Author: Jon Gauger

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.

It was cancer, they said.

Didn't have long to live, they said.

So we began praying for George (not his real name) from my wife's side of the family.   George, age 59, had lived his entire life apart from God.  Some drinks.  Some divorces.  He was irreligious, irreverent and fully cognizant he was in his last weeks of life.

A family member suggested my wife send him a Christmas card.  So she found one that presented the essence of the salvation message, and included our little family newsletter, which also pointed to Christ.

At night—every night—Diana and I prayed urgently for George, that he would have his eyes opened, spiritually, and that he would receive Christ in his last days. It would be a lie to say that I had great faith.  Some faith, sure, but not the kind of faith I should have.

When the call came that George had died, along with it came details for the funeral. A two hour drive into rural Illinois brought us to the funeral home, where a minister made the claim that George was in heaven (“Liberal pastor for sure!” I grumbled to myself, oddly comfortable with my cynicism).

Yet the pastor went on to relate how he had visited George in his home, clearly explained the gospel message, and that both George AND his wife boldly stated their desire to receive Christ.  They prayed together!

Here was a man dangled close enough over Hell, his feet could have smelled of brimstone.  And yet….and yet….God snatched him away. His mercy and goodness and kindness and gentle call pursued this man to the literal midnight hour.

I am dumbfounded.

Forgive my lack of faith, Lord.

Me–who claims to believe–forgive my unbelief.

 

Amazing grace.

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like George…

                                                    …And me.

If dogs make you nervous, make no plans to visit the country of Romania.  For whatever reason, the nation is loaded with dogs—stray dogs.  When you go for a walk, or get out of a car, or head to the store, you cannot escape them—scruffy, matted, but usually harmless.

In the capital city of Bucharest alone, there are an estimated 65,000 wild dogs—enough to fill Ford Field in Detroit or the Alamo dome in San Antonio (imagine the sound of their collective barking).

In Romania, 9,760 people were reportedly bitten by the stray dogs last year.  Nationally, experts believe there are some 500,000 stray dogs in Romania.  One stray dog for every 40 people.

If the same dog-to-human ratio were replicated in the U.S., we would have nearly nine million stray dogs trotting around the country.  A population larger than Chicago, Boston, Denver, San Francisco, and Nashville—combined.

The question, of course, is why so many stray dogs?  Our friend, Laura, from Ploesti, told us the most likely explanation is that when Dictator Nicolai Ceausescu bulldozed tens of thousands of homes with nice grassy yards and forced the people to live in tiny apartment buildings, they no longer had room for their dogs.  Rather than destroy these pets, the animals were simply abandoned. Those dogs, of course, multiplied and now we have Rovers roaming Romania in huge numbers.

Dogs are not without mention in Scripture.  They are at times shown as voracious consumers–Ahab's wife, Jezebel, was literally eaten by dogs.   At other times, as in the story of poor Lazarus, they offer comfort—licking our wounds.

In Matthew 7:6 Jesus said, “Do not give what is holy to dogs.”  So while we cannot solve the problem of dogs in Romania, the greater concern for Christ followers is that we develop a spiritual sensitivity that prevents us from offering holy things to people who are as spiritually senseless… as a wild dog.

Call me obsessive compulsive, but I like to celebrate the new.

I remember the distinct smell of new pencils in first grade.  Or the smell of new erasers (“Pink Pearl” was the brand to buy).

Over the years, I've always loved the sheen on a new book cover—and have gone to great lengths to preserve my books.  I want the covers to look new.  Forever.

A particular peeve of my mine is when I loan someone a magazine or book and they bend back the cover on itself.   Or bend page corners as a book mark.

We once bought a new storm door that was installed with its protective plastic shrink wrap.    It looked so nice and the plastic actually seemed to be keeping the door clean, so we (I) decided to leave it on.  A month passed.  A year.  Then another.

When the plastic had grown gray collecting dust and dirt, I was asked (by a very patient wife) to please remove it.  But season after season of heat and humidity had made a glue (or more accurately, goo) out of the thing.   It took hours of scraping with a heat gun to finally clean it all off.

I look at a new life—our granddaughter, Lucy's, for example—and I ponder the fact that apart from typical one-year-old tantrums, her soul is essentially “clean and shiny.”  New, if you will.

But then there are the rest of us.  With some miles on us.  Some dirt on us.  Some I'm-not-new-anymore all over us.  We're covered in gray guilt we cannot scrape off.  Inside, we long for a clean slate. A new slate, even.

Did you know it's yours for the asking?

The Bible says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.  The old has passed away.  Behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Here we are at the start of a new year.  Why not get that new life Jesus offers for yourself?  If you've got questions, talk to a friend now at 888-NEED-HIM.  And if you've already received Christ, let's celebrate that through His forgiveness we are made new.  Every day.

Have you ever given a toy that made you laugh?

One week before Christmas, Diana and I launched out into our day-long shopping extravaganza.  We’ve got a lot of “little people” on our list to buy for, so we headed straight for the toy section, where we were captured by the sound of two babies giggling.

My sweet Love—Baby Kisses sat on the shelf blowing kisses and giggling, apparently activated by light or motion.  My sweet Love—Giggling Baby offered her own lovely laughter.

Unable to resist, we plopped one of each into the cart, rolling off in pursuit of the rest of the gifts on our list. But every time we placed something else in the cart, we heard laughter.

In one aisle, we passed a young mom with two kids.  They all heard the giggling—and it brought them a smile.  Rolling down the check-out belt, the dolls giggled—as did our cashier.

