Category: Thursday Thought

Some things in life cannot be explained.  They can only be experienced.

I was reminded of this traveling through Peru, South America.  We were about 200 miles east of Lima.  Think mountains, snow caps and deep breaths (elevation about 12,000 feet).  Forget any notions of jungle climates or decent roads.  

Arriving at a mountain village (so remote the switchback roads dictated we abandon our small bus and walk a path to the village), we attended church in a mud brick structure dimly lit by five fluorescent fixtures.  Blue tarps formed the inelegant ceiling and hardened dirt was the floor.

We sat on flimsy plastic chairs as villagers streamed inside through twin corrugated doors.  A preacher wearing sunglasses (his left eye deformed) spoke with great passion in the local language: Wanca, Quechua.  The capacity crowd was riveted.  Even the moths I saw seemed to pay attention.  

Personally, I was lost (happens a lot when you travel).   I couldn't follow along except for a word here and there (it's tough to miss the name of Jesus in most any language).

Sitting there trying to pay attention as dogs trotted in and out of the church, it finally clicked.  This experience—not being able to fully understand—was their experience before these Quechua villagers had a Bible in their own language.   They wanted to follow along, to grow in Christ, but a language barrier stood in their way.

Thanks to the vision of Wycliffe Bible translators, they now understand.  They have the New Testament in their own language.  The difference it makes is remarkable.  But until you are lost in a language you do not fully understand, you will not fully appreciate your own Bible.

By our standards, these villagers are quite poor.  It's been awhile since I have laid eyes on so much “nothing.”  Yet they are rich in their praise of the Living God and their lives bring to mind 2 Corinthians 6:10, “having nothing, yet possessing all things.”

For loving these people enough to give them the Word of God in their own language, I offer my hearty salute to the men and women who call themselves Wycliffe Bible Translators. 

If Barbie dolls bother you, get ready to be really bothered.

The iconic American doll, first introduced in 1959, has achieved mega status on a global scale.  More than a billion Barbies have been sold in 150 countries.

In a toy career spanning 56 years, Barbie has survived seas of stormy controversy for being too sexy, too blond, and too inappropriate for young children. But get ready for a new wave of controversy.

The latest generation of Barbies will be equipped with Wi-Fi and speech recognition.  Meaning little girls (who have always talked to their dollies) will now be able to have them talk back.  Intelligently. 

According to Mattel, the doll’s maker, “Hello Barbie” uses speech recognition and over time, actually learns a child’s preferences.  Pushing a button on Barbie’s belt buckle records the conversation and sends it over Wi-Fi.  

At a toy fair in New York City a spokeswoman asked Barbie, “What should I be when I grow up?"   The response related to an earlier part of their conversation: "Well, you told me you like being on stage, so maybe a dancer?"

In theory, it’s all harmless fun.  But I agree with Susan Linn, Director of the Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood. "Kids using 'Hello Barbie' aren't only talking to a doll; they are talking directly to a toy conglomerate whose only interest in them is financial."

Then, too, there’s my own observation of Barbie’s demonstrated history of valuing cuteness over character. 

Not to worry, says a Mattel spokesperson.  The company is only giving girls what they have always asked for: having a conversation with Barbie.

Yet in a Christ-centered world view, giving girls or boys what they want—just because they want it—has never been wise.  Or biblical.  Besides—shouldn’t we be teaching them more about having a conversation with God?

When it comes to “Hello Barbie,” I think it’s time we said goodbye.

I am concerned about the theology being taught in today's evangelical churches.
(If you are yawning, you may be part of the problem).

Notice I am not complaining about our poorly attended prayer meeting services.  I am not expressing concern about worship music that glorifies the musicians, or outreaches that never mention the gospel. I am not attacking our youth groups that are increasingly as much about pizza as they are biblical truth.  Nor am I bemoaning the death of the Sunday evening service.

No, I am concerned about the theology being taught in today's evangelical churches.

Exhibit One
A well respected church pastor in our community did a message series that went for several months….with almost no Scripture content, week after week.  I know, because I was there.

