In a stairwell not far from my office is a sign in red letters: Area of Refuge. This is where you’re supposed to go for safety when things turn dangerous.

That image came to mind the other day when I read Psalm 2. Verse 12 says of God, “Blessed are all who take refuge in Him.”

The thing that struck me is the reality that when faced with a storm—financial, personal, marital—any storm, we have a choice in what we designate as our refuge. I'd not given it much thought, but every storm brings a choice: Where ya gonna go for refuge?

Oddly, some of us turn to the refuge of denial: “This is not really happening to me.” Others turn to cynicism and despair: “If I keep reminding myself of how bad things are, things are bound to turn around—or at least look better!”

Everybody turns to a refuge of some kind:

• a friend
• a book
• a drink
• a pill

But God promises personal blessings to anyone who finds refuge in Him.

To take refuge in God is to turn to Him and find protection in Him. It means we turn to Him before—and in place of—anyone or anything else. And what do we find when we take refuge in God? Peace, safety, and walls of protection from a dangerous world.

Isn’t that better than going “your way”—whatever that way might be?

Someone wiser than me observed everybody is either in the middle of a storm, heading into a storm, or just coming out of one. What—or whom—is your refuge?

Remember—it’s a choice. Every storm. Every time.

And that’s something I need to hang on to!

 

 

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Sunday morning. My wife and I have guests sitting with us at church: four-year-old Emma and seven-year-old Ava. Both are busy drawing. With a few magical strokes of her pencil, Ava transforms a blue prayer card into a canvas featuring a decidedly happy elephant.

On the reverse side of the card, Ava prints her name and identifies the subject of her sketch: “Elofint.” How can you not smile?

Young children are notorious for spelling words phonetically or looking at life literally. They also take extraordinary Bible promises at face value, without the slightest doubt. Probing questions here and there—yes—but cynicism or skepticism? Not kids.

Surely, that's one reason Jesus said we must receive the kingdom of heaven "like a little child."  Which takes me to the—ur—Elophint in the room. Why do we struggle so much to take the Bible at face value?

Sure, books like Daniel and Revelation are steeped in metaphor and allegory. But the vast majority of the Bible is plain English, and we are asked to believe it literally, like children.

Here's just a straightforward example. Colossians 3:13 commands us to “forgive as the Lord forgave you." But do we? Most of us are willing to follow that verse—to a point. Only when cornered, do we admit, "Well, that was true of Jesus, but there are some things in life you really can’t forgive?"

Essentially, we’ve shaved off just enough of the edge on that Bible truth to make ourselves comfortable. But who gave us that permission?

Surely, there are deep things in Scripture beyond our understanding. Still, we dare not modify, minimize, or ignore the biblical call to trust—and obey.

 

 

 

 

As we step into the blackness of the torched home, my feet crunch over tiny bits of brokenness: broken furniture, broken roof tiles, broken glass.

Wires and duct work dangle from the ceiling, while the melted blades of a ceiling fan droop like a sad version of Bugs Bunny.

We are in Kibbutz Be'eri, one of twenty or so little communities attacked by the 3,000 Hamas terrorists who besieged Israel on October 7.

Omri Kedem was here when the gunmen stormed in that Saturday morning. Hustling into their safe room, the family heard repeated shouts and banging on the door. Unable to force the family out, the Hamas attackers set fire to the house. Fortunately, their safe room helped them survive.

Omri takes us into what used to be his living room. He gestures to the two homes that border his backyard. In the place on the right lived a mother, father, and their four children. When Hamas came, they set the home on fire.

Eventually, the family jumped out the window. Hiding in the brush, the parents laid their children on the ground, stacking them up on each other—youngest to oldest. The mother and father then lay on top of this pile.

Ultimately, Hamas returned and shot the mother, the father, and the two oldest children. Only the two youngest survived.

Omri Kedem leads us on a tour of the kibbutz. It has a small-town resort feel—dwellings with tiled roofs and quaint gardens. Except now, in many cases, the roof tiles have slid down to the ground, the timbers beneath them having collapsed in the fires set by Hamas.

Nearly every home has a vinyl banner posted on the wall facing the street. It features the name and photo of the person murdered inside.

House after house. Name after name. Face after face. It is—literally—too much to take in.

I ask you. Where is the box of tissues big enough to stem the fountain of tears these families have cried? Where is the dictionary capable of describing the evil done here?

