Author: Jon Gauger

His king was vanquished, his country conquered, and Daniel's future seemed dim.  Captured and then carted off to a strange land, he had no idea what lay before him.  What could he have been thinking as passed through the gates of Nebuchadnezzar's palace, its walls adorned with artwork in relief?

Large segments of those very walls are on display today at the Istanbul museum in Turkey. Recently I gawked at several sections of them featuring beautifully preserved images of lions and dragons.   Gorgeously carved and colorfully painted, these panels are about four foot by six foot— and stunning. It's hard to believe these pieces date back 2,600 years. 

Staring at these treasures, I tried to process that these are the very same images—the very same walls with the very same lions–that Daniel would have seen once pressed into palace duty.  Perhaps his hand reached out to trace one of those same lion's paws that caught my attention.

Remember that as Daniel took in the exotic palace imagery, he did so without benefit from any previous perspective such as Discovery Channel, books, Blue Ray or even a county zoo.

I continued to stare at the walls Daniel stared at.  What thoughts raced through his mind as he pondered the lion with the blue background I was photographing?  It must have been jolting—terrifying: lions everywhere!

But most of all, I wonder if Daniel connected the painted palace creatures with the real lions in the pit into which Nebuchadnezzar eventually placed him.  Did he tremble at the smell of these beasts?  Quiver at the feel of their hot breath on his skin?

Someday, I shall ask Daniel myself.

Meanwhile, Daniel has a question for me—and you: Is the power of the living God a thing that we merely archive between the leather covers of our Bibles—a sort of museum for heroes long past?  Or is it a force that moves us and motivates us on a daily basis?

Staring into the eyes of the painted lions is haunting.  But what will it be like to one day lock eyes with the Lion of Judah?

There's something about a room—any room—whose name begins with the word, “Treasure.”  In a visit to Istanbul’s Topkap Palace Museum, I was obliged to spend time in the Treasure room of the Sultans.

Personally, I'm not much for jewelry, especially the gaudy kind.  And Sultans—like so many rich folks in history—had a penchant for serious bling.  Yet I was stopped in my tracks at the window showcasing the Kasicki Diamond.  At 86 carats, this diamond is considered to be one of the largest in the world.  Set in silver, it is surrounded by a double row of 49 cut diamonds.

The sight of the pear-shaped gem grabbed my attention, but the story behind it kept me lingering.  According to “reliable” accounts, a poor fisherman walking the shores of Istanbul looked down and saw something shimmering in the sun.  Stooping down for a closer look, he scooped up the shiny thing which appeared to him as a piece of glass (either this man was more ignorant of jewelry than even me, or there must have been a boat load of sea weed wrapped around the thing!).

Any way, he took it to a jeweler who feigned disinterest insisting it was merely a piece of common glass. Yet—out of the “goodness of his heart” the jeweler offered the ignorant fisherman three spoons in exchange for his find. Eventually a vizier, doing business on behalf of the sultan, purchased the diamond and it made its way to the palace.

The story you may find unlikely.  But what is certain is that you and I may be engaging in the same kind of foolish trades every day.

We trade the diamond of God's indwelling power for three spoons of our own puny effort.

We trade the diamond of Christ's rest for three spoons of anxiety.

We trade the diamond of the Spirit's guidance for three spoons of self-centeredness.

2Co 4:7  But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.

Today there will come your way—and mine—a thousand opportunities to trade away the treasure God has already given us.  But spoons are a poor trade.  For ignorant fishermen—or those bound for streets of gold.

It was an odd sensation. The cool breeze tumbling through the open window, carrying along on its invisible current a sound.  Vague at first.  Indistinct.   Then it stirred me out of my last attempts at sleep.

Even in the stupor born of time zones and travel, I quickly assessed the noise–an Arabic chant sounding from a distant speaker calling ancient Istanbul to piety for Allah.  The morning Muslim call to prayer.

But the more I listened, the more difficult it became to discern the imam's voice.  There were echoes everywhere, it seemed.  That “solo” was now a chorus.  Or perhaps, more accurately, a wall of sound.  Different voices from different mosques all over the city were chanting back and forth (in Istanbul there is a mosque on virtually every city block).  This wall of sound, this “gentle roar” was like nothing I'd ever heard before.

