Author: Jon Gauger

It happens in most every church, most every Sunday morning.  The pastor has finished his sermon and the congregation is about to sing another chorus or two. The pastor prays a prayer inviting the Holy Spirit to “do a work among us,” driving home the Bible passage just preached.  
 
But in nearly every congregation some folks are exempted from that prayer: the worship team.  The singers, band members, interpreters, they make their way up to the stage while the prayer is being prayed.
 
Question:  Why?
 
Answer:    Because we don't want to “waste time” getting everybody situated. 
 
Now as a guy who lives in a world of live radio, nobody appreciates the need to keep things flowing more than me.  As a (would be) musician, I completely understand the prep that has to go on before a group can be ready to sing or play. 
 
Yet still I ask, why do we find it acceptable to use prayer as a “transition” for our worship teams?   Isn't the worth and value of our worship tied to our praying?  In our current model professionalism and pragmatism have trumped prayer.

What is wrong with simply letting the worship team pray with the rest of the congregation—and then giving them a moment to get set up on stage? 
 
If “saving time” is such a premium to us, why don't we start the service on time rather than a few minutes late?  If saving time is such a premium, why don't we tighten up our announcements?    Or why not run the announcements during the time the band is resetting on stage?
 
Consider the small—even stingy–piece of “pie” that prayer gets in the average Sunday morning service.  Dare we slice it even thinner for those claiming to lead us in worship?
 
Maybe it's time we stopped being slick and professional.
Maybe it's time to be a bit more awkward so we can be a bit more prayerful.

Only when you are in a cave and they turn off the lights do you finally grasp how dark true darkness really is.  We experienced such a lights-out encounter touring the Cave of the Mounds.

When some workers mining for lead set off a dynamite charge back in 1939, they unknowingly ripped a hole into the Wisconsin wonder known today as the Cave of the Mounds.

The “roof” of the cave at any given point along the tour route is between 30 and 60 feet below grass level.  So temperature year round is a constant 50 degrees.   Unlike most caves, this one had no natural above ground entrance (until the miners blasted their own version of a doorway).  Because of this, Cave of the Mounds has no bats, no vermin, no wildlife of any kind. 

Whether you like caves or loathe them, they surely offer an altogether different perspective on geology, history, and even theology.  For me, the “teachable moment” came when staring at stalagmites and stalactites I decided to check the cell phone to see if by any chance I had any coverage. None.  Nada. A red “X” glowed where “bars” normally lit up.

Because (perhaps like you) I have a bit of imagination, I began running scenarios through my mind that are typical for cave visitors:

• What happens if there's a power failure down here?
• What happens if the guide's walkie talkie fails?
• What happens if…(in a cave, an active imagination is not your best friend).

Then another thought captured me (forgive me if this strikes you as corny).  Lack of cell phone coverage aside, I was no further away from connecting with the God of the universe down in that mine than up on a mountain.  The poet David agreed:

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,” even the darkness is not dark to you.”  (Psalm 139:11-12).

Next time you’re in a cave—literal or emotional—there's a light you can count on.

When traveling through Elkhart, Indiana, do not miss the RV Motor Home Hall of Fame, a one-of-a-kind camping collection (rvmhhalloffame.org/).

The museum features camping curiosities sucy as the 1913 Earl Trailer and Model T Ford, believed to be the oldest trailer camper in existence.  There's a 1915 Model T with Telescoping Apartment (earliest known example of a “slide out”).

It was interesting to peer inside the 1931 Chevrolet House Car owned by Mae West.  Built for Paramount Studios, it was used as a chauffeur driven lounge car and featured a rocking chair on the back porch!

One of my favorites: the 1935 Bowlus Road Chief Trailer.  This shiny silver predecessor to today's Airstream has the shape of an inverted boat.

Impossible to miss: the 1954 Spartan Imperial Mansion.  At eight feet wide and a whopping 42 feet long, this trailer is immense.

Tromping through 100 years of RV and motor home history—many models featuring original flooring, bedding and furniture–I was struck by one unifying reality.  From the primitive Model T Ford campers to the technology laden RV's of today, they are all designed only for temporary living: vacation housing, not permanent dwellings.

