Category: Thursday Thought

As I write this, the nation’s third largest city is under siege.  Or, perhaps more accurately, under sieve.  To use the adjective, “rainy” is to describe the sun as merely warm.

Schools are closed. Streets are clogged.  And announcers on radio and television beg us to “Please stay home!”  But crises large and small have a way of yielding defining snapshots.  I saw one the other day.

As gallon-sized drops of rain blasted the army of downtown commuters, we besieged soldiers bolted the last steps of our maneuvers toward the train station portico. Safely under the cover of stone and cement, our soggy platoon holstered weapons of defense—umbrellas dripping impressive rivers of their own.

Only then did I notice our ranks had been infiltrated.  The peddlers and beggars who normally position themselves on high-traffic corners just outside the station had come inside the station.

The guy with the cardboard sign asking for help to—quote—“keep my place”…he was there.  Then I saw the young blind man who jangles his cup on the corner.  The familiar cast of panhandlers was all present and accounted for.

The scene was mildly humorous and profoundly telling.  Here were bankers and lawyers and high flying business folks of every stripe with hair and clothes as matted and soggy as…the homeless people who shared their space.

For the briefest of moments, the labels and assumptions and baggage were stripped away.    There under that merciful portico, we were all just survivors.  Human beings equally wet—and more equal than the proudest of us cared to know.  What a picture of our moral standing before God:

For ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

There is NO one righteous…not even one.

Yet there it stands: the portico of God’s grace—shielding, protecting and—best of all–open to beggars of every kind: the earthly poor, as well as rich folks who know just how impoverished they really are…apart from Christ.

Hey interesting people—go make babies!

Have I shocked you?  The words aren’t mine.  That’s an actual quote from an actual ad campaign for a national public radio station in Chicago.

If you’re offended, you ought to be.  Quite apart from the crassness of the remark, the statement,” Hey interesting people—go make babies”…raises questions on several levels.

First, there’s a complete lack of connection between being married and being parents.  “Hey interesting people—go make babies.” Whether that statement merely reflects societal trends or is itself causative, is a whole separate discussion.  But no biblical definition of family encourages pregnancy outside of marriage.

While the ad campaign fails to list the one biblical requirement for starting a family—being married—it oddly sets up a rather capricious standard when it says, “Hey interesting people.”

Now…who decides who’s interesting and who’s boring?  Employees at National Public Radio?  “Hey, interesting peole.”

You know what, I’ll be honest—I’m not sure I’ve met too many boring people in this world.  Truth is, just about everyone and everything interests me.  I could interview a garbage collector for an hour—without preparation—and be thoroughly entertained.

But what about people who would describe themselves as “less interesting”?  Should they refrain from having kids?  What about those who society would not call beautiful?  Should they refrain from having kids?  What about those who believe that there should be tolerance even for those who aren’t tolerant?  Should they refrain from having kids?

When an ad campaign proposes a disregard for biblical morality, while at the same time off handedly promotes a pop cultural form of eugenics, it’s time to call it what it is.  Beyond tacky, this campaign is just plain inappropriate.

And to anyone who would label my reaction as a tempest in a teapot…maybe you’re right.  I fully get the idea that this ad campaign is intended as tongue-in-cheek.  On the other hand, it seems to me that ideas—even those suggested partly in gest—really do have consequences.

A word about elections, if I may.  Oh, I know it's not November—which makes this the perfect time to say what I'm about to say.

A recent mayoral election in my hometown caused the usual stir of interest—but with one twist.  One of the three candidates running for the town's top spot was reportedly a Christian, so this juiced an extra voltage of voter involvement (at least in some circles).

Let me express clearly that I believe part of Christ's mandate to be salt and light is to preserve the culture and bear the image of Christ in all segments of society—including the realm of government.   Christians should support just laws, advocate for moral positions, and exalt righteousness wherever it can be found.   So Christians should vote—and run for office.

Back to what sparked this little piece in the first place. Turns out, several Christian friends sent mass e-mailings reminding their Christian friends (and acquaintances) urging them to vote for the Christian candidate.

