Thursday Thought

I have spent the last 24 hours immersed in the religion of Islam.  And no surprise—we've been in Istanbul, Turkey.  You literally see the religion of Mohammed from the window of your airplane.  Minarets crowned with golden moons poke high into the sky.  And from that vantage point, it's almost staggering to ponder how many of these mosques they're really are.
 
To walk the streets of Istanbul is to swim in a crowded black sea, made black by the long robes of submissive Muslim women.  So thoroughly restrictive are these garments, that those requiring glasses wear them on the outside of their head mask.  Only the narrowest of slits is left for their eyes.
 
One of Istanbul's greatest tourist attractions, construction of the Blue Mosque began in 1609.  No wide angle lens is wide enough to capture the sense of scale in its arches, stained glass and—yes–blue tiles.
 
In this, my second tour walking through the Blue Mosque, I was sensitized to a powerful lesson about Islam.  Every male visitor is required to wear long pants—no shorts allowed.  All shoes must be removed and carried in a plastic bag, and every woman is thoroughly wrapped in a blue head scarf.  Meaning every single visitor desiring entrance must—in a small but significant gesture—bow to the religion of Mohammed.
 
The not so subtle lesson: Islam bows to nothing and no one.  No exceptions. 
 
The minarets are rising up all around us here at home.
But this is a not a time for fear.
This is a time for holy kindness, holy witness, holy boldness.
 
Yet the Word of God calls us—commands us-–to love our Muslim neighbors in the name of the One before whom “every knee” will someday bow: Jesus the Christ, the Son of the Living God.
 

Cue the music: Pulsating rhythm in a minor key

Cue the announcer: Serious…impassioned. 

Now the script:

 

Their numbers are legion.

Their plight…beyond pathetic.

Yet to many, they are all but invisible: lost people.  People living their lives on a trajectory toward the flames of Hell.

The horror of what awaits them—apart from God's intervention—ought to grip us and cause us to fall on our knees begging the Almighty to spare them.

Instead…the names of these people rarely make our prayer lists…our prayer meetings… our prayer chains.   That is why I make the bold, if not uncomfortable claim, that for many of us who claim to be followers of Jesus, lost people are an endangered prayer species.

 

The fact that we are not sufficiently troubled about lost people to really pray for them says they are not really on our radar screen.  What this actually reveals is that we don't, as a whole, have a lot of meaningful interaction with them.  We tend to care about the people we spend time with.  Since we don't spend much time with lost people, we don't have much care for them.

Not praying for lost people reveals a dual wickedness in our hearts. It says we are entirely comfortable enjoying the everlasting delights of heaven for ourselves–and equally comfortable with those outside heaven's gates experience the everlasting torment of Hell.

“We're in…they're out…and that's okay.”   Except it's NOT okay.

It's never been okay to have found the life raft…but not care for others still thrashing about in the waters.

It's never been okay to hear Christ's command to make disciples and relegate that to mere good intentions.

It's never been okay to hear Jesus say, “The Son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost”…and then hardly bother Him to seek and to save the lost people in our own lives.

It's time you and I moved lost people off the endangered prayer species list.

It's time we prayed to the one who said, He is “not willing that any should perish but that all should come to repentance.”

It's time to pray for lost people.

If there's such a thing as a list of endangered prayer species, revival must surely be on it.

Time was when folks actually talked about revival—what it looks like, feels like.  What they’d heard from others who's seen at least a glimpse of it.  We honestly prayed for revival.  Even expected revival to actually happen.    Seems like 20 or 30 years ago, revival was a much hotter subject.  Not today.

Now I'm not here to suggest absolutely nobody cares about revival any more.  But interest in the subject definitely seems to have waned.  Nancy DeMoss of “Revive Our Hearts Ministries” agrees.  In a recent interview, I asked her point blank, “Is it just my impression, or do you think people are talking less about revival these days?”