So nobody expects even the fanciest recreational vehicle to be as big or as nice as a real home.  It's just intended to keep you comfortable for a short time. 

Which is exactly the same attitude we should have toward this thing called life on earth.  It's only temporary.  Our sights are to be set on a better—and ultimate—destination:  heaven. 
   
Maybe, like me, you need to dial back your expectations for this life which Michael Easley reminds us is “at best a clean bus station.”

Philippians 3:20, “For our citizenship is in heaven, from which also we eagerly wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Here's to loosening our grip on this dying world—and fixing our eyes on the world to come.

Happy travels!

Have you noticed how young ears hear more than we sometimes think they do? 

The other day, three year old “Kay-bib” (he's still working on pronouncing, “Caleb”) heard Keith and Kristyn Getty sing, “Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”   Reacting to the song, Kay-bib told his mother, “I love Jesus” (stated most enthusiastically).  He then inquired, “But Mom, what is the blood of Jesus?”

Mom replied, “Well, when Jesus died on the cross for us, He was bleeding.  He saved us from our sins on the cross.  So this song is our way of being thankful for Jesus' doing that.”  Kay-bib was pensive as he let tumble out, “I love Jesus' blood.”
 
At this point seven year old “Big Sis” marched over boring holes in Kay-bib with her intensity.  She pontificated, “You better take this part seriously, dude.  I mean, this is serious!”   Though her sermon was brief—just two sentences—it was delivered with a conviction recalling Jonathan Edwards or George Whitfield.

What exactly Big Sis intended for Kay-bib to do to validate his agreement to “take this part seriously, dude” I do not know.   But I do know her concern was real—and right.  “How shall we escape if we neglect so great a salvation?” asked the writer of Hebrews.  

It is sobering, that a seven year old would grasp eternal verities—even those pertaining to eternal life or damnation—with greater ease than many intellectually nuanced adults. 

But beyond an inflated sense of our own “knowledge,” many never come to faith because of a spiritually laissez faire attitude. So steeped are we in the cultural art of “chilling,” many of us desperately need the warning Big Sis blurted out:  “You better take this part seriously, dude.  I mean—this is serious!”

Indeed, “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31).    

Three-year old Kay-bib gets that.

Seven-year old Big Sis gets that.

Do you? 

Her name is Augustina and she lives on Lower Wacker Drive.

The thing is, no one really “lives” on Lower Wacker Drive–they merely exist there.   Wacker is a major traffic artery for downtown Chicago.  But as if offers a cement roof from the elements, it is a shelter for those with nothing. 

When my friend, Jack, met Augustina on his walk to work, she asked him for food.  Ironically, at that instant, Jack held in his hand a laminated card with the text of 1 John 4, which he is memorizing.  The passage has much to say about loving our brothers and sisters.

Jack suggested they head for the McDonald’s in the Merchandise Mart where he would buy her breakfast.  That’s when he introduced himself.

“You have the same name of my last case worker,” Augustina said smilingly.  She walked with a limp, having fallen down three flights of stairs.  Plus, “my arthritis is killing me.  I’m too young for that,” she told Jack.

Augustina is 42.  She is hoping that soon a caseworker will deliver the good news that she has finally been given a low-income apartment.  Meanwhile she sleeps on Wacker Drive.  Jack asked about it.

“I have cardboard and two blankets that I lay on. Then I have another blanket on top.  But it’s no bed.  Oh, I wish I had a bed, wish I had a place of my own.  Wish I could take a bath.”

As Jack told me this last part, I felt guilty for taking all these things for granted.  And I managed to squash my questions like, “How had she come to this awful condition?  Was Augustina a druggie?  A drunk?” 

Did it matter?

Arriving at McDonald’s, Augustina ordered not one, but two, big breakfast platters, along with two large Orange juices.  Jack told me “I got the idea I was feeding not just Augustina, but her two friends, as well.”

I John 4:20 “For the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen.”

Her name is Augustina and she lives on Lower Wacker Drive.

Have you ever witnessed a holy work of God with your own eyes?  I am not speaking figuratively or metaphysically, but literally.  I had a front row seat to such an event during a recent Moody Radio visit to Peru with Wycliffe Bible Translators.