It continued on for perhaps 10 or 15 minutes before finally dying away again.  Assaulted by a sudden silence, the question popped into my brain, “Why don't followers of Jesus pray so boldly?  Where is our “gentle roar?”  Why shouldn't the world hear us calling on Almighty God?  Shouldn't the whole world sense our communion with our Heavenly Father in prayer?

In the book of Acts, we read that after the disciples met and prayed, 'the place was shaken where they were assembled together” (Acts 4:31).   Silent prayers–personal prayers–surely have their place.  Even the Holy Spirit prays for us “with groanings which cannot be uttered” (Romans 8:26).

Still, I wonder. What if followers of Christ were really and truly dedicated to prayer?   What if we stopped what we were doing five or six or ten times a day and prayed, not ritualistic prayers, but true heart language?    What if our prayer meetings were filled to overflowing? And what if on Sunday mornings, outsiders attending our services described their experience as “being in a house of prayer?

Indeed, what if when the whole world attempted to define Christianity it would be impossible to separate our faith…from the gentle roar of our combined prayers?

Businesses are funny. They all speak their own dialect—a sort of modified English.  Have you noticed?   In the rail business, that thing a locomotive pulls down the tracks–it's not a train.  Instead, they call it a “consist.”  Funeral directors don't refer to dead bodies.  They refer to them as “cases.”  But the food industry has an expression that has always impressed me as being downright odd.

Look at the label on a package of gum and it will likely say, “Please dispose of ‘after use.'”

“After use?”  Who actually “uses” gum?  We chew it.

Imagine being with a group of friends and you whip out a pack of Dentyne and say, “Hey, anyone here care to USE a stick of gum?”

Now…look at a box of macaroni or a cake mix.  Or a can of tuna.  Chances are there's a label or a stamp somewhere that says, “Use by….”  But…who “uses” food?   Who runs around saying, “Boy, I'm so hungry I think I'll sit down and USE a big plate of macaroni?”   We don't USE macaroni….we eat it!

I'm also intrigued by the other thing you see on food labels, “Best if used by…..”….and then there's a date.  Rather ambiguous, don't you think?  What I want to know is, just HOW bad is it after that date?  Is it merely “not quite as good” or will one bite likely put you in the emergency room?

All kidding aside, this “use by” expression brings two sobering questions to mind:

First…what IS my personal “use by” date?  Or put  more bluntly, what's my expiration date?  (Only God knows). But be assured, He has one. For me—for you—for all of us.

The second question: Can I be used?  Just how useful am I to the Savior?  Am I stale and out of date?  Or am I fresh from having spent time with Jesus and His Word?

How useful are we to the Savior?

Loyalty programs–seems like everybody's got one.  From airlines, to restaurants… supermarkets to car rental places.  Businesses everywhere want more of your business.  That's why they offer these so-called “loyalty programs.”  You know—it's the plastic card that gets you a 15% discount at your next hotel stay…or the grocery store that offers special pricing—if—you use your reward card.   Or maybe you're into collecting miles with your favorite airline's frequent flier club. 

A recent study from FanXchange and COLLOQUY shows that 54% of Americans are unhappy with loyalty program rewards.   Part of the dissatisfaction is that customers find the rewards themselves unappealing!  Another problem is the redemption process, with 43% frustrated over expired points.  39% claim it is too difficult to get enough points and 37% are ticked off that the rewards promised are somehow not available.

I wonder if Christ followers today feel the same way about the rewards that God has offered us.  So many of us express so little interest in eternal rewards. We're into life here…rather than there.  And why is that?

Do we feel it's simply too difficult to earn the eternal rewards that Christ has promised?  Or is the problem much worse—that we are simply not interested in the rewards He offers?

It's time we got our loyalty figured out.

Time we started living for rewards that will never fade away.

Hear the words of Jesus in Revelation 22:12:

          “Look I am coming soon!  My reward is with me and I will

           give to each person according to what they have done.”

Me?  I'm pondering those eternal rewards—and my “want” to want them more.  What about you?