Nancy's reply was direct: “Yes.  We are talking and praying less about revival.   No question about it. “

These days, we talk about the worshipping church.  We talk about the emerging church…the missional church.  But—oddly–we don't talk about the revived church.  Or revival itself. 

 

Personally, I think it's because we've become accustomed—even comfortable—doing church without much help from the Holy Spirit.  He doesn't seem to show up much, so we don't think to ask Him for much.  As for the supernatural outpouring of conviction that leads to confession that leads to revival…well, we're just not interested, thank you very much. 

Why should we be?  Our worship bands sound great, our HD video and widescreen PowerPoint have never looked snappier, and Pastor's messages are—quote– “culturally relevant.”   What more could we want?

Revival, that's what.

We need revival. Desperately.

We need to talk about revival, pray about revival, preach about revival, anticipate revival.

So let’s get it off the list of endangered prayer species.  Let's remember to simply and humbly ask God to do a work of personal revival in our own hearts…and begin looking for Him to do it on a much grander scale throughout His Church.

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This week I met a real shepherd in a real field near the real Bible town of Bethlehem.

But I must admit the experience was off-putting—even a bit disappointing.

Climbing the hillside (camera, tripod, audio recorder in hand), I expected to peer into the face of a weather beaten wrinkled old soul.  I envisioned my shepherd wearing thread bare robes hanging off his frame as his deep furrowed brow expressed concern for wandering sheep in the field.

But instead of a wrinkled old man, my shepherd was middle aged—good looking, to boot.   And while he wore a sort of robe, underneath was the clearly visible collar of his blue polo shirt!  Instead of a deep furrowed brow, I saw constant smiles.

Having read that sheep were stubborn, I asked him to elaborate on the animals' strong will.  He told me that the sheep were usually quite responsive to the shepherd's voice.   Regardless of my questioning, the shepherd simply had nothing negative to say about the sheep.    Frankly, this shepherd encounter was a bit of a disappointment.

But then it hit me.  Maybe this shepherd was more like the Good Shepherd than I really knew!

Wouldn't it be just like Jesus to know all the faults of His sheep…yet still have nothing but nice things to say about us?  And rather than a furrowed brow, wouldn't it be like Jesus to have a smile on his face?

Prior to this interview, I envisioned a peaceful grassy valley dotted with dozens of sheep.  But here were only a handful—yet they commanded the shepherd's full attention.

By the way, scrap that idea of a lush green valley.  We were balanced rather precariously on a steep rocky hillside. Nearly touching one leg of my tripod: the skeletal remains of what was once a sheep.  A visceral reminder that life for a sheep—in Bible times OR our times—is an uncertain proposition.  And wolves are still out there killing.

It's enough to make one suddenly—and thoroughly—grateful for the Good Shepherd.

The back cover of a new book on prayer caught my eye.  The question is asked, “Does Prayer Work?”  The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable it made me.  “Does prayer work?”  The question seems problematic on several fronts.
 
First, it seems to reduce praying to an exercise for which there is an objective measurement, as if we can assign a scholastic grading scale to our praying:  This prayer gets a “C”…but this one gets an “A”–presumably because we got exactly what we asked for. 
 
Second, asking if prayer “works” implies that prayer itself possesses power.  But the power to help or heal or rescue is not in the spiritual discipline of prayer, but the One to whom we pray.
 
Finally, asking “Does prayer work?” aborts the relational aspect of communion with the Almighty and jumps right to the self-centered implied inquiry: “Does talking to the Divine Genie really get me the stuff I want?”  Don’t get me wrong—it’s biblical to ask God for help.
 
But God wants our friendship first and most.  And that should be the basis of our praying.
 
Asking “Does prayer work?” is like asking “Does your friendship work?”    Of course it works.  Friendships are good.  And a friendship with God?  Well that's the ultimate.
 
The fact that you and I might benefit from that relationship in some way is—and must be—secondary. 
 
