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!