Exhibit Two
Another evangelical church (with a grand reputation for biblical foundations) allowed a worship leader to stand in the pulpit and disagree with the guest preacher's truly biblical sermon on sexuality.  Worse yet—the leadership of the church has refused to post the message on their website. 

Exhibit Three
A friend attended a spiritual retreat recently where the leader announced that though she didn't have a Bible verse to support her claim, she believes that after a person dies, God will still welcome him or her with open arms—and offer them one more chance to believe.  So much for Hebrews 9:27- “It is appointed unto man once to die and after this the judgment.” 

Increasingly, 1 Peter 4:17 stands out as it reminds us judgement must indeed, “begin with the household of God.”

And we haven't even touched on Christian books.  Like a devotional I've seen that doesn't even mention God until more than 30 pages into the book.  Or a major publisher's biography of a Christian missionary that never ever mentions a thing about conversions. 

I have not gone out of my way to find these troubling experiences.  But they are here.  They are not good.  They are, I fear, the tip of the ice berg.

 

Their mission was over.   The plane, racing away after bombing oil refineries in Blech hammer, Germany, had just one final obstacle to clear—a lone flak gun in Hungary.

It was not to be.

When a piece of shrapnel severed a critical fuel line, Wally Volkman remembered hoping the plane could make it to the Yugoslavian border.  The captain finally gave the order to bail and Wally jolted out the door of the bomber at 20,000 feet. 

When his parachute failed to open Wally began to panic.  “Time goes slower than you’d think,” he told me.  “I remember pondering how I would soon be in heaven, that I would never get to marry my sweetheart, June.”   At about 1000 feet–at the very last possible moment–the chute finally opened, gently landing Wally between two trees.

The dramatic dive may have sacred him half to death, but it likely also prevented his death.   The Copilot who jumped out just after Wally was fatally shot out of the sky as his parachute—an easy target—floated downward.

Pondering his options, Wally hid himself in a mound of roadside brush until a friendly partisan discovered him that night, offering to secretly transport him in a wooden wagon piled high with hay.  He was reunited with his surviving crew members—after enduring a pitchfork search of the hay wagon by German soldiers. 

For six weeks, Wally and his crew worked their way through Yugoslavia, traveling 300 miles on foot—mostly at night. Finally, they met up with Allied forces at the Adriatic Sea.

Wally reflects, “I’m thankful to my mother who prayed for me all the time. The ironic thing was, at the same thing, my brother—a paratrooper—went missing at the Battle of the Bulge.  He, too, survived and went on to become a minister.”

In the years since I interviewed Wally, he has passed away.  But I'm convinced there's a lot more to his story.  And because this World War 2 vet loved Jesus even more than he loved his country, I'm looking forward to getting all the details when time shall be no more.

Until then, here is my salute to First Lieutenant Wally Volkman—an America Hero.

People who read are a dying breed.  

Fact is, if you read much of anything, you are in a distinct minority in America….just because you read.
 
One in four Americans didn't read even one book last year.  More than 50% of today's teens never read for pleasure.
 
According to a 2012 study by the National Endowment for the Arts, the number of Americans reading fiction has fallen to 44%–down from 50% only four years ago. Just a decade ago, about a third of us were “light readers” (between one and five books a year).  That number shrank to 23% by 2012.  More disturbing yet, the Pew Research Center suggests nearly 25% of Americans didn't read any books last year (whether print, digital or audio), a number that has tripled since 1978.
 
The two largest circulating magazines in the United States are AARP–The Magazine and AARP Bulletin. The number three slot, formerly occupied by Better Homes and Gardens, now belongs to Game Informer—the fastest growing magazine in America.  Ironically, it is a magazine that encourages readers to stop reading and play video games!
 
What does all this mean to followers of Christ?
After all, we have a message we want to get out there.
 
First, there is no need to panic.
But there IS a need to change. Evolve.  Strategize.
 
In Isaiah 55:11, God promises, “My Word will not return to me void.”
 
Digital platforms…mobile delivery…YouTube…and yes—traditional paper and ink books–are ALL going to be needed. Because that's where people are going…and that's where God's Word needs to be.
 
Thankfully, the destiny-changing gospel message is equally true whether conveyed in a papyrus, paperback, pdf, podcast…or erson!