By now I referred to the toys as “girls” and actually spoke to them (they giggled back to us as we rolled the cart across the parking lot). Laughed the entire ride home with every bump or turn.

Back home, I was sad to have to finally cover them in wrapping paper. But even after wrapping the girls—I mean dolls—they giggled.  You could actually see the colored paper bulging out the sides as the one attempted to blow kisses.

You know, I’m sure there were times when baby Jesus giggled…which made Mary giggle…which made Joseph giggle. And I wonder—I wonder—if God the Father giggled.  I have no verse or chapter to quote on any of this, mind you. 

Yet I do know this much: The angel declared, “good tidings of great joy which shall be for all people.”   Seems to me joy—and laughter—are never too far apart.

We live in dark times, to be sure.

We do not lack for objects of angst.

But should any of that—or the sum total of that—drown out the joy?  I say, no!

In fact, I think I hear…laughter!

More than half.

That's how much of my monthly paycheck our mortgage cost when Diana and I were first married.  The little two-bedroom ranch was all we could afford and there simply wasn't much left over for things like winter coats.  

As I recall, the early winter was unusually harsh, even by Chicago standards, and I needed a new coat.  What I was wearing was embarrassing to look at it, and insufficient for the three miles a day I walked in the Windy City.   Second hand stores weren't as available then, so we trudged through the mall.

I can still see its crisp outline on the rack —woolen gray and with a black collar.  The coat fit me beautifully.  The price did not.  So we put $10 down in layaway, hoping for a miracle—or at least some extra cash.

The cash never came and Christmas was looming.  I'd scraped a few dollars together for some gifts, but needed more money to buy Diana her present.   The only charge card I owned at the time was for Sears (not accepted at the coat store).

There was only one thing left to do.  Giving up on the coat was tough.  But the $10 redeemed back from layaway came in handy (remember, this was 30 years ago).

Christmas came and Diana and I had a special time, just being together.  After we exchanged gifts, Diana quietly announced there was one more.  I was told to open the living room closet.

You've guessed the story's ending.  But I promise you, you could never guess how profound a moment that was—and is—thirty years later.  Shocking kindness. Extravagant selflessness.

Three decades later, that gray coat is now worn and old.

But as it will always a have place in my heart, it will always have a place in our home.

I'll show it to you, next time you visit.

And Diana, for your many many lavish gifts of love—at Christmas and throughout the years—I say thank you and thank you again.  I love you!

Tough choices. 
Life is full of them.
 
I faced one at the airport in Timisoara, Romania.  We'd finished a major “Global Partners Training” event with about 150 Christian media professionals.  Flying on to Bucharest to visit friends, I now toted a (massive) bright red suitcase that was entirely empty–but not quite big enough to nest my second suitcase.
 
On the trip over, it was loaded with supplies for the conference, all properly distributed.  But now, the airline wanted $75 to transport it to Bucharest.  It would cost another $75 to haul the hollow box home to Chicago.   Given that I'd discovered “Bid Red” in the trash and that it's telescoping handle was no longer in the mood to telescope, it seemed like a no-brainer that I just abandon Big Red.
 
Still, I struggled.  My heart finally yielded to my head and I let the airline counter know that I would be leaving the thing there (no need to bring out the bomb squad!). 
 
Before condemning Big Red to a corner at the airline terminal, I removed every personal tag and double checked its many zippered pockets (something I apparently had never done since I picked the thing out of the garbage).  To my shock, I discovered things I had no idea were inside: the cover of a bike manual, a large folded poster of some Italian soccer team, and (forgive me, sensitive readers) a woman’s undergarment. 
 
Consider that I'd been toting Big Red all over Romania.  The same suitcase had made a trip to Ghana, West Africa a few months earlier.  Who knew I was carrying around all this unwanted stuff?  (Guess I….ur….should be more careful about luggage sitting out on the curb, eh?). 
 
May I ask you a question?  Is it possible you are carrying around stuff you had no idea was actually weighing you down? Stuff that shouldn’t belong to you as a follower of Jesus.   Stuff you've lugged around for a long time, maybe?
 
Jesus asked, “What should it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?”
 
Maybe it's time to get rid of the baggage.
 

To travel internationally is to make mistakes.

Mine are made in every category imaginable: mistakes in language, social etiquette, public decorum—you name it.  I'm sure I've managed to embarrass myself a dozen different ways as I've traveled recently through Turkey, Romania and Ghana.

Navigating airport terminals, I'm intrigued with the incredible difference that a tiny word change can make in the finesse of language and communication.  

For example, flying Turkish airlines to Istanbul, we repeatedly heard cabin announcements as follows: “Ladies and gentlemen and dear kids….”  I loved the “dear kids” reference.  Charming.  Yet it made me think—do we really see our children as “dear”?   Or are they often simply a drain on us?

Flying out of the Bucharest airport, I heard the following message over the P.A. System:  “Passengers are urgently invited to board flight number….”  At first, the announcement struck me as quaint, even cute.  In the U.S, we don't “urgently invite” anyone to do anything.  We would urgently request but not “urgently invite.”

The slight difference is telling.

Peering out the window of Germany's Frankfurt airport, I noodled on all of this. Consider the language of Revelation 3:20—an “announcement” of sorts from Jesus Himself.  “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.”

Notice that Jesus makes no demands—here, or anywhere—in Scripture.  He extends the indescribably urgent offer of eternal life—but simply “knocks” at the door. Elsewhere He says “Whoever is thirsty, let him come.”  But again, no demands.

You might say, Jesus “urgently invites.”  But He never demands.  The choice is always ours.

What kind of choices are YOU making about Jesus?