Jeff Scoggins

Right Thing, Wrong Way

Tue, 1 Jun 2010 06:24:07 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I was too young to have a driver’s license but I was getting close. Not that it mattered in Rwanda since I’m pretty sure no one had one. Driving for a boy my age was naturally a pretty big deal, even if it was through a game park over dirt tracks that could hardly be called roads.

One day my dad asked me to drive our little Peugeot not through a game park but to a little shop about a mile away mostly down hill from our house to buy some bananas. He gave me 100 franks, about a dollar at the time, for the bananas. My brother jumped into the passenger side and I shoved it into gear, pleased to drive without a parent along.

The trip down the hill went uneventfully. Buying the bananas went uneventfully. But driving back up the hill didn’t go so well. Try as I might the car simply wouldn’t go. It would try to pull itself up the steep incline but it lacked the power to do it. I was experienced enough with a clutch to not stall it. I knew the trick of using the hand break to keep from rolling backward down the hill. But the car wouldn’t go. I worked the clutch back and forth rocking the car, revving the engine and still no luck.

After a while I began to smell a burning odor and then the car wouldn’t move at all. I walked the mile home with a heavy heart.

My dad and I got into “The Beast,” which was the name of our ancient but still strong Land Cruiser. Emergency equipment including extra gas, first aid, car parts, tools, and chains lived in The Beast just for such occasions.

At the car my dad showed me that I had been trying to start off up hill in third gear instead of first gear. I had burnt out the clutch.

We towed the little car home and parked it under a shade tree in our yard. The next day a shade tree mechanic who made house calls tore it apart and in a day or two he had replaced the clutch. My dad still fondly recalls his $300 bananas. I don’t remember them being all that good.

I had done the right thing the wrong way. I had permission to be driving. That was right. Leaving home I had probably started off in third gear too, but I was starting down hill, so in that circumstance it worked. I had used the brakes properly. I even worked the clutch correctly on the way home. Only problem was in the last circumstance third gear wasn’t good enough. Circumstances change the relation of things.

As Christians we are charged with leading others into an ongoing relationship with Christ. But sometimes our methods leave something to be desired. What made a difference in one person’s life is very likely the wrong thing for a different person or different circumstance. We may be doing what was the right thing at one place and time but at another place and time it can lead to snuffing out someone’s tender spiritual flame.

As Christians we are also charged with moving closer to Christ ourselves. But sometimes our efforts leave something to be desired. As a child quickly reading through a chapter in my Bible may have been pretty good. But as a more mature disciple of Jesus a cursory devotional time isn’t right for the circumstances. It’s a pretty dangerous thing to convince ourselves we are doing the right thing just because it worked last time.

No, Daddy, Look at Me: A Parable

Sat, 1 May 2010 06:25:51 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I once listened to an old Native American storyteller telling his stories. At the end of one his tales someone asked, “Was that a true story?” He paused for a moment and then replied, “Every story is true, and some of them even happened.” The following is a true story although it never happened.

“…it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved…” Acts 15:11.

Ugh, she was an disgusting thing. Dog breath, a crooked leg, a bad eye, hair falling out, maybe had lice, did have fleas. Nothing in her appearance attracted me to her when she showed up on our front porch one morning. I felt pity for the little dog perhaps—a put-her-out-of-her-misery kind of pity. I like dogs actually. I enjoy their companionship, the way they make me laugh, their affection, their unconditional love. But I like clean dogs. Un-diseased dogs. Dogs with hair. What did she want?

She stared at me through the screen door for a moment. I stared back. “Why should I feel sorry for you?” I said to her. As if to answer she began performing some strange antics. First she stood tall as her scrawny legs could stretch, then slowly turned around to give me a good look at her. Impressive, I thought. Then she started to bark a pathetic yap. By the way she carried on I knew she thought hers was a majestic voice. She was proud of it. Oddly, I felt I could understand what she was trying to communicate.

“I just took a bath,” she croaked. “Brushed my teeth too. See.” She grinned to show me a sentence of teeth with several yellowed “words” conspicuously absent. Ugh, again. “As for the bath, little dog, you missed a couple spots—like your face, legs, and body.” I don’t think she heard me though. She was proceeding with her impressive resume.

“Just killed a varmint for you, too,” she announced proudly, dragging around the corner for my approval the barely recognizable corpse of one the beautiful mallard ducks that had once lived peacefully on our pond. Before, I was disgusted, now I was angry. She had killed a beautiful animal that we loved to watch. And on top of that she thought I’d be grateful.

I started out the door, bad intentions in my mind, when my four year-old tugged on my pant leg.

“Don’t hurt the dog, daddy.” His plea stopped me and quieted my anger. We watched in silence as the dog performed her Olympic athlete qualifications for us. She bounded the 10-foot dash to the other side of the porch with break-neck limps. Her gymnastics routine consisted of a roll-over which left a matt of hair on the porch behind her. Her grand finale was a neat little pile in the corner that I was going to have to clean up with a shovel.

I looked down at my son who was obviously enchanted. “I want to keep her daddy.”

“But you can see the shape she’s in. Why do you want a dog like that?” I asked with rationality I didn’t feel.

“I just do,” he said.

“But she’s a mess, she has terrible behavior, and to top it off, she thinks she can impress us enough to take her in,” I said reasonably.

“I love her,” he said unreasonably, and I told him so. “What does unreasonable mean?” he asked. I explained and he replied, “I don’t care.”

“But look at her. Just look at her,” my exasperation beginning to show.

“No, daddy,” my son shot back. “Look at me! I will clean her. I will train her to be good. She can’t be good yet. She doesn’t know what good is. But I’m good daddy. Please, don’t look at her. Look at me!”

I looked at him and I saw the face of irrational, unreasonable grace.

“…it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved…” Acts 15:11.

A Terrible Question

Thu, 1 Apr 2010 06:23:57 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

A man approached a wise old sage and asked, “How do I know if I will be saved?”

The sage replied, “Are you a Christian?”

“Yes,” said the man.

“How do you know?”

“I believe in Jesus,” replied the man.

“How?” asked the sage.

“How?” The man looked confused, but the sage offered no help. “Well, I believe Jesus existed and that he died to save me from my sins.”

“That is a fact,” encouraged the sage, but then stopped again, waiting expectantly.

The man squirmed, unsure of what to say next. Finally he blurted out, “I read my Bible every day.”

“Good,” said the sage. “How?”

“How?” the man exclaimed, perplexed. The sage nodded.

“With my eyes going back and forth across the page,” retorted the man, not really intending sarcasm but growing frustrated.

“What do you find in your Bible concerning Jesus?” asked the sage.

“Oh, I can answer that,” replied the man, encouraged. “I see the way Jesus was. I see how he healed the sick. I see what he told people to do. I see how he loved people. I see how he died for us.”

“I see,” said the sage. “Would you describe yourself as someone who enjoys research, knowledge, and understanding? Do you like to figure out problems and be able to defend what you believe and do?”

“Right on!” the man grinned. “How did you know?”

“Because you’re speaking in past tense,” said the sage.

“What does that mean?” asked the man.

“It means you are a detective investigating a dead man.”