We return to our hotel—where the ceiling fan is not melted, and nothing is broken. Yet I cannot sleep for all I have seen. And in that sleeplessness, I taste a tiny morsel of the agony of Kibbutz Be'eri.

Open your mouth for the people who cannot speak, for the rights of all the unfortunate. Open your mouth, judge righteously, and defend the rights of the poor and needy.

-Proverbs 31:8,9

We are seated in comfortable chairs in a comfortable conference room. But I have rarely been less comfortable.

Seated next to me at Jerusalem's Ministry of Foreign Affairs is Dr. Ayelet Levi-Shachar, a woman we have come to interview. She is the mother of a vivacious 19-year-old daughter (a triathlete, no less) named Naama. On October 6, Naama traveled from home to a Kibbutz in southern Israel, where she spent the night.

Early Saturday morning that kibbutz was attacked by Hamas. She was hit in the leg with shrapnel. When Naama resisted capture, she was dragged by her hair, thrown into the back of a pickup truck, and driven into Gaza—still wearing pajamas—where she presumably remains captive.

In measured tones, Ayelet shares what it's like to go to bed each night not knowing where her daughter is or how she is faring. She tells us of her other three children who still need her to do ordinary things like make school lunches. She reminds us that she still has a medical practice with patients who need her attention. All this, while flicking through photos of Naama on her phone, which she shares with me. 

The longer Ayelet talks, the more painful her reality becomes. How am I supposed to hold a microphone up to her face, lock eyes with her, and not cry? No matter how gently I phrase my questions, merely asking feels like I'm jabbing a knife into her already bleeding soul.

Ayelet's eyes speak the worst of her agony. And in the end, there is no way to hold back emotion—for her, for me, for every person in the room.

Not many will have the opportunity to sit down in person with the families of Israeli hostages. But that doesn’t mean believers can’t make a difference.

You can! Here's how: Go to bringthemhomenow.net. Look at the faces you see—like Naama's (there are more than 130)—and pray for them by name. Pray for their safety and release, their families, their salvation, and an end to the war.

I dare you to get uncomfortable.

Enough that you’re fired up to pray. 

 

Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: “May they prosper who love you.

—Psalm 122:6

She flipped the switch—but the lights didn’t come on. 

 

The day we left for Florida, half of our kitchen lights decided to go on strike. My wife tried exercising the light switches and I checked the breaker box. No evidence of anything gone wrong. 

 

I scanned the web for possible causes and fixes. Though I’m no electrician, I knew I could at least buy identical switches and replace the old ones, should they have worn out. This, I did. Alas, we were still in the dark (in more ways than one). 

 

That’s when a friend at church referred me to a retired Christian electrician who agreed to come out and survey the situation. Two and a half hours later, he finally…ur…shed some light on the mystery.

 

When I got out my check book to pay the guy, he refused me. I said, “That’s not fair for you to work for free. It’s not right.” Yet he insisted I keep the money. I replied, “But I don’t want to take advantage of you. In fact, I’d like you to feel comfortable if I were to call you with another problem.”

 

His reply was memorable: “You’re welcome to call me every day for the rest of your life. And if you really want to give money, find somebody in need. Give them a generous gift.”  Then, under the fully restored kitchen lights, we prayed together—asking that God would lead me to the right person.

 

An electrician not for hire. He was God’s blessing to us. And now, we’re looking to bless someone else. 

 

Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you.”

-Luke 6:38

 

 

It’s a phrase that has reached the top of the religiously acceptable food chain: “person of faith.”

Online, on television, or in podcasts, you cannot escape the phrase:

• Did you know the quarterback is a person of faith?
• That singer is definitely a person of faith.

But am I the only one wary of this increasingly popular expression?

I'm not trying to pick a fight, but it bugs me. Why?

In current American culture, saying your faith got you through is okay. But it is not okay to say that Jesus got you through. We're okay with religion in a fuzzy, generic sense, and most folks will tolerate an occasional "God mention." But the name of Jesus is strictly off-limits. That's why we prefer to talk about someone being a "person of faith."

But I have news:

• Osama bin Laden was a person of faith.
• Adolph Hitler was a person of faith.
• The Hamas attackers who raped women, burned babies, and bombed Israel are definitely people of faith.
• In fact, the devil himself is a person of faith (and believes Jesus is real!).

