Category: Thursday Thought

Walked into the Apple store the other day.  Wanted to take advantage of their special $29 battery replacement offer, as my iPhone is several years old.  So we dropped it off and perused mall stores selling products considerably beyond our income or station in life (among them a Tesla in which I dreamily sat).

When we came back to claim the phone, I was informed Apple refused to replace the battery because the phone had been exposed to water—which is true. About a year ago, I wrote of this disaster in The Thursday Thought. 

But in the kindness of Jesus, the phone came back to life and has functioned perfectly in the year since. Not a hint of trouble of any kind from my quick dip in the lake.  Like all phones, though, the battery only allows so many recharge cycles before it fades. Time for new.

As tech savvy readers know, Apple incorporates a small sensor inside the phone case that turns colors once it detects water damage.  A technician told me my phone was “stained.” 

I couldn’t argue the assessment. Guilty as charged.  Yet it all felt so harsh.  So final. No hope.  No second chance. Be gone!

It seemed to me a sad metaphor for the state in which sin leaves us: guilty—and stained. Like my incident in the lake, there’s no use in denying my culpability, my wrong doing. The sad truth is, I’ve stacked up a lifetime of selfish choices (the Bible word is “sin”).  

We are stained—every one of us—and therefore barred from the possibility of heaven and a right relationship with God. Like my fate at the Apple store, there was no hope for any of us.  No second chances.  Here’s how God assesses the situation:

“Although you wash yourself with soap and use an abundance of cleansing powder, the stain of your guilt is still before me,” declares the Sovereign Lord” (Jeremiah 2:22).   

But unlike my misadventure at the Apple store, the story doesn’t end there.  When Jesus died on the cross, He offered us the choice to be made clean by receiving the twin gifts of His forgiveness and assurance of eternal life. Consider I Corinthians 6:11, “But now you have had every stain washed off.  Now you have been set apart as holy.  Now you have been pronounced free from guilt, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ and through the Spirit of our God.”

That’s not just good news. That’s great news. Way better than a new phone battery!

Did you ever destroy a musical performance? I have. 

Once when our family traveled as the Gauger Brass, we provided music for more than a thousand people at a banquet in Dayton, Ohio.  I was tasked with giving the pitch for a certain song which started with acapella vocals—simple.  But the note I played was one half-step off.  When the instruments started playing their accompaniment, it all sounded rather hideous.  Concert demolished!

A friend recalls attending a performance of Handle’s Messiah where one of the soloists—a baritone—began the evening with a polite smile on his face. Yet as the lengthy instrumental introduction to his solo went on, the gentleman grew less serene.   Gone was the smile, replaced by a furrowed brow. As the orchestral strains continued,  his mood turned to fear.  Then terror.  Abruptly, the confused soloist stood up and just started singing his part (nowhere near his proper entrance), while the conductor valiantly sought to put the whole thing back on track.

Having just come through the Easter season playing French horn with our church orchestra, I’m reminded that hitting the high notes without squawking is only half the battle.  Maybe the easy half.  The other half is keeping track of when you are supposed to play.  Or not play!

A lifetime of counting measures has brought about a simplified theology of living the Christian life. It goes like this:

• Stay focused so you know where you’re at.
• Play your part when you’re supposed to.
• Don't play when it’s not your turn.
• When it is your turn, do your very best.
• Watch quietly for your next turn.

When you think about it, that’s really all God is asking of any of us, isn’t it? 

Be focused.  Be ready. Be patient.  Our Conductor knows the score!

 

 

I have a problem. Maybe you’ve got the same one.  It has to do with our worship.  Can we talk?

Most of us really love to sing. Love to wave our hands in worship.  But we seem to have little capacity for something that Scripture says is a big deal: trembling in the presence of our holy God. That part of worship has largely evaded us.

In our Java-with-Jesus culture, God is increasingly portrayed merely as a benevolent friend.  But He is much more than that.

Hebrews 12:29 reminds us our God is “a consuming fire.” We are told in 1 Timothy 6:16 that He “dwells in unapproachable light.”  In Revelation 19:15 it says of Jesus, “From his mouth comes a sharp sword so that with it He may strike down the nations.” 

Psalms 114:7 urges, “Tremble, O earth, before the Lord, before the God of Jacob.”  Doesn’t sound to me like this is optional behavior.  Indeed, Philippians 2:12  commands us to work out our salvation “with fear and trembling.” 

A consuming fire…unapproachable light…a sharp sword. Did you read that?  So where’s the trembling in our times?