The candy bar industry is on a roll lately.  And I'm not sure I like it.  The trend for the last few years is to offer much smaller versions of full-sized candy bars.  As if that isn't bad enough (hey, if I want a Snickers bar, I'm expecting a Snickers bar, not some shrunken alternative), they're trying to make our getting something less…sound like something better.  In a marketing hubris that only ad executives could speak with a straight face, these less-than-satisfying candy bars are said to be “fun-sized.”

Now, I get that folks watching their weight might welcome such a move.  And surely there's a place for smaller candy bars. My complaint is that something that is less than the real deal is boldly touted as “fun sized.”    But what does that make my full-sized Three Musketeers Bar– “Boring-sized”?

I wonder if some of us aren't borrowing a concept from the candy industry in the way we live out our Christian faith. Example: personal Bible study.

Our devotional books are getting smaller and smaller. Have you noticed? Just one or two verses a day, perhaps.   And very little application to ponder along with the reading.

Is it possible that our growing satisfaction with “fun sized” devotionals—smaller readings—is largely to blame for our living so much of life disconnected from truly biblical teachings?

Hear me clearly.  I'm not throwing rocks at every devotional book out there.  There's a place for quick reads.  But if that's all we're doing—fun-sized Bible devotions—we're cheating ourselves.

What about our time spent in prayer?  Is that fun-sized, too?

The Bible strongly urges us, “Pray without ceasing.”   You wouldn't know that by showing up at a typical church prayer meeting.  Or by doing an honest spiritual inventory of most Christians.  So where do we get off feeling satisfied with “fun-sized” sentence prayers?  Again, there's a place for those—but if that's all we're praying, that's a problem.

Jesus said, “Without me you can do nothing.”   Given our high level of busyness, we're apparently doing a whole lot of something that amounts to nothing.

Let's stop cheating ourselves when it comes to personal Bible study and prayer. Let's go FULL sized…not fun-sized.

How old do you have to be before you're too old to encourage someone else?

I think I found the answer–in the "Bird Room."

That's what we call the meeting room at the nursing home where my mother-in-law lives. A large wood and Plexiglas display houses a dozen or so colorful little birds, fluttering from nest to branch and back again. So the "Bird Room" is an obvious choice for relaxing and visiting loved ones.

While we were there last time, a smiley chap named Bob reintroduced himself to my mother in law, who seemed to recall him. Bob had come on a mission: to strum on his guitar and accompany a singer who would entertain the residents.

The singer: Bob's 95 year old father.

Pops walked into the room sporting a full sized Stetson hat, a black leather jacket, cowboy boots and blue jeans. We shook hands and he sat down. I watched him fiddle with something in his pocket, finally producing a plastic lemon juice container. He popped off the lid and downed a shot of the juice explaining it got his voice ready to sing. “I'm almost one third of the way to 96," he told me.

We followed Pops and his son into the dining area where wheelchairs were being rolled in. And with that, the strummin' and singin' began. A smile on his face, Pops sang a country ballad, undistracted by the all the distractions in the room. The old man could sing, no doubt, yet his softer voice was at times lost to the ambience of the place.

A large flat panel TV played highlights from college football games, nursing assistants chatted, while against the wall, a shriveled woman, her mind lost in childhood, mumbled the same names over and over again.

To the huddled few who actually heard the old man's music it was a simple gift of encouragement from a 95 year old whose life appeared to be a testimony to the words of Jesus, “It is more blessed to give than receive.”

How old do you have to be before you're too old to encourage someone else?

Answer: at least 96.

Anxiety swirled like the impurities in a glass of pond water.

I was feeling uneasy…a bit cranky—and I didn't quite know why.

Call it a case of the Monday Morning Blues.   Or was it?

 

Pacing myself along the mile-and-a-half walk to work, I attempted to take some sort of emotional inventory and became the the subject of my own interrogation:

Why are you so uptight, Jon?

            Not sure.

Did you have a bad night's sleep?

            No.  Slept reasonably well, actually.

Are you gainfully employed?

            Gratefully, yes.

And would you describe the work you do as meaningful, or merely busy work?

            Definitely meaningful.  I love that about my job.

Nervous about paying some bills?

            Not really. None in particular.

Did you eat three meals yesterday?

            Yep.  Never had to worry about a single one of them, either.  Unlike some places I've traveled. 

