Who Are "They"

My keyboard has been mostly quiet about the Sandy Hook massacre. Initially I needed time to deal with the sadness that overwhelmed me as this story continued to unfold. Next I wanted time to try and understand the full impact of this terrible event. Not only this horrific mass killing, but I was also thinking of the others we all heard about in 2012. The rampage in Aurora, Colorado, six killed at a Sikh Temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, and the multiple killings at a Minneapolis factory; so many died, so much sadness and so many unanswered questions.

The actions of just four men had life changing and life ending consequences for so many innocent people. Andrew Engeldinger, Wade Michael Page, James Holmes and Adam Lanza are names that a collective America should never have known, but we do and now will never forget them. Just as we haven’t forgotten names like Jeffrey Weise, Seung-Hui Cho, Nidal Malik Hasan and Jennifer Sanmarco. There are at least one hundred and ten names of those that were killed, but sadly I can’t tell you any of their names. Eight killers, more than one hundred dead, it would appear that the killers are in the minority. And yet it is their names we remember. Do you remember Mark Gabour? What about Charles Whitman?  Whitman was a mass murderer in 1966, forty-six years ago, but his name still haunts the halls of the University of Texas. Mark Gabour was one of Whitman’s victims, he was sixteen years old. Mark’s name would fall in the majority, one of the fourteen killed. Whitman’s, the one shooter, is in the minority, yet it is Whitman whom we remember.

Everyone I have spoken with about the Sandy Hook killings share similar feelings of sadness, sorrow, anger and uncertainty. I have not met a single person who thought otherwise of this horrific event. An overwhelming, nay, perfect majority of common thought and distress has occurred.

Theories behind the murderous rampage of Adam Lanza vary slightly. People want an answer; if one is not obvious then we tend to place the blame on “They”. Who is “They”? Some will naturally want to place blame on the lack of stricter gun legislation; in this case “They” would be politicians. Then there are those that would like to believe that evil, hate-filled video games were the catalyst, “They’ being the big corporations that produce the violent games. And then there are those who believe that the lack of a moral compass is the cause of such destructive behavior. “They” in this case is anyone, individual or corporate, who have corrupted our nation with agnostic theorem.  If we look at each of these we find that they all could be culprits, each having a history to validate them as conceptual cause. But even so their impact and history are so very small, almost immeasurable, to blame any of these minor players is a sign of desperation for answers.

You don’t have to look far to see that stricter gun legislation rarely if ever actually reduces crime, on the contrary it may actually increase gun-related crimes. Millions and millions of young teenaged minds play violent-laden video games every minute of every day; the overwhelming majority does not turn into mass murderers.

Are we lacking a moral compass? I don’t think so. It may be broken, but not beyond repair. Every year around this time, I will read an article about how many people believe in God, or how many call them self a Christian. The percentages are always high, well above 51%, the majority marker, a number that would not be achievable if no moral compass existed.

This time of year we are also more apt to hear from those that we look to for spiritual guidance. Whether that is on a local level, like the pastors of our own church, or on a larger level from men like Franklin Graham, Max Lucado, Pope Benedict, and Rabbi Julie Schonfeld, men and women who possess the boldness to point the compass in the right direction by pointing out what is wrong, leaders who inspire and influence with their words and actions. But even combined these spiritual leaders would number in the minority.

Let me recap:

  Mass murderers               Minority with major impact

 
Reasons that spawn mass murders, (laws, video games, etc.) Minority with insignificant impact

 Spiritual Leaders              Minority with minimal impact

So if the majority believes that our nation is on a path of self-destruction and that a compass correction is in order, why do stories like that of Sandy Hook come too often?

Because of a Silent Majority! 52 Sundays a year we gather together in a place of worship to talk about the dangerous path we are walking as a nation. We cry together and we pray together. And then we leave together. By Monday morning we have forgotten together. If not forgotten, then we are collectively silent together. We trust that the church leaders are keeping watch on the world and there is nothing we need to do. We squelch our outrage, table our opinions, and begin another work week hoping that “that sort of thing never happens here.”

Who is the Silent Majority? You, and you and you. We no longer have the luxury of being silent about what is good and what is right. It is time to stand up and take back our schools, our movie theaters, our factories and churches. It is time to tell the enemy, “Get out, get help, and get God.”

Will you stand up? Or will we all sit around waiting to see who will?  

Silently.

Handle With Care

It seems that the day after Christmas is now Black Wednesday, or Thursday, Friday or whatever day the 26^th of December may fall on. Listening to the radio today as I drove around San Antonio, the perky sounding newscaster informed the listening audience that local pawn shops were anticipating a very busy day. Why? Because it seems, that many gifts that were under the Christmas tree yesterday will be pawned today for cash. Cash evidently is still king.