But think about the message behind such an action.  To send ME an email urging me to vote for a specific candidate suggests either:

A.  I really haven't thought through the issues.  I need outside helpers to assist in informing my opinion.

B. I maybe don't possess sufficient mental clarity or judgment to form a reliable voting decision.

C.  The only candidate a Christian should vote for is a Christian candidate.

But is that true? What if I knew that the Christian candidate was simply not cut out for managing in government?  What if I knew that a moral non-believer would actually be more effective in passing Christ-honoring laws ?

Doesn't it seem just a teeny bit arrogant for me to tell someone else how to vote? I think so.    Rather than tell me how to vote—as in give me a name—I'd much rather have a reliable guide to a candidate’s position on issues.  How she has voted.   Policy statement she or he has made.

Jesus never endorsed a candidate by name.  Yet He DID endorse a moral code.

Me?  I will…elect…to follow that course.

 

The Millennials are leaving the church!
The Millennials are leaving the church!

Seems like every blog, every book publisher is trumpeting the ecclesiastical crisis of the moment: younger folks are leaving church.

We hear all about how they're sick and tired of the veneer that boomers have called Christianity…how they're weary of being “hurt” by church…ignored and even judged by the previous generation. We read surveys that highlight the mass exodus of Millennials. But I, for one, want to say, “Just hold on a minute!”

It's one thing to say, “I'm in a bad marriage.” Or “I wish this relationship didn't strain me.” It's quite another to get a divorce and universally declare the idea of marriage itself as broken.

But in unplugging from church as an institution—that's what many Millennials are really doing–they're divorcing themselves from church.

When you receive Jesus as your Savior, you—in effect—are saying, “I've signed up for a relationship that I intend to honor…until death us do part.” That relationship is with the bride of Christ—inevitably and only expressed in the church universal AND a local fellowship. Even if—and when—the church fails us, it is never an option for us to simply unplug from the idea of church itself.

Understand I'm not saying it's wrong to switch churches—and maybe find a local fellowship that's more millennial oriented. But I AM saying that throwing out the entire notion of church is biblically wrong.

So while I feel the pain of the Millennials (I actually find myself more aligned with their frame of thinking than that of boomers), I find their exodus from church untenable and unacceptable.

Because Dad and Mom might have called it quits over “irreconcilable differences” in their marriage, doesn't give Millennials the right to do so with church. Neither choice is biblical.

Someone needs to say “While you have the right to express your pain, your dissatisfaction, you do NOT have the right to walk away”–to throw the bride of Christ aside in search of a self-actualized spirituality. So I say, let's get together—Millennials and boomers—and fix what's wrong…rather than abandon it.

“Do not forget to assemble yourselves together” is not optional advice. It's a command—not just for boomers, but also Millennials.

You've heard the expression, “there was an awkward silence.”   Or… “There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation.”  Increasingly, I'm noticing that ANY silence is awkward for most people.

Imagine eating out a restaurant…without music blaring in the background.  Heaven forbid we should actually be able to hear each other converse without straining.  (By the way—exactly what IS the advantage to it being so loud that you have to yell to be heard?).

Or try to imagine shopping in a store without a pulsing pounding musical background that's really in the foreground.  

But the assault on solitude has likewise infiltrated the church.  Take communion service for example.  I've probably taken part in communion in 50 different churches.  And almost every single one of them features music as the bread and juice are shared.   This is supposed to be the time when we follow the exhortation of 1 Corinthians 11:28 to “examine ourselves” lest we fail to discern “the Lord's body.” 

I'm not suggesting that music in the background at communion is wrong.  But I am suggesting it's a problem when we can't NOT have it.  When we can’t just have silence….and pray. 

The reality is, we're so used to getting into our cars and turning on the radio…so used to hitting the health club with our ear buds and smart phone or mp3 player…calm is no longer calming. We have so jammed and crammed our lives full of iTunes and iPhones and iPads, there's no room left for “I pause.   I ponder.”  And  silence—valued as “golden” in previous generations–is seen today as a rusted relic.  Just plain awkward.