“What?”

“That’s why you ask if you are saved. You believe in a past-tense God.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I suggest that you become a suitor instead of a detective,” said the sage.

“A suitor?”

“Yes, Jesus is alive.”

“I know that!”

“If you believed that you wouldn’t have asked me about the state of your salvation.”

“I believe Jesus is alive!” said the man emphatically.

“No, you accept that as a past-tense fact. You don’t believe it as a present reality.” 
The man sputtered, but all that came out was, “Huh?”

“Bear with me a moment and let me present to you a hypothetical situation,” said the sage. “Suppose a man asked you, ‘Do you think my wife will take me back?’ You ask for more information. He says, ‘My wife and I were separated during the war. I thought she had died. Several years ago I found out that she was alive and living just down the street from me. People tell me that she never remarried out of faithfulness to me. I really enjoy reading her old letters. Do you think she will take me back?’ Tell me, what would you say to that man?”

“That’s ridiculous,” snapped the man.

“So it is,” replied the sage. Then he spoke slowly and deliberately.

“Jesus is alive! Go to him and reconnect. Become a suitor striving to know your long lost love. Very soon you will not ask me that terrible question.”

Shamu: My Hero

Mon, 1 Mar 2010 06:22:47 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

“I rejoiced with those who said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD.’” —Psalm 122:1

This January my family and I left the cold and snow of Minnesota for a week’s vacation in Florida. We went to soak up the sun not to let Disney World soak our pockets. But SeaWorld, as expensive as it was, sounded interesting. We had heard of trained whales, dolphins, birds, and so on, and finally we decided to visit. We weren’t disappointed. There were enough animals having fun with humans to keep our boys in wonder for hours.

The biggest attraction at SeaWorld was Shamu the Orca whale(s). But there was only one show per day, so we planned for it. We visited the other animals that were in close proximity to Shamu’s theater until about an hour before the program. It was then that we noticed a surge in the number of people going in one direction.

“Maybe we should go now to be sure we get a seat,” I suggested. So we merged with the masses heading for Shamu. When we arrived the line before the unopened doors was already stretching out. Obviously this was going to be a great show.

Becky and I took the boys to see another exhibit nearby while my parents held a place in line. When they had found seats my dad called me on my phone to tell me where they were. We rushed to the stadium and scanned the large crowd until we spotted my dad waving from mid-way up the stands.

Finally all got quiet and on the huge screen appeared a moving tribute to service men and women. Tears jerked from people’s eyes as they honored America’s heroes.

Then the music started and the show began. As the crowd cheered, the performers swam, dived, and skied; the whales leaped out of the water, did tricks, and splashed the crowd. My boys were thunderstruck. I never once had to tell them to pay attention or be still. And it never occurred to me that I should have to.

Suddenly, the music changed. Drums began pounding and the whale trainers each ran to a section of the bleachers and started stirring up the crowd. Quickly everyone began to follow their lead in time with the drums. Clap, clap, raise hands, shout “Shamu!” Clap, clap, raise hands, shout “Shamu!”

Oddly, it all reminded me of the temple scene of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Startled by the thought I tore my eyes away from the action and looked at the crowd. That’s when it dawned on me what we were doing. We were worshiping! True, we were worshiping performers, whales, and soldiers, but all the elements of true worship were there, including the hearts and souls of the people.

We are made to worship, and if we don’t fulfill that inner drive in the worship of God we will find other ways to fill it. That’s why celebrities are followed with such god-like devotion.

I admit, I enjoyed the worship experience the creators of Shamu provided. I admit that I enjoyed it more than many worship services. You see, I don’t remember the last time I joined a crowd moving toward church, anxious to find a seat before they were all gone. I must think hard to remember the last time the worship service was choreographed, practiced, and executed beautifully. I don’t remember the last time someone put together a moving tribute to God or even to frontline missionaries that jerked tears from the crowd. I don’t remember the last time that delighted and happy people shouted out praises to God at the top of their lungs.

No, we save all of that for SeaWorld—and, I’m sure, heaven. But the truth is we don’t have to wait. “I rejoiced with those who said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the LORD.’” —Psalm 122:1

Waterskiing on the Edge

Mon, 1 Feb 2010 19:54:05 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

I learned to water ski when I was fairly young. I don’t remember the circumstances of when or where I learned but, thanks to the permanent impressions of terror, the actual experience of waterskiing the first few times lives vividly in my mind.

No one forced me to learn to ski. I chose to. But as I clung to the towrope for dear life I shook from head to toe, partly from cold but mostly from nerves. For comfort I sang “Jesus Loves Me” through clenched teeth during the whole ride. And I fell often. But after crashing, choking, and sputtering I insisted on trying again.

I felt proud the first time I skied without falling. I planed up out of the water all by myself, sang “Jesus Loves Me” several times, and then let go near the dock, sinking slowly and easily into the water. I was ecstatic—at least until I told someone. I don’t even remember who it was. “I skied without falling even once!” I announced grandly.

Whoever I graced with this information looked at me for a moment and then said matter of factly, “That means you aren’t skiing hard enough.”

I understood him and took the advice to heart, not only for waterskiing but also for life. I had been merely hanging on trying not to fall. I never crossed the wake. I didn’t look around me. I didn’t try to kick up water with my skis. I just let the powerful boat pull me along in my cautious, narrow comfort zone, all the while imagining that I had arrived at skiing perfection. Truth is I didn’t even realize what skiing could be until I started pushing the edges of the safe zone further and further.

One of the arguments for living the Christian life is that it’s a pretty good life. We say, “Even if I’m wrong about what I believe I would still choose to live like I do as a Christian because it’s a good way to live.” In one sense that is true, as it relates to being kind and loving to others, living a healthy lifestyle, etc. But it can’t be entirely true, otherwise Paul would not have said, “If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men…” (1 Cor. 15:19).

Apparently Paul wouldn’t have chosen to live as he did if what he believed was a myth. Should we believe that Paul would have chosen a debauched life otherwise? Should we believe that Paul would have cast himself headlong into selfishness, lust, and riotous living? Somehow I doubt that. Paul was referring to the beatings and imprisonments and the fierce opposition he constantly faced as a result of his beliefs and his efforts to share them.

I imagine Paul would be shocked if someone said to him, “Christianity is a good life. I would still live as I do even if I’m wrong about everything.” It wouldn’t surprise me at all to hear him reply in effect, “Then you’re not living the Christian life hard enough.”

If we are not encountering opposition as a result of what we believe then it’s entirely possible we don’t believe it very much. Jesus said that in life with him we would encounter persecution just as he did. If we take Jesus at his word what does it mean if we’re not facing opposition of one kind or another? <over>

A word of caution, though. While it’s true that those truly living the Christian life will be resisted (the devil will see to that), it is also true that those operating like the devil, in spite of calling themselves Christians, will also be resisted, (God will see to that). Opposition alone does not indicate that we are living a faithful Christian life.

Still, a complete lack of opposition does indicate something very important. If we are unopposed as Christians then Satan must not be concerned about us damaging his kingdom very much.

