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.

She alone witnessed the crime.  Peering across the room, her intelligent eyes tracked his silent motion toward the door, observing his catlike ease in slipping behind it.  Her acute sense of hearing registered his cruel deed.  When she could take it no more, she blurted out, “No, no, no!”  Over and over she screamed it.

That's when Lucy's mother walked over to the shouting 16 month-old, asking what it was that so upset her.  The pantry door—now open—revealed the crime and the criminal:  Lucy’s two year old brother Caleb had snitched a number of snacks, the sound of the crinkling cellophane betraying his otherwise secret endeavor.

There was absolutely no way Lucy was going to let her older brother get away with snarfing snacks she herself was denied.  Whether whistle blower Lucy's sin nature was developed enough to savor her tattletale victory, I cannot say.

But I do know this.  There is a time for Christ followers to blurt out a resounding no, as Lucy did.   Not for the shallow purpose of being a tattletale, but simply because a thing is wrong.  1:15

The Bible tells us greed is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us divorce is not His plan.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us homosexuality is perverse.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us worry is a sin.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us prayerlessness is a wasted life.  We need to shout no.

The Bible tells us that staring at immodestly dressed women—whether on line, on TV, or wherever—is sin.  We need to shout no!

In a culture dying to say yes to almost anything, Ephesians 5:5 reminds us “No immoral or impure person or covetous man, who is an idolater, has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and God.”

It’s time we relearned how to shout no.

It’s amazing what you find in the paper.  Recently, I picked up a Wall Street Journal and read Barton Swain's review of Thomas Kidd's new biography, George Whitfield.

Born in 1714, Whitfield was just 21 years old when—as he put it— after enduring

many months' inexpressible trials by night and day… God was pleased at length to remove the heavy load and to enable me to lay hold on his dear Son by a living faith.

George Whitfield’s spiritual journey caused him to deeply ponder the subject of conversion itself.   This passion pushed him toward further study, ordination, and an itinerant preaching ministry.  He traveled 14 times to Scotland and came to America 7 times.   In a given week, he often preached more hours than he slept.

And the great English evangelist didn’t sugarcoat his Bible teaching.  “I will not be a velvet-mouthed preacher,” Whitfield once proclaimed.   He made good on that promise with statements like:

Before ye can speak peace to your hearts, ye must not only be sick of your original and actual sins; but ye must be sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances.... If ye never felt ye had no righteousness of your own, if ye never felt the deficiency of your own righteousness, ye can never come to Jesus Christ.

Whitfield once spoke to a mining town near Bristol.  By the time he was through, Whitfield recalled “white gutters made by their tears, which plentifully fell down their black cheeks.”

A gripping image, isn’t it?  “White gutters made by their tears…”

Have you come to that place where you are finally “sick of your righteousness, of all your duties and performances?”  If so, you are finally ready to receive the forgiveness Christ alone can offer.

Psalms 51:7 “Wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” Jesus is ready to make you clean. Why not let Him do what He does best—right now?