But how can we expect to “Be Still and know that God is God” if the soundtrack of our lives is always pumping?  How can we learn to meditate on the Word of God…when we've already allowed other background sounds to compete for part of our meditative focus? 

We need a return to quiet.  Planned pauses.  Sacred solitude. 

In all the world, it is doubtful that any single spot recollects more agony per acre than Israel's Yad Vashem–the Holocaust museum in downtown Jerusalem.

Within its cement walkways, there is more sadness per square inch than any place I have ever visited.

In addition to what you might expect–photos, letters, artifacts–there was something I had NOT expected: video testimonials.  Large monitors by the dozens recounted the personal agonies of holocaust survivors.  

Behind glass display cases, I saw things I wish I had not: a collection of shoes taken from people entering death camps….faces of men who would be shot just seconds later…photos of rabbis who had just been hung…

In one display there were gallon sized cans of pellets used in gas chambers. 

To me what is most disturbing is that in many instances, these were neighbors committing atrocities against former neighbors. The difference?   One set of neighbors had so dehumanized the other that any proper sense of evil had vanished.

When a neighbor is transformed into a nameless, faceless, worthless lump, the road from greeting them to gassing them is very short indeed.

In many ways, evangelical Christians today are undergoing a similar kind of dehumanization that the Jews experienced in World War II.

It begins with unkind stereotypes–"Bible thumpers", "Jesus freaks".  It progresses toward increasingly vicious labels, as Christians are now often said to be as dangerous as terrorists or the Taliban.

Once dehumanization is achieved, the step toward outright persecution is both natural and easy.

Christians, beware: Israel's Yad Vashem is more than a cross section of cruelty past.  It is a faithful mirror of an evil alive and well. 

As I write this, I am sitting in a hospital where my wife is recovering from surgery.  A mere curtain separates me from a conversation between the lady in bed #2 and those trying to give her the care she needs. 

“Do you have any children?” the team asks.

“Two grown sons.”

 

“Do they live in the area?” the team inquires further.

“I don't know” is the woman's reply.

 

“You don't know where they live?”

“No.”

 

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“About a year ago.”

 

“Did you have a falling out?”

“Our family's always fallin' out” comes the lady's sad reply.

 

“How often do you drink?”

“Every day.”

 

“How much?”

“Almost a gallon of vodka.”

 

“How long?”

“Thirty years.  No.  Wait.  I've only been on vodka for 15 years.”

 

“Do you use drugs?”

“No.  Yes. Only on weekends.  With my boyfriend.”

 

“Have you been admitted previously to a psychiatric unit?”

“A lot.”

 

The lady moans constantly and cries out violently in her dreams (or are they withdrawal tremors?). She is nauseous and calls over to my wife, who is on the other side of the curtain, recovering from kidney surgery.

A friend's text suggests that Christ would have us show this woman His love. But how do you love someone on the other side of a curtain?  What would Jesus think or say or do?

The woman throws up, and I assure her I will summon a nurse.  She thanks me. Maybe that's the first step.

Twenty minutes pass and the lady mentions an AA Bible on her chair.  I get up the boldness to read to her from John 3, explaining and extending Jesus' invitation to be born again. Her answer is confusing and morphs back into her drinking problems. 

Honestly, I am grateful I am not her.  Yet even as pride seeps in, I am reminded that this woman's ultimate problem—and mine—are both spelled the same: S-I-N.

I’m still wondering—as should we all—how do I reach out to the person behind the curtain?

It is a strange moment.

As I write this, my wife and I are on our way to meet a new family member.  Our grandson.

He has been alive for eight hours.  But we have not met him.  Do not know him.  We’re desperate to see him, grab him, love him.  But it hasn’t happened yet.

Strange.  His fingerprints bear my DNA…there is something of ME in him…somewhere.   Yet I really don't know him. 

Lord willing, we will look back years from now and talk—together–about “when he was a teeny tiny baby.”  There will be shared experiences and funny sayings and laughable moments.   That is all before us.  But right now, I've never held him, never touched him. Never heard his voice.  Never even laid eyes on him…other than the two photos our daughter texted.  Like I say, it is a strange moment.