If everything you believe as a Christian turns out to be false, “If it is only in this life that you hope in Christ,” are you to be pitied more than everyone or is it a pretty good life as it is? Are you skiing hard enough?

Ponder the Parable of the Path

Fri, 1 Jan 2010 19:51:43 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

I wondered alone in the wilderness. The terrain was unfriendly, difficult, empty. I met many strangers along the way. No one spoke. We passed each other by. Aimlessly.

One day I ventured near a path and there met a man who said he was my neighbor. I was surprised that he spoke to me. “Here is the path,” he told me. “It leads to paradise—a kingdom of joy, life, fullness.”

After he left me I considered his words. Eventually I stepped onto the path thinking little of my direction. But I found the path rough, even impossible.

I met another neighbor on the path. “You’re going the wrong direction,” I informed him. He smiled, shook his head kindly, and passed by around the corner. I called after him, “You’re judging me!” But I don’t think he heard me.

I met another neighbor on the path. I began to tell him also that he was going the wrong direction, but without speaking he took my arm and turned me around and walked beside me. The path became easier with him close.

Another neighbor caught up with us, because he was moving much faster than we. I smiled at him sadly. He smiled at us joyfully. He encouraged us. He passed us. I did not understand why he moved over the difficult path so easily. Jealousy welled within me.

We met a stranger crossing the path. He sneered at us. “This path is all wrong,” he laughed. “I am free.” Then he disappeared into the wilderness.

I did not entirely believe him, but his words convinced me that I was traveling the wrong direction, so I pulled away from my neighbor and turned back.

I met another stranger who tried to convince me to turn around, but I held firm and continued to stumble blindly down the increasingly rocky path.

Finally, I could stand it no longer, and I veered off the path back into the wilderness. I felt euphoric. I felt free. But my foot caught and I fell, twisting my ankle. I felt guilty.

Strangers passed me. No one spoke. It is the way of the wilderness. I was on my own. I missed the path. Or rather I missed the occasional neighbor I found there.

A neighbor on the path saw me lying helpless on the ground and veered off to help. “How could you leave the path?” I demanded, still feeling a loyalty to it.

“I haven’t left the path. Don’t you see?” He pointed to his feet, and there was the path.

I looked at him confused. “How is this possible?” I asked. “I left the path far from here.”

“The path,” he said, “is a living, moving thing.”

“Impossible!” I snapped.

“Try it again,” he countered, “But look not to the ground, look to the destination.”

He lifted me and I stood, hobbling on my bad ankle. In excruciating pain I started down the path in my previous direction, but he stayed me. “No, this way.”

In no condition to argue I began to follow him up the path, though not with strides as great as his. He was soon far ahead. Oddly the path was easier than ever in spite of my ankle, which felt as though it was healing with every step. I was suspicious.

Nevertheless, I soon regained strength and confidence in myself, so I turned around, so sure that it was the proper direction. Instantly the path became brutally difficult and my ankle felt renewed pain.

Curious, I turned about face again and instantly the pain faded and the path became easier. I finally began to understand. I looked forward to meeting my next neighbor. It didn’t take long. He was crossing the path before me.

“Hello, neighbor,” I called to him.

He frowned. “You’re a stranger to me.”

“But you are not to me,” I called as he passed on into the desert. The path became markedly easier for me, and I noticed.

I gained speed. I met a man coming toward me, obviously laboring down the path. “Turn around, neighbor,” I called.

“Why,” he asked.

“Because this way is easier,” I replied.

“Easier is not necessarily better,” he said.

“In this case it most definitely is,” I replied joyfully.

Celebrating "Me" Events

Sun, 1 Nov 2009 08:43:08 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

My five-year old has taught himself to read enough that he is able to broach subjects that I know nothing about. Right now he is infatuated with the calendar and its list of holidays and celebrations inside the United States and outside, as well as inside Christianity and outside.

A while back he asked what Rosh Hashanah was. With a little help from an encyclopedia I explained that it was the Jewish New Year. “What food do they eat and can we eat that?” he wanted to know.

Then he wanted to know what Passover was. I explained that is when the Jews remember the exodus out of Egypt. “What did they eat?” I didn’t need the encyclopedia for that one. Unleavened bread and bitter herbs. “Can we eat that?” So we did.

Then he wanted to know about Sukkot. I really needed the encyclopedia for that. “Ah, that’s the feast of booths. That’s when the Jews remembered living in the wilderness for 40 years.”

“What did they eat?” I was beginning to see a distinct agenda to his study of the calendar.

Then he began to ask about Muslim holidays, which I was entirely clueless about. That is until he got to Ramadan. “Daddy, what is Raaaa-maaaa-daaaa-n?” I instantly saw the promise in what was about to transpire.

“It’s a Muslim holiday that lasts a whole month!” I replied enthusiastically. He also instantly saw the promise in what he thought was about to transpire.

“What do they eat?”

I looked him dead in the eye, “They don’t.”

His eyes looked confused and then widened. “For a whole month?”

“Just during the day,” I said. “They eat at night. It’s called fasting.” I watched the mental wheels spin to the point of overheating.

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to celebrate Ramadan.”

“Why not? Not at all?” Nope! “How about for just one week?” He shook his head. “Maybe a couple of days?” Still no. “Just one day?”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll celebrate Ramadan for part of one meal.” Then he qualified further, “A meal that doesn’t have treats.”

Spoken like a human being. Holidays in general and religious celebrations in particular are intended to draw our thoughts to something great, to give us an opportunity to reflect on the meaning of some historical high point or grand theme. The hope is that in such remembrance we will live differently today. We will be more grateful, more willing to give of ourselves, more likely to live in unity with others, etc.

But we have made holidays in large part about the food, or presents, or drinking. Why? Because ultimately we like to feel good, and good food makes us feel good, getting stuff makes us feel good, and I don’t even want to think about the “benefits” of getting drunk. We have managed to turn holidays into “me” events.

We’ve done the same with church. I want to quote some selections from an article written by my friend, Andy Romstad, pastor of Cambridge Lutheran Church.

A visitor found me. Worship was not what they had expected. “We were pleasantly surprised,” they said. “We’re looking for a church.” I see. These conversations are usually unhealthy. They ask how our church “fits their needs.” You want to answer “correctly.”…. For kicks, I should say, “I don’t think you’d like it here. You’re not what we’re looking for in new members.”…. Often what is being said is, “Whatever church makes the best case for how well they can serve us, we’ll reward by becoming members.” (High maintenance, anyone?).

I’d love to hear: “We’re looking for an imperfect church with problems,” “We’re seeking new servant opportunities to take up our cross,” “We really need to grow as disciples—bad!”…. “Do you have any poor people that we could share resources with?”….

…we need to be judging our current servant quotient versus our “me-meter.”

We are prone to selfishness even in matters of religion. Perhaps now would be a good time to think about the object of church, a celebration in its own rite. Perhaps its time to think of what we can bring to it more than what it can bring to us. Like 4-H says, “You will get out of it what you put into it.”

Anyone care to fast for a month? A day? How about part of a meal—as long as it doesn’t have treats?

Where Are You Going to Run To?

