Author: Jon Gauger

In all the world, it is doubtful that any single spot recollects more agony per acre than Israel's Yad Vashem–the Holocaust museum in downtown Jerusalem.

Within its cement walkways, there is more sadness per square inch than any place I have ever visited.

In addition to what you might expect–photos, letters, artifacts–there was something I had NOT expected: video testimonials.  Large monitors by the dozens recounted the personal agonies of holocaust survivors.  

Behind glass display cases, I saw things I wish I had not: a collection of shoes taken from people entering death camps….faces of men who would be shot just seconds later…photos of rabbis who had just been hung…

In one display there were gallon sized cans of pellets used in gas chambers. 

To me what is most disturbing is that in many instances, these were neighbors committing atrocities against former neighbors. The difference?   One set of neighbors had so dehumanized the other that any proper sense of evil had vanished.

When a neighbor is transformed into a nameless, faceless, worthless lump, the road from greeting them to gassing them is very short indeed.

In many ways, evangelical Christians today are undergoing a similar kind of dehumanization that the Jews experienced in World War II.

It begins with unkind stereotypes–"Bible thumpers", "Jesus freaks".  It progresses toward increasingly vicious labels, as Christians are now often said to be as dangerous as terrorists or the Taliban.

Once dehumanization is achieved, the step toward outright persecution is both natural and easy.

Christians, beware: Israel's Yad Vashem is more than a cross section of cruelty past.  It is a faithful mirror of an evil alive and well. 

As I write this, I am sitting in a hospital where my wife is recovering from surgery.  A mere curtain separates me from a conversation between the lady in bed #2 and those trying to give her the care she needs. 

“Do you have any children?” the team asks.

“Two grown sons.”

 

“Do they live in the area?” the team inquires further.

“I don't know” is the woman's reply.

 

“You don't know where they live?”

“No.”

 

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“About a year ago.”

 

“Did you have a falling out?”

“Our family's always fallin' out” comes the lady's sad reply.

 

“How often do you drink?”

“Every day.”

 

“How much?”

“Almost a gallon of vodka.”

 

“How long?”

“Thirty years.  No.  Wait.  I've only been on vodka for 15 years.”

 

“Do you use drugs?”

“No.  Yes. Only on weekends.  With my boyfriend.”

 

“Have you been admitted previously to a psychiatric unit?”

“A lot.”

 

The lady moans constantly and cries out violently in her dreams (or are they withdrawal tremors?). She is nauseous and calls over to my wife, who is on the other side of the curtain, recovering from kidney surgery.

A friend's text suggests that Christ would have us show this woman His love. But how do you love someone on the other side of a curtain?  What would Jesus think or say or do?

The woman throws up, and I assure her I will summon a nurse.  She thanks me. Maybe that's the first step.

Twenty minutes pass and the lady mentions an AA Bible on her chair.  I get up the boldness to read to her from John 3, explaining and extending Jesus' invitation to be born again. Her answer is confusing and morphs back into her drinking problems. 

Honestly, I am grateful I am not her.  Yet even as pride seeps in, I am reminded that this woman's ultimate problem—and mine—are both spelled the same: S-I-N.

I’m still wondering—as should we all—how do I reach out to the person behind the curtain?

It is a strange moment.

As I write this, my wife and I are on our way to meet a new family member.  Our grandson.

He has been alive for eight hours.  But we have not met him.  Do not know him.  We’re desperate to see him, grab him, love him.  But it hasn’t happened yet.

Strange.  His fingerprints bear my DNA…there is something of ME in him…somewhere.   Yet I really don't know him. 

Lord willing, we will look back years from now and talk—together–about “when he was a teeny tiny baby.”  There will be shared experiences and funny sayings and laughable moments.   That is all before us.  But right now, I've never held him, never touched him. Never heard his voice.  Never even laid eyes on him…other than the two photos our daughter texted.  Like I say, it is a strange moment.