I am drawn to the mystery captured in David's prayer in Psalms 139:

 

Psa 139:13  You are the one who put me together inside my mother's body,

Psa 139:14  and I praise you because of the wonderful way you created me. Everything you do is marvelous! Of this I have no doubt.

Psa 139:15  Nothing about me is hidden from you! I was secretly woven together deep in the earth below,

Psa 139:16  but with your own eyes you saw my body being formed. Even before I was born, you had written in your book everything I would do.

Psa 139:17  Your thoughts are far beyond my understanding, much more than I could ever imagine.

 

There are times in life when writers like me are unable to write.  Unable to find words that paint the pictures in my heart.  I can only see them.  Sense them.  Ponder them.

As I say…it is a strange moment.

I am thoroughly…totally…lost in wonder.

When it comes to Facebook, I'm a latecomer. 

While most ten year olds can run rings around my Facebook skills, I'm convinced my disconnect to this point has given me a perspective that seasoned Facebookers lost a long time ago.

For one thing, I want to know why so much of the Facebook world amounts to so little. 

Why is it acceptable to post to the public a message that only applies to one or two out of the earth's  7.5  billion people?

And why is so much of the content —dare I say a convincing majority—void of any real substance? 

• “Changed the oil in the car last night.”
• “Can't believe I missed the season finale of”  (insert name of TV show here).

Minutia and mundane are the main fare.

Now we're not all called to write like Ernest Hemingway and I’m not suggesting every Facebook poke needs to be profound.  But surely we can do better than total self-absorption.

It’s as if we've forgotten to ask before clicking the mouse, “Does anybody really care about this—and honestly, should they?”

I’ve arrived at a theory—and please try not to be too offended.  My theory is that most people write shallow things on their Facebook pages because that's precisely the kind of life they're living: shallow. 

Could it be that shallow living compels a shallow people to share shallow things in the vain hope of finding significance?   I honestly wonder if all the “spare-me-please” postings on Facebook, are a sick attempt at finding some sort of personal significance.

Yet insignificance is exactly the byproduct of a person—or a culture—that has jettisoned God.  Worse, we babble foolishness—dare I say, like much of Facebook.  I'm drawn to the observation Paul made in Romans 1:22:  “Professing themselves to be wise, they became foolish.”

Wondering if there’s a connection between Facebook…and the Good Book…

Years ago, an older brother in the faith took me aside and discipled me in something called lifestyle evangelism.   The concept is something of a reaction to older forms of evangelism.  Like preaching on a street corner.  Or shoving a gospel tract into somebody’s hands.  Incidentally, I’m not suggesting that either of those is wrong—or even bad. 

But the idea behind lifestyle evangelism is that we—quote—“earn the right to be heard” by virtue of the life that we live.  And there’s something to that.  When it comes to sharing Christ with my neighbors, I’ve worked hard at first being a good neighbor—as in loaning them tools, or helping take in their trash cans.  No point in sharing Jesus if I won’t share my stuff. 

Lifestyle evangelism underscores that making disciples is a process. Conversion is rarely instant.  So far so good. 

My problem with lifestyle evangelism is that there is now statistical evidence that many of us end our witness with good deeds.  But that’s only the starting point.  Those good deeds are intended to lead to conversations.  Conversations about Christ. 

Yet George Barna can show us reams of surveys that show most of us never get to the talk.  Maybe it’s because we’re scared.  Or maybe it’s because we’re ashamed.  Or maybe we’ve forgotten that despite the manicured lawn and shared interest in the Chicago Bears, that neighbor over the fence—apart from a saving relationship with Jesus—really will spend eternity burning in hell.

At some point it comes down to words.  Bible words.  It has to.  Or it’s not really evangelism.  Could I challenge you?  Keep on doing those nice things for your neighbors.  But don’t forget the kindest act of all: sharing Jesus verbally. To ignore that is to be the worst kind of neighbor.