Author: Jon Gauger

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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The holiday we call Christmas is now in the rear view mirror.  Said another way, it’s a mere 362 days away.  Better get shopping!  Or not…

 

Our daughter and son-in-law do a terrific job of underscoring the Advent season.  Every night, they pull out a gorgeous rendition of the Christmas drama titled The Advent Book, which features fold out “doors” on every thick page each revealing a key scene in the biblical account of Christ’s birth. 

 

The book is passed around to their kids (who have now mostly memorized the whole story).  They delight in opening up the doors on every page revealing artwork and Scripture that propel the narrative along.  

 

We were privileged to be with the kids for several readings and observed five-year old Caleb’s interpretation of the visiting magi.  Like the rest of the kids opening the rest of the pages, he was anxious to demonstrate his mastery of the story.  With grinning certainty he catalogued the gifts given to the holy family: “gold, mercy and franklin.” 

 

We chuckled quietly, then observed at least two other occasions that Caleb insisted on mercy being one of the three gifts (“franklin” was later correctly modified to “frankincense”).  Intriguing that he swapped the gift order around, placing mercy right next to gold.  

 

Gold is an obvious gift. I’m not sure where the “Franklin” fits in.  But I do know we could all do with a little more mercy. And not just at Christmas. 

 

What if this year you were known as the most merciful person in your entire family? What if you were the most merciful person at your office?  What if this year your town initiated a Medal of Honor for displays of uncommon mercy—and you were the nominee?

 

Wouldn’t that be something?  It would.  It would also be expensive.   It might cost you a kind word to someone whose politics you despise.  It might cost you your quest for revenge over an injury decades old that still stings.  It might cost you an outrageous gift to someone you secretly feel is undeserving. 

 

Mercy is always expensive.  Ask Jesus.  “He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy.  He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit.”

   —Titus 3:5

 

Christmas is over.  The New Year is upon us. 

Let mercy begin.  

How would you feel about leaving your family for six weeks?  There’s probably no cell phone coverage where you’d be going.  No internet either.  Those things require electricity, and there’s precious little of that where you’re headed.  That’s why you’ll be traveling with generators.

What if I told you your destination would be oppressively hot—more than 100 degrees—every day?  Travel will not just be rugged, but ridiculous.  Paved roads—not likely.  Cruising through shallow rivers and muddy creeks—a near certainty.   Did I mention that the danger doesn’t end once you arrive?  Often, that’s when it really begins.

This is the mission that workers sign up for when they join Theovision, the Ghana-based ministry whose aim is that everyone be able to hear the Bible in their own language. 

Theovision has so far recorded audio Scriptures in more than 370 languages spoken by over 75% of people in 36 African nations, reaching approximately 700 million people across Africa. But this progress comes at a price.

Many of these translations are done in hostile areas.  The recordings must sometimes be done at night and in secret.

As the Theovision team goes out with their audio equipment, they eat what the local people eat, speak as they speak, sleep as they sleep—even dress the way they dress.  All of this with the goal of making the gospel message available to people who have never heard the ultimate Good News.

To visit Theovision is to be amazed, caught up in a remarkable story-in-the-making.   But how very much like Christ Himself.

Did He not eat as we eat, live as we live and sleep as we sleep?  Did He not go to our weddings, weep at our funerals and taste the salt of our tears? All of this, so we might understand the ultimate Good news.

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…” 

                   –John 1:14

Merry Christmas!

It may be the world’s most unlikely worship band. 

Can I tell you about it?

I’d showed up for a regular appointment at a local senior retirement center.  For several years, they’ve let me serve them as a speaker at their Christian worship service, held Wednesdays at 11:00am sharp. Except this time, the start time wasn’t as sharp.

The fact is, we were late. Our piano player and sound technician (a husband and wife couple) were delayed.  A lot.  Fortunately, there’s a guy who owns a nice Bose radio, and he played a CD of reverent piano solos while we waited. And waited.

The canned music was calming, but not the voice of the lady who coordinates the service.  She was on the phone desperately trying to track down the missing keyboard lady and her husband.  Me, I was going over my notes, as I always do when getting ready to speak, scanning my iPad—lost to the world. That’s when it happened.

