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Keeping The Mission The Main Point

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Recently I was jolted out of complacency by a statement from a friend.

Actually, it was more like a confession.

It all resulted in this blog about a topic that is potentially a matter of life and death for many people. But that needs a little explanation.

Contemplating on how to introduce this blog led me down memory lane to Pierce Governor, a factory in Upland, Indiana where both Mary and I worked while I was a student at Taylor University back in 1966-67.

Imagine a factory that began producing governors—devices that control the speed of a vehicle or the rpm of an engine—in 1913. Pierce Governor, located in Anderson, Indiana once claimed to be the largest manufacturer of governors in the world. Governors, you might say, were the distant ancestors of the cruise control in your car. Pierce Governor also produced fuel pumps.

The factory had relocated into a new, modern manufacturing plant in Upland the year before our arrival at Taylor. Mary worked in the office during the day while I worked in the manufacturing plant in the evenings. Having been raised on a farm, I had never seen the inside of a factory. But I had driven many tractors with governors—perhaps even manufactured in that very plant.

The place was buzzing with activity, trying to keep up with demands. Metal milling machines screamed as they peeled excess metal from pre-cast forms. Hydraulic presses stamped loudly and the drill presses hummed.

I’m not sure if Pierce Governor had a mission statement, but if they did, it would have probably been “to manufacture the best governors in the world.” Imagine scores of employees punching the clock every day. Imagine raw material arriving at the receiving dock weekly. Listen to the machinery belching out decibels so loud and so dangerous to ear drums that employees were required to wear ear plugs. Look at the assembly line buzzing with activity. That was the Pierce Governor factory in its heyday.

But now imagine one small problem. The shipping dock is vacant. No semi trucks parked to receive newly manufactured governors. No finished product is being shipped to the Ford Motor Company in Detroit or any other company. Step out onto the shipping dock and the only sound you hear is the Indiana wind.

By all appearances in the front offices and on the manufacturing floor, the company is a success. Activity is everywhere. The appearance of busyness must mean good business.

But it’s not really true, is it?

To me, this serves as a metaphor for the American Evangelical Church today.

Almost every local church today has a mission statement declaring why they exist. Or, to use manufacturing terminology, what the church is producing. More often than not, somewhere in the mission statement you’ll discover something about “making disciples.” Of course we also want to glorify and worship God, but making disciples is our primary business.

Most churches are a beehive of activity. Worship teams produce music for worship services as a means of glorifying our Great God. Preachers preach, with messages enhanced by PowerPoint and creative illustrations to drive home the point of the message. Sunday School classes help interpret the Scriptures for students. Oh yes, don’t forget our youth and children’s programs, or the library loaded with Christian fiction and the latest videos for making disciples. Throughout the week believers gather in small groups or informally to break bread and enjoy fellowship.

The question is not how successful we are in attracting and keeping members. The real question is this: What is our mission? In other words, why do we exist? What is the finished “product” we claim to produce?

The answer ought to be very simple. Jesus stated it clearly enough for anybody to understand. In what we call “The Great Commission”—the one mission Jesus left for His church—there is but one clear command. There is but one verb in the entire Great Commission passage in Matthew 28:18-20: “Make Disciples!”  That’s it!

There is nothing about growing large churches or loving small churches. Nothing about musical styles. Nothing about traditional, ornate cathedrals or eclectic, modern buildings that resemble a theater. Nothing, except to “make disciples.” There isn’t even a command to “go.” It’s more of an assumption that having met the resurrected Christ, we will be going anywhere and everywhere, sharing the good news.

There are a couple of instructions imbedded within the Great Commission telling how to carry out the mission. Having shared the gospel, we baptize new converts (disciples or followers) and instruct them to obey Jesus’ commands.

Reflecting on the factory metaphor, perhaps baptism would be similar to inventorying the raw material when it arrives at the receiving dock. Teaching new converts to obey Jesus’ commands is like the manufacturing process of turning raw materials into the finished product. It is time consuming—but all important to Jesus.

Two recent experiences helped motivate this blog: a book by Francis Chan and a conversation with a dear friend.

At a local Starbucks, I shared with my friend how the book had caused me to reflect upon my years as a pastor. It all boils down to this: Have I helped make disciples who make disciples? These words tumbled out of my friend’s mouth: “Pastor Syd, I have attended the church for over thirty years and I have never led another person to faith in Christ.” I sensed remorse in her answer, and it prompted me to reflect.

