Author: Jon Gauger

With Christmas now past, allow me to play Scrooge for a moment as I suggest that for many, December the 25^th might just be one of the most disappointing days of the year.
 
“Heresy!” you say.
“Blasphemous!” you cry.
                                                …But hear me out…
 
Like you, I love the time off from work at Christmas…the gathering together of family and friends.  Truth is, I actually enjoy wrapping Christmas presents.  And I absolutely love the MUSIC of Christmas.
So…please hear me loud and clear—that I personally love Christmas.
 
Yet I cannot escape the sense that for millions and millions of people, Christmas is—in the end—a huge disappointment.
 
Think of it.
For months and months, little kids  have been exposed to thousands of messages on TV that assure them, if they just have this or that cool toy….life will be completely awesome.
 
For months and months, somewhat older kids have been told, if they just own this hot phone…or nifty tablet…or cool clothing…life will be completely awesome.
 
For months and months, adults have been told, if they just give (or get) a new Audi with a huge red bow on the roof…life will be completely awesome.
 
Then comes Christmas day.  The packages are unwrapped, the paper is shredded and the hoopla reaches a wild fever pitch.
 
By afternoon, reality has settled in.  The toy helicopter isn't quite as great as advertised.
The new tablet is kinda cool….but the screen isn't quite as sharp as you'd hoped  And that new Audi is great but….somehow it didn't revolutionize life the way it was supposed to. 
 
Life is never completely awesome merely because we possess something—however totally cool and shiny that thing may be.
 
While I love to give—and receive gifts—there is only ONE gift that is completely awesome.
Only one gift that simply never disappoints.  Only one gift that never rusts or wears out.   That gift is Jesus.  God…in the flesh.  God…with us.  Immanuel!

Christmas—it’s under assault.  No question about it.  From manger scenes evictedfrom public property to schools refusing to use the word, “Christmas.”  But I’m not here to complain.  No, I’d like to pause…and celebrate.

I wish to celebrate the fact that even as Uncle Sam rushes with sickening speed toward a pluralistic—even pagan–persona, traditional Christmas carols are still heard…virtually everywhere.

It’s true, isn’t it?

We were at a public high school Christmas concert this weekend.  What did we hear?  Silent Night…The First Noel…Do you hear what I Hear?

We’re shopping at a major suburban Chicago mall, and I’m hearing, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come.  Let earth receive her king!”

At a restaurant, the strains of Hark the Herald Angels Sing plays boldly over the speakers.  Christmas—or make that—“Holiday” TV specials still sing overtly Christian Christmas carols.  References to Christ, Jesus…King…they’re everywhere—on national television.

More than 11 million people have now seen the Wordless Monks on YouTube performing the Hallelujah Chorus.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

Now, admittedly, for the vast majority of folks, the music is nothing more than wallpaper.  It’s as traditional as egg nogg and the abominable snowman.    Yet still, it ought to give us pause.

Pagan America.  America that long ago kicked God out of the schools and out of the courts and—increasingly—out of the public square…still has a soft spot for Christmas carols…if only out of habit.

With all that great theology in all those great carols playing to hundreds of millions of people…these lyrics have to get through to someone.  Somewhere.

No more let sin and sorrow grow
Nor thorns infest the ground
He comes to make
His blessings flow
Far as the curse is found

Joy to the World!

The Lord is come!

It's been quite a day at the office.  Okay.  So maybe Hyderabad, India isn't my usual work space.  But it was today.

One of our morning objectives was to visit a slum and capture some compelling images illustrating what life is like for a disturbing number of India's lowest caste, the Dalit’s.

Shooting pro grade video is tough enough under optimal circumstances, much more so walking through unimaginable filth, inhaling wretched smelling air.

Then you set up the tripod, unpack the audio gear (regretting the wires trailing lazily in the human muck) and realize you've left a critical filter back in the van.  Running to fetch the gear, you're suddenly aware of the many eyes peering out at you from under blue tarps and the shadows of crude huts.

There were concerns that our presence was unwelcome by some in the slum.  So we got right down to work.  Then it was time to shoot “B-roll”–the various “cutaway” shots that editors use to spice up a video.   This is the stuff I love to shoot best.

