If you are searching for an unforgettable picture of intensity, I know a two-year old who can help.

What the scent of blood is to a shark, the sight of a book is to young Caleb.  He doesn’t merely read books—he inhales them.   From the moment his sense of balance enabled him to toddle across the floor, he has dragged books all over the house and on to the lap of anyone—I mean anyone—who will read to him.

As Caleb’s “Poompah Di-Di” (the name he has cobbled together borrowing my wife’s moniker, “Di-Di” and his own attempt at “grandpa”), I have shared his love of books—and the sense of his wiggly body on my lap.

While most children his age are content to sit there as long as the pages turn quickly, Caleb will stay as long as needed on any given page.  And while most kids are “sort of” into the images and text, Caleb’s ferocious interest is off the charts.  He will do anything it takes to get front and center with a book.   And happily hear it read ten times in succession.  No title ever gets boring.  No page is ever unworthy.

So lost in the wonder of his books is young Caleb, that his own head gets in the way of my ability to read the page!   I have to dodge his noggin to do the readin’!  Now throw into the mix the shared interest of his older sister in the same story and you can begin to appreciate I often have a very full lap.

Without wishing to strain at a spiritualization, I sometimes feel “shown up” by Caleb and his intensity. To the point:  When am I ever this intense when it comes to reading the Bible?  Why do I not read like Caleb reads—no chapter ever gets boring, no page is unworthy?

Jeremiah 29:13 “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

I’m pondering Caleb’s intensity—and wishing I had more of it.

What's the strangest place you have ever visited?  Traveling to 35 countries has taken me to some unusual locations, but none as bizarre as a trip to the ancient city of Hierapolis in Turkey. 
 
After a considerable hike through this historic city, you finally arrive at the Gates of Hell.  I'm entirely serious.  To the untrained eye (mine) the Gates of Hell appear entirely unremarkable.  Imagine a mound of dirt covered with cut stones that form a wall behind which are said to be the actual Gates of Hell.
 
How it is that long-ago-locals came to identify this spot as THE entrance to the world of the condemned is worth a brief excursion. 
 
The site is built on top of a cave which emits toxic gases, making it a convenient spot for the ritual sacrifice of animals.  Tied with ropes, the animals were tossed into the cave where they died, reinforcing the notion that this place of death represented the actual gates of Hell.  According to some reports, the cavern still maintains its deadly atmosphere.  Birds, attracted by the cavern's warm air, have suffered after breathing the toxic fumes. 
 
Having been to the place, it hardly seems fitting as an entryway to the lake of fire which burns forever, the final judgment.  Turkey’s so-called “Gates of Hell” make for an interesting visit but we would do well to separate biblical truth from lore and legend.
 
When the Bible speaks of Hell, it refers to a real place where real people will spend eternity.    Who will be there?  The Bible tells us in Revelation 20:15.  “Whosoever's name was not found written in the Lamb's Book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”  The only escape is to “confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead.”
 
Unspeakable agony, unending damnation—this is the real Hell, not some tourist site in Turkey. Unlike our visit to the supposed “Gates of Hell,” in Hierapolis, the real Hell is not a stopping off point.   It's a destination.  And having arrived, there is no going back.

His king was vanquished, his country conquered, and Daniel's future seemed dim.  Captured and then carted off to a strange land, he had no idea what lay before him.  What could he have been thinking as passed through the gates of Nebuchadnezzar's palace, its walls adorned with artwork in relief?

Large segments of those very walls are on display today at the Istanbul museum in Turkey. Recently I gawked at several sections of them featuring beautifully preserved images of lions and dragons.   Gorgeously carved and colorfully painted, these panels are about four foot by six foot— and stunning. It's hard to believe these pieces date back 2,600 years. 

Staring at these treasures, I tried to process that these are the very same images—the very same walls with the very same lions--that Daniel would have seen once pressed into palace duty.  Perhaps his hand reached out to trace one of those same lion's paws that caught my attention.

Remember that as Daniel took in the exotic palace imagery, he did so without benefit from any previous perspective such as Discovery Channel, books, Blue Ray or even a county zoo.

I continued to stare at the walls Daniel stared at.  What thoughts raced through his mind as he pondered the lion with the blue background I was photographing?  It must have been jolting—terrifying: lions everywhere!

