Author: Jon Gauger

Another bombing.

Another killing.

That's what I remember of Ireland as I grew up.

Night after night we saw images of an island in agony.

Indeed, Ireland's history is so violent as to suggest the “Emerald Isle” might better be named the “Blood Red Isle.”

But of course, it wasn't Ireland's violent history that brought us there.  No, my wife and I came to see castles and coastlines and clouds.  We were not disappointed with our anniversary vacation.

The truth is, our trip to Ireland way exceeded our rather lofty hopes.  Everywhere we hiked or drove was a postcard.  It was almost useless to put away your camera, because the moment you did, a new and powerful scene came into view.

But if the beauty of the Emerald Isle overwhelmed us, so did its history.  As our kind hosts, Roger and Carrie, helped unpeel the layers of Ireland's troubled past, I felt a heaviness in my spirit.  So much raw beauty there.  So many miles of unfathomable cliffs and castles.   But at the same time, so much pain.  So many battles fought.  So many lives lost.   Clans fighting clans.  Protestants fighting Catholics.   So much unresolved bitterness and the palpable sense that the next bolt of lightning might ignite a powder keg of new violence somewhere near.

It made me wonder—and wish—for the last violent episode to be over.  Can we please end the bombings and shootings?  Can we not just get to that part of the story where it's all wise kings and gracious queens and happy pageantry?

The answer, of course, is no.

Until the King of Kings has finally come to reign and rule, blood will continue to flow. 

Yet please know: Ireland is no different than YOUR land.

Scripture reminds us “man was born for trouble.”  Still, you can't help wondering.   Maybe the reason it rains so much in Ireland is because God is crying…weeping over Ireland…a land that has few equals in beauty and fewer still in agony.

Utterly Safe—Or Not

Maybe it's the chemistry between Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett.  Maybe it's the artifacts and surrealistic images brought to the surface by Robert Ballard.  For whatever reason, the world is mesmerized by Titanic.  Still.

Every school child knows the story of the unsinkable ship that sank, drowning more than 1500.  But relatively few can name the port from which the Titanic last departed.  (Hint: if you're thinking somewhere in England, you're off course).

On the southern coast of Ireland is a charming town by the name of Cobh, offering lovely views of the waterways leading out to the Celtic Sea.  Here, Titanic last saw land.   As we sat out on a deck, enjoying lunch with the sound of the waves rolling in, the gulls flying 'round—the same sounds that passengers boarding Titanic would have heard (and we stood at the very place they would have climbed onboard)–the sunshine gave way to grayer skies.  Rain moved in with such speed and intensity we were forced to take our food inside to finish the meal.

Which takes me to the fate of the Titanic passengers.  Consider that as they shuffled across the gangway boarding the brand new ship, not one of them thought it was their last look at Ireland.  No one thought they would never again see their loved ones.  No one thought they were within hours of the very end of their earthly lives.  But they were.

The scene was all so normal….so utterly safe.

It could be you feel very safe right now.  Very “normal.”  Not the least bit pressed to give the invitation of Jesus to be “born again” any real consideration.

Yet no one lives forever.  And accidents still happen, And Titanics still sink.    Jesus said “Unless a man (or woman) is born again they cannot see the kingdom of God.”

Have you settled—forever—the question of where you will go—after you die?

 

 

 

 

The end of a day is a sobering thing.

As I write this, I’m watching it happen out the window of a jet bound from Tampa, Florida to Chicago.  Having risen at 4am—long before sunrise—in order to fly down to Tampa, I am now tired.  Happy to kick back and do not much of anything.

But as I peered out the window of our 737, I saw the crowning tip of the sun in its last gasp of orange glory. The crest of the glowing ball is now out of view.  I watched it slip away, pondering those last seconds of color and bombast.  All that remains now is a fading backlit sky of near turquoise and burnt orange.

Seeing all this take place in real time has gotten me to thinking.  This day—that has now turned into night—will never be repeated.  Ever.  Whatever moments that might have been—but weren’t—might never be…forever.