Thirty years of preaching and teaching and leading small groups. After thirty years of busyness, leading services, officiating weddings and memorial services, counseling and hospital visitation; most people would call me a successful pastor.

But the litmus test of a governor factory is not the amount of activity on the production floor, but whether governors are being produced. The same is true for a local church.

Is it no wonder the American Church, though large and once powerful, has become almost anemic in our impact on the culture that is becoming post-Christian? We have for the most part, I fear, abandoned the mission to make disciples—followers of Jesus who encourage other people to become followers of Jesus. That is still the mission—and will be until He returns.

Jesus left a disciple-making-model that is still valid. Remember in Luke 6:12 how He prayed before selecting twelve men to become apostles? Why not begin our day praying that God would open our eyes and hearts for seekers—people with empty lives seeking for a fresh start. In Luke 5, Jesus invited three fishermen to follow Him and promised to make them fishers of men. “Following” meant spending the next couple of years hanging out with Jesus, watching Him minister to multitudes. On another occasion He called twelve men just to “be with Him” according to Mark 3:13.

Jesus routinely engaged seekers—people with empty lives seeking purpose and a fresh start. People like a Samaritan woman who came to fetch water, but having met Jesus she left to fetch her friends and neighbors to also meet Jesus. Then there was Zacchaeus, a social outcast camouflaged in a tree just hoping to get a glimpse of Jesus; instead Jesus invited Himself to spend the afternoon with the tax collector. After meeting Jesus, Zacchaeus invited his friends to break bread together with his new Friend.

That’s the model. Pray every morning for open eyes and opportunities to speak about our lives in Him. Take advantage of every door open door. Share the gospel, and then continue sharing life with the new converts.

Oh, yes, I promised to revisit the story about Pierce Governor. The factory dwindled to forty employees before closing its doors in 2011. Cars with cruise control don’t need governors.  The Website stated that the “Cash for Clunkers” program signed the death certificate for Pierce Governor. The large factory building has been donated to the local Methodist church in Upland, Indiana. I assume the building is quite eclectic with lots of room to grow.

Out of curiosity, I visited the church’s Website and discovered their mission statement: “We exist to worship God and make disciples.”

May it be so!

What am I reading: I am still working through The Essential Jonathan Edwards. 

 

The Enemy at Home

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Must I be carried to the skies on flow’ry beds of ease?

…Is this vile world a friend to grace to help me on to God?

With a thank you and an apology to Isaac Watts, I have lifted two lines from his hymn, Am I Soldier of the Cross? I deliberately juxtaposed these two lines to make a point.

Last week I tried to pull back the curtains just a little to encourage each of us to be more aware of Christians around our world who face persecution. This week, let’s pull back the curtains again to consider another potential blind spot. Unlike persecution occurring in distant places, this threat is all around us—inundating us with propaganda 24/7.

I believe the term “blind spot” is appropriate because it’s difficult to be unaware of the problem. Graphic pictures of hungry children and epidemics around the world appear on television news and the appeal letters from relief organizations.

Even so, as deplorable as these circumstances are, I believe the words from Isaac Watts’ hymn reveals a deeper problem. Note that the lines are actually questions—questions as relevant today as in 1721 when the hymn was penned.

Here is my attempt to answer those two questions.

No, it is not fair or equitable if I bask in luxury in the presence of suffering and hunger. This world, our current culture, is no “friend of grace.” Not by a long shot.

I am troubled when I discover blind spots in some of peers of Isaac Watts. For example, while reading The Essential Jonathan Edwards, I discovered that this great theologian and biblical scholar credited with the Great Awakening, like most of his peers, owned slaves. Recently, I also discovered that George Whitefield—the most influential Christian evangelist in the 18th Century—after being given a plantation, “converted” from denouncing slavery to supporting slavery. His reasoning? He felt slaves were needed to manage the plantation and, after all, the plantation helped support his orphanage ministry. Whitefield is also credited for helping change Georgia’s original ban against slavery.

If renowned Christian leaders like Whitefield and Edwards were influenced by their culture, would it be such a stretch to say that we can also be influenced by today’s culture? Could it be that we’ve been conditioned to accept the status quo as “normal” and “fair,” when it really isn’t?