I am drawn to the mystery captured in David's prayer in Psalms 139:

 

Psa 139:13  You are the one who put me together inside my mother's body,

Psa 139:14  and I praise you because of the wonderful way you created me. Everything you do is marvelous! Of this I have no doubt.

Psa 139:15  Nothing about me is hidden from you! I was secretly woven together deep in the earth below,

Psa 139:16  but with your own eyes you saw my body being formed. Even before I was born, you had written in your book everything I would do.

Psa 139:17  Your thoughts are far beyond my understanding, much more than I could ever imagine.

 

There are times in life when writers like me are unable to write.  Unable to find words that paint the pictures in my heart.  I can only see them.  Sense them.  Ponder them.

As I say…it is a strange moment.

I am thoroughly…totally…lost in wonder.

When it comes to Facebook, I'm a latecomer. 

While most ten year olds can run rings around my Facebook skills, I'm convinced my disconnect to this point has given me a perspective that seasoned Facebookers lost a long time ago.

For one thing, I want to know why so much of the Facebook world amounts to so little. 

Why is it acceptable to post to the public a message that only applies to one or two out of the earth's  7.5  billion people?

And why is so much of the content —dare I say a convincing majority—void of any real substance? 

• “Changed the oil in the car last night.”
• “Can't believe I missed the season finale of”  (insert name of TV show here).

Minutia and mundane are the main fare.

Now we're not all called to write like Ernest Hemingway and I’m not suggesting every Facebook poke needs to be profound.  But surely we can do better than total self-absorption.

It’s as if we've forgotten to ask before clicking the mouse, “Does anybody really care about this—and honestly, should they?”

I’ve arrived at a theory—and please try not to be too offended.  My theory is that most people write shallow things on their Facebook pages because that's precisely the kind of life they're living: shallow. 

Could it be that shallow living compels a shallow people to share shallow things in the vain hope of finding significance?   I honestly wonder if all the “spare-me-please” postings on Facebook, are a sick attempt at finding some sort of personal significance.

Yet insignificance is exactly the byproduct of a person—or a culture—that has jettisoned God.  Worse, we babble foolishness—dare I say, like much of Facebook.  I'm drawn to the observation Paul made in Romans 1:22:  “Professing themselves to be wise, they became foolish.”

Wondering if there’s a connection between Facebook…and the Good Book…

Years ago, an older brother in the faith took me aside and discipled me in something called lifestyle evangelism.   The concept is something of a reaction to older forms of evangelism.  Like preaching on a street corner.  Or shoving a gospel tract into somebody’s hands.  Incidentally, I’m not suggesting that either of those is wrong—or even bad. 

But the idea behind lifestyle evangelism is that we—quote—“earn the right to be heard” by virtue of the life that we live.  And there’s something to that.  When it comes to sharing Christ with my neighbors, I’ve worked hard at first being a good neighbor—as in loaning them tools, or helping take in their trash cans.  No point in sharing Jesus if I won’t share my stuff. 

Lifestyle evangelism underscores that making disciples is a process. Conversion is rarely instant.  So far so good. 

My problem with lifestyle evangelism is that there is now statistical evidence that many of us end our witness with good deeds.  But that’s only the starting point.  Those good deeds are intended to lead to conversations.  Conversations about Christ. 

Yet George Barna can show us reams of surveys that show most of us never get to the talk.  Maybe it’s because we’re scared.  Or maybe it’s because we’re ashamed.  Or maybe we’ve forgotten that despite the manicured lawn and shared interest in the Chicago Bears, that neighbor over the fence—apart from a saving relationship with Jesus—really will spend eternity burning in hell.

At some point it comes down to words.  Bible words.  It has to.  Or it’s not really evangelism.  Could I challenge you?  Keep on doing those nice things for your neighbors.  But don’t forget the kindest act of all: sharing Jesus verbally. To ignore that is to be the worst kind of neighbor.