Isaiah 66:2 further clarifies, “This is the one I esteem; he who is humble and contrite in spirit, and trembles at my word.”

So I ask again, where’s the tremble?  Our tremble?

I suggest we do not tremble for one of two reasons.  Either we are ignorant of who God is, or we do know and are so arrogant that we simply don’t care, which is just plain reckless.  It seems to me we had better find our misplaced sense of caution.

Because the I Am has not become the "I was."

Because the Almighty has not become the “some mighty.” 

Because He’s not the duke of dudes—He’s the King of kings!

Where's your tremble?  Where’s my tremble?  The refrain of the old spiritual is a corrective we desperately need: Sometimes it causes me to tremble…tremble…tremble.

Ignorant, arrogant, or full of tremble.  

Which are you?

“As snowmen go, it was borderline pathetic.” 

Right then, I knew there was more to this story.  There always is with my friend, Jack. He immediately launched into a description of a snow creature that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the fabled Frosty.  

“The middle section was lopsided. The head was too small.  The pinecone nose looked goofy.”  Jack shook his head with a chuckle.

And what exactly was the occasion for this snowy silliness?  “We had an overnight visit from our nine-year old granddaughter, so we wanted her to have a little fun.”  The Windy City having lived up to its name, a dramatic mid-March snow blanketed the lawn. 

“‘Can we go out and throw snowballs?’ she asked me.  And really, it was the last thing I wanted to do right then,” admitted Jack.   “But I didn’t have the heart to say no. She is nine, ya know,” he said wistfully.   “Won’t be too much longer and staying at our house won’t be cool anymore.”

So out they went into the snow. First there was a sled ride, then there were was a snowball fight.  Finally there came the idea for the snowman. 

“There just wasn’t all that much snow on the ground, so we really had to work at it.  Believe me, I was sweating by the time that big bottom boulder was finally done,” Jack acknowledged. Even then the thing wasn’t right. 

Instead of three symmetrically shaped spheres, there were misshapen lumps.  Instead of white snow, there was a mottled skin of leaves and dirt and pine needles. 

“Frosty would not have been proud,” said my friend.  But maybe Jack’s judgment was hasty. 

Ephesians 5:16 urges us, “Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.”  From where I sit, it seems to me that a snowman and sled ride and snowballs with a nine-year-old truly represented the best use of Jack’s time.  It’s hard to envision Jesus—who insisted the disciples, “let the children come to me”—passing up such an opportunity.

“It was the last snowman of the season,” Jack mused.  “And who knows when we’ll build another?  She’s getting so big.  Nine years old….”   Abruptly, he grew quiet, and so did I. Started thinking of my own little grandkids.

Silence. More silence.  He whispered, “Ya know, there really is gonna come a day when we’ll have built our last snowman.”   And then Jack looked away, for which I was grateful.  My eyes were doing something that reminded me of melting snow.

 

Honestly, I was not trying to photobomb anyone.  The doors to the Metra train whooshed apart, and I padded down the steps into a dense crowd.

I’ve ridden the train for three decades now, so I instantly knew upon exiting that something was going on. It was somebody’s big moment.  Worthy of a photo or two.  Or three.  Flashes were firing and phones were clicking and there was laughter and a palpable excitement. 

Me, I was just trying to walk toward my car and get home. I didn’t want to pry, so I snaked my way through the crowd and found an exit.

In retrospect, I'm thinking there’s little doubt I showed up in several of the pictures those folks snapped.  I'm in the background, maybe half out of frame.  Or blurry.  Just a nameless section of wallpaper for somebody’s grand occasion. 

Have you ever thought about the people that show up in the background of the pictures you take?   To you, they are nameless, almost faceless. But every single one of them has a story—even as they “invade” your story.

Ponder with me the fact that you and I with our individual lives are definitely part of some kind of larger scene Jesus is directing.  At His invitation, we play a small part of His story.   But we are not the center of the action.  He is.  John had it right when he said of Jesus, “He must increase, but I must decrease.”

Just like a crowd scene wouldn’t be a crowd scene without lots of people, Jesus somehow has determined He wants us in the scene with Him.  But we dare not ever take His invitation as an assignment to the leading role.

We are background.  Jesus is foreground.

We are “extras.”  He is the star.

He must increase but you and I really must decrease. 

Anything else would be photobombing Jesus Himself!

 

It was a desperate search.  A Hail Mary.  I was looking for a misplaced check.  A big one. Previous attempts had turned up nothing. 

So there I was, pulling out the large drawer under our bed.  The one where I keep my cards.  All of them.  That’s when I knew this was going to take some time.

