Author: Jon Gauger

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. 

In the sixties and seventies they called it “white noise”–the background blanket of sound that relaxes some—and makes others more productive.  Then, The Sharper Image made it personal with their Sleep Sound Machine.

 

From Time.com comes a review of three background noise websites.  For starters, there's Coffitivity.com.  This site recreates the pleasant background sounds of a coffee shop.  Perfect for anyone who finds that atmosphere more conducive for work.  Coffitivity lets you dial in how much activity you want.  Choose from Morning Murmur, Lunchtime Lounge, or the more restful, University Undertones.

 

Noisli.com offers a huge array of background sounds you blend together for the perfect combination of relaxation or focus—depending on your mood: rustling wind, a crackling fire or passing train.  A user-selectable screen visual allows you to match what you hear with what you “see” emotionally.

 

MyNoise.net bases its sound palette on actual research and offers soundscapes specifically designed for health recovery, meditation, or just plain sound blocking.  The website automatically calibrates for your system's speakers and your personal hearing. 

 

Who knew there were so many toys for noise?

 

But in a sound-soaked society like ours, I'm wondering if more noise is what we really need.

 

Ecclesiastes 3:7 reminds us there's “a time to be silent.”  In Psalms 46:10 we're told, “Be still and know that I am God.” 

 

I submit that some of the world's most effective soundscapes are found in the 23^rd Psalm– He makes me lie down in green pastures.  Can you hear the birds?  He leads me beside the still waters. Hear that peaceful trickle?

 

What you and I need is not more sound for the sake of noise…but peace for the sake of our souls.

 

You won’t get that online.  Only in God and His Word.

1.5 billion.  Dollars.

That's how much money is owed to the city of Chicago in unpaid parking and traffic tickets. Imagine one and half BILLION dollars!

A recent article in Chicago Magazine spelled out exactly what that kind of cash will buy. A creative number crunch suggests that 1.5 billion dollars is enough to buy 545.5 million Chicago style hotdogs (nearly two for every American). 

Those unpaid tickets could purchase 5,117 years' worth of school supplies for Chicago's kids.  Sick of potholes?  That money could also resurface 2,497 miles of Chicago's streets—about two thirds of all its streets!  Or if you'd rather, you could reconstruct 3.5 CTA rail lines.

But if you prefer to think big—really big—1.5 billion dollars would also buy you the 110 story Willis Tower–plus a 590,000 square-foot addition. 

All of this because people refuse to pay their tickets. The Pharisee-in-me is inclined to simultaneously label and lambaste these scofflaws.  How dare they cheat the government? But in pointing at others, we must beware the proverbial four fingers pointing back at ourselves:

• Do you and I pay our parking tickets?
• What about filing permits for home improvements?
• Do we get creative with numbers when filing our income tax?
• Do we dabble in deceit of any kind?

Amazing how comfortable I am pondering the scofflaws “out there” that owe a billion and a half, while overlooking my own moral debts.  I wonder if God were to actually show me the ledger how horrified I would be.

Romans 14:12, “Each one of us will give account of himself to God.”

 

In a recent CNN commentary, Fareed Zakaria (by his own admission not a Christian) made this assessment of Christianity: “its central message is simple and powerful: Be nice to the poor.”  Fareed ends with, “if you have a problem with this message…you have a problem with Jesus Christ.” The commentary makes a number of worthwhile observations.  Clearly, followers of Christ are called to care for “the least of these.”

However, to say that the message of Christ was mostly about loving and caring for the poor is to suggest that a visit to a steakhouse is mostly about the salad. Loving poor people and alleviating suffering of all kinds was certainly on the menu, but this was hardly the main course for Jesus. 

No question Jesus encouraged loving the poor and advocating their cause. To ignore them or exploit them is sin.  But as for the central message of Christianity, that is something much larger.  Jesus revealed it in Luke 19:10, “The Son of man has come to seek and to save that which was lost.”

In telling the world that He was fully God, fully able to seek and save, Jesus greatly offended the crowds (then and now).  Jesus said “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me” (John 14:6).  He called Himself the exclusive way to heaven!

If the central message of Jesus was about being nice to the poor, he would surely not have ended up crucified with spikes driven through his hands and feet, his head bloodied and his body spat upon.   Clearly, His contemporaries understood His central message: “I am God.  You are all sinners in need of a Savior.  I am that Savior.  And by the way—there is no other.”  They did not crucify him for a central message of being nice to the poor!

I agree with Fareed that we have a moral obligation to be kind and generous to the disadvantaged.  Being nice to poor people is certainly a reflection of the character of the Christ.   But to reduce the central message of Christianity to “being nice to the poor” is not being nice to Jesus.  Or the truth.

If you have a problem with that, with due respect, you have a problem with Jesus Christ. 

If it's true that Chicago is the “city with big shoulders,” those shoulders get quite a work out.  Walking 1.5 miles each way to work, I'm continually amazed at the construction projects I encounter. 

There is no end to the pounding, grinding, bashing, welding, clanking—building.  On Wacker Drive, I see a major project underway that has most of the heavy equipment staged on the Chicago River.   

Worth noting: a huge red crane (the boom must be 50 feet tall or more) whose treads rest on massive timbers laid out on a barge.  Because I often take the same train, I witness the same early morning scenarios: workers grabbing their last few puffs on cigarettes before clocking in, heavy equipment dragged out of locked storage containers, and a symphony of swearing from red-scarfed heads. 

