Author: Jon Gauger

Recently, a student asked me if I use an electronic Bible in church.  I told him no.

Before I give you my reasons, let me first tell you that I love (even depend on) electronic Bibles and commentaries for sermon preparation, crafting devotionals and researching biblical issues.  The ability to click with a mouse, swipe with my tablet or peruse with my smartphone is a huge time saver.   But when I attend church or speak in church, I never use anything electronic.   Here’s why.

First, the Bible is not like any other book.  It is unique in every sense.  Actually, its full and proper name is the Holy Bible.  Neither my smartphone nor my tablet is holy.  Nor is your Kindle.  They enable us to text, email, Facebook or phone a friend.  That daily stuff is all well and good.  But it is definitely not holy.  The Bible is special, and the physical copy I bring helps me in a subtle way to remember that.

I am not suggesting that the leather, ink, and paper themselves are holy.  Nor am I saying your electronic device cannot contain holy content.  But because the overwhelming majority of our time spent with electronic devices is mundane, for me it detracts from the “set apart” nature of Holy Scripture.

Second, I use a paper Bible because I believe it’s important to underline and make notes as I listen.  Sure you can do this electronically.  But honestly, how likely is it those notes will be around a decade from now?  I have notes in my Bible made 20 years ago that still inform me today.

Third, I use a paper and ink Bible because a smartphone or tablet invite—even beg—distractions.  There’s the quiet buzz of a text or email alert…a Facebook message.  I’m not looking for more distractions in church. 

Finally, it’s my opinion that the use of an electronic gadget for a Bible in church is just one more evidence of our demand for comfort and convenience.  Turning pages is just "too hard." Besides—gotta keep one hand free for that coffee cup!

When it comes to geography, Americans are notoriously ignorant—and curiously unbothered about it. Whether looking at a globe or a U.S. map, most folks just don't care.

Take my home state, Illinois.  For those who live in the city of Chicago or its suburbs, their knowledge of the state's western borders ends at the city of DeKalb, home of Northern Illinois University.  But about half of the state lies west of this point—the half where my wife grew up.  It's the half that rarely makes the news.

Yet I say you have not lived until you've been there and cruised around the tiny town called Kasbeer, shopped inside a converted grain elevator in Princeton, or gazed upon the antique gas station rusting away in Ohio (yup, that's an Illinois town).

This time of year in particular, my mind wanders out to Illinois' other half. For years, the Kasbeer Community Church hosted a men’s' pancake supper for fellow churches in neighboring farm communities.  They came from places like Wyanett, Bhuda, Bunker Hill, and Walnut.  Mustached faces, bib overalls and honest smiles—they were a manly mix.

In the kitchen, wielding the largest spatula I'd ever seen, was Calvin Philhower.  He made one size of pancake—huge (these were farmers, remember).  Calvin was the first to volunteer to round up the griddles and get them prepped.  All afternoon he hovered over them working a sort of pancake magic.

Though it took a full crew to pull off this supper, Calvin—my father in law–was the guy I watched.  I remember those good farm folks, remember that pancake supper.  But mostly, I remember Calvin, who succumbed to cancer a few years ago.

Scripture makes it pretty clear that heaven will offer a banquet, and because Calvin loved Jesus, he'll be there. But if that banquet somehow offers pancakes of any kind, I'll know exactly where to find Calvin: deep in the kitchen.  Look for the guy with the big smile–and an even bigger spatula.

She alone witnessed the crime.  Peering across the room, her intelligent eyes tracked his silent motion toward the door, observing his catlike ease in slipping behind it.  Her acute sense of hearing registered his cruel deed.  When she could take it no more, she blurted out, “No, no, no!”  Over and over she screamed it.

That's when Lucy's mother walked over to the shouting 16 month-old, asking what it was that so upset her.  The pantry door—now open—revealed the crime and the criminal:  Lucy’s two year old brother Caleb had snitched a number of snacks, the sound of the crinkling cellophane betraying his otherwise secret endeavor.

