He’s the funniest guy you never heard of: Stan Freberg, the sultan of satire, the wizard of one-liners.

In a sketch from Freberg’s History of the United States comedy album, George Washington trods through winter snows to the home of seamstress Betsy Ross, who is making the nation’s first flag.  As Washington tromps inside, Betsy yells out, “Hey, hey—ever hear of wipin’ your feet?  You’re gettin’ snow all over my early American rug!”  Their contentious flag meeting ends with Betsy asking General Washington, “Do you want me to put it on a hangar?”  To which he replies nonchalantly, “No, I’ll just run it up the flag pole and see if anybody salutes.

Stan Freberg did cartoon voice-overs for Warner Brothers and Walt Disney.  He hosted the Emmy-winning early-'50s puppet show, Time for Beany.  Among his fans was Albert Einstein.  The genius once supposedly interrupted a high-level conference announcing, "You will have to excuse me, gentlemen. It is time for Beany."

Freberg was a major force in the advertising world, with clients like Jeno's Pizza, Reynolds Wrap, and Great American Soups.  He spent a record-setting one million dollars on a single commercial back in 1970.  When George Lucas sought advice on the voice for his Star Wars character C-3PO, he turned to Stan Freberg.

Being a Freberg fan—and full of chutzpah— I called him up and spoke with him on the phone.  Twice.  One occasion was just after his first wife, Donna, died in 2000.  Pensive, he shared with me that he was raised the son of a Baptist minister.  Which led me to ask him if he was certain he was going to heaven—and why.

He proceeded to quote John 3:16 from the King James Version: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life.”

Stan Freberg won many awards, voiced many characters, made many records—and died last week. Now, only one thing about his life really matters: He knew Jesus as His Savior.  Do you?

Two year olds have a way of seeing—and saying—things.

For example, our two-year-old grandson, Caleb, comes to our house to color and fold paper “aircranes.”   Naturally, we have contests to see how far those “aircranes” will fly.

After his parents told him he could have some Sprite only after he finished drinking a glass of water, Caleb immediately began to guzzle.  The water was drizzling down his chin and he was gasping for breath.  He stopped a moment and declared with exasperation, “It takes so wong!” (long).

One night playing with his dad, Caleb reached up to feel his pop's rough face and immediately proclaimed, “You have hair crumbs.”

Observing a sunny afternoon, Caleb looked up and said, “Dad, the sun!  It’s shining still and it makes me so happy.”

Speaking of sun, recently, his mom bought him a pair of sunglasses.  Peering at himself in the mirror, he declared (with a voice full of gusto) “I look like a MAN!”

This weekend, we stayed with the grandkids and early in the morning, two-year old Caleb jumped into bed with us.  After a few hugs and snuggles, he poked his index finger in my ear and asked me, “What’s in there?”  (My wife assured him it was a hole going from one side of my head to the other). Two-year olds have a way of seeing—and saying—things.

In Matthew 18:3, Jesus makes an astounding statement to His disciples: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

What is it about little children Jesus finds so attractive—so exemplary?   With due respect to the commentaries and theologians, I offer this humble answer.  One need look no further than the smile on a little boy’s face who is grateful for the sun because it makes him…happy.

What is it about hard times that soften the human spirit?

A recent spring snow storm that assaulted our Monday morning commute seemed to many unkind, even cruel.  Sliding through the significant slush in downtown Chicago, I was intrigued with the way people were notably friendlier in this sudden “hardship.” I heard one stranger thanking another stranger for shoveling his sidewalk.  These are people who would normally not even notice each other on the street, let alone exchange courtesies.

As I picked my way carefully, I came to a length of sidewalk that “nobody” owns—so “nobody” shovels it.  The only safe path is one made by commuters' feet shuffling along.   An older lady looked at me, and my facial expression conveyed the clear intent that she should take the well-trod footpath path, while I would walk in the snow drifts.

Near Chicago's landmark Merchandise Mart building, I suddenly sipped and landed on my elbow.  The driver of a refrigerated seafood truck saw the whole thing.  As I struggled to get up, he opened the door of his cab, clearly ready to extend a hand.