With flu season approaching, lots of folks are thinking about getting immunized. I just got the flu shot myself. It's only too bad that you and I couldn't also get immunized from busy-ness.  You say, “What do you mean by that?”   In my observation, busy-ness has moved beyond the status of a cultural norm to become part of who we are.

Think for a minute how the conversation went the last time you asked a friend “How are things going?”    Chances are she or he said, “I'm busy.  Really busy”   And I don't doubt that a lot of us are.  We work longer hours….we own more things…we book more social events…we have more single parents.  Many of us are busier.  But the problem is two-fold.  First, some of us are just plain doing too much—so much we have very limited time for personal ministry…or going to prayer meeting…or teaching Sunday School.   

Second—and this is truly insidious–those of us that AREN'T quite as busy, feel absolutely compelled to claim we are.    We wear our busy-ness like a second skin.  Without it we feel naked. It is as if we now define worth by a sense of busy-ness.   That is, if we're busy—the assumption is we're contributing to our church, or to society as a whole.  And conversely, if we're NOT busy, we somehow deserve less sympathy…or we possess less value as persons.

But is that the Jesus way?  Absolutely not.  1 John 2 reminds us “whoever claims to live in Him must walk as Jesus did.”  And how did Jesus walk?   For the most part, leisurely.  With time for friends.  Time for small talk.  Time for ministry.  Time for playing with little kids—and blessing them.

The only way Jesus COULD have had all that time was by not jamming up His schedule ahead of time. 

How unlike you and me.

You know, Jesus will not hand out rewards based on crowded calendars.  It's time to unplug.  Time to get un-busy.

Scowls are in.

Smiles are out.

Have you noticed?

Take a look at most any current Christian artist album cover or website with a photo. Chances are he or she isn’t smiling.

As we have in so many other ways, the Christian subculture has mimicked secular culture. 

Not many bother to ask why do the recording artists on secular albums scowl?  Sure, there’s a certain “coolness” factor.  It’s hip to look unhappy—go figure.  But there are other reasons as well.  Secular artists scowl because they have little to smile about.  It’s a culture of hopelessness and materialism that never satisfies.  That–and a growing gruesome preoccupation with death.

So again I ask, why must popular Christian artists—brothers and sisters who are following Christ—follow the world in their facial expressions?

I’m not suggesting every Christian needs to run around with a goofy grin 24 hours a day.  But shouldn’t the presence of the indwelling Holy Spirit affect even the look on our face?

Proverbs 15:13 A glad heart makes a cheerful face. 

Consider that objective research has shown again and again that people think better of you—are more open to your message—if you smile.  Think of it!  They’d be more likely to be more interested in the gospel if we share that gospel wear a smile—or at least a pleasant look. 

So us average every-day Christian folks—we need to relearn to smile.  As for all you recording artists and wannabees out there: Leave the business of “glum” to the world.  Go ahead.  Crack a smile.

Again, I’m not advocating a shallow silliness or plastic pleasantry.  But would it really kill album or online sales if artists just looked into the camera and smiled?

As someone much bolder than I once said, “If you have Jesus in your heart…kindly notify your face.”

Time out for a confession.  I think iPads are incredibly cool.  So cool that I really want one.  Probably want one a little too much for Christ-like comfort. 

But so far, I haven't bought one.  And I wish I could tell you it was for deeply spiritual reasons.   However, that would be a lie.

I think iPads are incredibly functional—truly practical—graphically gorgeous.  But I don't own one.  And the high price tag isn't the real reason. 

The truth is, though I'm definitely a techno fan, I haven't yet bought an iPad because I'm weary.  I'm weary of reaching out and grabbing the latest techno tool that will finally usher in the—quote—ultimate solution…only to find out that it's been replaced with something faster and shinier.