There was absolutely no way Lucy was going to let her older brother get away with snarfing snacks she herself was denied.  Whether whistle blower Lucy's sin nature was developed enough to savor her tattletale victory, I cannot say.

But I do know this.  There is a time for Christ followers to blurt out a resounding no, as Lucy did.   Not for the shallow purpose of being a tattletale, but simply because a thing is wrong.  1:15

The Bible tells us greed is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us divorce is not His plan.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us homosexuality is perverse.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us worry is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us prayerlessness is a wasted life.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us that staring at immodestly dressed women—whether on line, on TV, or wherever—is sin.  We need to shout no!

In a culture dying to say yes to almost anything, Ephesians 5:5 reminds us “No immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God.”

It’s time we relearned how to shout no.

It’s amazing what you find in the paper.  Recently, I picked up a Wall Street Journal and read Barton Swain's review of Thomas Kidd's new biography, George Whitfield.

Born in 1714, Whitfield was just 21 years old when—as he put it— after enduring

many months' inexpressible trials by night and day… God was pleased at length to remove the heavy load and to enable me to lay hold on his dear Son by a living faith.

George Whitfield’s spiritual journey caused him to deeply ponder the subject of conversion itself.   This passion pushed him toward further study, ordination, and an itinerant preaching ministry.  He traveled 14 times to Scotland and came to America 7 times.   In a given week, he often preached more hours than he slept.

And the great English evangelist didn’t sugarcoat his Bible teaching.  “I will not be a velvet-mouthed preacher,” Whitfield once proclaimed.   He made good on that promise with statements like:

Before ye can speak peace to your hearts, ye must not only be sick of your original and actual sins; but ye must be sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances…. If ye never felt ye had no righteousness of your own, if ye never felt the deficiency of your own righteousness, ye can never come to Jesus Christ.

Whitfield once spoke to a mining town near Bristol.  By the time he was through, Whitfield recalled “white gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black cheeks.”

A gripping image, isn’t it?  “White gutters made by their tears…”

Have you come to that place where you are finally “sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances?”  If so, you are finally ready to receive the forgiveness Christ alone can offer.

Psalms 51:7 “Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” Jesus is ready to make you clean. Why not let Him do what He does best—right now?

 

 

Have you ever felt like you haven’t been properly rewarded for going the extra mile?
I’m guessing Robert Ford might have felt that way.
 
Captain Ford was piloting a Pan Am Boeing 317-B just two hours out of Auckland, New Zealand, when his radio officer relayed the news about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Opening top secret instructions, Captain Ford was told that his aircraft (essentially a flying boat able to carry 74 passengers) was a strategic military resource and must not get into enemy hands.  Toward that end, he was ordered to take “the long way home” to New York City—and fly under strict radio silence.
 
This odyssey of more than six weeks took the crew 31,500 miles from the Far East, to the Middle East, Africa, South Atlantic, Brazil, the Caribbean…and finally home to New York City.
 
They had no suitable navigation charts, no certainty of obtaining fuel, no assurance of spare parts and had to fly under a veil of total secrecy.
 
They endured sleepless nights, the banging of a damaged engine, long flights, gunfire from a German submarine, the danger of a mined harbor, and rifle fire over the Arabian Peninsula.  At one point, they were nearly blown out of the sky.
 
But upon arriving home and debriefing, the crew was given a mere two weeks off before being returned to regular flight duties.
 
When I read this account in Ed Dover’s remarkable book, The Long Way Home, part of me was a bit put off.  These guys were heroes, weren’t they?  And yet, that’s what the war effort called for—at a minimum—heroes.
 
The words of Jesus come to mind: “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” (Luke 17:7).
 
You and I are in a spiritual war, make no mistake.  Maybe going the extra mile doesn’t make us heroes after all but rather, “unworthy servants” who “have only done our duty.”

“What’s in your wallet?”

So goes the popular ad campaign.  

But I have a different question for you:

“What’s in your heart?”

With Valentine’s Day in the rearview mirror, I’m reminded of Proverbs 4:23:  “Above all, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Puritan John Flavel once claimed, “The keeping and right managing of the heart in every condition is the great business of a Christian’s life.”