In response, I offer Paul’s instructions in 2 Corinthians 8:13-15 (esv):

For I do not mean that others should be eased and you burdened, but that as a matter of fairness your abundance at the present time should supply their need, so that their abundance may supply your need, that there may be fairness. As it is written, “Whoever gathered much had nothing left over, and whoever gathered little had no lack.” (emphasis mine)

Christians in Corinth were aware that the church in Jerusalem was facing famine-like conditions. Several churches in Asia Minor and Greece had stepped forward to send money to assist their hungry brothers and sisters. The Corinthian believers had also signed on to participate in the fundraising, but as time passed the sense of urgency faded. As a result, no offerings had been taken. Twice in the above passage, Paul uses a specific word to motivate the Corinthians to step up to the plate. The English Standard Version translates the word as fairness. Other translations use the term equality. Eugene Peterson in The Message summarizes the passage, “In the end you come out even.”

I prefer the word equitable.

Paul wasn’t the only biblical writer to call for fairness or justice. Several Old Testament prophets also called for equity. Perhaps Amos was the most outspoken. In his day wealthy Israelites enjoyed lavish homes and rich food while widows and orphans were neglected.

Times really haven’t changed all that much, have they?

So what is Paul asking the church in Corinth (and us) to do? Are we to give away everything to feed the hungry? Soon we would all be hungry. Are we to make certain every person in the world, especially other Christians, enjoy the same amenities we enjoy? Should my Ugandan friend Kato have the same balance in his savings account (if he had one) as me? Should I sell one of my vehicles so he can have a car? In other words, must everything be precisely equal?

Absurd! Kato make $40 a month as a teacher, assuming he gets paid each month. Depositing half of our savings account into an account for Kato or giving him a car would probably hurt him more than help him. The cultures in Bend, Oregon and western Uganda are worlds apart, and not just geographically. Trying to make everything absolutely equal would be global socialism; that hasn’t worked in Venezuela or anywhere else.

After having Kato as a student on my first trip to Uganda, we began to communicate via email. Yes, almost everyone has a cell phone and access to a computer today. I discovered Kato’s children were often forced to drop out of school for lack of funds since education is not free in Uganda. If his children have any hope of breaking out of poverty, they need to finish school. Mary and I began sending money via Western Union to cover their tuition.

Honestly, it hasn’t been that much of a burden. And no one can put a price tag on the joy we experience as we receive reports after each grading period. I could easily spend more money at Starbucks than the cost of tuition for each child. When Kato and his wife had a baby, they named him Sydney. Children in Uganda are traditionally named after relatives, not Americans.

On my second ministry trip, I visited Kato’s home where his wife had prepared dinner and invited relatives to celebrate our arrival. We discovered there were no doors on his home. When I mentioned this to Kato he affirmed that sometimes “unsafe serpents” entered the house at night. That shouts “Black Mamba” to me!

When a friend of ours heard this story she volunteered to provide doors for Kato’s home. She doesn’t even know Kato, but I suspect she has received as much satisfaction as Kato when he closes the doors each night to protect his family. His home has dirt floors with blankets as room dividers and will never be equal to our home in Bend. Should we sell our home and build a house out of handmade bricks with a dirt floor? It wouldn’t pass zoning! Our homes will never be equal, but we are striving for fairness and equality.

That being said, I don’t write to create a guilt trip on anybody. That’s not the purpose of our conversations on the Front Porch Swing. I am simply encouraging each one of us to pull back the curtain a little and catch a wider perspective. It’s way too easy for all of us to become comfortable with our status quo and assume this is norm.

I share a few thoughts for your consideration:

First: Pray. Pray for eyes to see those less fortunate. Pray for wisdom to know how to respond.

Second: Open the curtain. Subscribe to periodicals and electronic news releases from Christian ministries such as Open Doors, The Voice of the Martyrs or Samaritan’s Purse.

Third: Invest. That is a biblical term. Didn’t Jesus challenge us to lay up treasures in heaven, investing in eternal things? By any reading, the distinction between sheep and goats in the gospels is based on compassionate sharing with those in need.

Fourth: Establish relationships. If possible, establish a personal contact with the person or people you want to help. If it’s appropriate, try to visit your new friend in person. Some Christian ministries can be of assistance with this.

I close with this vision: Imagine a world where little children receive the inoculations and meds to prevent so many diseases carried by mosquitoes. Imagine the joy of people finally drinking clean water from a local well. Might it taste even better than a latte or mocha to us? Wouldn’t that be good?

It just seems fair, doesn’t it?

 

 

One Man’s Wake-up Call

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A friend, who has worked at different levels of government in Washington D.C. and has held significant jobs in major American tech companies including Microsoft, gave me a book about artificial intelligence. He recently accepted a job to help coordinate Google’s artificial intelligence program.