Tue, 1 Sep 2009 13:41:24 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

It seems like I recall Garrison Keillor joking that Minnesota winters have the positive function of keeping the U.S. population at large from encroaching too far into the state. I have discovered that snakes serve much the same function for the South, though perhaps not on such a large scale. It’s only Minnesotans who fear the snakes of the South. Everyone else knows that they are to be preferred to endless subzero temps. However, for anyone already prejudiced against the South in this manner I would like to reaffirm this fear of snakes with a story, which if pressed I will have to admit is not typical snake behavior, at least as far as my experience with them is concerned.

I went fishing one day with my grandfather, known affectionately as granddaddy to all who knew him, whether or not they were related to him. I loved riding in granddaddy’s truck. It was a 1970 (or so) two-tone green, extended cab, full-bed, pickup with an aluminum topper on the back, carpet on the dash (a later installation), and a treasure trove of possessions stuffed into ever nook and cranny. Much of it was junk and much of it, at least to me, was far from it. Particularly the firearms.

Upon arriving at the lake we filled a styrofoam cup with worms from rotting logs and leaves, grabbed our poles from the back of the truck, and walked to the edge of the lake. We found a break in the lake grasses and cast our lines expecting to sit and watch our bobbers. But as soon as our lines hit the water the bobbers plunged.

Nothing could be more exciting to a young boy, or so I might have thought if I was more self-aware. Instead I was just excited. “I got one! I got one!” But the first tug indicated a very small fish. Not that this was terribly disappointing because quantity can easily make up for size from a boy’s perspective—at least until he catches a large fish. But that’s another story.

Catching a fish is one of the great moments in childhood, but I found out that the moment can become even greater. The little bluegill on my line made a run for it into the lakeshore grass, which was his big mistake. I would have gently removed him from the hook and tossed him back into the water. Instead, as he ran from me, he apparently ran into a water snake. Perhaps it was a Water Moccasin, I can’t honestly remember. But for the sake of those to whom I have dedicated this story, I’ll confidently state that it was a Water Moccasin. They were definitely in the area because Bo Bo, granddaddy’s dog, found one on the shore before we left.

Anyway, the bluegill came off of my hook, but not with my help. Instead he was assisted by the weight of a large snake that grabbed him as I reeled the unfortunate fish toward me. I pulled both the fish and snake right out of the water before both came off and splashed back into the lake. That is remarkable enough, but then granddaddy did the same thing and caught a second snake. I threw in my worm again, instantly caught a fish, who also swam into the grass and came out again with a brand new tail attachment.

After the third snake granddaddy yelled, “Wait! Don’t do it again yet.” Then he ran back to the truck and returned with a .22 revolver. “Okay, go!” he said. I caught another snake on bluegill bait. With remarkable accuracy for the equipment he was using granddaddy proceeded to shoot half a dozen snakes as they hung from my fish. Animal rights will probably arrest me now, but this was Arkansas, which I suppose says enough.

The Bible describes Satan as a roaring lion who proactively goes about seeking whom he may devour. He is also described as a serpent. A serpent doesn’t hunt by seeking but by waiting. He knows the habits of his prey and simply waits for it to come to him, striking at the opportune time. We have habits and Satan knows them, and he positions himself strategically in the lakeshore grasses waiting, knowing that we’re already hooked and will eventually end up near enough to him for the fatal strike.

The difference between us and my ill-fated bluegill, though, is that our heavenly Father is on the shore and his purpose is not primarily to kill a Snake. His purpose is primarily to rescue us from the Snake. To a Father who loves his kids it doesn’t matter how his kids got hooked in the first place. He doesn’t stand there and say, “Well, you asked for it.” He first rescues those he loves. He will surely have a talk with us about how we got into the mess, but that will come later, after he saves us.

If you’re hooked on habits that seem to hold you captive don’t blindly run without direction because eventually you will get a little too near the Snake. Make a beeline for your heavenly Father.

Sleeping Contentedly on Too-Short Benches

Sat, 1 Aug 2009 13:40:18 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

Practical jokes are a staple of college dormitory life, particularly for freshmen guys. The object of this “immature behavior,” as some believe it to be, is to one-up the joke on the other person. In this tradition my friends, Greg and Doug, and I relentlessly abused each other through all four years at Union College in Lincoln, Nebraska. The occasion I’m thinking of was when Greg and I removed the entire contents of Doug’s room, the bed, dresser, lamps, clothes, books, and so on, and neatly arranged them in the public bathroom down the hall.

When Doug walked into his room and found only his roommate’s things there he exhibited little reaction, but began wandering the hall in search of his belongings. As I recall he was a Resident Assistant and therefore owned a master key, which he used to check each room. Eventually he checked the bathroom. Still with little more reaction than a laugh, he quietly removed the things he actually needed and left everything else in the bathroom arranged as it was.

Doug then dragged a bench only about five feet long from the hallway into his room and slept on it for the next two months without complaint. Someone else eventually cleared the bathroom and by the end of the school year most everything had found its way back to Doug’s room piece by piece.

I can’t decide if this is an especially poignant or especially ridiculous illustration of the idea that Satan takes every good thing that God has given us and rearranges it in the bathroom, so to speak. In other words, Satan continually attempts to replace the good and perfect gifts of God with corrupted versions of that gift. Just look what he has managed to do with sex, appetite, ambition, beauty, music, pleasure, intelligence, entertainment, and even love.

However, Satan is God’s enemy, so really his war against God is not shocking. What is more shocking is that we seem to react not at all to the cruel joke. We seem content with the new arrangement. We might rescue a few convenient things, but we basically leave Satan’s arrangements in tact. We indulge our appetites according to Satan’s prescriptions. We allow our ambitions to clamber over people. We accept the picture of beauty as scrawny, half-clothed, and airbrushed. We learn to enjoy music that makes our hearts beat out of rhythm with God. We allow our intelligence to become a god or an excuse. We swallow the idea that love is giving me whatever I want whenever I want it. We’re contentedly sleeping on too-short benches.

In Matthew 12 Jesus tells about a person cleaning up his life and throwing out the evil spirit who leaves there, but when that spirit returns and finds the place unoccupied and clean, he moves back in with seven companions and the person is worse off than he was before.

Figuratively speaking, Satan has already rearranged your life in the bathroom just as he has mine. Fine. The joke has been played. What’s done is done. Now, take the opportunity to sweep out your life, but don’t make the mistake of the person in Jesus’ story. Don’t leave your life temporarily clean and unoccupied. Fill it up. Invite the Spirit of God to take up residence. Furnish your life with the uncorrupted gifts of God. Consciously choose music that puts you in rhythm with him. Purposely choose food that provides a healthy mind and body. Find beauty in authenticity instead of facades. Make your highest ambition to trust and glorify God.

When we fill our lives this way we allow God to turn Satan’s terrible joke on its head.

Fighting Spiritual Gravity

Wed, 1 Jul 2009 13:39:19 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I was 14 years old and was gearing up to go away to boarding school. That was the only choice we had in Africa, and I wasn’t complaining. I had arrived at the age where I knew everything, so I was raring to get out on my own. Not that boarding school would give me much independence, but it had to be better than being home where I was convinced that life was much too restricted.

