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When Jesus Comes for Dinner  

“Been pokin’ around the gospels a bit,” spouted my friend, Jack, as he shoved a toothpick in his mouth.  The long pause he left dangling meant I was supposed to inquire further. 

“Whatcha find in the gospels lately, Jack?”

“I’ve noticed Jesus spent a surprising amount of time at dinner with lost people—and amazing things often happened at those dinners.”  Here his toothpick waggled in the left corner of his upturned mouth.

“Take me to one of.…”  Jack anticipated my response.  Didn’t let me finish. 

“Luke 19.  The short guy—Zaccheus.  Couldn’t see Jesus so he climbed the sycamore tree.  But Jesus saw him up there and urged him to come down quickly so he could stay at Zaccheus’ home.”

“Sure.  Every Sunday School kid knows this one,” I offered.

“Then you’ll recall that the religious folks were less than thrilled with Christ’s choice of dinner associates.”  With an impressive (and thankfully invisible) swish of his tongue, Jack whisked the toothpick from the left corner of his mouth to the right.  He continued. 

“‘He has gone to be the guest of a sinner!’ Jesus critics charge. And Jesus Himself is silent with regard to any defense for Zaccheus’ character or conduct.  Not even Zaccheus defends himself.”

“Maybe Zaccheus was a bigger man than his short stature suggested,” I offered.

“Not a bigger man.  A changed man.  Zaccheus assures Christ, ‘Half of my possessions I will give to the poor.’  Then comes the show stopper. Jesus gestures toward Zaccheus (here Jack removes the toothpick and jabs at the air) pointing out that ‘today salvation has come to this house because he, too, is a son of Abraham.’  In other words, he is now headed for heaven.  And it all happened over dinner.  Amazing!”  Jack was suddenly silent.

“So what’s your big takeaway?” I asked, my friend still lost in Zaccheus’ story.

“Discipleship—sometimes it begins at dinner.”

Jack could read my mind—I’m sure of it.  He saw me pondering too many of my comfortable dinners with too many comfortable Christian friends.  Yet I’m guessing he saw something else deep inside—a hunger to have dinner with unsaved people.

That’s when he smiled—and popped the toothpick back in his mouth. 

 

 

 

 

 
Only One God  

Four little kids in a museum filled with priceless objects.  A recipe for disaster, right?   If they were yours, you’d want to keep an eye on those little ones for sure—and we did.

Imagine a porcelain vase standing about two-and-half feet tall.  It was a magnificent shade of blue covered with gilded gold. The thing had a diameter of about two feet, so it was plenty big.

Mythological characters in raised relief walked the entire circumference of the vase, their fantastic appearance engaging the laser focus of Caleb.  Caleb is five and fearless and faith-filled (a tribute to his mom and dad).  He’s also curious. 

His large brown eyes drank in the images of those creatures as the museum docent pointed to the vase’s rim and explained, “That’s the god of creation….and there’s the god of water…This one here is the god of….”  Abruptly Caleb turned, looked the lady right in the eye and said with equal measures of politeness and boldness, “Excuse me.”

The docent paused.  Caleb continued with an innocent smile on his face proclaiming, “There’s only one God.”

To say the lady was caught off guard would be an understatement.   “Well, yes,” she stammered.  Regaining her groove, she said pleasantly, “You’ll read more about these in school.”  And that’s pretty much how it ended. 

Think of it. We live in a world of museums and media and classrooms and conversations filled with false information about God.  Like the exchange with the museum lady, not all of it is deliberately hostile. Yet it’s there.  Everywhere.

But what if we Christ followers were all a bit more courageous, like Caleb?  What if—instead of angry shouts, boycotts, and protests—we gently but firmly asserted the truth about God when culture says otherwise?  Consistently.  What if we tried Caleb’s way: put a smile on your face and say with your life as well as your mouth, “Excuse me—there’s only one God.”

Caleb is five and fearless and faith-filled.   I hope to grow up to be like him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
A Heart Like Art's  

At the age of nine, you haven’t lived long enough to sense greatness—let alone define it.  But there was something special about that summer at Camp Awana in Fredonia, Wisconsin.  

There was a guy there with a flat-top haircut and a twinkle that never left his eye.  He called himself Art.  Decades later, I can still hear him speaking to us kids that night in the “Long House.”  

Art told us the story of how when he was a kid, he really didn’t know Jesus as the leader of His life—His personal Savior.  But his mom and dad did.  So did his brother Roy.   When Roy was struck by Spinal Meningitis, he lay on his bed, dwindling away.  Exactly one night before he died, Roy pled with his mom and dad to challenge Art to receive Christ.   Art overhead the entire conversation and was deeply moved.  The next day, he made Jesus his Lord and Savior.

As Art told us all this, I saw tears forming in his eyes, then trickling down his cheeks.  I’d never seen a man cry before.  As best I could—at the age of nine—I tried to process all of this.  Even at that young age, I knew there was something right about a heart like Art’s.