The Bose radio began playing the strains of the iconic hymn, Amazing Grace.  At first I thought I heard humming.  I glanced up from my notes and then heard one voice singing.  Then another.  

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.  Soon the whole room was alive with spontaneous singing.

I once was lost but now am found, ‘'twas blind but now I see.  This singing crowd, filled with wheelchairs and walkers, could not have been more sincere.  Or worshipful. They sang because they were gripped.  They sang because they’d connected. They sang because they couldn’t not sing.

Honestly, I was caught off guard by the lump in my throat. 

In a world of Chris Tomlin and Joel Houston and Hillsong United, these people reminded me that true worship doesn’t require projectors and screens and lights and guitars. 

True worship is a thing of the heart—with or without the official keyboard player.

 

 

 

 

At first it didn’t really sink in that Monday night. 

It was the last meal, the last time Diana and I would be with my parents in the home I grew up in.  They’d lived there since the sixties.  That's a whole lot of memories.  I stole away for a moment and took one last walk around.

The Sumac bush was still there, all sprawled out by the front porch. There in the front yard, we kids played sixteen-inch softball, learned the basics of football, and tossed lawn Jarts.   Seemed as big as Wrigley Field back then.

Turning toward the east corner, I came to the tall skinny evergreen behind which I shared my first kiss.

The peonies on the side of the house were gone. I remember the summer Mom and I were weeding around them.  I seized the moment to fake a concern for snakes in the grass (hardly likely in northern Illinois).  Having ratcheted up Mom’s pulse rate, at an opportune moment, I tickled her feet with a long stick—a chuckle neither of us have gotten over.

I ambled through the backyard garden space where one summer I followed up on a resolution to grow a watermelon.  Faithfully, I watered the sprawling vine and harvested exactly one small excessively seedy watermelon.  Yet it was remarkably sweet.

Meandering around the property I came to the collapsible picnic table Dad made, still latched to the wall.  To this day, I’m not quite sure how he designed and built it.  How many summer suppers did we eat out there?  Eight of us. Together.  Meal after meal.

I’m happy that Mom and Dad have a new home.  But leaving the old place is sort of strange. Nostalgia aside, it’s a great reminder that ultimately, our home can never be here on earth. 

Jesus said to His followers—then and now—“I’m going to prepare a place for you.  And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me, that you also may be where I am.”

That’s where our real home is, and always has been. With Jesus.  Forever.    

Do you have a code of personal conduct?  George Washington did.  The father of our country wrote down his ideas in a collection known as “110 Rules of Civility.”  Among my favorites:

• Sleep not when others speak.

• Be no flatterer.

• Use no reproachful language against anyone; neither curse nor revile.

• Cleanse not your teeth with the table cloth napkin, fork, or knife; but if others do it, let it be done without a peep to them.

• Before and after drinking, wipe your lips.  Breathe not then with too great a noise for it is an evil.

• Bedew no man’s face with your spittle.

• Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

Fascinated with George Washington, nine-year-old Joslynn decided to craft her own Rules for Civility during a recent sleepover at our house.  She spoke.  I typed.  Here are some Josie gems:

• Tell other people about Jesus at dinner.  Also…everywhere.

• If you are grounded, see if you can get out of it. Say, “I lost control of myself…I wasn’t thinking….or I forgot the calendar at the store.”

• If you’re at your grandfather’s house, eat cookies and milk on his lap if he wants you to.

• Don’t worry about your belly button.  It won’t pop off.

• Don’t be on your phone all the time.

• Read the Bible every day, like George Washington did.

• Don’t let your imagination make a mess.  Keep it in your room.  

It’s fun looking at civility through the eyes of a nine-year-old, though sad that it has nearly become a cultural fossil.  But civility matters. To God.  To us. It’s the life blood of any society.  Is it any wonder, then, that our culture is suffering from issues of the heart?   For true civility, the Bible is the ultimate resource.

"This book of the law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do according to all that is written in it; for then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have success.” 