We had moved to Rwanda only a month or so earlier and were heavily involved in learning Kinyarwanda, the local language. I found it much more interesting, however, to play with my new friends who were the kids of the mission faculty at the Adventist university in Mudende. There were only a couple of boys my age but a whole passel of them slightly younger than me. I found that I enjoyed the company of the younger boys more because the older ones were into music and clothes and stuff that I found uninteresting. I much preferred climbing trees, getting dirty, learning to do handsprings, digging caves, and so on.

When the big day came for me to fly Kenya for boarding school all my friends saw me off. We said our good byes and promised to pick up our activities in December during Christmas vacation, a promise which I had every intention of keeping.

Boarding school was a new and different life to me. I had to learn the school culture much like I had to learn the culture every time I moved to a new country. Adept at the process by now I changed quickly to fit in. But I wasn’t conscious of the changes because they were not major. I didn’t think my way through the process, I simply felt my way through without understanding. The consciousness came several months later.

December arrived and the school emptied as all the kids flew off to various countries where their parents were serving as missionaries. I flew to Rwanda, my mind filled with the anticipation of meeting my friends when I would impress them with my new grown up life. By this time my parents had moved from the university to Kigali where my dad was working, so I wouldn’t see my friends until the weekend when we would drive to Mudende.

I prepared all week for the reunion. I carefully chose what I would wear. I consciously parted my hair in the new way I had picked up at high school. I thought about the music I would listen to with my friends. When we finally arrived at Mudende our truck was mobbed just as I had pictured would happen. I leaped out and my friends began talking excitedly. “Jeff, do you want to go climb trees? Want to practice handsprings? Our cave has filled in and we need to dig it out again!”

I looked at them like they were aliens. They hadn’t changed at all, but I became suddenly aware that I had changed. It had happened gradually over the course of many months so I hadn’t noticed the difference in myself and probably never would have but for the abrupt contrast of my friends. They revealed to my consciousness what had taken place in me ever so slowly and unconsciously. By the end of the weekend I was hanging out with the older boys listening to music and wearing cool clothes.

Thankfully I eventually outgrew that stage of maturity (or immaturity) also, but that childhood memory has never left me. It has taught me that the ways in which I continue to grow and change are not completely outside of my control. The minute-to-minute decisions I make, as mundane and ordinary as they may seem, actually profoundly influence how I grow and change not just in character maturity, but in spiritual maturity. (Is there a difference?)

I long convinced myself of the existence of a neutral category—choices I could make that would not impact my spirituality positively or negatively. But as much as I may wish for such a category it simply doesn’t exist. Like it or not we are captive to the relentless process of spiritual formation. We are either being formed into the likeness of Jesus or into the likeness of his enemy. And the fact of the matter is that whatever does not draw me toward Christ actually drags me away him, even if I don’t realize it.

This is one reason Paul gives us the list in Philippians 4:8. “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

In other words, positive spiritual formation comes only by making intentional choices toward that end. Negative spiritual formation comes through everything else. Negative spiritual formation is like gravity; anything that does not deliberately fight it inevitably succumbs to it.

If the movie or book that I choose to dump into my mind does not contain the Philippians 4:8 qualities, which will form me more into the likeness of Christ, then I must understand that it is going to form me in the opposite way.

Taken one at a time he changes worked in me by my choices will probably be imperceptible, but they will be changes nonetheless. The music and words I listen to, the purchases I make, my conversations, the things I wear, the friends I choose, the entertainment I participate in, every single decision works a change in me toward Christ or away from him.

Eventually an eye-opening moment will arrive when we will see clearly and suddenly the accumulated result of what we thought were neutral choices. And at that moment we will realize that those choices are what formed us into the likeness of what we have become.

Cultivating Panic

Sun, 31 May 2009 06:52:43 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins
About 8 or 9 o’clock one night my sister disappeared from my parents’ house. I was visiting them in Iowa where they lived on a few acres out in the middle of farmland. The only thing visible from their house was one other house some distance away, so the night was dark and quiet.
My sister was a responsible adult so her disappearance wasn’t a concern at first. We simply wondered where she had gone. Then we called out for her. Not hearing an answer we called down to the basement. Nothing. We called louder. My dad called outside. Still nothing. Where could she have gone? The vehicles were there and so were her shoes. Besides she wouldn’t have gone out without mentioning it to us.
My dad can create a supersonic whistle, which he used to call us when we were children. So he tried that a couple of times both inside and outside. No Amy. Panic set in. Thoughts of drive-by kidnappings or accidents in the night began to fill our heads. We prayed without ceasing and understood exactly what that meant as we ran frantically here and there searching.
Finally, we called Amy’s friend, Kari. “Did you come a pick up Amy?” We can’t find her anywhere. She had not.
For the dozenth time we searched every room in the house when finally my mother yelled out in relief, “Here she is!” Amy had somehow fallen asleep underneath a pile of blankets at the foot of my parents’ bed. During our desperate search she had slept soundly, oblivious to our calls and unconcerned for her lost condition.
Our world is filled with spiritually sleeping people who are completely unconcerned with their situation because they don’t recognize it for what it is. Indeed, we ourselves could easily be in that condition. After all, in Jesus’ parable of the ten virgins all ten of them slept, including those who were “prepared.” I wonder what the mission of Christ’s church would look like right now if we felt for our neighbors even a small fraction of the panic my family felt for my sister that night.
What difference would it make if we walked through the grocery store or drove through traffic and wondered if the people we were seeing were aware of their spiritual condition? Would we in a slight panic offer up desperate prayers for them? I believe that God responds to different kinds of prayers in different ways just as I respond to the words of my children in different ways. A casual call from my boys warrants a casual response on my part, whereas a desperate call warrants an extreme reaction. Wouldn’t it be the same with our heavenly Father?
What if we felt at least a degree of panic for the lost condition of those around us, not to mention those we love? This matter of eternal life and eternal death is real, and yet we treat it as though it is the stuff of fairy tales. Could I really have lounged around on the couch that night my sister disappeared and been uninterested in the desperation of my parents? Could I really want to finish my TV program or novel first before helping to locate my lost sister? Of course not. Yet we act like that all the time with our heavenly Father and our fellow brothers and sisters.
Perhaps we should consciously cultivate a little sustainable panic concerning those around us. Maybe then we will join God in his desperation for his children. Maybe then we will understand better how to pray without ceasing. Maybe then we will feel like tearing ourselves away from the TV or some other project to join the search. Maybe then we will actually wake up to our own spiritual condition a little more.

Religulous

Fri, 1 May 2009 06:31:36 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I recently watched “Religulous,” which is Bill Maher’s documentary on the ridiculousness of religion. His basic premise is that religion itself is baseless, stupid, and even dangerous. I think that in fairness the film should have been classified as a comedy or a mockumentary rather than a documentary, because it is blatantly one-sided both in its editing and in the people Maher chose to interview.

Also, because of its classification as a documentary on religion it never occurred to me to check the film rating, which it turns out is rated R. For that reason alone I won’t recommend it. Since I never have time to watch TV I had never heard of Bill Maher and was clueless about who he is in the film industry. Now I know.