And are you married to someone who loves you?

            Yep.  I'm blessed, in fact.

What about your health?  Perhaps there are issues there?

            Actually, none! 

And you have some spare change on your dresser, is that fair to say?

            Yes.

You realize, of course, that little fact alone puts you among the richest in the history of civilization, right?

            So I've heard.  Read it somewhere.

Isn't it true you've been forgiven of your sins?  All of them?

            Yes.  Absolutely true.

Isn't it also true when this little blip on the time line we call “life” is over, you'll spend eternity in heaven?

            Yes.  All eternity.  

Isn't it true that “He has said never will I leave you, never will I forsake you”?

            Yes. It's true.  Every word of it.

So let me get this straight.  You have a loving family, a good job, good health, money to pay the bills, you don't worry about food—ever—you're richer than most folks in the history of the planet…you've been forgiven all your sins, granted eternal life…but you're still upset?

            Umm….Not really.  Not anymore.

I didn't think so.

To me, they represent the most exotic, most luxurious travel experience in the history of flight.  The Boeing Clipper ships.  Built from 1934-1941, these were essentially flying boats with no capacity to land on the ground at all.  Hence the name, “Clipper ships.”

The largest of these planes, the Boeing 314, had room for 74 passengers—and could even provide sleeping accommodations for 36 of them.  And remember–this was before World War II.

A dining salon served meals on linen covered tables as passengers relaxed in comfortable chairs.  These planes featured washrooms, hot and cold water, air conditioning, and a lounge for playing cards or writing letters.  They also traveled with an anchor which was let out whenever they landed in a harbor to let passengers on or off.

Cruising at about 150 miles an hour, the Clipper Ships opened up the possibility of travel to Asia.  There were routes to Hawaii, Guam, Wake Island and the Philippines.   No big deal  today, but it was truly cutting edge back then.

Just as these marvelous machines showed their mastery of the skies, World War II broke out.  By the time the war was over, the era of the Clipper Ships was ended.  The advent of the jet engine made flying much faster.  Plus, passengers wanted to land on the ground, and not be confined to water.

So the Clippers were scrapped, sold or sunk.

Sad, in one way, but necessary in another.

The older we get, the more inclined we are to reminisce and wish for the good old days.  But I wonder if as Christians, we hang on too long to techniques, strategies and even ministries that were useful in the past, but are no longer truly effective.   Like an airplane carrying a boat anchor, some things just…no longer fit.

With respect to those who have navigated the skies long before us, maybe it’s time to lose the anchor.

 

P-s-s-s-t!  Come hear Jon Gauger speak this Sunday at West Suburban Community Church in Elmhurst.  Topic: When You're Out of the Comfort Zone.  Time: 10:00am.  Directions: westsub.net.

 

 

How likeable are you?

I'm serious.

If a group of honest folks were to assess your likeability on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best…how would you score?

My guess is most of us think we are more likeable than we really are.  We minimize our crankiness, our quirkiness….while maximizing the good.

This is an important question if we care about how non-believers perceive those who claim to follow Christ.

Wanna know why I think most Christians are less likeable than they think they are?  Check out these stories.

One time attending a national convention for a major Christian organization I spoke with a member of the hotel management staff.  He told me that this crowd (Christians) had more complaints, did more whining than any other group that rented the facility.

Ouch!  Not exactly likeable!

My brother was once a waiter at an Italian restaurant.  I know him well enough to know that he is a truly hard worker and knows how to work well with people.  He told me that the absolute worst tippers at the restaurant were Christians.  Invariably the folks making the biggest show about saying grace showed almost none of that grace to their server.  My brother told me that it was a widely known fact in the industry that Christians were/are the worst tippers.

Ouch!  Definitely not the stuff that defines likeable.

And there are so many other ways that we Christians come across as unlikeable.

Example: angry Christians—angry about all kinds of things.  That's a lot of us!   So we write angry letters to the editor and shout angry things at protest marches.  And while there's a place for righteous indignation…we can never forget that “God did not send his son into the world to CONDEMN the world, but that the world through Him might be saved.”

How are we imaging Christ to the world?

Let me ask you one more time—as I ask myself—just how likeable are you?