Category: Thursday Thought

You've seen funnel clouds.

You've seen tornadoes.

But imagine a path of destruction more than 20 miles long.

Such a tornado touched down recently in north central Illinois, not far from where my wife and I often visit on weekends.   Cruising through this rural area is no longer a peaceful drive.  A restaurant we've eaten at was leveled by the storm.  So were dozens of homes and farms.   We managed to get up close to some of the wreckage and I snapped some pictures–a soul-darkening experience.

The photos don't begin to do justice to the violence: mangled farm implements, trucks tossed onto their backs… scraps of insulation, chunks of wood, metal fragments jammed at obtuse angles into the ground.  The odd assortment of upright fragments made front yards appear like cemeteries to the dead and dismembered homes all around. 

In a scene recalling the planting of the American flag on Iwo Jima, I saw one worker atop a knocked over grain silo, seemingly determined to get the thing set up right. Most shocking of all were the eerily clean cement slabs where houses had stood— driveways now leading to nowhere. 

There was one (literal) bright spot in all of this destruction: Samaritan's Purse, Franklin Graham's relief organization.  The orange tee-shirts of the volunteer workers were impossible to miss.  The workers cleared trees, hauled wheelbarrows and moved mountains of debris.

By contrast, I didn't happen to see any volunteers from the American Civil Liberties Union or Americans United for Separation of Church and State.  No, the people digging through the mud were followers of Jesus, serving as His hands and feet.  A reminder that rescue is never far from the heart of Christ.

Psalm 147:3, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

Kindness sometimes wears red suspenders.

My son, Tim, and I had just flown from Chicago to Kansas and our GPS was struggling to locate the house of the guest we were trying to visit.

With a population of 858, McLouth is not exactly a major metropolis.  Still, we were stymied.  We were also hungry, had time to burn before our meeting, and decided to get something to eat before tackling the final GPS challenge.

Traveler, be warned.  Dining choices in McLouth are scarce.  We ended up munching on pork sandwiches from the local Casey's gas station.  In the comfort of our Toyota Yaris, we observed a gentleman seated in a tan Chevy minivan.  He wore black sweat pants, a purple shirt and blazing red suspenders.

“S'penders” went in and out of the Casey's gas station several times, each trip clutching a new lottery game card.   Apparently, he would scratch off the (losing) numbers and then go back and buy another card. Resting on the front of his dashboard was a large white Texan hat. Curious fellow, this S'penders.   

It was now time to show up at my friend's home, but the numbers on the houses we were seeing didn't appear to sequence with the address which I knew to be our destination. 

I had to ask somebody–hopefully a local.  But who?  That's when S'penders expressed interest. I gave him the street address, which didn't ring a bell. So he asked in a stereotypical-good-guy-cowboy voice, “What's the name of the feller yir lookin' for?”  We told him.

“He's just up the street—first house next to the big field.”

And it was so.

It's easy for us clean-shaven, clean-livin' Christian folk to write off characters like our friend, “S'penders.”  But kindness comes in all shapes and sizes.  And sometimes, it wears suspenders.

“Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness humility, gentleness and patience.”   –Colossians 3:12

He’s the funniest guy you never heard of: Stan Freberg, the sultan of satire, the wizard of one-liners.

In a sketch from Freberg’s History of the United States comedy album, George Washington trods through winter snows to the home of seamstress Betsy Ross, who is making the nation’s first flag.  As Washington tromps inside, Betsy yells out, “Hey, hey—ever hear of wipin’ your feet?  You’re gettin’ snow all over my early American rug!”  Their contentious flag meeting ends with Betsy asking General Washington, “Do you want me to put it on a hangar?”  To which he replies nonchalantly, “No, I’ll just run it up the flag pole and see if anybody salutes.

Stan Freberg did cartoon voice-overs for Warner Brothers and Walt Disney.  He hosted the Emmy-winning early-'50s puppet show, Time for Beany.  Among his fans was Albert Einstein.  The genius once supposedly interrupted a high-level conference announcing, "You will have to excuse me, gentlemen. It is time for Beany."