I must give Maher credit for being somewhat informed on religion. I also must give him credit for being right about one point in particular: Christians, and religious people in general, need to be more humble in what we assert. Maher points out that he places himself in the category of “I don’t know,” whereas religious people tend to place themselves in the category of “I certainly know,” no matter how ridiculous their beliefs sound.

And they do sound ridiculous compared to the “rational” thinking of modern life—at least on the surface level where Maher operates. Rational thinking, I got the feeling from Maher’s film, has placed itself on the pedestal of believable, particularly in relation to science and evolution.

Over and over Maher points out that Christians assert that the fantastic notion of an all-knowing, all-powerful God is believable while at the same time considering fairy tales and evolution to be unbelievable. He emphasizes that this is illogical and he is right. Christians do this. And we think that if we simply assert our belief more loudly and with more conviction that it becomes more believable. It doesn’t. The very notion of God is ridiculous to someone uninterested in acknowledging God.

However, from my point of view, Christians have it easier than rationalists who believe in evolution for the origin of life. Christians must accept only one fantastic idea: that an all-knowing, all-powerful God exists. With that one outrageous premise Christians can answer every question, even when the answer is “I don’t know.”

Rational thinking, on the other hand, must accept multiple fantastic ideas in order to maintain its complex belief system, not the least of which is the idea that a big explosion set the stage for life and then progressed into the world as we know it today through outrageous chance after outrageous chance.

For me, rationally speaking, it’s much easier to accept one outrageous concept of God than to accept multiple outrageous chances.

Maher also correctly points out that religion can be dangerous because we have innumerable examples of atrocities committed in the name of religion. The distinction that Maher does not make, however, is the difference between Christianity as it ought to be as opposed to what human beings have made of it.

Religion that twists God into something that he is not is truly dangerous. Indeed, according to Revelation, twisted religion is the very thing that is going to wrap things up here on planet earth—much the way that Maher fears it will. So in a sense that Maher was likely clueless about, his mockumentary was actually prophetic, in a way. Hopefully Christians will take some hints from the little that is right in the film.

Counting the Bargain

Wed, 1 Apr 2009 12:02:32 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins
“… any of you who does not give up everything he has cannot be my disciple,” (Luke 14:33).
Obviously in another world a man grinned as he carefully selected two perfect apples from the bin in the produce aisle. Then he selected two perfect plums, then two perfect peaches. He was so meticulous in his selection that the man next to him simply stared until finally he blurted out, “What in the world are you doing?”
The first man blinked and shook his head a little as he came back to earth, but he didn’t stop grinning. “I’m making dinner for my wife,” he beamed.
“Ah!” the other man nodded knowingly. “You’re newly married.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.
“Not really,” the man replied. “We’ve been married for eight years.”
“Ah!” the other man nodded again. “It’s your anniversary and last year you forgot.” Again a statement not a question.
“No,” the first man replied looking a little confused. “I’ve never forgotten our anniversary.”
“Ah!” the other man nodded knowingly. “You are in the doghouse.” Another statement. The other shook his head, no.
The interrogator showed that he was becoming more frustrated than the situation warranted when he demanded, “Then I ask again, what in the world are you doing!”
“I’m making dinner for my wife!” The mere statement caused the man to grin again.
“Yes, but why?” the other man demanded.
“The same reason you do!” the first man shot back gleefully, fully expecting the other to understand.
But obviously he did not understand. “I don’t make dinner for my wife,” he said defensively. “I don’t have to earn her love.”
“What?” said the first man, “You think I’m trying to earn my wife’s love?”
“Why else would you go to such effort? Being married is so much work, don’t you think?”
“I guess I never thought of it,” replied the first man. “I guess it does require a little work, but what is a little work in comparison to a relationship with someone so good to me. Frankly, I wish I could do more.”
The second man’s eyes grew wide and he sputtered. “More? What do you get out of your wife that I don’t get out of mine?”
“What I get isn’t the point at all,” said the first man, suddenly understanding the other man’s problem. “The point is who she is and the fact that she loves me.”
“Getting married causes a man to lose most everything,” said the other man decidedly. “Everyone should count the cost of marriage before making the leap.”
“I did,” replied the first man. “I counted the cost and I quickly realized that I was getting a bargain.”
“…the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it,” (Matthew 13:45-46).

Sleepwalking

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 11:38:28 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

My parents were light sleepers when we were kids so I don’t know how I managed to leave our apartment in Beirut, Lebanon, without waking them. I was about 9 years old, and I have no recollection whatsoever of leaving; but when I woke up I found myself in pitch-blackness in an unknown location.

Apparently I didn’t wake up all the way because even though I remember what happened, I was clearly not completely conscious. My situation didn’t concern me in the least. It seemed normal or perhaps like a game. Maybe I thought I was dreaming.

I remember thinking, I wonder if I can discover where I am without turning on the lights. Arms outstretched before me I took cautious steps. My movements echoed around me, so I deduced that I was in a cave or concrete room of some sort. I encountered a cold metal door on one side, concrete walls on two other sides, and stairs on the fourth side.

Eventually, I gave up unable to figure out where I was. It was time for light. Oddly, with my subconscious in control, I suppose, I walked straight to the switch and flipped on the light. Ah! Everything made perfect sense now. I knew where I was, though I was still asleep enough that I didn’t question why I was there.

I found myself in the stairwell on the basement level of our apartment building. The metal door led to the bomb shelter, the stairs led to our apartment two stories up. I bounded up the stairs to our level and knocked. The apartment doors locked automatically and for some reason I had neglected to bring my key. No one answered at first so I knocked again.

Eventually I heard someone on the other side of the door trying to peer through the peephole to see who was knocking at such an hour. I was short and therefore invisible. Then I heard the voice of my father. At this point my recollection gets fuzzy again, but I think the conversation went kind of like this, “Who’s there?” my father called.

“Marhaba,” I replied. (“Hello” in Arabic).

“Who is it?” my father asked again, understandably reluctant to open the door.

“Marhaba!” I said more loudly.

“I’m not opening the door until you tell me who you are,” said my father firmly.

I yelled, “Daddy, let me in!” My voice ricocheted violently up and down the concrete stairwell.

The door flew open and my father stood looking at me dumbfounded. “What are you doing out here?”

I don’t remember my reply exactly but I think it amounted to, “Let me go back to bed.” I was no more successful explaining myself the next morning either.

You might laugh at this story but, in a manner of speaking, it isn’t uncommon. Spiritually speaking we are all sleepwalkers to one degree or another. Paul says, “So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be alert and self-controlled,” (1 Thessalonians 5:6).

We are born asleep, really; but eventually most of us wake up enough to realize that we are lost in darkness. However, we aren’t very awake at first because our situation doesn’t seem cause for alarm. It seems normal, in fact. Oh, we may try superficially to figure out where we are, but we treat it kind of like a game. I wonder if I can find my way without the lights.

It’s only when we finally realize that we need the light that things begin to come together. And, interestingly, we know precisely how to locate the switch. It’s like it was programmed into our subconscious all along. We call out for God and suddenly we see our way. Only it is he who is knocking and we who are reluctant to let him in.