But most of all, I wonder if Daniel connected the painted palace creatures with the real lions in the pit into which Nebuchadnezzar eventually placed him.  Did he tremble at the smell of these beasts?  Quiver at the feel of their hot breath on his skin?

Someday, I shall ask Daniel myself.

Meanwhile, Daniel has a question for me—and you: Is the power of the living God a thing that we merely archive between the leather covers of our Bibles—a sort of museum for heroes long past?  Or is it a force that moves us and motivates us on a daily basis?

Staring into the eyes of the painted lions is haunting.  But what will it be like to one day lock eyes with the Lion of Judah?

There's something about a room—any room—whose name begins with the word, “Treasure.”  In a visit to Istanbul’s Topkap Palace Museum, I was obliged to spend time in the Treasure room of the Sultans.

Personally, I'm not much for jewelry, especially the gaudy kind.  And Sultans—like so many rich folks in history—had a penchant for serious bling.  Yet I was stopped in my tracks at the window showcasing the Kasicki Diamond.  At 86 carats, this diamond is considered to be one of the largest in the world.  Set in silver, it is surrounded by a double row of 49 cut diamonds.

The sight of the pear-shaped gem grabbed my attention, but the story behind it kept me lingering.  According to “reliable” accounts, a poor fisherman walking the shores of Istanbul looked down and saw something shimmering in the sun.  Stooping down for a closer look, he scooped up the shiny thing which appeared to him as a piece of glass (either this man was more ignorant of jewelry than even me, or there must have been a boat load of sea weed wrapped around the thing!).

Any way, he took it to a jeweler who feigned disinterest insisting it was merely a piece of common glass. Yet—out of the “goodness of his heart” the jeweler offered the ignorant fisherman three spoons in exchange for his find. Eventually a vizier, doing business on behalf of the sultan, purchased the diamond and it made its way to the palace.

The story you may find unlikely.  But what is certain is that you and I may be engaging in the same kind of foolish trades every day.

We trade the diamond of God's indwelling power for three spoons of our own puny effort.

We trade the diamond of Christ's rest for three spoons of anxiety.

We trade the diamond of the Spirit's guidance for three spoons of self-centeredness.

2Co 4:7  But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.

Today there will come your way—and mine—a thousand opportunities to trade away the treasure God has already given us.  But spoons are a poor trade.  For ignorant fishermen—or those bound for streets of gold.

It was an odd sensation. The cool breeze tumbling through the open window, carrying along on its invisible current a sound.  Vague at first.  Indistinct.   Then it stirred me out of my last attempts at sleep.

Even in the stupor born of time zones and travel, I quickly assessed the noise--an Arabic chant sounding from a distant speaker calling ancient Istanbul to piety for Allah.  The morning Muslim call to prayer.

But the more I listened, the more difficult it became to discern the imam's voice.  There were echoes everywhere, it seemed.  That “solo” was now a chorus.  Or perhaps, more accurately, a wall of sound.  Different voices from different mosques all over the city were chanting back and forth (in Istanbul there is a mosque on virtually every city block).  This wall of sound, this “gentle roar” was like nothing I'd ever heard before.

It continued on for perhaps 10 or 15 minutes before finally dying away again.  Assaulted by a sudden silence, the question popped into my brain, “Why don't followers of Jesus pray so boldly?  Where is our “gentle roar?”  Why shouldn't the world hear us calling on Almighty God?  Shouldn't the whole world sense our communion with our Heavenly Father in prayer?

In the book of Acts, we read that after the disciples met and prayed, 'the place was shaken where they were assembled together” (Acts 4:31).   Silent prayers--personal prayers–surely have their place.  Even the Holy Spirit prays for us “with groanings which cannot be uttered” (Romans 8:26).

Still, I wonder. What if followers of Christ were really and truly dedicated to prayer?   What if we stopped what we were doing five or six or ten times a day and prayed, not ritualistic prayers, but true heart language?    What if our prayer meetings were filled to overflowing? And what if on Sunday mornings, outsiders attending our services described their experience as “being in a house of prayer?

Indeed, what if when the whole world attempted to define Christianity it would be impossible to separate our faith...from the gentle roar of our combined prayers?