Author: Jon Gauger

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?

Like you, I’m trying to cram in the last bits of summer.  Out at our camper, I sat outside with my tablet.  Dusk was past, yet I was largely unaware of the light show going on around me: fireflies. At length, I took a break from my reading to (finally) observe the lightning bugs.

Consider these gentle light bearers whose lifespan is only about two months.  They have no batteries—at least not as you and I consider batteries. These bugs just light up. The glow of their light bursts is brief, but somehow comforting.  And despite our advances in technology, scientists are unable to explain just how the blinking yellow-green lights are turned on and off.

God could have designed these bugs so that they fly only in the tree tops—largely outside our comfortable range of vision.  Instead, He chose to give us an amazing nightly light show right at eye level—with no two evening performances ever the same.

Only after a long time of observation did it hit me that this remarkable scene I was enjoying was supported by a stunning soundtrack: a blend of crickets and cicadas performing a hypnotic symphony.

No charge for this show.  The price of admission: time and a capacity to be satisfied with childhood wonder.

And that's the sick irony.   Most of us take only a sip of such splendor, while we drink deeply of lesser things: our smartphones, TV’s and tablets. We are more inclined to Facebook or FaceTime then face the miracle of a nightly light show.

Psalms 19:1 “The Heavens declare the glory of God. The skies”– blinking with fireflies–”proclaim the Work of His hands.”

Seen any good light shows lately?

If you are charmed by the aroma of pine trees and find magic in the sway of long needle branches, the place for you is White Pines State Park. The timber lined drive is itself worth the trip.

But the real draw to this 385 acre Illinois park is the log cabin dining room.  Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, its massive timbers, dark with age, offer a gracious backdrop for lunch.

 

Having placed our food orders, my wife and I sat back in our chairs and took in the ambience.  That's when my eyes came to rest on the two-some at the corner table.  The woman was well into her sixties, maybe early seventies.  Her companion, though an adult, was considerably younger.

As he spoke, he gestured oddly–almost wildly–his hands bent at a severe angle, his legs thrashing now and again.   It was as if a computer glitch had disconnected a proper sense of motion from the man's brain.   (Cerebral palsy will do that, my wife quietly observed).

When the couple’s lunch arrived, the woman cut up his portion into tiny bites, speaking kindly to him.  As this guy turned his head, I saw him chewing—violently–face contorted.  Frankly, it was downright unappetizing.

I began asking myself who was this man?  What was his story?  And more importantly, who was this woman extending such patience and care?  His mother?  His aunt?

He mashed up food, grinding with a ferocious intensity—then sneezed.  She wiped his mouth graciously, continuing to speak softly while touching his wrist lovingly. It was tempting to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, but there was far too much noise in the log cabin to make out anything of their exchange.

Nevertheless, as I watched this beautiful ugly scene (for it was both), I heard another voice—an ancient one: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

They say the town is only one square mile–has less than a thousand residents.  But every year, half a million people come for a visit.

I'm talking about the phenomena known as Shipshewana, Indiana.  This tiny strip of land is home to one of the largest flea markets in the entire United States—and some of the best eating on the planet.

More remarkable than the food or the farms is the faith element.  A strong Mennonite and Amish presence is evident in the Bible verses that you see, the music streamed into restaurants and the Christian books and concerts available seemingly everywhere.

 

My wife and I took a buggy ride out to an Amish house for dinner.  Afterward, she asked the tour operator about crime in the area.  “Don't have much of that,” he chuckled, adding, “I haven't locked my doors in the 28 years we've been here.  Tried to once, but the lock was stuck, so I haven't bothered with it since.”

Indeed, the one squad car we saw patrolling the streets looked pathetic for lack of action.   My wife observed that in a mall, individual stores closed at different times with no gates or doors barring their merchandise.   The idea of stealing is, apparently, not part of the local culture.

Everything is clean.  Everything is safe.  Everything is comfortable.

It dawned on me that in large part, this must be the result of Christian people doing their best to run their businesses according to Christian principles, and live their lives in a truly Christian way.  And it seems to rub off on the general population.    Decency, honesty, uprightness, cleanliness—these are the byproducts.

My theory was bolstered some when we gassed up the car for the ride home just a few miles outside of town.  The place was void of the Christian atmosphere we'd previously experienced.   The property there was untidy and the people appeared seedy.  Of course, one can't over generalize.  Nevertheless, the connection seems apparent.

Isaiah 32:17 “And the effect of righteousness will be peace, and the result of righteousness, quietness and trust forever.”

What a difference the presence of Jesus makes!

Horses clip-clopping along the streets, black wagons in tow.   Women in bonnets and men in suspenders.    You don't need a time machine to see all this.  Just drive three hours east of Chicago to Shipshewana.

During vacation season, this northern Indiana town of less than a thousand swells with tourists hungry for a taste of the simple life—along with a heapin' helping of Amish cooking.  The Amish and Mennonite people have set the gold standard when it comes to country roast beef.  Their noodles, fresh breads, apple butter and fruit pies are also stand outs.  Not to be missed: the Rise and Roll Bakery, featuring what may well be the world's largest cinnamon sticky buns.

The strong Amish and Mennonite presence is evident everywhere–from bearded men sporting wide brimmed hats, to women riding bicycles laden with blueberries. But what struck my wife and me more than anything was the visible presence of God-fearing people unashamed to live for Him.

• Bible verses adorn mail boxes and driveways.
• Billboards announce the imminent return of Christ.
• Christian books, verses, and videos are for sale in hardware, clothing and furniture stores.
• Several theaters in town host a slate of concerts with well-known Christian artists.