But I can tell you, when you do open the door you’re going to be dumbfounded at why it took you so long.

The Wise Old Man

Fri, 9 Jan 2009 20:47:21 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

“When the Counselor comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who goes out from the Father, he will testify about me.” —John 15:26

It’s early morning and I watch the sun rise over the hills, burning away patches of fog trapped in low-lying areas. With the wise old man’s permission I sit nearby to observe. He sits as usual in his rocking chair on the porch of his ancient, sturdy cabin. The soft breeze moves his long, wispy beard, which precisely matches the grey of the log walls behind him. A lazy hound dog lies beside him, her chin resting on her paws.

The wise old man has sat in this spot for as long as anyone can remember, not because he has nothing to do but because he has so much to do. He is the most respected and loved counselor in the region, even the country. People travel far to seek his advice and his blessing on every subject imaginable. But usually they come to discuss one subject in particular: love and marriage. Not only is this subject a primary concern for “his children,” as the old man calls everyone, it is also clearly his favorite counseling subject.

The reason that advice on love and marriage is in such demand is because marriages here are still arranged. Indeed they are arranged far in advance of the child’s birth, and in most cases the couple will not physically meet until their wedding day.

Communication between the bride and groom-to-be is encouraged so that ideally they will fall in love before the wedding. But communication with someone you have never met presents obvious obstacles.

This is why people prize the counsel of the wise old man. To watch him in action is beautiful to anyone with the ability to appreciate complicated simplicity, direct tact, and tough compassion.

For the old counselor each day is at the same time typical and different. The questions and problems presented to him usually begin the same and always end the same, but the path he takes is different for each person. I had once considered codifying the old man’s instruction, but I now see that would be impossible. Asked why he answers the same question in different ways he replies simply, “My children are different.”

Most conversations begin like this: The old man asks how he can help. The young person says that she is trying to get to know her fiancé and is struggling. The old man asks what she is currently doing, and this is where the conversation varies as the old man asks questions designed to penetrate to the heart of the problem, which seems always to be heart problem.

The sun is still low over the hills when his first visitor of the day walks into the cabin clearing. It’s a young lady. She sits before the old man and tells him that her fiancé is an artist and that she enjoys viewing his art. A few questions draw out of her the fact the she is quite particular about which of his art she will view. Finally, the old man delivers his verdict. “In your fiancé’s art you seek not your fiancé, you seek beauty. You avoid his works that seem to you to be ugly or uncomfortable. Seek him in all of his works. To be sure you will encounter beauty, but do not seek it. Seek him.”

Next a young man sits before the counselor and explains that his bride-to-be is a best-selling author. He endeavors to know her by reading. Again, the old man’s questions penetrate to the heart of the problem and causes the young man to realize that he reads what others say about his future wife far more than he reads what she has written. “You do not seek to know her, you seek information about her. Seek her.”

To another (whose situation to me seems identical to the last) the counselor delivers different advice. “Although you read primarily the writings of your future husband you do not seek him. You seek knowledge. Seek him.”

The counselor’s advice to the fiancé of a musician: “In his music you seek emotion. Seek him.”

Advice to another: “You seek personal faithfulness and discipline. Seek her.”

To another: “You seek the impossible and the unnecessary because you seek to deserve him. Serve and do, but in doing seek him.”

To another: “In defending her you do not seek her glory but your own. Do not defend her. Seek her.”

To another: “You seek to be heard. Seek him.”

To another: “You seek benefits, not relationship. Seek her.”

At the end of the day I asked the old man, “Is the answer always seek him or seek her?”

“It is,” replied the old man.

“With that knowledge,” I replied, “Can I also be a wise counselor?”

“Indeed,” he replied, “so long as your purpose is not to be a counselor.”

“What should my purpose be,” I asked.

He replied, “Have you already forgotten the answer?”

I Don't Intend to Keep My Mouth Shut

Mon, 1 Dec 2008 09:57:54 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

Even though it was more than 60 years ago and I was only six years old, I remember that night like it was yesterday. I had fallen into the sleep of an exhausted lad snuggled close by my father, who was still watching the fire and talking in hushed tones with the other shepherds. Their conversation about Messiah sent chills up my spine—good chills. They said the prophecies were to be fulfilled very soon. Little did we know!

Lying there wrapped in my father’s cloak with my head on his lap that night I was dreaming about what it would be like when Messiah came. You know how dreams are, when things happen around you you simply incorporate them into the dream. That’s what I did for the first few moments of a blinding flash of light. In my dream all of Israel was suddenly all glowing with light when Messiah came. But the light didn’t go away so I had to wake up.

As soon as I opened my eyes, though, I flung my hands over them and dove deeper into my father’s cloak just as he grabbed me and then fell backward. At any other time I would have laughed uproariously at such an undignified moment, but not that night. Through my fingers I saw my father and the other men cringing and shielding their eyes from the light until suddenly the most beautiful voice unlike any I have ever heard or ever hope to hear said, “Don’t be afraid.” Incredibly, that made sense. All my fear instantly dissolved. An angel stood before us. I have tried for years to describe him but words just aren’t adequate.

He actually waited for our eyes to adjust to his brightness then he said, “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all people! Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you. He is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find the baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

Then all of a sudden a huge company of angels in the sky burst out into the most glorious song you can’t imagine! “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.” They continued to sing as they faded away. We just stood there breathlessly watching until the angels looked like a huge star. That’s when my father shouted, “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go see this thing that the angel told us about.” No one even thought to stay with the sheep and my father didn’t put me down, we just ran to Bethlehem.

As soon as we got into Bethlehem’s walls we saw a few people, even though it was the middle of the night, but when we asked them if they had seen the angels they looked at us like we were drunk. Some laughed. Most looked disgusted. We didn’t care, though. We knew what we had seen and heard.

We finally found an innkeeper who said, “A new baby in a manger? Somehow I have a feeling that’s in my stable.” He didn’t come with us, but he pointed us to the small cave near his inn that served as a stable. I expected the stable to be all glowing with light and warmth. After all, if one angel made such a dramatic appearance, how must Messiah enter? I was disappointed. There was almost no light in the stable and the only warmth came from the animals crowded inside.

I think my father and the others were disappointed too, but that changed as soon as we began to tell the baby’s parents about the angels. Then the place began to glow as their faces lit up! They believed our story.

Well, right there we all knelt down around the manger where baby Jesus lay sleeping and we worshiped him because he was God who had come to live with us for a while. The whole time I kept wondering, Where is everyone? Why were we the only people there? I still don’t have a good answer to that question.

Anyway, we didn’t have much but we gave Joseph and Mary the little food and money that we had. I wanted to give them a lamb, but I hadn’t brought one. But Mary said that was all right and that just wishing I could give it was enough.

As day broke we finally left the stable and we were in such high spirits that we told everyone we met about the baby. Again they thought we were crazy, and again we didn’t care. We were going to tell them anyway. When you’re that full of good news you can’t keep it to yourself even if you try. I even told the sheep when we got back. Fortunately they had all stayed put while we were gone.