Kai-Fu Lee, the author of AI Superpowers: China, Silicon Valley and the New World Order, is recognized as a leader throughout the tech world. Here are a few of his accomplishments: Chairman and CEO of Sinovation Ventures—a leading technology savvy investment firm focusing on the development of the next generation of Chinese high-tech companies. He was also president of Google China and has held executive positions at Microsoft, SGI and Apple. He has been featured on Good Morning America and in the Wall street Journal.

Lee writes with extreme intelligence about the field of artificial intelligence.

To be honest, as I read the book I found myself in very unfamiliar territory. It felt almost like culture shock or being immersed in a foreign language. Little by little, however, I began to learn the language of artificial intelligence. I soon found myself enamored with, but also concerned about, the stunning advances being made in the world of AI.

Imagine being driven to the supermarket in a self-driven car and greeted by a shopping cart that recognizes your face or thumb print. The cart, very familiar with your shopping habits, slowly drives itself around the store stopping to remind you that you are low on milk and out of eggs in your fridge. Science fiction? Perhaps not; it is already being envisioned by some Chinese inventors.

Imagine a machine evaluating your medical history and your present symptoms and correctly diagnosing the problem and prescribing the best treatment in just a few minutes. The AI machine is more accurate than any human physician.

Today, in some Chinese cities, the government can identify drivers and pedestrians by facial recognition though thousands of cameras strategically placed around the city. Pastors of underground house churches can now be identified wherever they go, so there are few opportunities to secretly meet with their congregations.

Kai-Fu Lee estimates that within 10 to 20 years we will be technically capable of automating 40 to 50 percent of jobs in the United States. Frightening? Yes! He states that while new jobs will also be created by AI, the resulting unemployment numbers could easily hit 30 percent.

While studying in America, Lee claims he practiced Christianity. However, there is nothing in his book suggesting Lee is a practicing follower of Christ. That is why, after 174 pages, I was surprised by Lee’s personal confession in chapter seven. A man who admits to being driven by his desire for power and prestige in the world of high tech reveals a dent in his armor. He admits that he even treated his wife and family as “another algorithm.” He struggled to give them just enough attention to keep them from complaining, and admits being obsessed with his work.

Then, in his own words, “… things came to a grinding halt.” He was diagnosed with stage IV lymphoma in 2013. “In an instant, my world of mental algorithms and personal achievement came crashing down…. I was filled with fear for my future and with a deep, soul-aching regret over the way I had lived my life.”

He continues, “In effect, mesmerized by my quest to create machines that thought like people, I had turned into a person that thought like a machine.”

From this point on, Lee writes as a man filled with compassion. He realized that all his great accomplishments and all the wealth he had accumulated no longer mattered.

Contemplate these words on page 190: “… I had stood on the absolute frontier of human knowledge about artificial intelligence, but I had never been further from a genuine understanding of other human beings or myself. That kind of understanding couldn’t be coaxed out of a cleverly constructed algorithm. Rather, it required an unflinching look into the mirror of death and an embrace of that which separated me from the machines that I had built: the possibility of love.”

Lee’s cancer is apparently in remission, and His life has made a 180. People, not prestige or machines with unbelievable intelligence, are what is important to him now.

After his diagnosis with stage IV Lymphoma, Lee made a change on what he had envisioned to be engraved on his tombstone. No longer would it read about his great accomplishments in artificial intelligence. Rather it would be about being a person who was loved and loving.

In an earlier blog post, I mentioned the book, Living Life Backwards, a book based on Ecclesiastes and challenging the reader to live in the present while focusing on their death.

So today on the Front Porch, let us learn the lesson that Kai-Fu Lee learned. As Solomon warned in Ecclesiastes 12, we don’t want to face our exit into the next world with deep regrets about how we have lived our lives in this one. Let us choose to live life fully, but prepare for the inevitable appointment with death and the encounter with our Creator.

In other words, let’s live more like Jesus.

I believe Jesus lived every moment of His life with the end game—the cross—in view. He often responded to threats and praise by stating His hour had not come. Then, on the eve of His crucifixion, Jesus replied to Gentile seekers, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.  Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. If anyone serves me, he must follow me; and where I am, there will my servant be also. If anyone serves me, the Father will honor him” (John 12:23-26 esv).

Kai-Fu Lee had a wakeup call he will never forget. It wasn’t pleasant, but it gave him the the precious opportunity to carve out new life priorities, before it was too late.

We have that opportunity, too. Beginning right now.