Freberg was a major force in the advertising world, with clients like Jeno's Pizza, Reynolds Wrap, and Great American Soups.  He spent a record-setting one million dollars on a single commercial back in 1970.  When George Lucas sought advice on the voice for his Star Wars character C-3PO, he turned to Stan Freberg.

Being a Freberg fan—and full of chutzpah— I called him up and spoke with him on the phone.  Twice.  One occasion was just after his first wife, Donna, died in 2000.  Pensive, he shared with me that he was raised the son of a Baptist minister.  Which led me to ask him if he was certain he was going to heaven—and why.

He proceeded to quote John 3:16 from the King James Version: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

Stan Freberg won many awards, voiced many characters, made many records—and died last week. Now, only one thing about his life really matters: He knew Jesus as His Savior.  Do you?

Two year olds have a way of seeing—and saying—things.

For example, our two-year-old grandson, Caleb, comes to our house to color and fold paper “aircranes.”   Naturally, we have contests to see how far those “aircranes” will fly.

After his parents told him he could have some Sprite only after he finished drinking a glass of water, Caleb immediately began to guzzle.  The water was drizzling down his chin and he was gasping for breath.  He stopped a moment and declared with exasperation, “It takes so wong!” (long).

One night playing with his dad, Caleb reached up to feel his pop's rough face and immediately proclaimed, “You have hair crumbs.”

Observing a sunny afternoon, Caleb looked up and said, “Dad, the sun!  It’s shining still and it makes me so happy.”

Speaking of sun, recently, his mom bought him a pair of sunglasses.  Peering at himself in the mirror, he declared (with a voice full of gusto) “I look like a MAN!”

This weekend, we stayed with the grandkids and early in the morning, two-year old Caleb jumped into bed with us.  After a few hugs and snuggles, he poked his index finger in my ear and asked me, “What’s in there?”  (My wife assured him it was a hole going from one side of my head to the other). Two-year olds have a way of seeing—and saying—things.

In Matthew 18:3, Jesus makes an astounding statement to His disciples: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

What is it about little children Jesus finds so attractive—so exemplary?   With due respect to the commentaries and theologians, I offer this humble answer.  One need look no further than the smile on a little boy’s face who is grateful for the sun because it makes him…happy.

What is it about hard times that soften the human spirit?

A recent spring snow storm that assaulted our Monday morning commute seemed to many unkind, even cruel.  Sliding through the significant slush in downtown Chicago, I was intrigued with the way people were notably friendlier in this sudden “hardship.” I heard one stranger thanking another stranger for shoveling his sidewalk.  These are people who would normally not even notice each other on the street, let alone exchange courtesies.

As I picked my way carefully, I came to a length of sidewalk that “nobody” owns—so “nobody” shovels it.  The only safe path is one made by commuters' feet shuffling along.   An older lady looked at me, and my facial expression conveyed the clear intent that she should take the well-trod footpath path, while I would walk in the snow drifts.

Near Chicago's landmark Merchandise Mart building, I suddenly sipped and landed on my elbow.  The driver of a refrigerated seafood truck saw the whole thing.  As I struggled to get up, he opened the door of his cab, clearly ready to extend a hand.

But why is this?  Why is it that we, who can treat other humans one day as invisible and the next—a day of hardship—finds us friendly and helpful?  I'm sure for a mere 20 million dollars we could issue a congressional study on the question of human psyche.

Yet I am inclined to think the answer has less to do with psychology than theology.  Follow my reasoning:  Man is made in the image of God.   Caring and compassion are God-like qualities.  Hard times waken us out of the slumber of self-absorbency.  Ergo, we help when others hurt because to do otherwise would deny the image of the God who made us.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of Compassion and God of all encouragement, who encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction with the encouragement which we ourselves are encouraged by God…”   –2 Corinthians 1:3-5

Recently, a student asked me if I use an electronic Bible in church.  I told him no.

