If it's true that Chicago is the “city with big shoulders,” those shoulders get quite a work out.  Walking 1.5 miles each way to work, I'm continually amazed at the construction projects I encounter. 

There is no end to the pounding, grinding, bashing, welding, clanking—building.  On Wacker Drive, I see a major project underway that has most of the heavy equipment staged on the Chicago River.   

Worth noting: a huge red crane (the boom must be 50 feet tall or more) whose treads rest on massive timbers laid out on a barge.  Because I often take the same train, I witness the same early morning scenarios: workers grabbing their last few puffs on cigarettes before clocking in, heavy equipment dragged out of locked storage containers, and a symphony of swearing from red-scarfed heads. 

What has lately grabbed my attention is the daily ritual of the aforementioned crane's operator.   Day after day I find him climbing outside his cab with a jug of glass cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other.  Every morning, he faithfully spritzes the glass and wipes away the dust and grime that come with big noise and big toys. 

Apparently, it's “all that important” to him.  In a given day, he will hook, hoist, and haul hundreds of tons of materials—any of which could crush a site or kill a man, given the slightest imprecision on his part.  It's not that he “wants” to see clearly around him.  He must see.  So he cleans. Every morning.

And so must we. 

The windows of our souls are ever caked with dust and grime that come from a noisy life—sin. We little understand the loads we swing about us daily, the potential we face for immediate destruction.

How good to know that upon our confession, the Savior with big shoulders—Jesus—is ready and willing to forgive our sins and “cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

How is it with the windows of your soul?

Now that television is clogged with large men lunging at an oblong ball, I reluctantly cede summer's end. Though I love football, I shall miss summer. Most of all, I will miss Saturday mornings in a wooded field. Seated in a comfortable chair I am alone with my Bible, my Creator and His creation. 

The birds are loud there, with many different sounds.  I often close my eyes and count the number of different calls.

One bird sounds like a Chevy engine that won't quite start—really!
Another's contribution is nothing but a single syllable chirp. 
Others, by comparison, offer highly ornate phrases using many notes on the musical scale.

The best way to enjoy, though, is not to over analyze, but to let the layered harmonies of these winged creatures work their melodies into your soul.  The birds, I'm convinced, have a few lessons in their twitter (pun likely intended).

Lesson One:  Your voice—your solo--is unique.  Your appearance, your personality, your spiritual gifting—they're not just okay, they're great!  So “sing” boldly.   As Oscar Wilde put it, “Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken.”

Lesson Two: Learn to be silent. 
All birds don't sing all the time.  They take turns, sit out awhile, then chirp when the time is right.  There's a place for letting others solo.  Learn to be silent. 

Lesson Three:  Learn to celebrate the symphony.   You can only sing one part—not an entire score!  As Paul observed, “we have many members in one body and all the members do not have the same function” (Rom. 12:4).It's great to be multi-talented.  But it's wrong to attempt to be the whole show. 

Most people go bird watching.
Me?  I go bird-listening.
That's what I've been hearing lately.

Now if you’ll please excuse me--I have a tweet to send off.

Recently I overheard a conversation between a mother and her young child.  The well-intentioned mom informed her son that unless a certain behavior changed, he would not be able to attend Awana Bible club.

I don't doubt her motivation.  Nor is there anything wrong with stripping a child of privileges for behavior that fails to meet clearly defined age-appropriate expectations.

But when we consider all the evil in the world, all the dark forces at work trying to wrap their wicked tentacles around our kids, using a Christian Bible club as a reward to be earned, or a punishment to be meted out seems wildly inappropriate.

I've seen this in other situations.  A neighbor lady often used our church youth group as a “withholding tool” for disciplining her kids.  She wouldn't allow them to attend if they didn't meet a certain behavior standard.  So they often missed.   Know what?  They quit going all together.

Think of all the Bible lessons these young people have missed out on.  Ponder all the Christian comradery they were shortchanged, the vital friendships that were never forged, the mentoring that never happened.  I do not consider it hyperbole to suggest the entire trajectory of their lives may well have been changed—for the worse.

And many of the same people who use Bible clubs or youth group meetings as rewards somehow fail to see their child's television or gaming time as candidates for disciplinary withholding.   Really!

The hymn writer asked, “Is this vile world a friend to grace to help me on to God?”  The answer, of course, is no!

By all means, we must discipline our children.  By all means, let's let children experience consequences for bad behavior or bad choices.  But let us never ever prevent them from attending a Christian club or event where the gospel is presented and Jesus is lifted high.

We dare not forget that eternity is always at stake.

Imagine that you are an air force pilot...but your country has only four airplanes (flying condition unknown).  What would you do if 10,000 enemy soldiers advanced to within 16 miles of your nation's second largest city?   That was the situation faced by Lou Lenart.

According to an article in The Times of Israel, Hungarian born Lenart, of Jewish descent, immigrated to the United States as a child to avoid rampant anti-Semitism.  Enlisting in the U.S. Marines at the age of 17, he is said to have “talked his way into flight school” and flew combat missions in the Pacific during World War II.

Just three years after the end of World War II, Israel was pronounced a state and Arabs in the region responded with ferocity.   An Egyptian army numbering more than 10,000 marched to within sixteen miles of Tel Aviv. 

Israel's entire air force consisted of four airplanes assembled from smuggled German Messerschmitt parts.   Lenart, who was then back in Israel, took off in one of them. “We didn't know if they would fly or if the guns would work,” he said. Determined, Lenart took off.   The plane's pistons all fired but the guns did not. 

Still, Lenart's fearless swooping over the opposing army forced the Egyptians to retreat, now believing the Israelis had a lethal air force.  

After Lenart took on the entire Egyptian army, newspapers dubbed him, “the man who saved Tel Aviv.” An average hero might have hung up his spurs to glory in the glimmer of international acclaim.  But Lenart went on to fly thousands of Jewish refugees from Iraq to Israel and worked as a commercial airline pilot.

In a 2012 interview with the Jerusalem Post, Lou Lenart commented, “I was the luckiest man in the world that my destiny brought me to that precise moment to be able to contribute to Israel's survival.”

Sadly, as of this summer, Lou Lenart is now gone. 

Israel could certainly use more of his kind.

It happens in most every church, most every Sunday morning.  The pastor has finished his sermon and the congregation is about to sing another chorus or two. The pastor prays a prayer inviting the Holy Spirit to “do a work among us,” driving home the Bible passage just preached.  
 
But in nearly every congregation some folks are exempted from that prayer: the worship team.  The singers, band members, interpreters, they make their way up to the stage while the prayer is being prayed.
 
Question:  Why?
 
Answer:    Because we don't want to “waste time” getting everybody situated. 
 
Now as a guy who lives in a world of live radio, nobody appreciates the need to keep things flowing more than me.  As a (would be) musician, I completely understand the prep that has to go on before a group can be ready to sing or play. 
 
Yet still I ask, why do we find it acceptable to use prayer as a “transition” for our worship teams?   Isn't the worth and value of our worship tied to our praying?  In our current model professionalism and pragmatism have trumped prayer.

What is wrong with simply letting the worship team pray with the rest of the congregation—and then giving them a moment to get set up on stage? 
 
If “saving time” is such a premium to us, why don't we start the service on time rather than a few minutes late?  If saving time is such a premium, why don't we tighten up our announcements?    Or why not run the announcements during the time the band is resetting on stage?
 
Consider the small—even stingy--piece of “pie” that prayer gets in the average Sunday morning service.  Dare we slice it even thinner for those claiming to lead us in worship?
 
Maybe it's time we stopped being slick and professional.
Maybe it's time to be a bit more awkward so we can be a bit more prayerful.