A number of years ago “re-gifting” became a popular fad that still has its whimsical appeal to many. I won’t take the time to explain re-gifting, assuming that 99% of you know what it is. For the other 1% of you here’s a news flash, you have probably been re-gifted.  At its peak I believed that re-gifting was a bit uncouth but not anything to take some moral high road about, in fact I would be less than truthful if I didn’t admit to you that I re-gifted on at least one occasion.(My conscious was eased knowing that it was a duplicate of another gift that I had previously received.)

But this new fad of pawning a Christmas gift the day after Christmas is more than uncouth, it is just sad. It says much about not only the gift receiver but also of the gift giver. Do we think so little of the person that we are buying a gift for that we present them with something that is more worthy of the pawn shop than it is to keep? Or do we think so little of the person that gave the gift that we can part with their gesture 24 hours later? Perhaps if we made more of an effort to know something about the gift receiver then we would be less likely to give them pawn fodder. Or perhaps if we knew more about the effort the giver put forth (assuming an effort was made) in picking out the gift we received we would spend time enjoying the gift instead of exchanging it for money to spend.

I believe Ebenezer Scrooge would enjoy Black Wednesday.

Re-gifting and pawning I believe is also reflective of a “take it-or leave it” attitude towards God that is prevalent today. Our life, our lives and our eternal life are all gifts from God. We can’t re-gift God’s gift, however, metaphorically there are many who pawn His gift every day. They hock it in hopes of getting something better. Oh, they keep their pawn ticket; it is tucked away deep in a seldom used compartment of life’s wallet, the gift receiver believing that one day they will return to Him.

This Gift-Giver deserves more than that.

God’s gifts to man are not made for re-gifting or pawning. His gifts are made with care. His gifts are made with you and me in mind. His’ gifts will never dull or have batteries that run low. His gifts are forever, you can open them anew every day of your life!

God doesn’t hide them in a closet or stow them under a tree. Although His greatest gift to you did, one day, hang from a tree. Christmas is about giving because He gave us His son—Jesus Christ. He is a gift you can receive just by turning and believing.

It is the Gift. The gift that must be handled with care.

For Just One

The small band of travelers had changed from Paul and Barnabas to Paul and Silas. A small disagreement between Paul and Barnabas had resulted in this change. We have the benefit of looking back on this minor change equipped with the knowledge that God’s hand is even in the smallest details, minute details that ultimately affect the big picture.

This was just one of many small details that bear the signature of God in the story of Paul’s second missionary journey (See Acts 16)

Barnabas boarded a ship and set sail for the island of Cyprus, sans the Apostle Paul.  If Paul had boarded the ship with his friend then he may never have met Timothy of Lystra. Luke tells us that Timothy was already a disciple of whom the brothers in Lystra and Iconium spoke well of. If he had never met Paul then it may have ended there. But because of a change in plans he did meet Paul, and then Timothy would go on to travel with the Apostle, spreading the gospel across the land. Paul would mentor young Timothy and he would go on to lead the church in Ephesus. Yet Timothy is not the big picture that God had in mind, he was a detail along the way.

Paul desired to go into province of Asia but the Bible tells us that the Holy Spirit prevented Paul and his companions from going there. Luke does not tell us how the Spirit prevented Paul just that He did. Detoured in his travels Paul then tried to enter Bithynia, and again he was prevented from doing so by the Spirit.

If God had not made these small changes in the plans of Paul then Paul may never have traveled to Trojas where he laid his head down to rest. After falling asleep Paul had a dream of man from Macedonia begging Paul—“Come over to Macedonia and help us”.

On the banks of a river Paul meets a woman named Lydia. She heard Paul’s message and God opened her heart and then Lydia became a believer in the Lord. And yet Lydia, this dealer of purple cloth and new believer was not the big picture that God had in mind, she was a detail along the way.

As we draw near to then of this story Paul again is at the river to pray when yet another woman crosses his path. Lydia was a dealer in purple cloth; this woman was a dealer in fortunes. She was possessed by a demon that recognized Paul and his men as followers of the Most High God. But demons have no place in the work of God, so Paul commanded the spirit, “In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to come out of her!” Without the demon to guide her fortune telling this woman was of no use to the men who owned her. Outraged that Paul had put end to their moneymaker, these men incited a riot and Paul and Silas were beaten over and over.

As night fell, from the dark pit of their prison cell, beaten and placed in painful stocks, Paul and Silas began to sing! They sang songs of praise to the Most High God. The prison was silent except for the voices of Paul and Silas as all the other prisoners listened to a sound so foreign to the chambers of a prison. I believe their voices were heard in Heaven and greeted by a standing ovation. And when Heaven’s angels began to applaud the earth began to shake. Locks were broke and cell doors flew open, yet not a single man fled, for they all knew that God’s perfect plan was about to happen.