As we sat there eating a tasty Mennonite dinner, peering out at horse-drawn buggies in the street, my wife Diana asked an insightful question: “How long can a place like this last?” I pondered her words as “Are you washed in the Blood?” played over the restaurant's speaker system.

With the rise of the angry atheist and freedom-of-speech squelching political correctness, one wonders if Shipshewana (as we know it today) is living on borrowed time.  In a nation where the fastest growing religious group is those with no beliefs of any kind, it would seem Shipshewana may be terminal.

Horses and buggies, of course, will always be welcome for the novelty they offer.   But all that Bible and Jesus talk–that might have to be nixed.

2 Timothy 3:1 “This know also, that in the last days, perilous times shall come.”

Better enjoy Shipshewana–while you still can.

Captain Edwin Musick was a man’s man, a true adventurer. He learned to fly just before World War I and became one of the first pilots in history to log more than 10,000 hours.

Known as “Meticulous Musick,” he demanded precision of himself and his crew—from the way they maintained the aircraft to the creases in their uniforms.

He was hired by Pam American as their chief pilot and went on to set ten world records, including the first flight to the Pacific aboard the China Clipper flying boat. In recognition of this stunning achievement—and many other aviation firsts—Time Magazine put his face on the cover of their December 2, 1935 edition.

The Time article said of Musick, “He refuses to show off or make wisecracks for newsmen. He has never been known to stunt in a plane, never makes a flight without the most meticulous preparations.”

On January 11, 1938, Captain Musick took off from Pago Pago (in American Samoa) pioneering a new route for PamAm to New Zealand. Shortly after takeoff in his S42 flying boat, he reported an oil leak in engine number 4, radioing his decision to dump fuel and return to Pago Pago.

But the dangers of dumping fuel in the S-42 were well known. The draining fuel tended to flow back over the wing, toward the dangerously hot engines.

Shortly after reporting their intention to dump fuel, the S-42 exploded.  The bodies of Captain Musick and his six crew members were never recovered.  Tiny pieces of the plane were all that remained.

When someone as careful and as experienced as Captain Musick makes a fatal error in judgment, it makes me pause.  It should make ALL of us pause and ask, “What kind of foolish error am I making in life?  In my faith?  What danger have I allowed into my spiritual journey?”

Pondering foolish choices—Captain Musick’s and mine—I’m drawn to Ephesians 5:15: “Be very careful, then, how you live–not as unwise but as wise.”

Deep inside, I covet having a perfect lawn.  No bald spots…no weeds. Just lush greenness.  But I just don't work hard enough on the weeds. My wife does most of the weeding at our place.

Recently, I observed an outbreak of weeds in our hostas.  Unable to resist a pun,  I called it a “hosta” situation.  In a rare moment, I took the bold step of a weed intervention.

Level one found me yanking two foot thistles out of the ground.   Thanks to the rain, most all those weeds were easily extracted–roots and all.

Level two meant going on hands and knees in the hostas, snatching handfuls of Creeping Charlie.  The tough vines had entwined themselves around a thousand helpless victims.  Here again, I was grateful for the wet ground, as I was able to yank them out by the roots. I felt like a modern day Moses, freeing my people from slavery to the Weed Pharaoh. 

By the time I was done, much of our driveway was totally covered in weeds.   (Who says it's not easy being green?)    Rinsing the dirt from my hands, I was unable to rinse a thought from my mind:

You and I bemoan how easily weeds grow up.  Whether literal weeds, or the weeds of bad habits, they require little to take root. Yet as I pondered the rainy season that made yanking those weeds out by their roots so much easier, it made me wonder.  Is it possible that God blesses us with seasons in our lives when it's actually easier to root out bad habits, what David called “willful sins” in Psalm 19:13?   Is it possible that there are certain seasons He intends for us to do extra violence to our stubborn habits, our inward wickedness?

I am not a theologian and cannot quote chapter and verse here.  Nor would I—as my friend Michael Easley cautions–“push this too far.”

I can only say that in a soul like mine—and perhaps like yours—it might well be time for a weed intervention.

How do you celebrate a two-year-olds’ birthday?

For our family—with a grandson who loves trains—that meant a meal at Two Toots Restaurant.   The big draw at this unusual eatery is a model train that runs throughout the place. On the tracks, a locomotive pulls eight flatbed cars, each fitted with a basket that actually hauls your meal right to your booth.

So there’s Caleb watching this train hauling burgers and fries. Every single time that train went around the track, he got excited.  Every single time they sounded the horn, he bounced in his seat. Every single time the train disappeared from view, he waved and said, “Bye Bye…Bye bye.”

It was fun watching Caleb have fun.  But gradually, the rest of us “more sophisticated” adults moved on to other interests and conversation.  Once the food arrived, we were more into munching our burgers and dipping our onion rings than whatever was going on with the train.

Not Caleb.  He remained fascinated the whole evening long.

Caleb’s intrigue set my mind traveling down a different track. Much like the red baskets delivering meals to our table, we are daily—even hourly—delivered huge carloads of gifts from our generous God: forgiveness, provision…grace.

The train loads of His gifts come with such frequency, piled high with such generosity…we are at risk of appearing bored with His blessings.

Is it possible you and I are guilty of this sin: bored with our blessings?  We often don’t even think of them.  But there’s a cure.  It’s called thankfulness.

Let’s say thanks….every single time.  Every single blessing.  Every single gift.

Just like Caleb greeted that train with a smile and wave….let’s choose to greet the daily, hourly, minute-by-minute kindness of our God… with a thank you.

Bored with our blessings?

I hope not.

Our heavenly Father loves to give us good gifts—by the train load.

Let’s thank Him for every gift.  Every time.

Listen carefully.  I think there’s another train coming around the bend!