It happens in most every church, most every Sunday morning.  The pastor has finished his sermon and the congregation is about to sing another chorus or two. The pastor prays a prayer inviting the Holy Spirit to “do a work among us,” driving home the Bible passage just preached.  
 
But in nearly every congregation some folks are exempted from that prayer: the worship team.  The singers, band members, interpreters, they make their way up to the stage while the prayer is being prayed.
 
Question:  Why?
 
Answer:    Because we don't want to “waste time” getting everybody situated. 
 
Now as a guy who lives in a world of live radio, nobody appreciates the need to keep things flowing more than me.  As a (would be) musician, I completely understand the prep that has to go on before a group can be ready to sing or play. 
 
Yet still I ask, why do we find it acceptable to use prayer as a “transition” for our worship teams?   Isn't the worth and value of our worship tied to our praying?  In our current model professionalism and pragmatism have trumped prayer.

What is wrong with simply letting the worship team pray with the rest of the congregation—and then giving them a moment to get set up on stage? 
 
If “saving time” is such a premium to us, why don't we start the service on time rather than a few minutes late?  If saving time is such a premium, why don't we tighten up our announcements?    Or why not run the announcements during the time the band is resetting on stage?
 
Consider the small—even stingy--piece of “pie” that prayer gets in the average Sunday morning service.  Dare we slice it even thinner for those claiming to lead us in worship?
 
Maybe it's time we stopped being slick and professional.
Maybe it's time to be a bit more awkward so we can be a bit more prayerful.

Only when you are in a cave and they turn off the lights do you finally grasp how dark true darkness really is.  We experienced such a lights-out encounter touring the Cave of the Mounds.

When some workers mining for lead set off a dynamite charge back in 1939, they unknowingly ripped a hole into the Wisconsin wonder known today as the Cave of the Mounds.

The “roof” of the cave at any given point along the tour route is between 30 and 60 feet below grass level.  So temperature year round is a constant 50 degrees.   Unlike most caves, this one had no natural above ground entrance (until the miners blasted their own version of a doorway).  Because of this, Cave of the Mounds has no bats, no vermin, no wildlife of any kind. 

Whether you like caves or loathe them, they surely offer an altogether different perspective on geology, history, and even theology.  For me, the “teachable moment” came when staring at stalagmites and stalactites I decided to check the cell phone to see if by any chance I had any coverage. None.  Nada. A red “X” glowed where “bars” normally lit up.

Because (perhaps like you) I have a bit of imagination, I began running scenarios through my mind that are typical for cave visitors:

• What happens if there's a power failure down here?
• What happens if the guide's walkie talkie fails?
• What happens if...(in a cave, an active imagination is not your best friend).

Then another thought captured me (forgive me if this strikes you as corny).  Lack of cell phone coverage aside, I was no further away from connecting with the God of the universe down in that mine than up on a mountain.  The poet David agreed:

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night,” even the darkness is not dark to you.”  (Psalm 139:11-12).

Next time you’re in a cave—literal or emotional—there's a light you can count on.

When traveling through Elkhart, Indiana, do not miss the RV Motor Home Hall of Fame, a one-of-a-kind camping collection (rvmhhalloffame.org/).

The museum features camping curiosities sucy as the 1913 Earl Trailer and Model T Ford, believed to be the oldest trailer camper in existence.  There's a 1915 Model T with Telescoping Apartment (earliest known example of a “slide out”).

It was interesting to peer inside the 1931 Chevrolet House Car owned by Mae West.  Built for Paramount Studios, it was used as a chauffeur driven lounge car and featured a rocking chair on the back porch!

One of my favorites: the 1935 Bowlus Road Chief Trailer.  This shiny silver predecessor to today's Airstream has the shape of an inverted boat.

Impossible to miss: the 1954 Spartan Imperial Mansion.  At eight feet wide and a whopping 42 feet long, this trailer is immense.

Tromping through 100 years of RV and motor home history—many models featuring original flooring, bedding and furniture--I was struck by one unifying reality.  From the primitive Model T Ford campers to the technology laden RV's of today, they are all designed only for temporary living: vacation housing, not permanent dwellings.

