Author: Jon Gauger

The view is a gift.  Spectacular at times, really.

Every morning upon arriving at my downtown office, I usually glance out an east-facing window toward the 100-story John Hancock Tower, the Chicago skyline and beyond.  For more than two decades, I have relished a city view of sunrises, sunsets, lightning and snowstorms.  Better than that, I have seen the lake. 

Amazingly, through two office moves, I have managed to hang on to a sliver of the nation's third largest body of water.  There is never a time when Lake Michigan is less than awe-inspiring.  I will miss it.

The rumble of machinery across the street and ten floors down assures me that my personal scenery is about to change.  Footings are now drilled and poured.  A central cement core that will not be denied rises steadily off the street.  Already, the red wire of a crane cable dangles over my lake view.

The signs are everywhere, as they are unstoppable.  The window is closing. 

I had a parallel epiphany recently.  A wise and trusted friend suggested the rumble of America's cultural machinery is about to change the moral scenery for Christians—in specific and drastic ways.

The signs are everywhere, as they appear to be unstoppable.  The window on our long-cherished views of freedom of religion and speech is closing.

What, then?  Shall we circle the wagons, hunker down and bemoan our loss?

No. 

The landscape is changing and we may not like the darkened view.  But as shadows lengthen, Paul says, “prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world” (Philippians 2:15). 

Here's praying that as America races further into a tunnel of moral and spiritual darkness, you and I will be found on the other side—still shining. 

“I just don't feel in the Christmas spirit.”

Have you ever said that?  I have.

But where did we ever get the idea that we are supposed to feel a specific sentiment?

Is there some Department of Christmas Inspiration that has issued guidelines for what sort of emotions one ought to feel every 25^th of December? 

Kidding aside, I “get” feelings.  I can be a downright emotional sort, especially for a guy.  Nor do I think it's wrong to expect that Christmas might induce a unique set of emotions. 

Where I think we run into trouble is when we demand this of our hearts.  In doing so, we are at once both gunman and hostage in our own emotional stick up.  

Expecting to feel a specific emotion is akin to explaining a joke's punch line in hopes of producing laughter.  It just doesn't work. Like the little girl who planted a seed in her garden—and then hovered over it waiting for it to sprout—we are bound to be disappointed.

I suspect that the elusive “Christmas spirit” is likely a byproduct, not an attainable goal.  It’s not a matter of singing enough carols, sending enough cards, attending enough Christmas concerts.

Maybe it's time to cut ourselves some emotional slack.  After all, the Bible never calls us to feel a certain way.  Yet we are called to live a certain way—the Jesus way.

Rather than wait for the Christmas feeling, let's do some Christmas living.

• Let's be like Mary who “kept all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
• Let's be like the shepherds who glorified God “for all the things they had heard and seen.”
• Let's be like the Infant King, who “took on the form of a servant.”

Who knows?  Maybe in living like the Christ of Christmas, those feelings of Christmas might just sneak up on you!

Merry Christmas!

It blows my mind.  On Facebook, we share not only where we are, who we are with, but–increasingly–what we are eating.  Especially during the holidays!  Facebook has become “foodbook!”

I've scratched my head trying to figure out why we're so big on sharing what's for dinner.  All I can point to is the perfect recipe of improved camera optics and a tangy combination of fidgety phone folks with a penchant for sharing too much information.  

Restaurants have wised up.  According to an article in the Associated Press, the restaurant chain, Chili’s, now spends $750,000 annually on an egg wash that gives burger buns a photogenic glaze.   They are also serving french fries in sleek stainless steel baskets and stacking ribs on plates for a more appetizing photo look.

 Nor is Chili’s alone.  Yum Brands CEO Greg Creed (think Taco Bell, KFC and Pizza Hut) has described diners' growing tendency to “art direct” food.  He adds that today's generation intends for their meals to be “sharable” on line.   

Bottom line: Millennials are not satisfied merely to munch lunch.  They first tweet, THEN eat.  

Presentation, as they say, is everything. It's the…umm…bread and butter of today's foodies.