God wants to be friends…to spend time together.  Not in the chummy way we pal around with our best buddies.  He is the Almighty, let’s not forget.   But still, it's a relationship—a friendship of a sort.
 
How different this is than the please-gimme-grocery-list kind of praying that so many of us are accustomed to.
 
The crass reduction of prayer to a list of stuff I want….and heading straight for that list without just enjoying time together….this is not really prayer.
 
Me? I'm trying to learn all of this.  Haven't mastered it, mind you.
But I'm just beginning to learn…
So…what about you?
 

A working gun…created by a 3D printer. By now, of course, it's old news. 
 
Eight months ago, Cody Wilson–a 25 year old University of Texas law student–set out on a mission: to make the world's first workable hand gun using only a 3D printer—a device that creates solid objects by printing layers and layers of special plastic. Turns out, Wilson succeeded in what one columnist calls the newest “Shot heard 'round the world.” 
 
An article in Forbes points out there isn't a single shred of metal in the whole thing…except for the nail that fires the bullets.  The sixteen pieces that make up Wilson's gun, he calls the “Liberator,” are made from ABS plastic.  They were created on a 3D printer costing less than two thousand dollars. Those printers, by the way, can currently be had for as little as $800. 
 
If plans for this CAD-based design are made available on the web, who knows what could happen in a world of non-detectable plastic weaponry.  So naturally, lawmakers are anxious to…ur…pull the trigger on legislation to outlaw the plastic pistol. 
 
It's ironic.  3D printers have the potential to create so much good.  Everything from inexpensive parts for cars and electronics to replacements for human body parts.  Yet there stands the solid rock reality of Jeremiah 17:9: “The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked.  Who can know it?”
 
Something tells me we're about to encounter “desperately wicked” in a few shades darker than we've ever seen it before.  It's tempting to hurl blame at the plastic gun's designer. But how then shall we account for…

• Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid that killed 909 back in 1978?
• Or the box cutters that ultimately brought down 3 jetliners and 2 towers on 9-11?
• Or the Boston bomb that murdered three and maimed dozens of others?

 A pill, a pressure cooker, a blade, a bomb…or a gun. In a world of evil, a darksome thought in the mind…is as good as a weapon in the hand.  
 

Time out for some buzzkilll.  As in, I'd like to kill a buzz word…or at least reduce its heavy usage.  Call me a skeptic or cynic if you will, but I strongly reject the stampede toward bizz babble.  You know—expressions like….

“Paradigm shift”

“Tee it up”

“Over the Wall”

“grabbing the low hanging fruit” or…

“get together and blue sky”

“getting the right people in the right seats on the bus.”

Now some of those are older expressions, for sure.  But one I've been seeing a lot of lately is “reach out.”  America is now practically daily overdosing on “reach out.”

Internal emails invite us to “reach out” with any questions about corporate policies.  Public service announcements on TV implore us to “reach out” and express our compassion.  Junk mail is full of offers imploring us to “reach out” and get the help or goods we need (ur…for a price, that is).   With all the “reaching out” that's going on, it's a wonder we all don't bang arms merely moving down the hallway, as we “reach out”–whether at work or at home.   And don’t forget about church—where board meetings and committees now invite us to “reach out” with our thoughts.

Now is it just me or are more and more people sucked into the expanding world of meaningless corporate speak? Even in churches and ministries? I suspect the answer is yes.

People are so desperate to “fit in” they'll happily take up the language of biz-babble.  But why must we be like a herd of mindless elephants  ….?  Why must we all use the same trendy talk?  Why can't we learn to express ourselves uniquely?  You almost pick up on a “Hey, bro—I really get you” kind of look that passes between brethren and sistern who insist on speaking biz-babble.

In a world of wars and woes, I suppose my complaint is a small one.  Yet…please…could we all just STOP reaching out….and simply say what we mean?