 –Joshua 1:8

It’s the best part of traveling in West Africa: the signs on the local shops. Please note that the term, “shop,” may be a bit generous for much of what we’ve seen in Ghana.  Some of them are little more than rickety wooden roadside stalls.  But nearly all of them sport a creative (if not pretentious) name of some kind.  And a surprising number offer a Christian witness.

Just for our Thursday Thought readers, I jotted down a collection of some of the best. For example, there’s the “Power of Prayer Fast Food Shop.”  I wondered who’s the prayer for—the customers eating the food—or the workers serving it? 

If the soles on your shoes are worn out, you might consider a visit to the “God is Great Shoemaker Repair” store. 

We passed by a number of noteworthy electrical businesses:

• Great King’s Electrical
• Jesus I Know Electrical
• Thank God Electrical Works.

Another memorable sign grouping was observed in the beauty and clothing sector.  We drove past:

• The Lord is One Beauty Salon
• Clap for Jesus Barbering Salon
• Finger of God Fashions

But other skilled workers also showed up in shop signs like:

• Hand of God Metal Works
• Joyful Aluminum Works
• To God Be The Glory Brakes, Bands and Clutches

Some of the shop names puzzled me, such as “By God’s Grace Bar and Catering Service” (how does God’s grace intersect with a serving of whiskey?).  And I wondered what exactly is sold in the “Amazing Grace Cold Store.”   Also, what is the merchandise selection like at “The Yes of Jesus Mini Mart?”  And if they happen to run out of a particular item, do they offer a “no” at the “Yes of Jesus Mini Mart?”

The taxis in Ghana are also typically plastered with names as well.  Among some of our favorites:

• The Lord Provides
• God’s Way
• Take Side with Jehovah
• That All May Be One
• Man No Work—Man No Eat
• No Food for Lazy Man
• Heaven or Hell
• Decent (as in, “How was your ride?”  Answer: “Decent”)
• God is King

But the award for the best sign I saw in all of Ghana has to be this:

“Please give your life to Jesus.  For He is.”

If you’ve been looking for a sign from God—this is it!

From Ghana, with love,

– Jon

Her name is Sandra. She has no mother.

Looking at her, you would not know this about Sandra.  She smiles easily.    Generously.  I met Sandra in West Africa at a Moody Radio Global Partners Training event.  She was one of the students attending courses in the Radio Production track that I help teach in Ghana.

One of the best features of a Global Partners Training event is the daily “One on One” time we build into the schedule. Anyone attending can sign up for a timeslot with any of the presenters to talk about anything they like (typically job or ministry related).

One afternoon, Sandra showed up.  Now, in our seminars, we give practical assignments that are worked on in class, attempting to apply specific principals from the lecture.

Earlier in the day, students were asked to write copy for a radio advertisement of their choosing.  The class was over and we were moving on to other things.  Not Sandra.

She wanted to read to me the radio commercial she had written.  Curiously, it was about a business she would like to launch that sells locally grown honey.  In Sandra’s commercial, she spoke eloquently about the effectiveness of honey to help regulate blood sugar. She told how honey is extremely helpful for anyone facing the challenges of diabetes.

Then Sandra dropped the bomb.  Her mother was dead.  From diabetes.   Sandra was just seventeen when it happened.  She has never gotten over it.  Given an opportunity to write about any product or service in the world, Sandra chose to focus on the one thing that might have helped her mother.  How telling. How touching. 

Honestly, I was crushed. Here is a young girl who needs her mom.  All of her life is ahead of her. Boys surround her (I noticed this at the conference).  She needs the input only a mother can give.  So I gave her the only thing a Dad could give: a word of encouragement and a prayer.

I told Sandra that she was going to go far in life, that she had a great smile.  I also told her that God had chosen a boy for her who loved Jesus and who would treat her well—and she should settle for nothing less.  Then we prayed.

I wished I could have done more.  Said more.  Prayed more. I wanted to fix the unfixable. It is times like that I am reminded—ministry sometimes hurts.  Badly.

Her name is Sandra.  She has no mother.