But why is this?  Why is it that we, who can treat other humans one day as invisible and the next—a day of hardship—finds us friendly and helpful?  I'm sure for a mere 20 million dollars we could issue a congressional study on the question of human psyche.

Yet I am inclined to think the answer has less to do with psychology than theology.  Follow my reasoning:  Man is made in the image of God.   Caring and compassion are God-like qualities.  Hard times waken us out of the slumber of self-absorbency.  Ergo, we help when others hurt because to do otherwise would deny the image of the God who made us.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of Compassion and God of all encouragement, who encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction with the encouragement which we ourselves are encouraged by God...”   --2 Corinthians 1:3-5

Recently, a student asked me if I use an electronic Bible in church.  I told him no.

Before I give you my reasons, let me first tell you that I love (even depend on) electronic Bibles and commentaries for sermon preparation, crafting devotionals and researching biblical issues.  The ability to click with a mouse, swipe with my tablet or peruse with my smartphone is a huge time saver.   But when I attend church or speak in church, I never use anything electronic.   Here’s why.

First, the Bible is not like any other book.  It is unique in every sense.  Actually, its full and proper name is the Holy Bible.  Neither my smartphone nor my tablet is holy.  Nor is your Kindle.  They enable us to text, email, Facebook or phone a friend.  That daily stuff is all well and good.  But it is definitely not holy.  The Bible is special, and the physical copy I bring helps me in a subtle way to remember that.

I am not suggesting that the leather, ink, and paper themselves are holy.  Nor am I saying your electronic device cannot contain holy content.  But because the overwhelming majority of our time spent with electronic devices is mundane, for me it detracts from the “set apart” nature of Holy Scripture.

Second, I use a paper Bible because I believe it’s important to underline and make notes as I listen.  Sure you can do this electronically.  But honestly, how likely is it those notes will be around a decade from now?  I have notes in my Bible made 20 years ago that still inform me today.

Third, I use a paper and ink Bible because a smartphone or tablet invite—even beg—distractions.  There’s the quiet buzz of a text or email alert…a Facebook message.  I’m not looking for more distractions in church. 

Finally, it’s my opinion that the use of an electronic gadget for a Bible in church is just one more evidence of our demand for comfort and convenience.  Turning pages is just "too hard." Besides—gotta keep one hand free for that coffee cup!

When it comes to geography, Americans are notoriously ignorant—and curiously unbothered about it. Whether looking at a globe or a U.S. map, most folks just don't care.

Take my home state, Illinois.  For those who live in the city of Chicago or its suburbs, their knowledge of the state's western borders ends at the city of DeKalb, home of Northern Illinois University.  But about half of the state lies west of this point—the half where my wife grew up.  It's the half that rarely makes the news.

Yet I say you have not lived until you've been there and cruised around the tiny town called Kasbeer, shopped inside a converted grain elevator in Princeton, or gazed upon the antique gas station rusting away in Ohio (yup, that's an Illinois town).

This time of year in particular, my mind wanders out to Illinois' other half. For years, the Kasbeer Community Church hosted a men’s' pancake supper for fellow churches in neighboring farm communities.  They came from places like Wyanett, Bhuda, Bunker Hill, and Walnut.  Mustached faces, bib overalls and honest smiles—they were a manly mix.

In the kitchen, wielding the largest spatula I'd ever seen, was Calvin Philhower.  He made one size of pancake—huge (these were farmers, remember).  Calvin was the first to volunteer to round up the griddles and get them prepped.  All afternoon he hovered over them working a sort of pancake magic.

Though it took a full crew to pull off this supper, Calvin—my father in law--was the guy I watched.  I remember those good farm folks, remember that pancake supper.  But mostly, I remember Calvin, who succumbed to cancer a few years ago.

Scripture makes it pretty clear that heaven will offer a banquet, and because Calvin loved Jesus, he'll be there. But if that banquet somehow offers pancakes of any kind, I'll know exactly where to find Calvin: deep in the kitchen.  Look for the guy with the big smile--and an even bigger spatula.