The prison guard, realizing what had happened and believing that all the prisoners had escaped, drew his sword, prepared to end his own life. Instead he heard the words of Paul. Paul who had not sailed the sea with Barnabas, Paul who had not gone to Asia or Bithynia, Paul who had not declared his Roman citizenship which would have prevented the beating and incarceration—“Don’t harm yourself, we are all here.”

A prison guard that should have died instead received the gift of eternal life. God’s plan for just one was complete.

There are times in our life when God detours our own destinations, our own goals and desires. It is difficult for us to understand that what we want isn’t always what God has in mind. Perhaps that one “prison guard” in your life circle is God’s plan for today. Are you ready with an answer when he asks you, “What must I do to be saved?”

We read of times in the Book of Acts when hundreds or thousands came to Christ at once. But sometimes it is just for one...

I still believe

In less than two weeks Christmas 2012 will arrive on time as always. There have been nearly thirty Christmas mornings that I have shared this festive occasion with little children gathered around an overly-decorated tree; this year will be no different. Life’s circumstances have allowed this unbroken chain of Santa believing little children sharing my warm and cozy living space. My own children have grown past the customary age of belief, although not too old to anticipate the unwrapping of gifts that bear their name. Now it is my grandchildren which fill the role that I myself have never abandoned. 

Yes my friends, I still believe.

Now I must veer away from old Saint Nick for just a moment. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our Savior, of this there is no doubt. For more than two decades I have awoke on Christmas morning with the name of Jesus Christ on my lips, thanking Him for what He did. I cherish those few minutes before lights are lit and the patter of little feet wake up a sleeping house. I take those moments to reflect on the gift that He offers to all, young and old, boy or girl, rich or poor, proud or humble, it makes no difference to Him for He accepts us just the way we are. And then I wonder who will receive His gift today? Is it someone I know? Is it someone that I almost told the story of Jesus to but then hesitated for whatever selfish reason? Oh then I ask Him again for the boldness to never hesitate, to have the zeal to declare the Good News to all those He places in my path. What a gift He gave! What a gift to share!

So what about old Saint Nick? Why do I still believe in this portly mythical figure with his white beard and rosy cheeks? After all I am the one who spends too much time in checkout lanes followed by spending too much money on too many gifts that are too soon forgotten, and then finally spending too many sleeping hours wrapping gifts with hands that were not made for such delicate work. With all this evidence to the contrary I still believe.

Over the years all my children have inquired at one time or another as to the truthfulness of a Santa Claus. My response has always remained the same—“If you don’t believe then there will be no presents under the tree that are from Santa Claus.” Now before you think that harsh, let me clarify, non-belief did not reduce the number of gifts, it just changed the names on the gift tag from “Santa” to “Dad”.

So why do I still believe? Because of the story. Which story, you may ask, for there are many. But most don’t have the charm of the one that comes first to us when we are but two or three years young. The story of Sinterklaas is interesting but too boring. The Scandinavian folklore of Tomte and the Brit’s goat riding Father Christmas are both remarkable but without the charm of good old Santa Claus.

The Santa Claus that employs elves to make gifts for boys and girls, who lives in the North Pole at One Santa Claus Lane, who eats the cookies and drinks the milk left by good little boys and girls, who flies through the night sky in a sleigh pulled by tiny reindeer, who climbs down the chimney (even when you don’t have one) and leaves the toys under the tree…this is the Santa I believe in. He gives hope to every little child that just believes. Don’t believe that bunk about coal in your stocking, have you ever known him too blacken the lining of a single stocking?

I can still capture that feeling I had so many years ago now that comes with believing “tonight Santa Claus is coming!”  And if I have that feeling for just a moment and can share it with children that are still young enough to believe, then I will always believe.

Believing in something good is…good. I hope that you believe. Believe first in Christ, and then believe in what Santa brings. It is okay to do both as long as you know which is real and which is just for fun. They both have a gift, for the naughty or nice, it makes no difference; they accept you just the way you are.

Merry Christmas

Just More Words

Over the last few years I have discovered that writing is addictive. And if one has to be addicted then writing is my choice of drug. “Broken Crosses” has been available on Amazon for just a couple of weeks. I do have an edited version that I am slowly working on after my dear daughter pointed out several typos that I overlooked on the final walk-thru. And I believe I have also finally found a cover that I like (see upper left hand corner), your opinions are valued so please let me know what you think.

I finished “Broken Crosses” very early on Thanksgiving morning. Surprisingly writing can be exhausting and crossing the finish line can have the same physical outcome as accomplishing the same in a road race. With completion comes exhilaration and anticipation of rest and relaxation. I slept better those few hours before Thanksgiving morning than I had in months. What surprises me now is how quickly the desire to write more returned. I told you it is addicting. For me there is a rush in creating with words. I do remind myself that they are just more words until someone reads them.