Seems like just yesterday I bought my netbook—and it was going to be the “ultimate solution.”   I'm weary of the feeling that I'm—quote–behind the times because I don't have a front-facing camera on a tablet device.   I'm weary of the incredibly brief span that will define my purchase as current and useful…before marketing gurus tempt me to covet the new.

But most of all, I'm weary of owning still one more “item.”    Having one more charger to keep track of.  One more gadget to plug into the wall at night. One more cord to keep untangled, one more thing that will demand to be updated…  only to be outdated—the weariest whammy of them all.   

I would not for a moment pretend to pass judgment on those that are right now enjoying their iPads…and those that plan to.  Maybe I'll break down myself and take the plunge someday.

Yet the words of Jesus ought at some point to frame our thinking: “A man's life does not consist in the abundance of things.”   And Christ's desire to place the “least of these” in the care of you and me ought to somehow temper our appetite for techno. 

Weary of the abundance of things…I'm Jon Gauger, and those are my thoughts.

For several years now, I've wondered about them—those bumpy little pads or tiles that cities across America have installed at nearly every intersection. . 

Doesn't take a genius to figure that those bumpy tiles—usually a pinkish clay color–are being installed to help the visually impaired.  And it makes sense.  Walking more than three miles a day, my experience is that cars sometimes come dangerously close to sidewalk intersections. So I welcome this assistance for the visually impaired.

Yet…the cynic in me asks, “Why all of a sudden have municipalities taken up this task?  Why the feverish pace?  Did city fathers across America suddenly wake up to this urgent concern? 

Pardon my cynicism, but I submit this is more about cash than kindness.  Somewhere, somebody issued a memo that said UNLESS you install those little bumpy pads, you will no longer get government grants of any kind.  Or…”Unless you put ‘em in, we'll sue the britches off you!”

But if cities all across America could unite behind such a massive effort all because of a memo about physical blindness….what about the dangers of spiritual blindness?

Why aren't Christians just as vocal on every street corner… warning of spiritual danger? Of rejecting Christ?  (We’re strangely quiet, you know).  Do we lack the information?  Or do we lack conviction?  We need to “Get the memo!”  Jesus is still the only way to God.  The flames of Hell are still forever.  

It's time to get bold in our warning.  We need to get the memo!  Spiritual danger is REAL danger.  So why are we followers of Jesus so silent about that danger?  Why aren’t we just as committed to warning the spiritually blind as we are the physically blind?

For the past few months, my wife and I have made regular visits to an old man who is slowly dying.  He has a brilliant mind, has ministered to countless people.  Yet his deterioration is rapid and irreversible. 

Some would say, “That’s to be expected.”  But the idealist in me asks, “Why?”  Why did it have to be this way?  And of course, the answer takes me back to the Garden of Eden. In my sanctified imagination, I envision a conversation with Adam and Eve.

I see Adam, once a chiseled, muscular outdoorsman with big hands and barrel chest—now shriveled up in a pile on a straw mat.  His saggy skin looks brittle stretched over his toothpick arms.  He is in too much pain even to sit.

Not far away, leaning against a rock, is the once elegant Eve—the girl whose mere appearance sucked the breath out of Adam.  Her back is decidedly humped, her eyes sunken and nearly sightless.  Leather knees poke out from under her worn fur.

One question is all I ask the first couple.  “Was it worth it?”  Was it really worth it, back so many years ago in Eden, to listen to the voice of the deceiver?  Was it worth it?  Look at all you traded away…for this?”

Just then a mist completely enshrouds the ancient pair and when it lifts, I am no longer in the presence of Adam and Eve…but their Maker instead.

And Jesus, with hands yet wounded, extends a scarred palm in my direction and barely whispers just one question: “And you….was it worth it?”

Instinctively, I cover my face, and bow low to the ground.  The sin I’ve cradled in my hands and coddled in my heart.  It hasn’t been worth it.  None of it.

To interrogate Adam and Eve…is to ask myself the most awful of questions.

Still….looking at my old friend dying a slow death, I wonder.