Is it just me, or are we steadily adding syllables to expressions that work just fine without them?

Example. I overheard heard college administrators talk of the need for alternative classroom methods in this age of Coronavirus. They mentioned “new modalities for teaching.” Means the same thing as modes—but “modalities” adds three syllables.

Up until recently, you might have described a powerful event as “transforming.” No longer. We’ve moved on to “transformative.”

“Health” is out. “Wellness” is in.

I understand that times and sensitivities change. But why do they always change for the longer?

You used to go to the hearing doctor. Now it’s “The Center for Auditory Wellness.”

Many of us still remember doing a job interview down at "Personnel"—three syllables. That died years ago in favor of "Human Resources"—five syllables. This one gets me—Human Resources. Did they anticipate a day when we might offer Animal Resources, as opposed to human? Or perhaps Robotic Resources?

As I poke fun at our collective culture (no doubt I'm also guilty of this silly syllable stacking), I offer a caution. Let's take care lest this pseudo-intellectual drivel ooze into our spirituality.

Jesus says, "They think they shall be heard for their much speaking” (Matthew 6:7). Adding syllables and words doesn’t add to our godliness or spiritual fervor—but often bloats our pride.

Jesus calls us to humble ourselves, like a child. Kids say what they say clearly and simply. It’s time we learned from them.

Vietnam, 1968, Lai Khe (northwest of Saigon).

In the signature dank and darkness known only to jungles, infantry platoon Sargent Russ Caforio stepped warily.  Their mission was to set up an ambush along a known enemy route.  “There were ten of us,” he recalls. “We carried Claymore mines, M-16’s, grenades, a Starlight scope, and a radio."

That, and something much less flashy. “We also brought a spool of thin filament, similar to a fine fish line, which we strung around the perimeter of our ambush site about 100 feet out.”

A low tech surveillance tool, it was surprisingly effective.  "If that line got broken" (an enemy soldier leaving their sequestered position), an alarm I carried would go off."  But did it?

"About 10 pm, the alarm went off. I turned on the Starlight scope and surveyed the field across the route spotting hundreds of Viet Cong soldiers.  I prayed for wisdom and called for indirect fire support. I had our forces fire a ring of 81mm shells in a circle around me every 10 minutes all night until 6:30 the next morning.  That was a night of intense prayer.”

At dawn, Russ and his platoon finally broke ambush and returned to base camp, a very thankful group of men. At my request, Russ shared some pictures. 

I surmised it had to feel creepy wading through jungle swamps, insects, parasites, and every make and model of Asian critters in those waters. His reply:

“We never knew what the next step would bring in water or jungle or what we might find in our fatigues. Lots of leeches, snakes, booby traps. Not much different than our daily walk!"

One last detail.  This entire drama played out just six-tenths of a mile away from base camp.  Lesson: Trouble is never far away. Better watch our daily walk!

As for Russ Caforio, I invite you to join me in saluting this great American veteran.

This morning it was fire-engine red, eye-catching and full of fall’s finest. This afternoon, that same leaf perches on my desk curled and brown and surprisingly brittle.

That any living sprig could possess color and life so late in the season—as this leaf did— surprised me.  To the point, I had to pause my morning walk and snap a picture of the thing.  Even the stem was striking (this, after many nights where the temperature dropped into the lower 30s).

But sunset tells a different story, a sadder tale if you want my opinion.  Not to get melodramatic (we are talking about one small maple leaf here), the shriveling process offers a visceral reminder to us humans.

Like my beautiful leaf, you and I are here only for a season. 

That our Designer typically gives us so many more days to live does not alter the stark warning from the maple leaf: we are only for a season.  The sense of scale is vastly different.  A lucky leaf might live for eight months, while lucky humans might survive eight decades. 

But again, it’s only for a season. Isaiah 64:6 whispers that eventually, “We all do fade like a leaf.”

Making plans makes sense.

Having goals is good.

But remember—it’s all only for a season.   

Adults reading familiar Bible stories:

Predictable. Safe. 

Kids reading familiar Bible stories:

Unpredictable. Vulnerable.

As a young mom, Lynnette recently revisited the story of Moses with her four children. Together, they pondered the dramatic moment where baby Moses was set afloat on the Nile river with nothing more than a homemade basket to protect him.  The kids expressed an intriguing range of concerns.

SADIE (Age 4): That’s scary, because of crocodiles.

JOSIE (Age 12): Wait! Is the Nile brackish?  Because crocs are saltwater reptiles, right?

CALEB (Age 8): Crocodiles are a worry.  But did you know that the Egyptians dumped their waste into the Nile and then turned around and DRANK the same water?  That’s a bigger worry.

SADIE (Age 4): Whoa. Yeah. So I am NOT going to be living in Bible times. I don't need anyone killing ME as a baby.

It’s easy to read those Bible stories as we adults have perhaps a hundred times or more—and fail to think through this kind of stuff.  And you gotta love the kids' blunt honesty.

When Lynnette’s children progressed through the story of Moses and arrived at the miraculous parting of the Red Sea, Caleb commented, “Not sure I would have faith enough to walk through, even if I was seeing it.”

I'm thinkin' Caleb's right.  

Isn’t God good to give us teachers—like little children?

Goodbye watermelon.

Goodbye swimming pool.

Goodbye lawn chair.

Fall comes at an exorbitant price.

For me, one of the sadder summer losses is crickets.  They speak peace to the troubled night and calm to the cacophony we call early morning.  But as I take my sunrise walks in the second half of October, the cricket symphony decrescendos dramatically.

A few courageous critters sill scrape their wings and make the music.  But as early morning temperatures dip into the upper 30s, the insect orchestra reduces to a few brave soloists. 

When I hear one now, I smile big and walk gently toward the source of the sound, trying for a louder listening experience.  Inevitably, I find the crickets go mute.  You can't blame them for being terrified at the vibration of something hundreds of times their size.

Still, a few—a very few—can yet be heard.  The season is late.  The landscape is dark, and the conditions are cold.  But they sing anyway.

These hearty crickets are a metaphor for the lifestyle required of Christians on the front edge of the end times. Meaning—the season is late.  The spiritual landscape is dark.  The conditions are cold—and getting colder.  But we're called to "sing" anyway.

So let us:

• Sing the love of Jesus.
• Sing the great gospel story.
• Sing the glorious hope of heaven.
• Sing so that a cold world in dark darkness can find the hope and joy that is Jesus.

Let us Sing!