Before I give you my reasons, let me first tell you that I love (even depend on) electronic Bibles and commentaries for sermon preparation, crafting devotionals and researching biblical issues.  The ability to click with a mouse, swipe with my tablet or peruse with my smartphone is a huge time saver.   But when I attend church or speak in church, I never use anything electronic.   Here’s why.

First, the Bible is not like any other book.  It is unique in every sense.  Actually, its full and proper name is the Holy Bible.  Neither my smartphone nor my tablet is holy.  Nor is your Kindle.  They enable us to text, email, Facebook or phone a friend.  That daily stuff is all well and good.  But it is definitely not holy.  The Bible is special, and the physical copy I bring helps me in a subtle way to remember that.

I am not suggesting that the leather, ink, and paper themselves are holy.  Nor am I saying your electronic device cannot contain holy content.  But because the overwhelming majority of our time spent with electronic devices is mundane, for me it detracts from the “set apart” nature of Holy Scripture.

Second, I use a paper Bible because I believe it’s important to underline and make notes as I listen.  Sure you can do this electronically.  But honestly, how likely is it those notes will be around a decade from now?  I have notes in my Bible made 20 years ago that still inform me today.

Third, I use a paper and ink Bible because a smartphone or tablet invite—even beg—distractions.  There’s the quiet buzz of a text or email alert…a Facebook message.  I’m not looking for more distractions in church. 

Finally, it’s my opinion that the use of an electronic gadget for a Bible in church is just one more evidence of our demand for comfort and convenience.  Turning pages is just "too hard." Besides—gotta keep one hand free for that coffee cup!

When it comes to geography, Americans are notoriously ignorant—and curiously unbothered about it. Whether looking at a globe or a U.S. map, most folks just don't care.

Take my home state, Illinois.  For those who live in the city of Chicago or its suburbs, their knowledge of the state's western borders ends at the city of DeKalb, home of Northern Illinois University.  But about half of the state lies west of this point—the half where my wife grew up.  It's the half that rarely makes the news.

Yet I say you have not lived until you've been there and cruised around the tiny town called Kasbeer, shopped inside a converted grain elevator in Princeton, or gazed upon the antique gas station rusting away in Ohio (yup, that's an Illinois town).

This time of year in particular, my mind wanders out to Illinois' other half. For years, the Kasbeer Community Church hosted a men’s' pancake supper for fellow churches in neighboring farm communities.  They came from places like Wyanett, Bhuda, Bunker Hill, and Walnut.  Mustached faces, bib overalls and honest smiles—they were a manly mix.

In the kitchen, wielding the largest spatula I'd ever seen, was Calvin Philhower.  He made one size of pancake—huge (these were farmers, remember).  Calvin was the first to volunteer to round up the griddles and get them prepped.  All afternoon he hovered over them working a sort of pancake magic.

Though it took a full crew to pull off this supper, Calvin—my father in law–was the guy I watched.  I remember those good farm folks, remember that pancake supper.  But mostly, I remember Calvin, who succumbed to cancer a few years ago.

Scripture makes it pretty clear that heaven will offer a banquet, and because Calvin loved Jesus, he'll be there. But if that banquet somehow offers pancakes of any kind, I'll know exactly where to find Calvin: deep in the kitchen.  Look for the guy with the big smile–and an even bigger spatula.

She alone witnessed the crime.  Peering across the room, her intelligent eyes tracked his silent motion toward the door, observing his catlike ease in slipping behind it.  Her acute sense of hearing registered his cruel deed.  When she could take it no more, she blurted out, “No, no, no!”  Over and over she screamed it.

That's when Lucy's mother walked over to the shouting 16 month-old, asking what it was that so upset her.  The pantry door—now open—revealed the crime and the criminal:  Lucy’s two year old brother Caleb had snitched a number of snacks, the sound of the crinkling cellophane betraying his otherwise secret endeavor.

