Mom Knows Best

We didn’t know any better. After all, what kid would question the opportunity to go play at a friend’s house?

“I’m going to drop you off at so and so’s for a while. You boys play while I go shopping,” Mom said. “Does that sound like fun to you?”

What’s not to like about that? After all, these were the days (please don’t call Child Protective Services) when it was fairly common for Mom to leave us three boys in the car while she bought groceries. (Not that I recommend it, mind you!)

Even so, playing at a friend’s house beats shopping any day of the week. (Come to think of it, that’s still true.) She dropped us off, we played together, she came back, and we went home. End of story.

A week later all three of us had the chicken pox.

Why would Mom play such a sinister trick on us? Why would she deliberately expose us to disease? Because she knew that this short-term childhood pain would result in long-term physical health.

Moms have a way of knowing such things.

I often wear a T-shirt that says, “Mom Knows Best.” It invariably elicits smiles. When I tell people that I stole it out of my wife’s closet, which is true, they think it’s funny. I can’t imagine why.

This is not a story about parenting, though perhaps it should be. After all, with three kids in the ministry and all four devout Christ-followers, I’d say Mom and Dad did a few things right….

At this very moment while writing this story, I was interrupted by a phone call from my daughter. “Guess what, Daddy! I have good news!”

What happened, I wondered. Did she get a raise?

“I’ll have ten days to come home for Christmas” she said.

“Wow!” I said. “You know what? I’m not just glad you’re coming home,” I said. “I’m also glad that you want to come home.”

She seemed incredulous as she replied, “Why wouldn’t I want to be with my family?” My thoughts, exactly.

Fifty-two minutes flew by as we talked about everything in general and nothing in particular.

Returning to this page I muse about the women in my life. There have been precisely four: my grandmother, my mother, my wife, and my daughter. Each one has loved me unconditionally and blessed me magnificently. Every man should be so lucky. I hope it’s contagious.

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).

Eschew Obfuscation

Eschew Obfuscation. Two words, bold white letters, light blue background. I saw them on a poster while studying in my high school library.

Eschew I thought I knew; obfuscation was unclear. Ever inquisitive, I looked it up in the dictionary. Thirty years later, I have forgotten neither it nor the ironic library poster.

In an effort to eschew obfuscation, then, let me be perfectly clear: the key to Christianity is found in your honest answer to this question, “Who is Jesus, and how will I respond to him?”

Jesus is a universally admired figure. Virtually every religion or spiritual belief system acknowledges his life and teachings. Many consider him a prophet, a visionary, a great teacher, a worthy example.

Christians acknowledge these things. But we go a significant step further: we believe Jesus was God Incarnate.

Jesus was unique in all history: no one like him before or since. He was fully human and fully divine. He died, was buried, rose from the dead, is still alive, and will someday return to assume his rightful place as Lord of the Universe.

Admittedly, these are outlandish claims. If they are true, they set Christianity apart from every other faith system. If they are not true, Christianity is a farce. “If Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith” (1 Corinthians 15:14).

That is why the stakes are so high. Whatever your religious persuasion, the person of Jesus deserves your honest investigation. Was he, as Christians believe, God clothed in human flesh?

If Jesus was God, then by definition, he is worthy of your worship. Put aside your pride, your doubts, and your fears. Surrender to him, receive his forgiveness, and commit your life to him. Make it your life’s ambition to love him, know him, and follow him.

If he was not God, if he was merely a good example, or a moral teacher, then Christianity is a fraudulent faith. It’s as simple as that.

Let’s take it a step further. Many people mistakenly assume that simply acknowledging the deity of Jesus is adequate. They readily admit, “I believe Jesus is the Son of God,” not realizing that in the Bible, even demons acknowledge this fact (Mark 1:24, for example). Obviously, Jesus deserves more from us than mental assent.

Christianity is not merely a belief to which we adhere. Instead, Christianity is a relationship to which we commit. At its heart, Christianity is a love story. It is surprisingly similar to the courtship between a man and woman. Jesus is the Groom. We are the Bride. He has proposed to us. How will we respond?

For my part, everything I know about Jesus encourages me to trust him for those things I do not understand. He has invited me into a relationship which I can enjoy now and forever.

My response is simple, succinct and sincere. Eschewing obfuscation, I say "I Do."

“Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready.” (Revelation 19:7-8).

