Only if you have been punched in the stomach, left gasping for air, can you fully relate to my current emotional state.  We've just finished touring the Elmina slave castle.  You say you've never heard of it?

It's a foreboding fortress on the coast of Ghana, West Africa built in 1482.  For hundreds of years it was a slave processing center.  That's a polite way of saying that here, human beings were ripped from their families, stripped of their personal dignity, and prepped for a lifetime of misery.

For a slave-in-the-making, the three month stay at Elmina offered a daily diet of evil so wicked, you can almost taste the screams and wails from the 600 men and 400 women imprisoned here at any given time.

Just inside the fortress is a small room with iron bars, and massive latches. Noteworthy for the skull and crossbones above it, this was the place where slaves who had offended the soldiers were starved to death.

Or consider the hidden hatch and stairway that lead to the Governor's bedroom.  The staircase was reserved for female slaves the governor had selected to rape.

Yet far more disturbing than any of these was the sight of a church prominently positioned on the plaza inside the fortress.  Here, men ostensibly sang hymns, worshipped God and prayed---as a thousand slaves lay rotting in their own excrement.

Why didn't the solders' theology expose their hypocrisy, their inhumanity?  How could they be comfortable selling husbands and wives, sons and daughters...like stock for a general store?

It's easy to be shocked by their inhumanity.  But what about ours?  We sing hymns, worship God and pray, while around the world atrocities are the daily stuff of millions.

It’s time to hear THEIR cries…..THEIR screams….and then DO something.

A great place to begin: Visit persecution.com

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.