Peter Moffett staunchly advocates, “Rather look to the defending of thy heart, than to the defending of thy house.” 

To a culture like ours, the keeping of a heart seems a quaint concept more at home in an episode of Downton Abbey than in any personal life strategy.  But if the heart really is the sole entrance to the inner person, oughtn’t our sensibilities to be awakened?

Consider the close attention we give to the doors of a house.  We give them locks, deadbolts, chains, alarm systems—or some combination of all of those.  We even protect the doors that protect us by coating them with paint or varnish.  

Most of us do far less when it comes to securing our hearts.  We underestimate our hearts’ fragility and susceptibility. At the same time, we overestimate our own innate goodness or ability to sift through or reject unwanted evil. That’s when the trouble begins. 

In his treatise, Guarding Your Heart, Arthur Pink offers a quick litmus test for whether your heart has been compromised.  He writes, “It is in the heart that all backsliding begins.  Observe closely your affections and see whether God or the world is gaining ground in them.  Watch whether you experience increasing profit and pleasure in reading God’s Word, or whether you have to force yourself to it in order to discharge a duty.  Observe the same thing in connection with prayer.”

So I ask again, what’s in your heart?

John Flavel was right: “The keeping and right managing of the heart in every condition is the great business of a Christian’s life.”

Red hearts…dark chocolate…diamond rings: Valentine's Day.

With so many getting engaged on February 14, I could hardly resist sharing the findings of a new report from Atlanta's Emory University.  Titled, A Diamond is Forever—and Other Fairy Tales, the report features a survey of 3,000 once or still-married American couples.

Maybe you've heard the “two-month's-salary rule” that jewelers love to foist on couples.  According to this “rule,” you are supposed to save up (or at least spend) two months of your salary for an engagement ring.

Turns out that little rule has worked well for jewelers.  Not so much for couples.

The Emory University report reveals that couples who spend $2,000 to $4,000 on an engagement ring were 1.3 times likelier to end up divorced than couples who spent $500 to $2,000.  These numbers are troubling, given the 2013 national average.  According to TheKnot.com, the average American couple drops $5,598 on a ring.

Apparently, spending big bucks on a wedding holds similarly disturbing results.  Couples who dropped more than 20 grand on a wedding ceremony face a divorce rate that is three and a half times as high as those who spend between $5,000 and $10,000.  By the way, the national average—according to TheKnot.com—is much higher: $29,858.

Big rings and big parties don't appear to guarantee anything more than big debt.

Rather…dis-HEART-ening, wouldn't you say?

As pricey ring is a thing of beauty.

But for beauty that lasts—and almost guarantees happiness—look for a heart.  Not the dark chocolate kind.  But the heart that Ephesians 4:2 describes when it says, “Be completely humble and gentle.  Be patient, bearing with one another in love.”

If you can find that kind of heart (and I have, in Diana), you've got yourself a real…gem!

I am about to ruffle some feathers. Forgive me.

Here’s the issue: I am personally uncomfortable with our commitment to comfort during church.  More to the point, I have a problem with the emerging assumption that drinking coffee or water during the church service is normal—almost a right.

If worship is what we are supposed to be about—the total investment of our energy in the magnifying of another—then where is there room for satiating our own thirst?  Understand, I’m preaching to myself, too, because I enjoy a bottle of water.

Recently I attended a Sunday morning service where communion was offered “self-service,” rather than the elements being passed out.  Different—but certainly not problematic in itself.  But while I was praying, I heard the unmistakable sound of a large candy box being shaken as two people in the row behind me discussed the weather.  

Our unwillingness to suspend creature comforts—like a cup of coffee, or a bottle of water, or a handful of candy for even one hour I find suspect. If we will not allow our worship to cost us the suspension of personal pleasures for an hour, what price will we pay?

I can hear the voices of some folks who disagree.  They’re saying, “Dude, chill out.  We don’t live in the Old Testament anymore.  This is the age of grace!”  True.