Over the decades that followed, I continued to observe the heart of Art Rorheim: always tender on this matter of salvation.  Working part-time at Awana Headquarters, I watched as Art traveled the globe with his singular passion: more boys and girls for Christ.  I remember hearing his stories as he came home from far-flung places with engaging photos…exotic souvenirs…and—always—more tears.

It all came together on a Moody Radio trip I took with Awana to Kenya and Zambia.  Watching kids run around an Awana game circle scratched out in the African dust, I was fighting tears of my own as I processed just how far God has taken the Awana ministry that Art helped to create.

And now, Art Rorheim is gone.  He passed away earlier this week. But what a legacy.

Elisha of old asked for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit.  I seek no such thing.  That would be far too great.  Me, I want a heart like Art’s: tender always…easily touched by lost people.  If I could have that legacy, the sun would never set on a day not lived for “more boys and girls for Christ.” 

 
Eternity Equals Urgency!  

Saw something weird on a flight to Cincinnati the other day. 

 

We were wheeling away from the gate.  The last of the last-minute fiddling with overhead storage compartments was completed as flight attendants mashed the large plastic doors shut on backpacks, winter coats and roller boards.  Time for the obligatory safety demonstration.

 

It began with a reminder that seatbelts should be worn “low and tight across the waist.”  We were comforted by the knowledge that in the unlikely event of a water landing, our seat cushions could be used as a flotation device.  We were encouraged to look around and find the nearest emergency exit nearest us.   I did.  I always do.  I count the number of seats forward and the number of seats backward and try to commit these to my fragile memory.

 

But I’m pretty sure I was one of the only ones who made the effort.  Craning my head, I didn’t see a single passenger engaged with the fight attendant’s safety demonstration.  No one even appeared to be watching.  People were reading or staring out the window, or fidgeting with their phones (in airplane mode, of course ). 

 

Right about the moment when the attendant held up the plastic yellow cup that—in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure—”will drop down automatically,” I noticed that even the guy doing the demonstration appeared bored.  Disconnected. 

 

Process this with me for just a moment.  Here was a plane full of people and few paid any attention as life and death instructions were shared (albeit in a near monotone voice). The safety card in the seatback was mentioned, but scarcely glanced at.  Yet it offered essential, even critical insights for avoiding death.  And nothing about the person conveying the life-and-death message suggested the least hint of urgency. 

 

You'll forgive me for abruptly grabbing the throttle and steering this blog into two turbulent questions.  First, is it possible this scene is a picture of how many of us react to God’s rescue message?  Is it possible we’ve been so comfortable for so long strapped into our Sunday morning seats that we’ve lost touch with the eternal life-and-death rescue message contained in our Bibles?

 

Second—is the flight attendant I saw a metaphor for some of us who stand in pulpits week after week and fail to to be possessed by the horror of the hell that awaits every non-believer?  Have we lost the sense of danger that even now defines the destiny of every unsaved soul? 

 

God help us be alert. Engaged.  Concerned.  God help us recover the sense that eternity equals urgency. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
Gold, Mercy and Franklin  

The holiday we call Christmas is now in the rear view mirror.  Said another way, it’s a mere 362 days away.  Better get shopping!  Or not…

 

Our daughter and son-in-law do a terrific job of underscoring the Advent season.  Every night, they pull out a gorgeous rendition of the Christmas drama titled The Advent Book, which features fold out “doors” on every thick page each revealing a key scene in the biblical account of Christ’s birth. 

 

The book is passed around to their kids (who have now mostly memorized the whole story).  They delight in opening up the doors on every page revealing artwork and Scripture that propel the narrative along.  

 

We were privileged to be with the kids for several readings and observed five-year old Caleb’s interpretation of the visiting magi.  Like the rest of the kids opening the rest of the pages, he was anxious to demonstrate his mastery of the story.  With grinning certainty he catalogued the gifts given to the holy family: “gold, mercy and franklin.” 

 

We chuckled quietly, then observed at least two other occasions that Caleb insisted on mercy being one of the three gifts (“franklin” was later correctly modified to “frankincense”).  Intriguing that he swapped the gift order around, placing mercy right next to gold.  

 

Gold is an obvious gift. I’m not sure where the “Franklin” fits in.  But I do know we could all do with a little more mercy. And not just at Christmas. 

 

What if this year you were known as the most merciful person in your entire family? What if you were the most merciful person at your office?  What if this year your town initiated a Medal of Honor for displays of uncommon mercy—and you were the nominee?

 

Wouldn’t that be something?  It would.  It would also be expensive.   It might cost you a kind word to someone whose politics you despise.  It might cost you your quest for revenge over an injury decades old that still stings.  It might cost you an outrageous gift to someone you secretly feel is undeserving. 

 

Mercy is always expensive.  Ask Jesus.  “He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of His mercy.  He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit.”

   —Titus 3:5

 

Christmas is over.  The New Year is upon us. 

Let mercy begin.  

 
 
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Jon GaugerJon Gauger

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