Forgive me for making an abrupt turn here, but let me ask you.  As someone who appears to be a follower of Jesus, is your testimony mainly about appearance, or are you the real deal?  I'm thinking now of the tray of fake desserts at my favorite restaurant, fabulous imitations of the real thing.  They look astonishingly real but aren't. 

Do you really know Jesus….love Jesus…obey Jesus?  Or is your life mostly about the presentation?  Said another way, do you merely look “astonishingly real” or are you actually born again?  Take heed, lest at the Judgment, Jesus say to you, “Depart from me, I never knew you.”

Why don’t our churches sing more Christmas carols during the Christmas season?  I asked this question last week, inviting your response.  The question is born of the observation that during the Christmas season, many churches are unable (or unwilling) to disconnect entirely from their beloved worship choruses from Chris Tomlin or Hillsong heard the rest of the year. 

Here is a sample of your responses to the question, “Why don’t we sing more Christmas music in church?”

Peter writes,

I have wondered the same thing about carols.  Apparently Christmas carols aren’t trendy?

Ron claims:

Adults don't sing Christmas carols because they learned them when they were children and now that we are all "grown up" we consider them childish.  Bottom line:  it is a matter of pride.

David writes from Ghana,

            We have lost some of our values.

Russ points out,

           We won’t exhaust the Christmas music or “overdo” it in four weeks. We have 48 weeks to sing the rest            of the hymns and every new chorus that comes along.

 

My brother David, himself a musician and worship leader asserts two possible reasons for the decline of Christmas Carols:

1. A few people feel we've moved beyond hymns or carols and that the music written nowadays is sufficient.

2. Contemporary Christian Music started in the 60's so we've now had a full generation who may never have done a standard hymn (or Christmas carol) in their church. The only musical language they know is Contemporary Christian Music.

 

Colin offers two reasons for the decline of Christmas carols in church: 

1. Loss of Awe.  I believe we are simply not awed by the concept of the birth of God as a human in the form of the baby Jesus.   

2. Theft of Glory.  "The Glory of the Lord" is used throughout the narration and seeps into all the carols. We glorify the internet, Amazon, the almighty dollar, Black Friday, Cyber Monday….anything BUT the Glory of the Lord Most High.

Great insights.  Worship leaders out there…are you listening?

 

Four weeks.  Maybe five at the max.  It’s a rather small window of time in which to sing Christmas carols.  That’s ‘cause we don’t sing Joy to the World in April.  And you won’t hear your worship leader inviting you to sing Silent Night in the heat of August.  Why?  Christmas music is for the Christmas season.

So here’s my question—okay, call it a complaint: Why are so many of today’s churches so unwilling to sing exclusively Christmas music during the Advent season?  Sure, everybody mixes in some Christmas carols.  But most churches I’ve observed just can’t quite let go of Ten Thousand Reasons or the latest from Hillsong United.   Why?

We have 48 weeks to sing the regular stuff, so why can’t the Christmas season be exclusively Christmas music?  What is it that today’s worship music leaders fear—or maybe dislike—about Christmas music?  Is it a question of age?  Or do we feel the songs are too slow?

Hear me clearly—I enjoy today’s worship music.  There’s so much to love! But why are we so reluctant to set it aside—all of it—for just four weeks?

Is it a stylistic addiction?  A discomfort with tradition?  A distaste for introspective tunes?  I surely don’t know.  But I’d like to hear your thoughts.    In fact, I’m inviting you to help write one of my next blogs!  Why not share you answer to the question, “Why can’t we sing pure Christmas music” when you email me.  Here’s where to send your thoughts: Jon@jongauger.com. 

I’m definitely interested in your opinion—worship leader or not.  Tell me why you think we’re so afraid to sing plain ol’ Christmas music…at Christmas. 

I must just excerpt your thoughts in a future blog—so be bold.  Meanwhile, enjoy the Christmas music—while you can!