Truthfully, there was nothing that spoke of deity in the cramped office where we stood vying for space with boxes and supplies.  There was nothing that hinted at the supernatural in the window that looked out upon Huancayo's gray streets.  

Huddled in front of a computer monitor were four jacketed men and women (it was cold).  On the screen, via Skype, the easy smile of Rick Floyd brought a special warmth to the room.  A linguistic professor at Biola, Rick serves as a translation consultant for Wycliffe.   From his home in California, he coached and critiqued a translation of 2 Samuel chapter 1 in the Wanca Quechua language. 

The four Wanca linguists at our end had given enormous time and talent to this translation and I was handed a print out of the first few verses.  The dialogue between Rick and the Wanca linguists was animated, gestures flying everywhere accompanied by a frequent nodding of heads. 

They were checking and double checking grammar, context, flow, as well as “holes” in the overall reading. Had cultural issues been properly addressed?  Was the translation faithful? 

An unfamiliar feeling settled over me watching the give and take.  This was a rare and privileged moment to which I had no right.  My eyes were witnessing nothing less than a sacred scene—the authoritative Word of God showing itself in consonants and vowels and nouns and verbs that had never previously uttered its life-changing message. 

Truly, the writer of Hebrews was correct when he said, “The Word of God is Living and Active.” 

As for me, I’m in awe of the work God is doing in and through Wycliffe Bible Translators.

Some things in life cannot be explained.  They can only be experienced.

I was reminded of this traveling through Peru, South America.  We were about 200 miles east of Lima.  Think mountains, snow caps and deep breaths (elevation about 12,000 feet).  Forget any notions of jungle climates or decent roads.  

Arriving at a mountain village (so remote the switchback roads dictated we abandon our small bus and walk a path to the village), we attended church in a mud brick structure dimly lit by five fluorescent fixtures.  Blue tarps formed the inelegant ceiling and hardened dirt was the floor.

We sat on flimsy plastic chairs as villagers streamed inside through twin corrugated doors.  A preacher wearing sunglasses (his left eye deformed) spoke with great passion in the local language: Wanca, Quechua.  The capacity crowd was riveted.  Even the moths I saw seemed to pay attention.  

Personally, I was lost (happens a lot when you travel).   I couldn't follow along except for a word here and there (it's tough to miss the name of Jesus in most any language).

Sitting there trying to pay attention as dogs trotted in and out of the church, it finally clicked.  This experience—not being able to fully understand—was their experience before these Quechua villagers had a Bible in their own language.   They wanted to follow along, to grow in Christ, but a language barrier stood in their way.

Thanks to the vision of Wycliffe Bible translators, they now understand.  They have the New Testament in their own language.  The difference it makes is remarkable.  But until you are lost in a language you do not fully understand, you will not fully appreciate your own Bible.

By our standards, these villagers are quite poor.  It's been awhile since I have laid eyes on so much “nothing.”  Yet they are rich in their praise of the Living God and their lives bring to mind 2 Corinthians 6:10, “having nothing, yet possessing all things.”

For loving these people enough to give them the Word of God in their own language, I offer my hearty salute to the men and women who call themselves Wycliffe Bible Translators. 

If Barbie dolls bother you, get ready to be really bothered.

The iconic American doll, first introduced in 1959, has achieved mega status on a global scale.  More than a billion Barbies have been sold in 150 countries.

In a toy career spanning 56 years, Barbie has survived seas of stormy controversy for being too sexy, too blond, and too inappropriate for young children. But get ready for a new wave of controversy.

The latest generation of Barbies will be equipped with Wi-Fi and speech recognition.  Meaning little girls (who have always talked to their dollies) will now be able to have them talk back.  Intelligently. 

According to Mattel, the doll’s maker, “Hello Barbie” uses speech recognition and over time, actually learns a child’s preferences.  Pushing a button on Barbie’s belt buckle records the conversation and sends it over Wi-Fi.  

At a toy fair in New York City a spokeswoman asked Barbie, “What should I be when I grow up?"   The response related to an earlier part of their conversation: "Well, you told me you like being on stage, so maybe a dancer?"