The extraordinary potential woven into the DNA strands of this day is now dimmed.  I’m not trying to wax poetic here.  I truly am sobered. Because…

Whatever I MIGHT have said for Jesus Christ today but did not…

Whatever I might have DONE for Jesus Christ but did not…

Whatever kindness I might have shown someone else for Christ’s sake but did not…

…Well let’s just say the opportunity for today has come and gone.

“But,” you say, “Jon, you’re being too hard on yourself.”  Am I? You say, “There’s always tomorrow.”  Yet Scripture says, “Boast not yourself of tomorrow, for you don’t know what a day will bring.”

 

Only one life

‘twill soon be past.

Only what’s done for Christ

Will last.

 

Darkness is now all that’s left in my window view from the 737.

One final reminder that the end of a day…is a sobering thing.

4:45am and the taxi finally pulled into my driveway, 15 minutes late. Climbing into the cab, I was confronted with a man in full Muslim dress: white robe, white hat and curly black beard.

Apologizing for the delay, he was friendly and talkative.  So I prayed quietly, asking God to show me how to start a conversation with the man.

When I learned he was from India—and told him I had visited—he asked if my trip was for missionary work.  Responding yes, the conversation was immediately in high gear.

He was in my face right away: “If…peace be upon him…the prophet Jesus is really God, then who was in charge of Heaven when Jesus came to earth?”  This took us to a spirited discussion on the trinity.

I boldly shared that Jesus was not merely the son of God—but equal with God, quoting Christ’s own words: “I and my Father are One.”  The cabbie weaved between cars as he weaved around my Bible verses, clearly still hung up on the Trinity.

As we approached the airport, he told me that Jesus was only for Christians, but—quote—“Islam is for everybody.”  I again quoted Jesus, “For God so loved the WORLD that He gave His one and only Son that WHOEVER believes in Him will not die, but have eternal life.”

Arriving at Midway airport, the conversation ended with the driver encouraging me to read the Koran…and me encouraging him to read the gospels.  I tipped him generously, we shook hands and the door was open and shut.

Or was it?  Perhaps a much more important door than the door to his taxi had just been opened.  In the kindness and mercy of God, I pray that the door of his heart is now open, if only a crack.

Wonder has gone missing.

It’s true.

The problem with most of us is we have lost our wonder of God.

We say we love Him—and I suppose we do.

We say we worship Him—and no doubt we try.

But a sense of His otherness, His transcendence, that gut feeling of awe and mystery and an all-consuming fire…for most of us, that’s not our experience with the Most High God.

But I saw wonder this week in an unexpected place.  I was out on a long walk with one-year-old Caleb Jaeger, our grandson, when we passed by a “splash pad.”  For the uninitiated, a splash pad is a not-quite swimming pool for tiny tots.  Sprinklers and pipes of all shapes shower the little ones, and they absolutely love it.

Once under the sprinkler, one year old Caleb sat there for the longest time letting the water run right over him.  I watched as his pudgy fingers attempted to trace the path of the wet bubbles.  You could see his mouth open and close repeatedly as he tasted the water dribbling off his nose.

The look on his face was one of complete awe.  He was mesmerized. Literally drenched in wonder.  Every single one of his five senses was actively recording data to his one-year-old hard drive.

THIS…is what wonder looks like.  It’s a feeling of sensory overload.  Of marvel and mystery and mystical all converged.

So back to my opening assessment that for most of us, wonder about God has shriveled up like an October tomato left on the vine.

If it’s true we lost it, how do we regain this wonder?  Maybe it’s not unlike the solution for couples whose relationship has gone cold.  It’s simply a choice to notice, to acknowledge greatness in all its forms—little and big.  Global…and local.  Wherever God’s fingerprints are visible.

It’s time to regain our sense of wonder of God. 

Only if you have been punched in the stomach, left gasping for air, can you fully relate to my current emotional state.  We've just finished touring the Elmina slave castle.  You say you've never heard of it?