 

What I am reading: Letters to The Church by Francis Chan

They Don’t Make Movies Like They Used To

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Sometimes we old-timers reminisce about the “good old days” when life was simpler. Streets were safe for children. People didn’t swear our use vulgarity in movies or television. Married couples on the old sitcoms even slept in twin beds!

“They sure don’t make things like they used to,” becomes a common lament. Surely everything was better back then, right?

Not exactly.

I would never want to go back to driving the cars we had 40 years ago when 80,000 miles on the odometer meant “trade in time.” My current pickup truck will turn 160,000 miles in a week or so and still runs like new.

But what about movies? Yes, I could easily complain about the language and sexual innuendos of today’s movies and TV programs. Not long ago Mary and I literally walked out of a movie that we had assumed would be appropriate. (Remember when movies didn’t need to be given a rating?)

My purpose in this blog, however, is not to lament the loss of the golden age of movies. On the contrary, I am glad they don’t make movies like they used to.

One of our Christmas traditions is watching a couple of classic movies with a Christmas theme, such as It’s a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart, as George Bailey, is contemplating suicide on Christmas Eve due to a financial disaster—not of his own making. Harry is convinced he is worth more dead than alive. Clarence, an angel (I didn’t say the theology was good), tries to prevent Harry from suicide by showing him how his life has had such a positive impact.

It’s a great movie—except the only minority person in the movie is the black maid who is stereotyped, in my opinion, as a busybody.

Holiday Inn is another decades-Christmas classic, starring Bing Crosby, Fred Astaire and Marjorie Reynolds. These two men compete for the attention and affection of the same woman. The good guy, in the end, wins the woman. Throughout the movie, however, we encounter only one black maid, Mamie, and her two children. There is a scene where white characters perform a musical routine for the guests at the Holiday Inn. Their faces are painted black with exaggerated lips and eyes to appear comical.

That might have been acceptable in 1954, but should it have been? Thankfully, we will never see scenes like that in a contemporary movie or TV show. It’s offensive now—and really—was offensive all along.

Classic western movies often portrayed Native Americans as capable of uttering only one word, “How.” They were often portrayed as savages. The guy in the white hat was always good; the man in buckskin moccasins evil.

For a different perspective of the battle to win the West, read books such as Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.

While I am lamenting racial stereotyping in classic movies, I add one more observation from the world of athletics. I remember when blacks were not “intelligent enough to play quarterback.” That has, thank God, changed. Black entertainers no longer use separate and inferior toilets and drinking fountains. I am grateful for men like Martin Luther King Jr. who was willing to risk his life by applying biblical principles taught in The Sermon on The Mount. Regretfully, I grew up being taught Dr. King was the villain.

I write today as a Christ-follower. Every man and woman, no matter their race or culture bear God’s image. Every person deserves equal respect. Having just read The Road to Dawn, a biography of Josiah Henson, I was again appalled by the treatment of African slaves in America—especially in the South. It made me sad to read that many who justified slavery and the inhumane treatment of slaves claimed to be Christ-followers.

Henson is believed to be the man behind Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He eventually escaped with his family to Canada where, though legally free, he faced unrelenting racial prejudice. Life for black people in the Northern States—the area that prided itself for supporting the emancipation of all slaves and the end of slavery in the United States—was just as bad.

Looking back, it’s easy to see why Native Americans, blacks and other minorities have been inclined to reject Christianity as the “White Man’s Religion.” Thank God for people of faith like Harriet Beecher Stowe, Josiah Henson and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.—people who dared to push against an unjust and unbiblical status quo.

Watching classic movies has raised my awareness of how prejudiced we were. I am glad Hollywood no longer produces movies portraying blacks or Native Americans or other races in stereotypical and demeaning roles.

Let us be more like Jesus, who spoke with the Samaritan Woman, touched a leper, and ate with tax collectors. Jesus portrayed a Samaritan as the “man in the white hat” who did the right thing while the religious elite passed by without offering assistance.

God has but one family on earth today—His Church—consisting of men, women and children from every tribe and language group.

There are no distinctions, divisions, barriers, or glass ceilings in His house.

The story behind, “I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day”

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church-2448950_1280bells-2413297_1280                                          

On Christmas Day 1863, American poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, composed the poem we sing as a Christmas carol. At the height of the Civil War, Longfellow wrote with a heavy heart fighting his own battle within his heart.