 

Anticipation gushed like an oil well–and this crowd was fuel hungry.  They came from Tanzania, Ghana, Uganda, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Eritrea—and Kenya.  Nearly 160 in number, these Christian media professionals assembled in Nairobi for intense learning and spiritual encouragement.  Moody Radio calls it a Global Partners Training, where every evening session kicks off with praise music.

Until you have experienced African worship, I would politely suggest your definition of blessing is undersized.  This we were reminded of in surround sound as worship leader Gloria Muliro took to the stage.  Every person in the room seemed engaged, if not electrified.

That's when the power went out.  If you have never been there, night time in Africa brings shades of black darker than what you have previously known as dark.   But as power outages are common, no one panicked.  No one even commented.  Cell phones lit up and the music continued—never skipping so much as a beat—literally.

The singing actually intensified as darkness swallowed up scenery.   Frankly, it seemed to almost magnify the sense of worship.  No keyboard, no amplifiers—no barriers. It was just our voices and our God.  But I should hardly have been surprised by the scene.  

Singing in the dark is what Christ followers have always done.  When the lights have dimmed and hope is gone, Christians sing in the dark.  They sang in the Coliseum.  They sang in the catacombs.  They sang in the Gulag.  Christians sing in the dark because we are people of the Light.  We sing in the dark, because as 1 Timothy 6:16 reminds, we worship Him “who alone is immortal and who lives in unapproachable light.”

Psalms 139:12, “Even the darkness is not dark to thee, and the night is as bright as the day.”

So don't be afraid to sing.

Especially in the dark.

They look soft.  Cute.  Cuddly.  In photos and on television, monkeys are portrayed as adorable critters, albeit with a streak of benign Curious George mischief.  My moments with monkeys suggest otherwise.

In South Africa, a monkey dove through the open door of our resort room, stole the bread off our counter and scampered up a tree with it (glaring at my wife as he stuffed it into his mouth).

In Kenya's Nairobi National Park, small monkeys stretched wildly from branch to branch then skittered down trunks.  All this effort because some from our group were offering the diminutive primates potato chips.  They were clearly accustomed to such exchanges, obviously comfortable snatching the chips from human hands. 

The monkeys were willing to engage us as long as the treats kept coming.  But there was never the slightest hint of gratitude or even simple satisfaction expressed on their furry faces.  No cuddling.  No friendly chatter.  Just a beady-eyed stare in search of more.

As our open-top van trekked through the Nairobi National Park, uncomfortable truth settled on my soul.  You and I—respectable born again folk—are often more like monkeys than men and women in awe of Christ's generosity.

We hungrily snatch every morsel of good that comes our way from the hand of our merciful Savior.  Having consumed one “meal of grace,” we look for another and another and another.  There is scarce thought toward any show of gratitude, humility, and loving dependence.

Like monkeys, we gather around God as long as His hand extends toward us with blessing and provision.  But where is our thanks?  After all, as James 1:17 reminds us, “Every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow."

It’s time to stop acting like monkeys!

It's supposed to feel sacred, to evoke awe.  Yet somehow, I allowed wonder to pass me by.

Any trip to the Holy Land is punctuated with moments of spiritual consequence.  Like sailing on the Sea of Galilee: you peer out into hills that once hosted a dinner for five thousand.  

Meandering through the streets of Jerusalem's old city is akin to time travel.

But for Holy Land travelers weary of shrines, icons and incense, the Garden Tomb is an oasis.  Stone is possessed of a rare eloquence having echoed the words, “He is risen.”

This seventh trip to Israel, I did what I always do.  I snapped pictures outside what may have been Christ's resting place.  Then I assisted one of our tour guests in and out of the stone vault, clicking the shutter of my Nikon all the way.  And then we were outside again, walking toward the communion chapel.

Only then did I mourn the loss.  I had walked inside the tomb where the Son of God may have lain.  Yet I failed to truly ponder it.  There were cursory thoughts, certainly.  But where was the deep pondering over my own sin whose payment bought this room?