All those folks had a very strong faith—but vastly different than that shared by Christ followers. The point is obvious. Describing someone as a “person of faith” can mean almost anything—so it means almost nothing.

I'm not saying that every Christian needs to firehose every person in every conversation with everything there is to know about the gospel. But we had better avoid being so ashamed of Jesus that we fail to mention His name.

“But whoever denies Me before people, I will also deny him before My Father who is in heaven.”

– Mat 10:33  

The wind knocked my hat off, though the Captain—flashing a sly grin—bellowed that we were only using one-third of the Yamaha 250's engine. Eleven-year-old Caleb and I cruised the San Pablo River, Pablo Creek, and St. John’s River—all in search of fish.

I smiled, pondering how the disciples might have processed this fishing charter of ours. What would James and John have thought of our fishing rods? Would Judas have stroked his beard in disapproval at our engine's 30-thousand-dollar price tag?

Ultimately, we hauled in Trout, Red Fish, and Croakers during that four-hour charter. But not before I was reminded of some lessons about fishing for fish—and fishing for souls.

Reminder #1: You gotta go where the fish are!

Our Captain made frequent use of a digital "fish finder" screen. But he had also developed a keen sense of what the water surface looks like when many fish are present. But the same is true spiritually. Don't rely on lost people showing up at your church by themselves. Though this does happen, you usually have to go where they are.

Reminder #2: Different fish respond to different bait.

At each stop, we changed bait—and rods. Then, the casting began. The same is true with fishing for souls. Different people respond to different approaches. There is no one-size-fits-all strategy for evangelism. A good fisherman doesn't just know "about" fish in general. You have to know the fish personally!

Reminder #3: The majority of the time, you catch nothing!

Fishing is a great sport, but even the pros you see online or on television spend most of their lives baiting hooks, casting out lines—and hauling in nothing. But that doesn't stop them. Nor should you and I stop if people reject our message. Remember—most people didn't believe Jesus when He preached!

Reminder #4: If you cast long enough, you will catch something.

Like sales, fishing is a numbers game. Stay at it long enough, and you'll catch a fish. I have no chapter and verse to quote you here—only personal experience. And that experience suggests the more people you witness to, the more likely someone will respond to Christ.

Reminder #5: Catching fish is a thrill that never gets old!

Every time Caleb or I cranked in a fish, we felt a rush of adrenalin. It never got old. The same is true spiritually. Our heavenly Captain designed it that way. There’s nothing like being a part of someone’s journey to Christ.

Reminder #6: Trust your Captain

Even if I owned a fancy boat with a costly engine with the most advanced digital fish finder in the world, it would be nothing without the expertise of a knowledgeable captain. The same is true with catching souls. Yes, we need to be ready. Yes, there are verses we should memorize and fundamentals we should know. But ultimately, fishers of souls must trust our Captain, Jesus.

Now—get out there and do some fishing!

 

 

January is not prime planting season. But we planted anyway.

The story has its—ur—roots back in September. That’s when I discovered some odd-looking pods on the sidewalk. Backlit by the early morning sun, these coiled curiosities looked like snakes ready to strike.

I learned these are the seed pods of the Honey Locust tree, and for months, they sat on my garage bench. Finally, I decided to plant some of these seeds. But how? You must shred the pod to get to the seeds (a more arduous task than you might think).

Online, I read three very different planting strategies. I’m new and inexperienced. So, I did all three. 

The thing is, January in the Chicago suburbs is not exactly prime planting season. I had to scoop three inches of snow off our garden just to get to some soil.

Nevertheless, I planted, watered, and waited. Nothing. Not in three days. Not in a week. Not in two weeks.

By the third week, I was ready to give up. That's when the lime green sprouts pushed through the winter soil, defying odds and expectations. And I have every hope they will someday become full-grown trees offering shade, beauty—and life itself.

This story has a point, and it's all too obvious. As Christ-followers, you and I are called to plant seeds—gospel seeds. And, like me, you may feel inexperienced and unsure.

Still, you can’t help but notice how God is connecting you with others who need Jesus:

• It’s an unexpected friendship.
• It’s a neighbor you keep running into.
• It’s an inner prompting you can’t explain.

All three of those mean the same thing. It’s time to plant some gospel seeds.