But the moment I started shooting, my “slum guide”–a fellow believer–introduced me to a little girl who was blind.  She couldn't have been more than 10 or 11.  Would I please stop and pray with her?  Of course, I did.  We barely got off another shot of some pigs roaming the slum when a woman came up and requested prayer for the cancer that she was battling.  We prayed.  We were guided into another hut where we prayed for still another.   It was touching…but troubling at the same time.  I had come to gather images…but was called upon to give prayers.

Later that afternoon, I had the rare opportunity to interview two women who were formal Hindu temple prostitutes.  When we were done…we prayed together.  Same with two Indian pastors we interviewed, both of whom have  been persecuted.

A lesson God seems to be teaching in all of this?  Perhaps just this: the extent we are willing to be “interrupted” to share another's pain–if only in a prayer—is the measure of a day well spent.

Come to think of it, it's been a good day at the office.  Praise God!

 

I saw a glimpse of heaven this week.  We're in India, looking at the power that a school run by Christians can have in impacting the problem of human trafficking.

In a nutshell, India's Dalit caste—the lowest of the low–represents the vast majority of sex slaves in India.  Because the Dalits are so poor, they are often unable to afford schooling for their young.  Lacking the social network (safety) a school experience provides, these girls, whose parents are out working, become easy prey for the traffickers.

Enter the Good Shepherd Schools—a growing network of English Medium Schools.

Operated by Christians, these affordable schools make possible an education for children who would otherwise not have access.  With an education, girls learn valuable business skills.  They are much less prone to be caught up in the ugly web of human trafficking.

So we were visiting one of these schools that Friends Church of Yorba Linda, California has helped sponsor.  Getting out of the van, we were met by a drum corps and small band.  Our team walked a corridor flanked by girls in festive dresses, showering us with orange and yellow flower petals.  There was applause, confetti—even fireworks–in this tribute of thanks recognizing what Friends Church has done.

The thought struck me almost immediately in the hot sun of a Bangalore morning.  This is a picture of heaven!  This is a small taste of what it will be like to join the crowd of witnesses we read about in Scripture.  The music, the pageantry the colors….surely this is a preview image of the heaven we will someday enjoy.

The only dark cloud in this otherwise sunny picture? The sobering question: Exactly how much am I investing my life now in causes that heaven will celebrate?

The Bible tells us, “What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived” the things God has prepared for those who love him—“

So…how much do I love Him?  How much do you love Him? How much of a celebration will be yours and mine in heaven?

They say the best actors don't act.  They are simply absorbed into the character they portray.  I had a taste of that during a recent tour of the Herod exhibit at Jerusalem's Israel Museum.
 
For years, I've had a fascination with Herod the Great.  Many know him only as the king in the Christmas story who executed Bethlehem's baby boys.  And make no mistake—Herod was ruthless, even vicious, toward any perceived threat.
 
But Herod the Great, for all his evil, was also a great architect, a great builder, a great visionary.   He loved color, beauty and luxury. 
 
All these qualities are in abundance at the Israel Museum's Herod exhibit.  As you wind through the maze of amazing displays, you see wall frescoes, elaborate window frames, intricate tile work.
 
On one wall, we marveled at the exquisite detail in a colorful painting depicting a naval battle.  At our feet, the black and white checkerboard pattern of a tile floor in mint condition.  There were artistically shaped clay jars still labeled with their exotic contents.   We are now fully absorbed—almost lost–in Herod's lavish lifestyle. 
 
Finally, there's the dark rotunda containing the stone sarcophagus of Herod the Great.   It's made of a reddish limestone that shines like marble (I actually touched the engraved floral pattern).
 
But peering at the box that held Herod's body, I was immediately blasted with a recollection of Hebrews 9:27: “It is appointed unto men once to die and after this the judgment.”
 
In life, he was Herod the Great.  But as for eternity, barring a death bed conversion, he will be Herod-The-Late.  Too late to receive the gift of God which is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.  The question is—what about YOU?
 