It's a foreboding fortress on the coast of Ghana, West Africa built in 1482.  For hundreds of years it was a slave processing center.  That's a polite way of saying that here, human beings were ripped from their families, stripped of their personal dignity, and prepped for a lifetime of misery.

For a slave-in-the-making, the three month stay at Elmina offered a daily diet of evil so wicked, you can almost taste the screams and wails from the 600 men and 400 women imprisoned here at any given time.

Just inside the fortress is a small room with iron bars, and massive latches. Noteworthy for the skull and crossbones above it, this was the place where slaves who had offended the soldiers were starved to death.

Or consider the hidden hatch and stairway that lead to the Governor's bedroom.  The staircase was reserved for female slaves the governor had selected to rape.

Yet far more disturbing than any of these was the sight of a church prominently positioned on the plaza inside the fortress.  Here, men ostensibly sang hymns, worshipped God and prayed—as a thousand slaves lay rotting in their own excrement.

Why didn't the solders' theology expose their hypocrisy, their inhumanity?  How could they be comfortable selling husbands and wives, sons and daughters…like stock for a general store?

It's easy to be shocked by their inhumanity.  But what about ours?  We sing hymns, worship God and pray, while around the world atrocities are the daily stuff of millions.

It’s time to hear THEIR cries…..THEIR screams….and then DO something.

A great place to begin: Visit persecution.com

I have spent the last 24 hours immersed in the religion of Islam.  And no surprise—we've been in Istanbul, Turkey.  You literally see the religion of Mohammed from the window of your airplane.  Minarets crowned with golden moons poke high into the sky.  And from that vantage point, it's almost staggering to ponder how many of these mosques they're really are.
 
To walk the streets of Istanbul is to swim in a crowded black sea, made black by the long robes of submissive Muslim women.  So thoroughly restrictive are these garments, that those requiring glasses wear them on the outside of their head mask.  Only the narrowest of slits is left for their eyes.
 
One of Istanbul's greatest tourist attractions, construction of the Blue Mosque began in 1609.  No wide angle lens is wide enough to capture the sense of scale in its arches, stained glass and—yes–blue tiles.
 
In this, my second tour walking through the Blue Mosque, I was sensitized to a powerful lesson about Islam.  Every male visitor is required to wear long pants—no shorts allowed.  All shoes must be removed and carried in a plastic bag, and every woman is thoroughly wrapped in a blue head scarf.  Meaning every single visitor desiring entrance must—in a small but significant gesture—bow to the religion of Mohammed.
 
The not so subtle lesson: Islam bows to nothing and no one.  No exceptions. 
 
The minarets are rising up all around us here at home.
But this is a not a time for fear.
This is a time for holy kindness, holy witness, holy boldness.
 
Yet the Word of God calls us—commands us-–to love our Muslim neighbors in the name of the One before whom “every knee” will someday bow: Jesus the Christ, the Son of the Living God.
 

Cue the music: Pulsating rhythm in a minor key

Cue the announcer: Serious…impassioned. 

Now the script:

 

Their numbers are legion.

Their plight…beyond pathetic.

Yet to many, they are all but invisible: lost people.  People living their lives on a trajectory toward the flames of Hell.

The horror of what awaits them—apart from God's intervention—ought to grip us and cause us to fall on our knees begging the Almighty to spare them.

Instead…the names of these people rarely make our prayer lists…our prayer meetings… our prayer chains.   That is why I make the bold, if not uncomfortable claim, that for many of us who claim to be followers of Jesus, lost people are an endangered prayer species.

 

The fact that we are not sufficiently troubled about lost people to really pray for them says they are not really on our radar screen.  What this actually reveals is that we don't, as a whole, have a lot of meaningful interaction with them.  We tend to care about the people we spend time with.  Since we don't spend much time with lost people, we don't have much care for them.

Not praying for lost people reveals a dual wickedness in our hearts. It says we are entirely comfortable enjoying the everlasting delights of heaven for ourselves–and equally comfortable with those outside heaven's gates experience the everlasting torment of Hell.