In theory, it’s all harmless fun.  But I agree with Susan Linn, Director of the Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood. "Kids using 'Hello Barbie' aren't only talking to a doll; they are talking directly to a toy conglomerate whose only interest in them is financial."

Then, too, there’s my own observation of Barbie’s demonstrated history of valuing cuteness over character. 

Not to worry, says a Mattel spokesperson.  The company is only giving girls what they have always asked for: having a conversation with Barbie.

Yet in a Christ-centered world view, giving girls or boys what they want—just because they want it—has never been wise.  Or biblical.  Besides—shouldn’t we be teaching them more about having a conversation with God?

When it comes to “Hello Barbie,” I think it’s time we said goodbye.

I am concerned about the theology being taught in today's evangelical churches.
(If you are yawning, you may be part of the problem).

Notice I am not complaining about our poorly attended prayer meeting services.  I am not expressing concern about worship music that glorifies the musicians, or outreaches that never mention the gospel. I am not attacking our youth groups that are increasingly as much about pizza as they are biblical truth.  Nor am I bemoaning the death of the Sunday evening service.

No, I am concerned about the theology being taught in today's evangelical churches.

Exhibit One
A well respected church pastor in our community did a message series that went for several months….with almost no Scripture content, week after week.  I know, because I was there.

Exhibit Two
Another evangelical church (with a grand reputation for biblical foundations) allowed a worship leader to stand in the pulpit and disagree with the guest preacher's truly biblical sermon on sexuality.  Worse yet—the leadership of the church has refused to post the message on their website. 

Exhibit Three
A friend attended a spiritual retreat recently where the leader announced that though she didn't have a Bible verse to support her claim, she believes that after a person dies, God will still welcome him or her with open arms—and offer them one more chance to believe.  So much for Hebrews 9:27- “It is appointed unto man once to die and after this the judgment.” 

Increasingly, 1 Peter 4:17 stands out as it reminds us judgement must indeed, “begin with the household of God.”

And we haven't even touched on Christian books.  Like a devotional I've seen that doesn't even mention God until more than 30 pages into the book.  Or a major publisher's biography of a Christian missionary that never ever mentions a thing about conversions. 

I have not gone out of my way to find these troubling experiences.  But they are here.  They are not good.  They are, I fear, the tip of the ice berg.

 

Their mission was over.   The plane, racing away after bombing oil refineries in Blech hammer, Germany, had just one final obstacle to clear—a lone flak gun in Hungary.

It was not to be.

When a piece of shrapnel severed a critical fuel line, Wally Volkman remembered hoping the plane could make it to the Yugoslavian border.  The captain finally gave the order to bail and Wally jolted out the door of the bomber at 20,000 feet. 

When his parachute failed to open Wally began to panic.  “Time goes slower than you’d think,” he told me.  “I remember pondering how I would soon be in heaven, that I would never get to marry my sweetheart, June.”   At about 1000 feet–at the very last possible moment–the chute finally opened, gently landing Wally between two trees.

The dramatic dive may have sacred him half to death, but it likely also prevented his death.   The Copilot who jumped out just after Wally was fatally shot out of the sky as his parachute—an easy target—floated downward.

Pondering his options, Wally hid himself in a mound of roadside brush until a friendly partisan discovered him that night, offering to secretly transport him in a wooden wagon piled high with hay.  He was reunited with his surviving crew members—after enduring a pitchfork search of the hay wagon by German soldiers. 

For six weeks, Wally and his crew worked their way through Yugoslavia, traveling 300 miles on foot—mostly at night. Finally, they met up with Allied forces at the Adriatic Sea.

Wally reflects, “I’m thankful to my mother who prayed for me all the time. The ironic thing was, at the same thing, my brother—a paratrooper—went missing at the Battle of the Bulge.  He, too, survived and went on to become a minister.”

In the years since I interviewed Wally, he has passed away.  But I'm convinced there's a lot more to his story.  And because this World War 2 vet loved Jesus even more than he loved his country, I'm looking forward to getting all the details when time shall be no more.

Until then, here is my salute to First Lieutenant Wally Volkman—an America Hero.