Profanitease

Some people swear because they are angry; others swear because they are stupid.

That at least is my opinion. I state it merely for shock effect, for calling someone stupid is practically the same as swearing at them.

Angry swearing I can understand. I can see why, for some, “shoot!” just doesn’t capture the moment of frustration. For my part, the guilt of saying something unseemly would outweigh the satisfaction in saying it. Ned Flanders would be proud.

Mindless swearing is simply … mindless. It’s the kind used so commonly that it loses all meaning, the kind that merely evidences a lack of vocabulary, the kind that loses all sense of propriety in a public place.

I encountered it while traveling home from vacation yesterday. We stopped into Arby’s for a bite to eat. The gentleman in front of me, and I don’t dare try to publish the words he used, was frustrated because the person across the counter didn’t catch his order the first time.

In edited form he said, “Isn’t there an American who works here? Someone who speaks English?”

The manager came to the rescue of the flustered clerk. She, too, was Hispanic. Not yet mollified, he continued his profanity-laced tirade about the decline of our country before placing his order.

Ignoring the personal affront, she kept her cool. Handing him his order, she said, “Would you like some Horsey or Arby’s sauce with that?”

He, fittingly enough, did not understand the question.

I was riding my bicycle up Cave Creek road a while ago. Crossing the intersection at Tom Darlington road, it was my responsibility to stop at the sign.

But I’d already been riding six miles uphill and the hardest miles were still ahead. I assumed, as is sometimes done, that no one would mind if I continued through the intersection without stopping.

Boy, was I wrong! (“Boy” is a Ned Flanders-type invective, I know. Okily-dokily.) Anyway, the driver of the truck whose turn it was sped up, honked, and called me many nasty things.

I was sufficiently chastised. He had made his point. I just wish he’d done so without involving my mother.

None of this is very surprising. We are a nation with few taboos. Once the domain of trashy magazines or seedy theaters, lewd pictures are now a simple mouse-click away. Television advertisements remind us to drink responsibly, to gamble responsibly, and to fornicate responsibly. Conversation once kept inside the locker room is now spoken at fast food counters.

Which reminds me: when the girl at the counter repeated the question about sauce to my fast food neighbor, he said, “No. Just send me to a blankety-blank country where they still speak English.”

I guess you know what I think about that.

Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift (Ephesians 4:29).

Dying to Live

In her novel, Death Comes for the Archbishop, Willa Cather crafts a fascinating portrait of a nineteenth century Jesuit priest.

Born and bred to a scholar’s life in France, Father Latour served instead in the obscurity of the wild and woolly New Mexico Territory. He battled harsh conditions, primitive superstitions, and renegade priests while building a thriving diocese in the greater southwest.

Now retired, he enjoyed a life of repose in his desert hideaway, the fruit of a long and productive ministry. Unfortunately, due to bad weather and an ill-timed trip, he picked up a terrible, hacking cough.

Calling his loyal assistant to him, Father Latour asked him to secure permission from the current Archbishop, his successor, to return to his old study for a few days. It is apparent that Father Latour believes he does not have much longer to live.

His assistant is happy to oblige but says to the aged Father, “You should not be discouraged; one does not die of a cold.”

Cather’s text continues: “The old man smiled. ‘I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.’”

As I re-read this book a few weeks ago, I mused again over these words. “I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.”

It is a good thing, I reflect, to die of having lived. It would be a tragic thing to die without having lived.

But what does it mean to truly live? “He who dies with the most toys wins,” the bumper sticker suggests. We chuckle at its inanity even as we pick our path through bulging three car garages.

After all, is the measure of one’s life the degree of our consumption, or is it the magnitude of our contribution?

A few days ago I attended the funeral of a dear friend. He was a simple man who lived an extraordinarily meaningful and productive life. I loved and respected him. Everyone I knew felt the same way about him.

After building a successful business in Arizona and raising a loving family, he retired to Cave Creek and built – by hand – an adobe home, brick by brick.

He loved the Christian celebration of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples. It was my privilege to help him compile an illustrated book of meditations he had written about it. As his health deteriorated he said to me, “Once we finish this, I’ll be ready to go home.”

He is home now. He didn’t die of old age. He died of having lived. And everyone who knew him is the richer for it.

If you cling to your life, you will lose it; but if you give up your life for me, you will find it” (Jesus, in Matthew 10:39).