for so long strapped into our Sunday morning seats that we’ve lost touch with the eternal life-and-death rescue message contained in our Bibles?

 

Second—is the flight attendant I saw a metaphor for some of us who stand in pulpits week after week and fail to to be possessed by the horror of the hell that awaits every non-believer?  Have we lost the sense of danger that even now defines the destiny of every unsaved soul? 

 

God help us be alert. Engaged.  Concerned.  God help us recover the sense that eternity equals urgency.