When the idea for “Broken Crosses” first bubbled up in my overly crowded cranium I was working (actually struggling is a better description) on the second book in a series about the Goode Family. The characters in “Broken Crosses”, Scott Kelso, his son and daughter, the nurse Anna, all began to grow almost before a single word was put on paper, so it was with little hesitation or regret that I set aside the series book.

But now the Goode Family is calling me again and I have started dusting off the words and breathing life back into the characters. “The Wooden Box” first introduced the world to the Goode family, below is an excerpt for your entertainment...enjoy

I was eight years old when Momma first allowed me to go to the Spit by myself. The unnamed fishing hole soon became my favorite hangout, even when there were no fish to be found. An eight year old can always find something to do even when there is nothing to do it with. That spring I had decided that I wanted to try fly fishing in the inlet. I had watched my father fly fish on the Russian River the prior spring. He had let me try it a few times that day, but the hours for fishing were short and he didn’t want to lose them while teaching me. He surprised me about a week later after we had returned to Homer by giving me my own fly rod. When he found time he would teach me to cast and how to tie my own flies. I practiced a lot by myself because Daddy worked so much. Before long I could perform a pretty decent two-handed spey cast. I was swinging my own flies before summer went away that year. Daddy spotted me one day practicing at the small pond on our property. He told me he believed I may have better a two-hand cast than he had, but the real test would come when I was fishing waters that actually had fish in it.

I sat out early that morning to head down to the fishing hole. The sun had just come up and it was still cold enough to see your own breath. There was still snow on the untraveled grounds. To get from the road down to the fishing spot you had to descend a pretty steep bank. That morning there was still snow and ice on the steep bank so I sat down on my butt and slid down, digging my heals in the dirt as I approached the water. Explaining to Momma how I got wet if I happened to end up in the freezing water was not something I wanted to do.

Fishing was slow that morning. It gave me plenty of opportunity to practice my casting. As the morning wore on I wanted to practice my catching. My young arms were starting to get pretty tired. I was never very big growing up and my fly rod was twice as long as I was tall. Casting over and over put strain on the muscles in my arms and my back. I was just about to take a break when I saw the backs of what must have been a million salmon as they crested the water. I jumped back up and grabbed my pole, and then with all the strength I had left in those scrawny eight year old arms I swept the line just above the water and watched as my fly landed with perfect presentation.

The spawning salmon are not really looking for a meal. But if you can irritate them with a fly in their face they are likely to bite at it. Well I made one really mad! I saw her mouth open and then close with lightning speed around my fly. The tip of my rod dove straight down towards the cold water almost bending the pole in half as the salmon turned, heading back out into the inlet. My fly reel began to sing like a fat opera lady as the salmon reeled off the line. The rate of my heart increased to about a million beats per minute. (A million fish and a million beats per minute, when I was eight years old there was only a “few” or a “million”, not much in between).

Then I made the biggest fishing mistake of my young life. I knew that I was supposed to let her play out the line, let her fight for a while.  “She’ll get tired”, my Dad would have said, “Don’t you get tired first. You’ll make mistakes if you do.”

I pulled up with all my might. Just as I did I felt the hook let go. I don’t know if she spit it out or if I just pulled to hard, but either way the sharp hook on that hand tied spey- fly flew right back the way it had come. I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the barbed hooked entering my cheek just below my left eye. The air was cold that day, even more so down by the water where the wind never stops blowing, and the freezing cold air had numbed my face. At first I thought the fly had just smacked me in the face. It hurt like the dickens. If you have never had your near frozen skin smacked then you can’t know the burning pain that is experienced, so take my word, it hurts! As my vision came back into focus I could see the fine strands of the rabbit hair I had used when tying the fly sticking up in my lower vision. I reached up and lightly touched the soft area below my eye, feeling for the hilt of the fly. My fingers found the fly and lightly pulled. The pain was incredible and I knew then that the hook had sunk in deep. Up to that moment I hadn’t cried, but then the tears came on full force. I probably would have sat there on my butt crying until someone came along if my own imagination hadn’t snapped me out of it. I began to wonder if the tears were pouring out of the new hole in my face made by the sharp hook. As my mind’s eye developed this picture I started to laugh, first quietly then out loud.

My laughter didn’t make the pain go away but the tears stopped as quickly as they had started. I wondered what my Dad would have said about me crying like a bumbling baby. I can’t remember Dad ever shedding a tear. His often-stated opinion was, “If you can grow face whiskers then you’re not built to cry.” Never mind that the faces of most boys my age were still as smooth as a skippin’ rock. But he wasn’t there to see my tears and I never told him about the crying part of this story. As far as I know, neither did Old Jacob.

You can own this e-book by following this link Wooden-Box-ebook/dp/B0060FRRAU.