Yet 1 Timothy 6:16 speaks of our God as one “who alone possesses immortality and dwells in unapproachable light, whom no man has seen or can see.”

And I guarantee you that if God were to once again visit Mount Sinai as He did with Moses, you could count on there being smoke and thunder.

Given imagery like that, a cup of Starbucks or a sip of water from a BPA-free plastic bottle seems a bit out of place.

I see the casualness of man and the holiness of God on a collision course.

While we no longer live in the Old Testament, worship itself intrinsically requires a certain personal preparation.  I doubt that a double shot latte is what God had in mind.

It was foolish.  Not even a two-year old would have made the mistake. May I tell you about it?

Trekking along a pathway in the Sonoran Desert's Saguaro National Park, Charlie, Kathy, Diana and I were struck by the landscape.  No other place on the planet has as many Saguaro cacti . Nor was the Saguaro the only cactus around.  There were dozens of varieties.  Deserts, I am learning, offer a strange beauty—and I was determined to capture it all on my Nikon…or die trying.

Convinced I had framed up a pretty cool shot, I asked my wife to smile into the camera.  But peering through the viewfinder, I realized the angle was off.  I needed to move.  The path was too narrow, its range of view too constricting. So I carefully stepped off into the dense (thorny) vegetation.  I moved the camera slowly… and took the shot of my smiling wife.  That’s when I learned a lesson from the teddy bear cholla cactus.

Named for its fuzzy appearance, the teddy bear—or “jumping cholla”—looks like a soft teddy bear, complete with cute little arms.   But take it from me, this is no plush toy.  The thing is covered with slivery spines (not thorns).  Get just close enough and those spines seem to jump off and embed themselves in your skin.

The pain in my leg was intense.  But worse yet was the discovery that each spine had a barbed tip.  So ripping them out was an extra delight.  Having cleared my leg of the evil teddy bear’s spines, I sensed a mild case of the chills.  All this…because I stepped off the path.  

Yet how often have you and I done the same thing, spiritually?  A temptation comes along and it looks as harmless as a teddy bear.  It charmingly bids us take just a step or two off the path of our commitment to Christ—and enjoy a better deal.

Then comes the sting…the barbed tip…the reality that we have sinned—and sinned foolishly.  Proverbs 12:28 assures us, “In the way of righteousness there is life; along that path is immortality.”

I’m learning—sometimes the hard way—it really is best to stay on the path.

Six degrees Fahrenheit.   Walk a mile and a half in that kind of weather and you discover an alternate meaning to the expression, “chill out.”   Though our day began in the windy city of Chicago, it ended in the warmth of Arizona.

Our friends, Charlie and Kathy, were kind enough to host our visit and drive us down to Tucson's Saguaro National Park.  What a contrast to the snow and ice we'd left behind.   Midwesterner that I am, it took a while for me to process that we were driving through an honest-to-goodness desert.   Red rock formations, gray dust and the stereotypical roadside tumbleweed or cactus painted an iconic portrait of southwestern desert life.

All of this I had expected.  But here's what I didn't expect: beauty.   Winding along the Valley View trail (with a wary eye for any of the six species of rattle snakes that slither through the park), we were treated now and then to the most gorgeous flowers.  Atop a random cactus sat a ring of yellow blooms, an unlikely crown for the prickly guard lining the side of the trail.

Deprived of regular rain or shade, these plants dared to bloom in a climate hostile to growth or beauty.   I am learning there are some flowers that can only be grown in the desert.

Perhaps you are trekking through a desert of your own at this very moment.  An emotional desert.  Maybe a spiritual desert.  The truth is, we're all either in the middle of a desert, or soon will be.  Two words of encouragement:

First, we do not walk alone.  I love the reminder of Hebrews 13:5: “For He Himself has said, 'Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.'” 

Second, it might not feel like it right now, but it's possible—entirely possible—spectacular beauty will soon crown your life.  I don't know how.  I don't know in what form.  I can only tell you that I've seen it before.

So stick to the trail.

Keep on walking.

And dare to bloom.