You might feel underqualified. You might feel like you're not the best person. You might feel like this is NOT prime planting season. But share Jesus anyway. Plant the seed. How?

Give these friends a gift. Help them with a project. Treat them to dinner. Share how Christ has changed your life. Ask how you can pray for them. But you might not see results right away—and that’s okay!

Any time is the right time to plant a gospel seed.

So, what are you waiting for?

Jesus also said, “The Kingdom of God is like a farmer who scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, while he’s asleep or awake, the seed sprouts and grows, but he does not understand how it happens.  -Mark 4:26, 27

 

Hadas Eilon and her 15-year-old daughter looked forward to a fun weekend at the family kibbutz in southern Israel. The communal farm—a small town of 900–was just three miles east of Gaza. This was the place, the home where Hadas grew up.

A red alert sounded on Saturday morning, October 7, so Hadas, her brother, mother, daughter, and niece piled into their concrete-reinforced safe room. That's when texts from their neighbors brought news of the unthinkable.

Terrorists had invaded Israel and entered their kibbutz. Designed to withstand rockets, not enemy troops, the safe rooms in these homes had no locks.

Soon came the sounds. Shouting in Arabic… gunfire…a grenade tossed at their window. Then came the pounding on their safe room door. Hadas had nothing but a steak knife to defend herself should their grip on the door handle fail.

At this point, Hadas's 15-year-old daughter hid under the bed, thinking that if the terrorists did make it in, she stood a slight chance of going undetected and might be able to rescue others.

The struggle was fierce, but the family managed to hang on to the door, and the terrorists left. For a time.

Tucked away in that safe room were five people. Five people with no electricity, no air conditioning, and no communication with the outside world as phone batteries died.

When IDF soldiers made a brief appearance, Hadas's family was allowed to get water and use the restroom. But they immediately returned to the safe room because the soldiers could not stay.

Hamas returned. More pounding and struggling with the door. More gunshots. They left. Inside the saferoom, the family lit candles, which soon died out for lack of oxygen.

Throughout a 35-hour nightmare, Hamas tried three times to break into the safe room. When a larger group of soldiers finally rescued the family, the home was severely shot up. Blood was on every bed. Sheets and towels had been used for tourniquets. IDF soldiers had knocked out kitchen windows for gun placement.

A terrorist remained hidden in the home, so a column of IDF soldiers formed a shield so the family could dive into an armored vehicle. Only later did Hadas learn that her brother, who had been fighting the terrorists, was shot and killed.

To hear this story in person as I did leaves your mouth dry. I asked Hadas about her plan for sharing this ordeal with the broader world.

Her answer: "Right now, I must be among friends. So, now that you have heard my story, I am asking YOU to be an ambassador. YOU tell the story."

Next time somebody tries to downplay the horror of October 7, tell them you have a story you need to share. Tell them about Hadas.

Rescue the weak and needy; Save them from the hand of the wicked. 

—Psalm 82:4

 

 

We are in the intensive care unit.

Attached to eight IV drips is someone we love. A machine helps him breathe.

His downward spiral has been fast and furious. But how does a simple fall at home lead to being on life support? In a meeting with the head doctor, she summarizes her medical assessment in plain English: “A lot has gone wrong in a very short span.”

Nurses chat just outside our room. Gurneys wheel patients down the hall. Overhead speakers alert doctors to health emergencies. Oddly, if you listen long enough, the sounds of controlled crises act as a sedative.

But we are abruptly awakened by the cheery entrance of a smiling hospital chaplain. After getting an update from the nurse, she introduces herself and announces she is going to pray. Would any of us like to join her?

I stand with her, and we bow our heads. The chaplain quotes phrases or entire verses from throughout the Bible, including:

• Isaiah 54:17, No weapon formed against you will stand.
• Psalm 139:16, In Your book were written all the days that were ordained for me, when as yet there was not one of them.
• Philippians 4:7, And the peace of God which passes all understanding will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

The chaplain leads us on a march through grand gospel truths that—compressed together—have the force of a spiritual karate chop.

I thank her for quoting so much Scripture, and she meekly replies, "Why should I pray my words when we have His words?”

As she disappears into the world of crash carts and caregivers, I am left to ponder. Isn’t intensive prayer the most intensive care we could offer those we love? And what if our prayers contained more of His words than our words? Welcome to the Intensive Prayer Unit!