Understand, I do not venerate the tomb itself, which likely may not be the actual location. Even if it is, the Bible forbids us from worshipping a place. But why my personal distraction? Had I become callous?  Or “merely” careless?  Truthfully, I was tired on the last day of a full tour.  But alas, the Judge of my soul knows better.  I went into the tomb, but did not experience the tomb.  I captured its image in pixels, but failed to be captured by its essence.  

God forgive me for having eyes—but not seeing, for collecting spiritual souvenirs—but not really bowing my soul.  May God deliver every one of us from “trafficking in holy things.”

A 4am wake up alarm is not my idea of a fun time.  But some destinations are worth it.  Masada is one of them.

On the eastern edge of the Judean Wilderness, an isolated mountain dominates the skyline.  At the top is a plateau upon which Herod the Great built the fortress known as Masada.  Here, 900 Jews once holed up and defied the Roman army until a siege ramp spelled their defeat.  Rather than become slaves to Rome, all 900 took their own lives hours before the Romans finally breached the top. The edifice stands defiant against time and weather, as it has for millennia.  

Two years ago, my friend Dan Anderson, co-producer of Moody Radio's “The Land and the Book” challenged me to join him in a sunrise hike up Masada's “snake path,” which we did with great satisfaction.  This year, he invited me (along with a few others) to repeat the feat. 

Strapping on LED head lights, we worked our way up, awed by the climbers who left before us.  They snaked back and forth above, their tiny lights piercing the mountain blackness.

A climb up Masada's “Snake Path,” will cost you 700 steps and purchase a view 980 feet above the desert floor.  Trip Advisor and Wikipedia suggest the hike should take between 40 minutes and two hours. I clocked in at about 45 minutes—several minutes slower than my time two years ago—and was mildly discouraged. Marathon runner that he is, Dan easily beat me to the top, by at least five minutes. 

But the thing I will always remember about this climb is what happened near the top.  Climbing those stone steps (many of which are not only uneven, but almost cruel in the agony they exact) I began beating myself up over my poor physical conditioning, wondering if I would even finish.

That's when I started to hear the sounds.  Voices.  There was laughter and encouragement and celebration.   It grew louder. As I climbed the final step I at last saw the hikers who had gone on before. 

What a stunning illustration of Hebrews 12:1, “Therefore, surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”

Hey don’t give up!  The climb may be steep but the destination is worth it!  Besides—there’s a celebration coming!

There's the disaster you see—and the disaster you don't see.  I'll let you decide which is worse. 

Walk with me down the cardo (main north-south street) of Beit She‘an, an ancient town at the intersection of the Jordan River and the Jezreel Valley.  As the paver blocks are angled (not to mention ancient) do watch your step. 

Notice the fluted stone columns and cornices.  Clearly this place was at one-time a classy neighborhood.   Then an earthquake in 679 AD all but leveled the town.   Talk about disaster!  But this city is also the site of another epic event, one that goes all the way back to the biblical era of King Saul. 

Saul was a good guy. 

• He dressed right.
• He talked right.
• He could sing the praise and worship choruses of his day with as much fervor as the next guy.
• He seemed like the real deal.

Yet time after time, he cut corners, spiritually.  He failed to wait for a sacrifice.  Failed to execute a king.  Took spoils he had been forbidden.  He murdered 85 priests!   When faced with the ultimate Philistine invasion, rather than consulting God, King Saul consulted a medium—a witch.

The very next day, on Mount Gilboa, King Saul lost his life (along with his sons).  The Philistines cut off his head and fastened his body to the walls of the city of Beit She'an.  What a gruesome ending for someone who seemed to be God's man.

Standing at that ancient site, just yards away from where Saul's body would have been spiked gave me pause.

You and I attend church Sunday after Sunday with folks who look right, dress right and talk right.  They sing all the worship choruses with gusto.   Perhaps most of them are as they profess to be—truly born again.  But some are not (the Bible tells us so).

What a horrible thing to reach the end of this life and the beginning of eternity—only to hear Jesus say, “Depart from me.  I never knew you.”

That would be the ultimate disaster.