“We're in…they're out…and that's okay.”   Except it's NOT okay.

It's never been okay to have found the life raft…but not care for others still thrashing about in the waters.

It's never been okay to hear Christ's command to make disciples and relegate that to mere good intentions.

It's never been okay to hear Jesus say, “The Son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost”…and then hardly bother Him to seek and to save the lost people in our own lives.

It's time you and I moved lost people off the endangered prayer species list.

It's time we prayed to the one who said, He is “not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance.”

It's time to pray for lost people.

If there's such a thing as a list of endangered prayer species, revival must surely be on it.

Time was when folks actually talked about revival—what it looks like, feels like.  What they’d heard from others who's seen at least a glimpse of it.  We honestly prayed for revival.  Even expected revival to actually happen.    Seems like 20 or 30 years ago, revival was a much hotter subject.  Not today.

Now I'm not here to suggest absolutely nobody cares about revival any more.  But interest in the subject definitely seems to have waned.  Nancy DeMoss of “Revive Our Hearts Ministries” agrees.  In a recent interview, I asked her point blank, “Is it just my impression, or do you think people are talking less about revival these days?”

Nancy's reply was direct: “Yes.  We are talking and praying less about revival.   No question about it. “

These days, we talk about the worshipping church.  We talk about the emerging church…the missional church.  But—oddly–we don't talk about the revived church.  Or revival itself. 

 

Personally, I think it's because we've become accustomed—even comfortable—doing church without much help from the Holy Spirit.  He doesn't seem to show up much, so we don't think to ask Him for much.  As for the supernatural outpouring of conviction that leads to confession that leads to revival…well, we're just not interested, thank you very much. 

Why should we be?  Our worship bands sound great, our HD video and widescreen PowerPoint have never looked snappier, and Pastor's messages are—quote– “culturally relevant.”   What more could we want?

Revival, that's what.

We need revival. Desperately.

We need to talk about revival, pray about revival, preach about revival, anticipate revival.

So let’s get it off the list of endangered prayer species.  Let's remember to simply and humbly ask God to do a work of personal revival in our own hearts…and begin looking for Him to do it on a much grander scale throughout His Church.

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This week I met a real shepherd in a real field near the real Bible town of Bethlehem.

But I must admit the experience was off-putting—even a bit disappointing.

Climbing the hillside (camera, tripod, audio recorder in hand), I expected to peer into the face of a weather beaten wrinkled old soul.  I envisioned my shepherd wearing thread bare robes hanging off his frame as his deep furrowed brow expressed concern for wandering sheep in the field.

But instead of a wrinkled old man, my shepherd was middle aged—good looking, to boot.   And while he wore a sort of robe, underneath was the clearly visible collar of his blue polo shirt!  Instead of a deep furrowed brow, I saw constant smiles.

Having read that sheep were stubborn, I asked him to elaborate on the animals' strong will.  He told me that the sheep were usually quite responsive to the shepherd's voice.   Regardless of my questioning, the shepherd simply had nothing negative to say about the sheep.    Frankly, this shepherd encounter was a bit of a disappointment.

But then it hit me.  Maybe this shepherd was more like the Good Shepherd than I really knew!

Wouldn't it be just like Jesus to know all the faults of His sheep…yet still have nothing but nice things to say about us?  And rather than a furrowed brow, wouldn't it be like Jesus to have a smile on his face?

Prior to this interview, I envisioned a peaceful grassy valley dotted with dozens of sheep.  But here were only a handful—yet they commanded the shepherd's full attention.

By the way, scrap that idea of a lush green valley.  We were balanced rather precariously on a steep rocky hillside. Nearly touching one leg of my tripod: the skeletal remains of what was once a sheep.  A visceral reminder that life for a sheep—in Bible times OR our times—is an uncertain proposition.  And wolves are still out there killing.

It's enough to make one suddenly—and thoroughly—grateful for the Good Shepherd.