Have you met my crazy friend, Jack?  Rides in lots of taxis.  Has a passion for witnessing to Muslims.  He told me about his latest encounter.
 
Jack was in downtown Chicago last week and hopped into a cab driven by a Somalian named Ahmed.  At first the conversation was lighthearted.  Ahmed (not his real name) asked Jack if he had traveled to Africa, which Jack has done, and this seemed to impress Ahmed. 
 
The two of them talked about the current instability in Somalia and Ahmed offered his “hope” that someday Somalia would get turned around.  Naturally, Jack seconded that wish, picking up on Ahmed's use of the word, hope.  Jack smiled and said, “I know the God of hope.”
 
Ahmed was intrigued.  “Do you mean Nelson Mandela?  He was a man of hope.”
 
“No.  I mean Jesus Christ.”
 
“Oh, so you are a Christian.”
 
“I am a follower of Christ. Because of that I know for sure I am going to heaven.  Some people only hope they are.”
 
“I only hope,” admitted Ahmed. “I am Muslim.”
 
Yet Ahmed was quick to suggest to Jack that Christians and Muslims “worship the same God.”  Jack wasn't buying: “I don't think so.  My God has a Son, Jesus Christ, who claimed to be equal with God—claimed He was God.  That's why he was killed on the cross.”
 
“But we believe in the same God,” insisted Ahmed.  More dialogue as the cab wove its way down LaSalle Boulevard. 
 
All too soon the ride came to an end.  That's when Jack offered to pray for Ahmed, who had one last question: “Are you going to pray to the real God?”
 
Jack assured him that he would.  They prayed, with Jack ending his prayer (mostly a blessing on Ahmed's taxi business) asking that “Ahmed would come to know Isa (Jesus) as He revealed Himself in the Scriptures.”   With that, Jack tipped the driver generously and stepped out into the noise that is Chicago.

 

For the past week, I've held the equivalent of skybox tickets for a demolition project one block away.  Better than a Nik Wallenda tightrope walk, these high-act daredevils are disassembling a water tower said to be a century old.
 
 The tricky part is the water tower juts up into a dense residential neighborhood.  Trickier yet, the thing is more than one hundred feet tall, so you can't just stick an explosive at the base of the tower and let it crumble.

 
 The demolition crew is using two massive telescoping cranes, the largest of their type I've ever seen. One photo I snapped shows a red cloud of century old dust wafting into the wind as one of the wooden planks is yanked out   Another shot, from the ground looking up, shows the frightening height at which these workers are wielding hammers, welding torches and crowbars—with no apparent safety rope.
 
 Some observations about this feat of destructive daring.  First, removing the tower has taken courage.  At one point, the workers stood on ancient metal joists—no walls, no net.
 
 Second, removing the tower has taken time. They've been at it for more than a week.
 
 Third, removing the tower has taken skilled workers—otherwise they'd be dead.
 
 Watching this aerial act outside my office window, I’m reminded the water tower performed a vital function at one time.  We needed what it had to offer. But for decades, it's merely been occupying space—and over time, grown ugly.
 
 I suppose we've all got defunct water towers like that in our lives: old habits, old hobbies, old philosophies.  Maybe it's time they were taken down.  But don't underestimate the task.
 
 The same Jesus who counseled those who would build a tower to “first sit down and calculate the cost” would no doubt be realistic enough to remind us that taking down a tower has a price tag of its own.

It made the front page of every newspaper in America: Former Speaker of the House, Dennis Hastert—Indicted.  The allegation: hush money—and lots of it—paid to keep a misconduct quiet. Hastert’s guilt or innocence is up for others to decide.  But may I share my own encounter with Denny Hastert?

Several years ago, I was tasked with writing and producing a series of anti-marijuana public service announcements for a radio campaign.  As a freelancer, I was asked to fly to Washington and record endorsements for this campaign from a high profile congressional Democrat and Republican.  Dennis Hastert, Speaker of the House, was the chosen Republican.

In the surprisingly dark hallways of the United States Capitol building I breathed in power’s musky fragrance, ultimately setting up shop in Dennis Hastert’s (impressively sized) office.  I handed him the script, powered up my recorder and we went to work.