So nobody expects even the fanciest recreational vehicle to be as big or as nice as a real home.  It's just intended to keep you comfortable for a short time. 

Which is exactly the same attitude we should have toward this thing called life on earth.  It's only temporary.  Our sights are to be set on a better—and ultimate—destination:  heaven. 
   
Maybe, like me, you need to dial back your expectations for this life which Michael Easley reminds us is “at best a clean bus station.”

Philippians 3:20, “For our citizenship is in heaven, from which also we eagerly wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Here's to loosening our grip on this dying world—and fixing our eyes on the world to come.

Happy travels!

Have you noticed how young ears hear more than we sometimes think they do? 

The other day, three year old “Kay-bib” (he's still working on pronouncing, “Caleb”) heard Keith and Kristyn Getty sing, “Nothing but the blood of Jesus.”   Reacting to the song, Kay-bib told his mother, “I love Jesus” (stated most enthusiastically).  He then inquired, “But Mom, what is the blood of Jesus?”

Mom replied, “Well, when Jesus died on the cross for us, He was bleeding.  He saved us from our sins on the cross.  So this song is our way of being thankful for Jesus' doing that.”  Kay-bib was pensive as he let tumble out, “I love Jesus' blood.”
 
At this point seven year old “Big Sis” marched over boring holes in Kay-bib with her intensity.  She pontificated, “You better take this part seriously, dude.  I mean, this is serious!”   Though her sermon was brief—just two sentences—it was delivered with a conviction recalling Jonathan Edwards or George Whitfield.

What exactly Big Sis intended for Kay-bib to do to validate his agreement to “take this part seriously, dude” I do not know.   But I do know her concern was real—and right.  “How shall we escape if we neglect so great a salvation?” asked the writer of Hebrews.  

It is sobering, that a seven year old would grasp eternal verities—even those pertaining to eternal life or damnation—with greater ease than many intellectually nuanced adults. 

But beyond an inflated sense of our own “knowledge,” many never come to faith because of a spiritually laissez faire attitude. So steeped are we in the cultural art of “chilling,” many of us desperately need the warning Big Sis blurted out:  “You better take this part seriously, dude.  I mean—this is serious!”

Indeed, “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31).    

Three-year old Kay-bib gets that.

Seven-year old Big Sis gets that.

Do you? 

Her name is Augustina and she lives on Lower Wacker Drive.

The thing is, no one really “lives” on Lower Wacker Drive--they merely exist there.   Wacker is a major traffic artery for downtown Chicago.  But as if offers a cement roof from the elements, it is a shelter for those with nothing. 

When my friend, Jack, met Augustina on his walk to work, she asked him for food.  Ironically, at that instant, Jack held in his hand a laminated card with the text of 1 John 4, which he is memorizing.  The passage has much to say about loving our brothers and sisters.

Jack suggested they head for the McDonald’s in the Merchandise Mart where he would buy her breakfast.  That’s when he introduced himself.

“You have the same name of my last case worker,” Augustina said smilingly.  She walked with a limp, having fallen down three flights of stairs.  Plus, “my arthritis is killing me.  I’m too young for that,” she told Jack.

Augustina is 42.  She is hoping that soon a caseworker will deliver the good news that she has finally been given a low-income apartment.  Meanwhile she sleeps on Wacker Drive.  Jack asked about it.

“I have cardboard and two blankets that I lay on. Then I have another blanket on top.  But it’s no bed.  Oh, I wish I had a bed, wish I had a place of my own.  Wish I could take a bath.”

As Jack told me this last part, I felt guilty for taking all these things for granted.  And I managed to squash my questions like, “How had she come to this awful condition?  Was Augustina a druggie?  A drunk?” 

Did it matter?

Arriving at McDonald’s, Augustina ordered not one, but two, big breakfast platters, along with two large Orange juices.  Jack told me “I got the idea I was feeding not just Augustina, but her two friends, as well.”

I John 4:20 “For the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen.”

Her name is Augustina and she lives on Lower Wacker Drive.