There were cards from my wife, Diana: birthday cards and Christmas cards and Valentine’s cards and cards for no other occasion than her simple desire to express her love. By far, these took up the most space.  It was fun to read through many of them (though the ticking grandfather clock several feet away reminded me I hadn’t time to look at them all).

There were cards from our kids.  Some with little squiggly letters when they could barely write their names.  Notes and letters and jokes and drawings.

There were cards from my parents, many of them homemade or accompanied by kind notes and letters.  And I was touched to see cards from my mother and father-in-law, both of whom are now in heaven. 

An emerging category of cards was also there: those from our little grandchildren.  These were really hard to resist reading. To me, owning these is better than owning stock certificates.

With the drawer nearly empty and the elusive check still eluding me, I decided it wasn’t all a waste. After all, I ended up sorting the cards and stuffing them into cardboard folders (more organization than I’ve shown in thirty-plus years).

Before my hike down memory lane concluded, there were two unexpected moments. The first happened when, having concluded the check was simply not in that drawer, I finally found it wedged at the oddest angle in the very back, almost defying gravity (time out for a prayer of thanks).

The second moment came when staring at the piles of cards cascading all around. It was this humbling sense that, “I guess I really am loved.”  A wife who sends me love cards…kids who say kind things…grandkids and parents who express their affection. The cumulative effect was almost overpowering.

I don't know how long it’s been since someone told you were loved.  Maybe it’s been way too long.  Maybe the one you love the most can no longer even send you a card because they aren't around, or their mind has gone.  Then let me say it for them.  You are loved! They would want you to read that—hear that.

And as much as they want you to know that, God wants you to know it even more. In Jeremiah 31:3 God says to you, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.”

How can you really know that?  John 3:16 tells us, “God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.”

You are loved.

Really.

Loved.

His ship was in flames.

His path was blocked.

But Jim Downing had a job to do.

Sprinting toward the harbor, he dodged machine gun bullets from an overhead fighter plane, and then slid across the five-inch gun barrel of a neighboring vessel to launch himself onto the inflamed deck of the battleship West Virginia.   December 7, 1941. 

If the gun magazines aboard Jim’s 624 foot long boat were to overheat from the fires, the explosions would be enormous.  So he grabbed a hose and aimed at the flames.  “Several times that day, I was sure I would shortly be in heaven,” Jim recalled. 

Once off the ship (which eventually sank) Jim circulated among the burned and bleeding memorizing dog tags, assuring these mortally wounded soldiers he would write their loved ones—which he did.

Exactly who was this fearless fighter?  Jim Downing of the United States Navy—second oldest survivor of Pearl Harbor.  In a rare moment, my son Tim and I got to meet and interview Jim this past December 14.

What’s it like to shake hands with a man who is 104 years old?  I wondered. Answer: Jim extended a manly meaty grip.  His reflexes and wit were off-the-charts fast.  For example, I asked if he remembered the Bible verse his wife quoted to him as he headed down to the embattled Pearl Harbor.  “Yes!  Deuteronomy 33:27—The eternal God is your refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

I confessed to Jim that had it been me, I would probably have run away from the burning ship that he risked his life to save.  He calmly replied, “On December 6th, I woke up with a job to do, and I did it.  On December 7th, I woke up with a different job to do—and I did it.”  No false humility.  Just the facts.  And Jim Downing had a long lifetime of jobs to do, including serving the Navigators organization for many years.

On February 13, almost exactly two months after our interview, Jim Downing went to heaven.  But his testimony lives on–and recalls the words of Jesus in Luke 17:10, “So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.’”

Jim Downing lived that way.   Now numbered with the “great cloud of witnesses,” he bids us do the same

Imagine that you are 23 years old, standing outside a door.  On the other side is the confidant of presidents and princes—the most famous evangelist of our time—Billy Graham.  You are there for an interview.  But what will he say to you?  What will he actually be like?

That was me, along with my friend Dave, waiting for our appointment  in Amsterdam’s Rai Convention Center.  It was a muggy July afternoon more than 30 years ago.  Feels like an hour ago, though.  

Had we prepped enough?  Would we come across as hicks?  And what about the formalities—do you call him Dr. Graham or Reverend Graham or Mr. Graham or what?

The door swung open and there we were, shaking hands, exchanging smiles.  Reverend Graham’s opening statement shocked me.  In that North Carolina drawl of his he said with a slight grin, “Would you like a Coke?”

No air conditioning on a hot day. Saying yes to a Coke was a no-brainer.  But then came a follow up from the man who graced the cover of Time Magazine not once but twice.  “Would you like some ice?” 