All the wealth and wonder of this world will be of no consequence when we stand at last before God Almighty. All that will matter is our relationship with the Jesus Herod tried to kill as an infant. Do you know that Jesus as your Savior?

If holidays had families, Thanksgiving would be the unwanted stepchild.  Thanksgiving lacks the Hallmark beauty of Christmas and the Dick Clark fun of New Year's.  With stern-faced buckle shoed pilgrims as the holiday's heroes, nobody decorates their home with Mayflower lights.  Nor do we take part in Puritan parties.  Thanksgiving doesn't lend itself to much of that, so we don't lend much of ourselves to it.   Thanksgiving really is the overlooked stepchild.

Consider the way Thanksgiving is treated at national retail stores: hardly at all. Outnumbered by mountains of Halloween candy and masks, Thanksgiving is lucky to get a small display of any kind.  And because this stepchild holiday has the misfortune of falling so close to Christmas, it must be picked up, packed up and swept up…to leave room for Christmas.

But the real problem with Thanksgiving isn't the way it's treated in our stores.  It's how it’s treated in ourselves.   Gratitude—the core message of Thanksgiving–is neither fun nor easy for most of us.

• Gratitude demands intentionality.
• Gratitude demands humility.
• Gratitude runs against the grain of our prideful self-sufficient selves.

Who likes a holiday that requires effort?

What fun is there in self-discipline and intentionality?

How can we get “unbooked” from the annual guilt trip we face, knowing we’re honestly not that thankful—at Thanksgiving or ANY time of year?

But I think we're asking the wrong questions.

What we SHOULD be asking is “What is it that really made the pilgrims tick?”  “Where could WE get a supply of their indomitable courage—the stuff that lead them to leave everything behind to follow Christ?”

Experienced in that light, Thanksgiving—the unwanted holiday stepchild—might just be one of the grandest of them all.

A  tuna sandwich and a Coke.  Such an ordinary lunch after such an extraordinary morning.  As I sit at a cafe overlooking Jerusalem, I am pondering an earlier walk down what is known to millions as the Via Dolorosa.  “The way of suffering” is the route Jesus walked through Jerusalem carrying his cross.

The thing of it is, the Via Dolorosa today is the way of shopping and dickering and shouting.  The most common form of suffering is sore feet and aching backs.  It's tough to imagine the real Jesus dragging a real cross up and down the hilly path these people call a street.

Ultimately that path leads to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.  If you've yet to visit, the church is a darksome foreboding structure, its cavernous blackness as eager to swallow all light as it is all hope.  Despair perfumes the air as your eyes adjust to the shadows.

Up a steep winding staircase, a barely controlled mob is cued up to pray or genuflect or ponder at the “exact spot” (so they say) where Christ's cross was hoisted.

As I walked through the church's massive doors back out into the sunlight, I encountered a woman who was weeping.  Tears dribbled down her cheeks as the weight of her experience squeezed hard on her emotions.

And suddenly, I was ashamed.  How could I—a follower of Jesus Christ—walk through this church and be so little moved?  When—if ever—have I truly wept over the agony Christ took upon Himself for me?

Of course, no one should be guilted into feeling an emotion.  But perhaps my lack of tears   is evidence I have thought too little of Him for whom no thanks is too much.

For Moody Radio, those are my thoughts, and I'm Jon Gauger.

 

 

Behold: the banana! High in potassium, bananas are great for preserving your eyesight and accelerating bone growth—not to mention warding off kidney cancer.

I like bananas…but this humble fruit has always amazed me. If you put any other food item remotely close to a banana… it ends up tasting like…banana!

Put a banana in your lunch box next to a ham sandwich…and the ham tastes like banana. So do your potato chips—and your Oreo cookies.

Recently, my wife put a left over slice of cinnamon coffee cake next to some bananas for just a few hours. Guess what it tasted like. You got it—banana coffee cake. Mind you, by the time I ate the coffee cake, it had been two days since it had been anywhere near a banana! Yet the effects of that banana contact were still evident in the fragrance and taste of the coffee cake.