The problem was this.  Mr. Hastert might well have been an effective legislator.  But a narrator he was not (few politicians are).  Frankly, his reading sounded unnatural, flat. But what was I supposed to do?  He was, after all, the man second in line to succeed the President of the United States.

In that perplexing moment (and it was a bit awkward) I chose to do what I always do when coaching “voice talent.”  I politely observed “that was a good first read. But I wonder if we could try it slightly differently—like this.”  He did.  It was slightly better. So we recorded again—and again, eventually getting an acceptable take.

It could be that the allegations against Mr. Hastert are ultimately found groundless. But if found guilty, I will always wonder how differently his life would have been if someone else had been there coaching him, critiquing him when he started making wrong decisions.

Proverbs 10:17, “He is on the path of life who heeds instruction.  But he who ignores reproof goes astray.”  

It may well be awkward giving—or receiving—reproof.  But it’s the only path that leads to life.

Being an older sibling has its advantages.

Disadvantages, too.

Take Caleb and Lucy.

He’s two-and-a-half.  She’s one-and-a-half.

 In an early march toward the “terrible twos” Lucy has chosen to resolve sibling conflict utilizing her teeth.  Her well exercised jaws (Lucy is an eager eater) and full set of teeth are formidable weapons.

As Caleb is her most frequent playmate, he is also the most frequent recipient of her biting.  Lucy’s parents are doing a terrific job of discipline.  Yet Lucy is of the strong-willed stripe.  If she feels a bite comin’ on…woe be to you if your finger should get near her mouth.

But if Lucy’s mouth leaves a red mark, Caleb’s mouth is leaving an impression all his own. His weapons are words.

To any guest—friend or stranger—who enters their home, Caleb will gladly march up, point to his little sister Lucy and proclaim with gravitas: “Hers a biter.”

Like you, I laughed when I first heard about Caleb’s preemptive strike.  In three unflattering words, he defines the universe of all you need to know about his little sister: “Hers a biter.”

Missing from his three word assessment is that Lucy also has a love of books, a tender heart, and a way of putting her head on your shoulder that makes you melt.

We laugh at Lucy and Caleb (hey, they’re our grandkids!)…but you and I do the same thing: paint a person, or entire culture, with one broad brush—and two or three unflattering words:

• “They’re snobby…”
• “They’re lazy…”
• “They’re untrustworthy…

In so doing, we shut down dialogue, tear down bridges, and violate Scripture.  Ephesians 4:32: “Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.”

Let’s stop with the two-year-old behavior.

After all, grown-ups should know better.

If I twist my neck hard enough, I can see the disappearing shores of Lake Michigan out the window of our aircraft.  Frankly, I've had to discipline myself to take in the view.  That's right; force myself to gaze down on the majesty of a spring morning from 20,000 feet.

Bombastic clouds throw mottled patterns on the landscape below.  The green of the young season is so intense as to appear unnaturally tweaked in Photoshop.  Yet I scarcely notice any of it.

 Is it tiredness?  Perhaps. But the truth is much worse.  I'm no longer in awe.  Too many early morning plane rides.

I'm reminded of another early morning jet flight, my first.  Dad took me with him on a business trip up to Michigan. I remember every exquisite detail: the sounds, the smells, the clack of the seat buckle.

Dad had described the take-off experience so vividly, I wanted more than anything to feel the sensation of the nose lifting up higher than the rest of the aircraft. The take-off did not disappoint but my fellow passengers did.   The guy across the aisle read a magazine, bored.  Many others were lost in newspapers, and still more trying to doze off.  All of this while amazing scenery rushed by outside the window. How could they? I thought.  Mystery and marvel were there for the taking, but alas, went unspoken for.

I swore then and there I would never let that happen to me—that I would remain wide-eyed and in awe of the experience.  If a yawn is the currency of boredom, familiarity asks too high a price.   Yet here I am.  Weary and wonderless.

 As repetition dulls the edge of wonder, the sharper-than-any-two-edged-Sword

offers a focal point for restoration: “God thunders with His voice wondrously, doing great things which we cannot comprehend” (Job 37:5).

Look out your window.  Look now.  There's wonder out there!