I wouldn't try to build a theology on it, but I can't help wondering if Jesus' advice in Matthew 5:37 is something we ought to consider in our corporate—and ministry– dialogue: “Let your yes be yes…and your no be no.”

Thanks for letting me…ur…reach out …with that thought!     🙂

If you've never played Jenga, you ought to give it a shot. This challenging game starts you off with a tower of wooden planks.  Each layer is made up of three planks that lay right against each other.   So it's a loose—but solid—tower to start with.  Plenty strong.
 
Everybody takes turns removing one of the three planks that make up a layer…and placing it on top of the tower—to make it grow taller. You quickly learn that if pulled out slowly and carefully, the tower can stand on a layer of just two…or even one plank.  The net effect, of course, is that as the tower grows taller, the thing grows wobblier.  And you don't even notice the transition from sturdy to wobbly.   But eventually it collapses with a crash. 
 
This is exactly what has been happening to issues of morality in America.
 
Within the lifespan of most anyone able to fully comprehend this little piece, sex outside of marriage was viewed by the majority culture (not just the Bible, but the culture) as wrong. Same for divorce.  Same for homosexuality.
 
NOW, the most vocal (though NOT the most numerous) segment of our culture blazingly insists that to DENOUNCE homosexuality is wrong.  That sex outside of marriage is a RIGHT….that it's WRONG to repress sexual urges of most any kind.  Do you see how the planks have been removed?
 
Previously, these things definitely went on: divorce, cohabiting, gay marriage….but now they are being touted as normal.  Good.  Even noble.  And anyone who would oppose them is bigoted, close minded, stupid, and narrow.  Not to mention boring.
 
I'm not suggesting that these kinds of behaviors didn't go on 30 or 50 or 100 years ago.  But there's an enormous moral difference between a culture that tolerates these things as opposed to a culture that celebrates them.
 
Said another way, our culture's truth tower has gone wobbly.  To the point we are approaching a certain collapse.
 
It's odd how those in the very act of making the tower weaken are least able to see the wobble.  All of which illustrates the biblical claim, “There is a way which seems right to a man.  But its end is the way of death.” 

Are we sure we're doing church right?

Let me cut to the chase.  I'm uncomfortable with the way we've divvied up the typical church service.  In an average 75 minute service, we American evangelicals typically do 5 minutes of announcements, at least 20 minutes of singing, 30-40 or more minutes of preaching.  Throw in the offering, a greeting time and benediction… and that leaves about 5 minutes for a pastoral prayer and two minutes for a closing payer.  Meaning we spend about as much time on announcements as we do on prayer.

Does that strike you as out of whack?  Don't answer until I respectfully remind you that I Thessalonians 5:17 urges us to “Pray without ceasing.”   Philippians 4:6 instructs us that “in   everything by prayer and supplication” we ought to seek God.  Could I further gently add that despite our modern penchant for worship music, Jesus never said, “My house shall be a house of singing.”  But Jesus DID say, “My house shall be a house of prayer.”

Let me take in a breath…possibly freak you out…and suggest that we need to do less singing—perhaps even drop a few illustrations from the message—and do more praying in church.

There's only so much space in a given church service.  And if we've assigned so much of it to music that it squeezes out prayer, we're out of biblical balance.  Search the book of Acts—the most complete blueprint we have for doing church—and you'll find a heavy emphasis on prayer, on breaking bread, on fellowship, on instruction in the Word.  But what you DON'T see is a huge emphasis on music.

That's not to say we shouldn't sing…or have sermon illustrations.  Of course the biblical precedent for worship music is clearly there. And illustrations provide a window into understanding God's Word. But not to the extent that they upstage significant prayer. 

Truth is, it's tough to honestly study Scripture and disagree with the conclusion that in general, we're not praying enough. 

It's time we gave prayer in our Sunday assembly the same emphasis the Bible gives it. A given church service has only so many slots…so many minutes.   It's time our church services emphasized more of what the Bible emphasizes more of:  prayer.  

 

 

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.