Clearly there is some sort of chemical reaction going on here with incredibly powerful results—in favor of the banana. 1:00

Could I suggest the banana is a great model for the effect that Christians ought to have on non-believers. II Corinthians 2:15 “For we are a fragrance of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.” 1:15

When someone spends just a few hours with us, they ought to leave having the aroma of Christ all over them…just from being with us!

Now think of what this means for our unsaved friends. Just by being with us—we who know and love Christ—leave something of a spiritual fragrance on their souls.

There are two cautions here in this wonderful scenario.
Number one—the fragrance that people are left with better be the fragrance of Christ…other than stink of self.

Number two…even if we are living a godly life, unless we get up close to…involved with people who don’t know Jesus, how can His fragrance wear off on them?

Let’s be involved with friends, family and coworkers who don’t know Christ.

And let’s start living with the expectance that His fragrance really will rub off on them!

So I had a conversation today with a new friend from East Africa.  Happened to be Somalian.  As is my habit, I immediately asked him (nicely, mind you) if he was a follower of Mohammed.  When he answered yes, I smiled back saying (boldly, mind you) “Well I am a follower of Jesus.”

Very predictably, the conversation turned quickly to the person of Jesus.  He affirmed what every other Muslim I've talked to about Christ affirms—that he was a notable prophet. My friend went to great lengths to be polite—but even greater lengths to assure me that Islam and Christianity BOTH share a respect for Jesus.

Because our time was short—and Muslims have no problem being up front about their faith—I quickly assured my new friend that Jesus was MORE than a prophet.  I quoted Christ's own words, “I and my Father are one.”  And… “He who has seen me has seen the Father.”

Naturally, there was no agreement with my biblical claims.  But the conversation reminded me again how quickly we come to the “sticking point” for so many conversations related to faith.  People from most any stripe of belief are happy to talk about “God.”  They are more than comfortable discussing “beliefs.”  They are not the least bit threatened should you claim to be a “person of faith.”   Even talking about Jesus is acceptable—as far as it goes.

Yet take one teeny weeny step toward declaring that Jesus is God and BOOM!  Your ideological match has just ignited the kerosene of another's convictions.   Jesus is always the issue.
 

While I believe strongly we need to build bridges in friendly conversation with Muslims—and other friends, I have zero appetite for conversations that subject Jesus to a role any less than Almighty God.     

Please understand, I'm not advocating belligerence or harshness.   But there's a line in the sand over which we must be ever be vigilant.  And when someone—anyone–suggests that Jesus is less than God, it's time to lovingly and respectfully—but unapologetically–state the truth:   Jesus….is….God.

Have you ever had a natural gas leak in your home or office?

Gas leaks can be deadly, you know.  They are invisible, they are poisonous, and left untreated, they can kill with deadly force.

It's the same with church cliques. They are invisible, they are poisonous, and left untreated, they can kill with deadly force. The problem is, lots of people claim they can identify a clique at their church…but almost NOBODY would ever admit to being a part of one.

So let me offer this three-part exam to help you assess yourself.

Number 1: If you have ever secretly regretted someone else being a part of a church project or ministry that you're working on, you might be part of a clique.

Number 2: If you honestly (but quietly) resent it when new people come join your circle of friends at church, you might well be a part of a clique.

Number 3: If you cannot recall inviting someone newer to your church over for dinner…or to a social function of any kind…you might just  be part of a clique.

Cliques, by the way, are rarely the product of intentional design.  They are, rather, the byproduct of an unchallenged—even sanctified—selfishness.  Nor are they new. 

Church cliques go all the way back to the first church.  Paul took a look around and observed rather bluntly that “Some were of Apollos.  Some were of Cephas.  Some were of Paul.”  But Paul made it quite clear that such cliques were unacceptable.

So how could we possibly be so unaware of them creeping into our churches?  And how could we possibly allow them to flourish…through our own participation?

Any time… any thought… any word or any action excludes any one…it's a clique.  Meaning a clique could be made up of just two.    So let me ask you—honestly.  Are you part of a clique?  Or are you moving away from a clique?    Only one of those two statements can be true about you.

There will be no cliques in heaven.

There ought not to be cliques on earth.