There was absolutely no way Lucy was going to let her older brother get away with snarfing snacks she herself was denied.  Whether whistle blower Lucy's sin nature was developed enough to savor her tattletale victory, I cannot say.

But I do know this.  There is a time for Christ followers to blurt out a resounding no, as Lucy did.   Not for the shallow purpose of being a tattletale, but simply because a thing is wrong.  1:15

The Bible tells us greed is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us divorce is not His plan.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us homosexuality is perverse.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us worry is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us prayerlessness is a wasted life.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us that staring at immodestly dressed women—whether on line, on TV, or wherever—is sin.  We need to shout no!

In a culture dying to say yes to almost anything, Ephesians 5:5 reminds us “No immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God.”

It’s time we relearned how to shout no.

It’s amazing what you find in the paper.  Recently, I picked up a Wall Street Journal and read Barton Swain's review of Thomas Kidd's new biography, George Whitfield.

Born in 1714, Whitfield was just 21 years old when—as he put it— after enduring

many months' inexpressible trials by night and day… God was pleased at length to remove the heavy load and to enable me to lay hold on his dear Son by a living faith.

George Whitfield’s spiritual journey caused him to deeply ponder the subject of conversion itself.   This passion pushed him toward further study, ordination, and an itinerant preaching ministry.  He traveled 14 times to Scotland and came to America 7 times.   In a given week, he often preached more hours than he slept.

And the great English evangelist didn’t sugarcoat his Bible teaching.  “I will not be a velvet-mouthed preacher,” Whitfield once proclaimed.   He made good on that promise with statements like:

Before ye can speak peace to your hearts, ye must not only be sick of your original and actual sins; but ye must be sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances…. If ye never felt ye had no righteousness of your own, if ye never felt the deficiency of your own righteousness, ye can never come to Jesus Christ.

Whitfield once spoke to a mining town near Bristol.  By the time he was through, Whitfield recalled “white gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black cheeks.”

A gripping image, isn’t it?  “White gutters made by their tears…”

Have you come to that place where you are finally “sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances?”  If so, you are finally ready to receive the forgiveness Christ alone can offer.

Psalms 51:7 “Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” Jesus is ready to make you clean. Why not let Him do what He does best—right now?

 

 

Have you ever felt like you haven’t been properly rewarded for going the extra mile?
I’m guessing Robert Ford might have felt that way.
 
Captain Ford was piloting a Pan Am Boeing 317-B just two hours out of Auckland, New Zealand, when his radio officer relayed the news about the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Opening top secret instructions, Captain Ford was told that his aircraft (essentially a flying boat able to carry 74 passengers) was a strategic military resource and must not get into enemy hands.  Toward that end, he was ordered to take “the long way home” to New York City—and fly under strict radio silence.
 
This odyssey of more than six weeks took the crew 31,500 miles from the Far East, to the Middle East, Africa, South Atlantic, Brazil, the Caribbean…and finally home to New York City.
 
They had no suitable navigation charts, no certainty of obtaining fuel, no assurance of spare parts and had to fly under a veil of total secrecy.
 
They endured sleepless nights, the banging of a damaged engine, long flights, gunfire from a German submarine, the danger of a mined harbor, and rifle fire over the Arabian Peninsula.  At one point, they were nearly blown out of the sky.
 
But upon arriving home and debriefing, the crew was given a mere two weeks off before being returned to regular flight duties.
 
When I read this account in Ed Dover’s remarkable book, The Long Way Home, part of me was a bit put off.  These guys were heroes, weren’t they?  And yet, that’s what the war effort called for—at a minimum—heroes.
 
The words of Jesus come to mind: “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” (Luke 17:7).
 
You and I are in a spiritual war, make no mistake.  Maybe going the extra mile doesn’t make us heroes after all but rather, “unworthy servants” who “have only done our duty.”