I’d never been to Europe before and was shocked at the lack of ice.  So we readily agreed to his offer and did our best to express appreciation.  Yet in my mind, this was all so surreal.  THE Billy Graham is offering me a Coke and a glass of ice?

But that’s the way he was—and who he was: common, courteous, affable.  No one was less impressed with Billy Graham than Billy himself. 

Our entire conversation revealed nothing other than a North Carolina boy who loved Jesus and still seemed a bit caught off guard that God had put him on the world’s largest stages. 

I suppose  a profound theological truth or golden biblical nugget from one of his addresses at the International Conference for Itinerant Evangelists should have stuck with me.  But it was Billy’s servant attitude that blew me away.

Pundits and preachers will seek to define Dr. Graham’s legacy.  But for me, it has always been—and will always be—his humility.  I saw a tiny glimpse of it for myself in his kind offer, “Would you like a Coke?”

Thank you, Billy Graham.

One name.  That’s all it took to send toddler Sadie into a joyful romp.  She squealed from the next room and then trotted over once she heard that name, hoping for a little face time on FaceTime.  

What name generated all this excitement and anticipation?  “Di-Di,” the moniker our little grandkids have affectionately chosen for my wife, Diana. Guess that’s a lot easier for them to pronounce.  So Di-Di it is.

Once, when Sadie’s brother Caleb was just learning to talk, we went to McDonald’s and enjoyed a visit to the play area after lunch. Caleb made a grand show of climbing up and through the labyrinth of plastic tunnels, then skittering down the slides—over and over again.  Zooming right by me, he flashed a silly grin as he repeatedly giggled, “Di-Di.”  Mind you, he was looking straight at me, not my wife (who was enjoying some peace and quiet back at our booth).   Yup, her name is apparently that wonderful to those kids.  

I, too, have always loved my wife’s name.  From the day I met her, the name has been magical.  I love to say it, to hear it (and I’ve been known to call her Di-Di myself, or  Lady Di).  

Charming thoughts, this fascination with a name.   But indulge me just a moment further as I ask pointedly, do we ever feel that kind of excitement when we hear the name of Jesus?  How often do we break out in a smile at the thought of Him?  When we approach our prayer time, do we squeal with delight that Jesus Himself is interceding for us to His Father? Do we drop what we are doing just to be with Him?

I’m just asking here, kinda “thinking out loud.”  Couldn’t there—shouldn’t there—be regular moments when we are overwhelmed at the mere mention of His name?

Do we love the name of Jesus…or merely like it?  Big difference between the two.  And despite what you or I might say or do in public to impress others with how much we love Jesus, He knows the truth.  He knows exactly how we feel about His name.  

So…do you love the name of Jesus?

The knock at the orphanage door brought a little child with no birth certificate and almost no background.  Would they take in this little one? 

Not many will ever hear this saga of a young Mexican mother whose child was taken from her. You, however, are among a handful who will know the truth (minus a few key details I must hold back for security reasons). 

This lady had once thought her boyfriend the man of her dreams, so they married and had a baby.  But the dreams turned to nightmares when her husband immersed himself in a life of crime, ultimately kidnapping his child from his wife.

When arrested, the father cruelly told police that the child’s mother was dead.   The father was then hauled off to jail. That’s when the little one was taken to a Christian orphanage, launching an odyssey fit for Hollywood.

At the orphanage, the administration worked tirelessly with authorities, pushing them to uncover the truth. At the same time, the mother plugged away relentlessly—searching, looking, hoping.

Ultimately, the mother finally learned the truth, trekked to the orphanage and identified her beloved.  But authorities demanded a DNA test before they would let the child go—a financial roadblock for this Mexican mother who had pursued her child for so long. In God’s kindness, the test was finally performed, proving the birth connection. Yet there was no fairytale reunion.

In fact, the mother cried herself to sleep for the first few nights when the child, separated for so long, refused to leave the orphanage. The orphanage leaders proposed that if the child would get into the car with the mom, they would ride together with them to the mother’s home. The idea worked.

But upon arrival, there was initial resistance to entering the house!  Finally, at the sight of many family members eagerly welcoming the long lost child, the door opened and the little one walked in.  Home.

Quietly, the orphanage workers left the scene, confident that though the adjustment would take more time, it would surely succeed.  And it has.

Consider the extreme lengths this mother went to in bringing her lost child home.

Consider the extreme lengths our heavenly Father went to so He could bring us home!

If this isn’t the ultimate picture of love, what is?