Here’s the rest of the story behind the carol:

Longfellow’s wife, Fannie, had died less than two years earlier when her dress caught fire. He tried to extinguish the flames with a rug and then his own body, but her burns were so severe she died the next day. Henry received such serious burns on his face that he grew a beard to hide the scars. Henry and Fannie had lost an infant but had five surviving children.

March, 1863, the oldest child, Charles, at age eighteen secretly boarded a train to Washington D.C. to join the Union Army. Just a month before Christmas on Nov. 27th, Charlie, as he was called, was seriously wounded: the bullet came within inches of paralyzing him. His injuries would take months to heal.

carillon-3441162_1280On Christmas Day Longfellow, now a 57 year-old widow with five children heard church bells celebrating “Peace on earth.” The dissonance between Henry’s life and the words in Luke 2:14 was profound. Words that were part of Longfellow’s poem, but are not included in our carol, reveal the struggle of the Civil War at that time.

Then from each black, accursed mouth,

The cannon thundered in the South,

And with the sound

The carol’s drowned

Of Peace on earth, good will to men.

My favorite lyrics are in the last verse:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;

“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The wrong shall fail,

The right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men.”

Today, I hear the grievous news of violence in the streets of Chicago and in Syria and Afghanistan. I hear of the renewed persecution of the Christian Church in China. I hear of thousands hovering at our southern border having fled violence in their homeland. I hear of innocent babies denied a birthday. I hear of the Opioid epidemic robbing children of their parents and parents of their children.

But, as a believer and follower of Jesus, I anticipate His return. This time, not a child fleeing the violence of Herod with his parents. No, I am waiting to hear the sounds of His glorious return as the King of all Kings, followed by the armies of heaven to bring an end to the injustice and violence in our world. This is our hope!

This Christmas, let us pause to love the babe in the manger. Let us reflect on His wonderful life and His death and resurrection. But, pause to anticipate Jesus’ return when “The wrong shall fail and the right prevail.” When there will finally be “peace on earth, good-will to men.”

I love the way our church sings this carol today. Intermittently, in the carol, we repeat, “I can hear them! I can hear them! I can hear them!”

Can you hear them?

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So from the Front Porch Swing, I wish you and yours a blessed Christmas. May the peace of God guard your hearts in the New Year.

Syd

The Front Porch Swing

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The Sign of Swaddling Clothes

 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn…. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” (Luke 2:7, 12, ESV)

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I have always read Luke 2:7 without a passing thought about the words “wrapped in swaddling cloths.” Mary was a peasant girl and a new mom in a strange place and inconvenient circumstances, so she had to “make do.” Using what she had on hand, a few pieces of cloth or clean rags, she wrapped her little one against the chill of the night and the cave. It always seemed pretty straightforward to me.

A recent article in Christianity Today, however, tweaked my curiosity about the word “swaddling.” After consulting my Greek Testament, I discovered there was only one Greek word to translate four English words: “wrapped in swaddling cloths.”

Here is a literal translation: “Mary swaddled him and laid him in a manger.” Then to shepherds the angel announced, “And this is a sign for you, you will find an infant having been swaddled and lying in a manger.”

So what in the world is swaddling? The dictionary tells us that “swaddle or swath is to firmly wrap or bind something with cloth.”

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Triplet girls swaddled so Mom can get some rest. Thanks Amy Rejchrt for sharing this.

As it turns out, many cultures for thousands of years have practiced swathing or swaddling babies. It was a common practice in Asia, Europe and America until the 17th Century. Secured in tightly wrapped cloth (or the Native American pappoose in a cradle board), it was impossible for the baby to move its arms or legs, thus encouraging longer sleep cycles and providing warmth. It was also assumed the baby felt more secure by limiting the natural reflex of waving arms and legs. Some cultures swaddled their little ones in the belief that it would encourage arms and legs to grow straight and strong.

We now understand that babies need to move their limbs to build muscle strength and coordination. Tightly wrapping a newborn infant, restricting any movement at all, might even limit the baby’s ability to breathe properly.

Look at it this way, the fetus has been confined in the mother’s womb. Then it travels through the birth canal, clearly not the most comfortable trip one can make. As the Biblical Illustrator describes it, “the first gift a baby receives is fetters.” William Cadogan was one of the first physicians to call for the abolition of swaddling in 1748.

People still wrap their little ones, of course, especially as a means of settling or soothing irritable infants. Modern swaddling, however, is of the kinder, gentler variety—and much less confining.

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Meet Lincoln Busby being tenderly held and swaddled.