What has lately grabbed my attention is the daily ritual of the aforementioned crane's operator.   Day after day I find him climbing outside his cab with a jug of glass cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other.  Every morning, he faithfully spritzes the glass and wipes away the dust and grime that come with big noise and big toys. 

Apparently, it's “all that important” to him.  In a given day, he will hook, hoist, and haul hundreds of tons of materials—any of which could crush a site or kill a man, given the slightest imprecision on his part.  It's not that he “wants” to see clearly around him.  He must see.  So he cleans. Every morning.

And so must we. 

The windows of our souls are ever caked with dust and grime that come from a noisy life—sin. We little understand the loads we swing about us daily, the potential we face for immediate destruction.

How good to know that upon our confession, the Savior with big shoulders—Jesus—is ready and willing to forgive our sins and “cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

How is it with the windows of your soul?

Now that television is clogged with large men lunging at an oblong ball, I reluctantly cede summer's end. Though I love football, I shall miss summer. Most of all, I will miss Saturday mornings in a wooded field. Seated in a comfortable chair I am alone with my Bible, my Creator and His creation. 

The birds are loud there, with many different sounds.  I often close my eyes and count the number of different calls.

One bird sounds like a Chevy engine that won't quite start—really!
Another's contribution is nothing but a single syllable chirp. 
Others, by comparison, offer highly ornate phrases using many notes on the musical scale.

The best way to enjoy, though, is not to over analyze, but to let the layered harmonies of these winged creatures work their melodies into your soul.  The birds, I'm convinced, have a few lessons in their twitter (pun likely intended).

Lesson One:  Your voice—your solo–is unique.  Your appearance, your personality, your spiritual gifting—they're not just okay, they're great!  So “sing” boldly.   As Oscar Wilde put it, “Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken.”

Lesson Two: Learn to be silent. 
All birds don't sing all the time.  They take turns, sit out awhile, then chirp when the time is right.  There's a place for letting others solo.  Learn to be silent. 

Lesson Three:  Learn to celebrate the symphony.   You can only sing one part—not an entire score!  As Paul observed, “we have many members in one body and all the members do not have the same function” (Rom. 12:4).It's great to be multi-talented.  But it's wrong to attempt to be the whole show. 

Most people go bird watching.
Me?  I go bird-listening.
That's what I've been hearing lately.

Now if you’ll please excuse me–I have a tweet to send off.

Recently I overheard a conversation between a mother and her young child.  The well-intentioned mom informed her son that unless a certain behavior changed, he would not be able to attend Awana Bible club.

I don't doubt her motivation.  Nor is there anything wrong with stripping a child of privileges for behavior that fails to meet clearly defined age-appropriate expectations.

But when we consider all the evil in the world, all the dark forces at work trying to wrap their wicked tentacles around our kids, using a Christian Bible club as a reward to be earned, or a punishment to be meted out seems wildly inappropriate.

I've seen this in other situations.  A neighbor lady often used our church youth group as a “withholding tool” for disciplining her kids.  She wouldn't allow them to attend if they didn't meet a certain behavior standard.  So they often missed.   Know what?  They quit going all together.

Think of all the Bible lessons these young people have missed out on.  Ponder all the Christian comradery they were shortchanged, the vital friendships that were never forged, the mentoring that never happened.  I do not consider it hyperbole to suggest the entire trajectory of their lives may well have been changed—for the worse.

And many of the same people who use Bible clubs or youth group meetings as rewards somehow fail to see their child's television or gaming time as candidates for disciplinary withholding.   Really!

The hymn writer asked, “Is this vile world a friend to grace to help me on to God?”  The answer, of course, is no!

By all means, we must discipline our children.  By all means, let's let children experience consequences for bad behavior or bad choices.  But let us never ever prevent them from attending a Christian club or event where the gospel is presented and Jesus is lifted high.

We dare not forget that eternity is always at stake.

Imagine that you are an air force pilot…but your country has only four airplanes (flying condition unknown).  What would you do if 10,000 enemy soldiers advanced to within 16 miles of your nation's second largest city?   That was the situation faced by Lou Lenart.

According to an article in The Times of Israel, Hungarian born Lenart, of Jewish descent, immigrated to the United States as a child to avoid rampant anti-Semitism.  Enlisting in the U.S. Marines at the age of 17, he is said to have “talked his way into flight school” and flew combat missions in the Pacific during World War II.

Just three years after the end of World War II, Israel was pronounced a state and Arabs in the region responded with ferocity.   An Egyptian army numbering more than 10,000 marched to within sixteen miles of Tel Aviv. 

Israel's entire air force consisted of four airplanes assembled from smuggled German Messerschmitt parts.   Lenart, who was then back in Israel, took off in one of them. “We didn't know if they would fly or if the guns would work,” he said. Determined, Lenart took off.   The plane's pistons all fired but the guns did not. 

Still, Lenart's fearless swooping over the opposing army forced the Egyptians to retreat, now believing the Israelis had a lethal air force.  

After Lenart took on the entire Egyptian army, newspapers dubbed him, “the man who saved Tel Aviv.” An average hero might have hung up his spurs to glory in the glimmer of international acclaim.  But Lenart went on to fly thousands of Jewish refugees from Iraq to Israel and worked as a commercial airline pilot.

In a 2012 interview with the Jerusalem Post, Lou Lenart commented, “I was the luckiest man in the world that my destiny brought me to that precise moment to be able to contribute to Israel's survival.”

Sadly, as of this summer, Lou Lenart is now gone. 

Israel could certainly use more of his kind.