I suspect that Mary, being the product of her culture, practiced the ancient version of swaddling by wrapping strips of cloth firmly around Jesus, limiting movement of His arms and legs. After all, it was the “proper” thing to do if you were a good mother. And the night may have been raw and cold.

Mary demonstrated that Jesus was loved and welcomed into the family by tenderly swathing Him. Contrast her tenderness with God’s metaphoric description of the birth of the city of Jerusalem by her pagan parents, the Amorites.

“And as for your birth, on the day you were born your cord was not cut, nor were you washed with water to cleanse you, nor rubbed with salt, nor wrapped in swaddling cloths. No eye pitied you, to do any of these things to you out of compassion for you, but you were cast out on the open field, for you were abhorred, on the day that you were born.” (Ezekiel 16:4-5, esv)

     Heartless! Can there be a more graphic illustration of parental callousness and neglect? Nobody cut the umbilical cord. Nobody cleansed the writhing, bloody baby. In that culture it meant washing and using salt as an antiseptic. Nobody even wrapped this little girl or nurtured her. She was simply discarded and left to die.

I discovered that in the Greek Old Testament, The Septuagint, Ezekiel 16 used the very same Greek verb “swaddle” as Luke the physician used in Luke 2:7. The contrast, however, could not be starker. Our hearts cry out in righteous anger on behalf of that little baby girl on the garbage pile.

Mary and Joseph’s loving care for the infant Jesus rises up to us through the millennia like the fragrance after a rainstorm or beautiful flower nodding in a gentle breeze.

Just for a moment, however, let’s stop to consider what it must have been like for the Creator God to be swaddled. Think of it! The One who spoke this seeming endless universe into existence was “fettered” so tightly he couldn’t move His arms! Beyond that, of course, we recall that our Lord’s first swaddling was being fettered to the human body of a helpless infant.

During His life and ministry Jesus remained swaddled in a body of flesh like ours.

After His death on the cross, our Lord’s body was bound with strips of fine linen, not the peasant cloth at His birth. He was swathed in grave-clothes, death itself, and a dark tomb.

Thank God the story doesn’t end that way. In Luke 20:7, the gospel describes how the death mask or face cloth was folded up neatly and set aside. The grave-clothes that swaddled the corpse were now empty. He was no longer swaddled…and will never be restricted or bound again in all eternity!

In the book of Revelation Jesus appears again as a fierce warrior king “clothed in a robe dipped in blood” and followed by the armies of heaven dressed in robes, white and pure. The Son of God will return to earth wrapped in a robe with a name on His thigh, “King of Kings and Lord of Lords.”

So this Christmas, when you sing Silent Night or Away in the Manger, reflect on what it meant for Jesus to be swaddled so tightly He couldn’t move—and may have even struggled to breathe.

Through His 33 years among us—from the cradle to the tomb—He submitted to restriction after restriction after restriction, and He did it for you and me.

He is restricted no longer. And one day, in His presence, we won’t be either. Imagine words like these from Handel’s Messiah resonating throughout heaven, “King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and He shall reign forever and ever!”

The Blessing of Doing God’s Will

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Last week I shared how God has sometimes led us in a very specific way, such as calling us to serve at the Pulaskiville Community Church.

This is Pulaskiville Community Church’s building.
The addition to the left of the original building has been added since we were there.
This little church was the best seminary I could have attended at that time. So many precious memories from those seven plus years are ours to cherish because God gives the best to those who leave the choice to Him. Below is a picture of the interior of the little white church on County Road 98 in Morrow County, Ohio.

Back in 1969, there wasn’t much about Pulaskiville would attract a stranger to move there. The little village straddled County Roads 109 and 98 ten miles east of Mt. Gilead, Ohio.

     Nothing—and I do mean nothing—warranted stopping for a second look. When we accepted the call to serve as the pastor of a small community church, there were seven or eight houses, a vacant store building (more like a souvenir from decades past), and a couple of trailer homes that had seen better days. Another vacant, dilapidating church building anchored the north edge of town beside an old cemetery. Dogs or an occasional chicken meandering in the road would be the only reason to stop. There were no streets, because every home faced one of the county roads.

     When Mary and I reminisce, like old people tend to do, we both agree that some of our fondest memories are from those seven-and-a-half years in Pulaskiville. In last week’s blog I shared about the call to become the pastor of a small congregation. Freshly graduated from Moody and in our third year of marriage, we moved our few earthly possessions into the parsonage, an old farm house near the church. I was 24 years young.

     Looking at old pictures I always ask, “Why would they call me to be their pastor?” I looked like a kid. I was a kid.

     We experienced a lot of firsts in that place: our first pastorate, first parsonage, first child, first sermon, first hospital call, first funeral and first wedding. Oh, yes, also our first front porch swing.

     Saturday nights were tough. Not being an extrovert and actually hating public speaking, I would be restless and often awaken Sunday morning feeling a bit ill. I can’t describe the symptoms except they were caused by stress. Sunday nights weren’t much easier, because I would replay the mental tapes from the morning sermon and evening Bible study.

     A few Sunday mornings stand out in my memory. Once, after a difficult week and not feeling comfortable with the sermon I had prepared, I wrote an entirely different sermon Saturday night. Sunday morning, I was still in a quandary as to which message to preach. The congregation had sung hymns, and the offering had been gathered when our song leader (that’s what we called them back then.) began to sing a solo, “The Love of God,” as the special music.

     Suddenly I began to write furiously. I preached my first extemporaneous sermon from a few sketchy words on the back of the church bulletin. John 3:16 became the text for a new sermon entitled, “The Greatest Love Letter Ever Written.”

     There is another Sunday that stands head and shoulders above all the rest after seven plus years at Pulaskiville. I was presenting a series of messages about knowing our enemy, the devil. That Sunday, everything that could possibly go wrong seemed to happen. The electric organ didn’t work. The sound system went south. I felt a little sicker than usual.

     None of this should have surprised me.

     The night before I had walked to the church to review the message. It was February and a lightning storm was brewing—not the usual Ohio weather in the dead of winter. (As I write this, I feel goosebumps on my neck.) Windows in the old church building opened and closed as I stood alone in the worship center. Lights flickered on and off. There was an eerie, dark and frightening presence in the building. So much so, that I feared walking back to the parsonage in the dark.

      Preaching the sermon the following morning felt like trying to push a heavy rock up a steep hill. If ever a pastor was weak, it was me that Sunday morning. But upon closing the sermon and offering an opportunity for a response, a man stepped out into the aisle and walked forward with his wife and three teenagers trailing. Then another man followed with his wife and family. (As I type these words, tears cloud my vision.)

     Within seconds, almost half the congregation stood before the pulpit as testimony that God’s Spirit was moving among us. Mary and I both say that was the closest we have ever come to experiencing true revival.

     In hindsight, that was the beginning of the transformation of Pulaskiville Community Bible Church. Word spread throughout the region. People from surrounding areas began to drive to our little crossroad village to hear God’s Word proclaimed. Sunday nights became celebrations of what God was doing in our church. The congregation rapidly grew till attendance often topped 200.

     The youth group grew exponentially. Over a dozen young people attended various Christian colleges. Some of the guys became pastors. One girl became a missionary to the black community in Chicago.

     Two men from the congregation, Bruce Bowman and Jim Rupp, eventually served as pastors of Pulaskiville Community Bible Church.

     So, yes, I thank God for preventing me from attending Dallas Seminary like I had planned. That little white church on County Road 98 was the best seminary I could have attended at that time.

     When I finally did attend seminary ten years later, I chose Western Baptist Seminary in Portland, Oregon where God thrust me into another dying church.

      It’s all His Story.

     The rest is His Story.

I am standing behind the pulpit with Jim Rupp. Jim was saved under our ministry and years later served as pastor of the church. Shirley, Jim’s wife attended the church first. I visited their home, and after I left Jim said to Shirley, “I don’t like him..” Today we are brothers in Christ.

Meet Don and Joan Bowman. This picture was taken in their home in Kalamazoo when we visited them two years ago. Don was the first prson who responded to the invitation on that blessed Sunday. Joan and three of their children (Bruce, Sharon and Susan) followed Don to the front of the church. Bruce went on to attend Moody and also served as the pastor of Pulaskville Community Bible Church. Bruce died of a brain aneurism and today is in the presence of his lord and savior whom he served.

Capture.PNG

Meet Dan and Kathy Bowman. Dan, Don and Joan’s oldest son, was a student at Ohio State when we were at Pulaskiville. It seemed like every time we entered the front door of the Bowman’s home, Dan slipped out the back door to avoid “the preacher.” Dan became a follower of Jesus. He no longer slips out the back door. Dan and Kathy welcomed us when we visited his parents in Kalamazoo.

If you have experienced a time when God clearly led you by opening or closing doors, please share it with us. 
     Thanks for visiting The Front Porch Swing today. I welcome your comments and input. Please invite your friends to join us.

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