That night changed my life. I lost track of baby Jesus after that. I found out later that he had gone to Egypt to escape Herod who was trying to kill him. I didn’t hear anything at all about him for 30 years when suddenly he appeared out of Nazareth healing people and preaching, “The kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

I was even more entranced with him 30 years later than I had been that night in the stable. I followed him everywhere like one of his disciples. And he accepted me along with everyone else. He even sent me on missions for him kind of like one of his ambassadors.

I won’t go into the long, sad story of what happened between him and the religious leaders, but I will tell you that once Jesus rose from the dead, I went to that empty tomb and was reminded all over again of the wonder I felt in the cave at Bethlehem so long ago.

He really is Immanuel, God with Us, even more than I could have ever imagined. He is God with Us not only because he came here but because he lived here along side of us, showing us how to live. And because he showed us how to live here in our home we get to go live with him in his home very soon. I’m still awestruck, and here, 60 years later, I just can’t keep my mouth shut about him. And, frankly, I have no desire to.

Crisis Spirituality vs. Normal Life

Tue, 11 Nov 2008 12:39:50 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

When I write in my diary each day I enjoy looking back on my life on a particular day in the past. Today I looked through the whole month of October for 2002. It was not a good month.

Crisis #1: A sniper was terrorizing Maryland by gunning down innocent, unsuspecting people at gas stations and store parking lots. Becky and I were serving as missionaries in Moscow, Russia, but Maryland was still home, and we were scheduled to return soon. We owned a house and had family in the area where the sniper was stalking. With the 9-11 terrorism still in everyone’s minds, my stomach knotted up in reaction to the sniper crisis.

Crisis #2: As Becky and I walked along our usual route close to our apartment in Moscow, we passed two men walking a dog. The dog showed no interest in us as we approached, but when we passed he snarled and bit Becky in the leg. The owner was unapologetic, but since Becky thought the bite hadn’t broken the skin under her jeans we continued walking back to our apartment. There Becky discovered she was bleeding. Knowing nothing of the dog but knowing that many dogs in Moscow are never vaccinated brought fears of rabies. This eventually led to a series of shots to which Becky was allergic. We spent many days trying to find the dog again and having difficult confrontations with the owner who refused to help. My stomach knotted further.

Crisis #3: The Nord Ost theater was one of many in Moscow presenting plays the evening of October 23, 2002, but it was this theater, only four miles from our apartment, that Chechen terrorists chose to take hostage. Armed to the teeth with explosives about 40 or 50 men and women took control of the theater with about 850 people inside.

Government forces quickly surrounded the theater, but the terrorists were entrenched. Storming the building was out of the question because the terrorists had wired it with explosives. Any attempt at rescue and everyone would be killed. It was a crisis not only for those in the theater and us nearby but for all of Moscow. The tension crackled everywhere in the city. My stomach knotted further. Eating wasn’t fun in October 2002.

Life was much more serious. The atmosphere at our office was more subdued. I spent more time in my Bible. I spent more time in prayer. I spent more time minute-by-minute looking to God. And as a result I grew spiritually at higher rate than usual for me. Things that had once seemed important didn’t seem important anymore. I wondered, If this is how I feel now how will I feel at the end time crisis, which is due to storm the entire planet at any moment?

Then they caught the sniper. Soon after the government forces ended the hostage crisis—disastrously for more than a 100 people, but it had ended nonetheless. Eventually even the dog situation faded away.

Do you know how I felt after each crisis drifted from mind? I felt relieved. Finally, life could go back to normal. I had no more need for crisis spirituality. I was free again to drop into neutral with God. Normal life.

Normal life can be fatal to spiritual life because we quickly forget how much we need God. We easily forget the seriousness of the crisis in which we exist every day. The kingdom of heaven is at hand. Jesus is coming soon. But before he comes we are going to face an unprecedented crisis, and this includes God’s people, “the elect.”

“For then there will be great distress, unequaled from the beginning of the world until now — and never to be equaled again. If those days had not been cut short, no one would survive, but for the sake of the elect those days will be shortened.” – Matt. 24:21-22

Times are serious enough right now to warrant crisis spirituality. Being spiritually prepared now is the only way to avoid being overwhelmed then. Please don’t wait until the crisis becomes overwhelming to practice relying on God. Ground yourself deeply in his Word immediately. Open your Bible and prayerfully read as though your life depends on it because, in fact, it does.

They Trashed My Room

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 06:49:22 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I had two enemies all through college. We were roommates. We spent much of our time together. We ate together, played sports together, talked together—and played practical jokes on each other. That’s why I call them enemies. They were Doug and Greg.

In those days freshmen at Union College had the privilege of living in a separate men’s dormitory—one that could more afford the abuse. Looking back I see the wisdom in the policy. However, during my freshmen year that dorm was only sparsely populated, which meant that partway through the year we were each given the option of having our own room. I took it.

One day Doug and Greg were in my room when Doug, unprovoked, stood and yanked out one of my desk drawers and dumped its contents into the middle of the floor. Then he dropped the empty drawer on top. With a wide grin he looked for my reaction. Caught completely off guard I just cocked my head. I didn’t get the joke. But apparently Greg did because he laughed uproariously then jumped up and pulled out another drawer and dumped it on top of the other.

Suddenly both Doug and Greg leaped into furious action depositing all of my earthly possessions into a heap in the middle of the floor. Powerless to stop them and knowing I’d look foolish trying I simply watched. Eventually I had a bright idea, so I left the room closing the door behind me. Unfortunately, I found their doors locked. So much for my bright idea. Revenge would have to wait. I walked back to my room and found my door locked. Inside was silence. They couldn’t have left the room without me seeing them.

I knocked. I called. Still silence. Eventually I found a dean who let me into my room. The window was open. That had been their exit. The dean looked at the great pile in the middle of my room. Nothing had been left in its proper place. The dean cast a quizzical look at me then left without a word. Whether it had needed it or not my room received a thorough reorganizing.

1 Corinthians 3:16 presents an image of our bodies as a home where the Spirit of God can live. But it can become the home of a different spirit as well. We have a real enemy who enjoys nothing more than moving into our lives, and making a wreck of it. One by one he pulls out the stops on our inhibitions then tosses in small bad habits. The mess grows from there until finally nothing is untouched. Our families, our friends, ourselves, and even God is hurt by the destruction.

Do you sit by and just watch him do it, maybe even thinking that you’ll look foolish trying to stop him? Perhaps you check out mentally and ignore what’s going on figuring you’ll just clean up later? I wonder what would have happened that day if I had dropped to my knees in my room and began to ask God to stop Doug and Greg? At the very least the look on their faces would have been priceless. Fortunately, we don’t have to wonder what happens when we drop to my knees for help against Satan. He isn’t confused he’s terrified. He runs. “Resist the devil and he will flee from you,” James 4:7.

A bit of advice, though, from Jesus. When you get your “home” back and sweep it clean, fill it completely with the Spirit of God (Luke 11:25-26). Do not resist the devil defensively, resist offensively. Pray the devil away then fill the home of your heart with the One who will not sit by like a fool the next time someone tries to trash your life.

Claiming the Name in Vain

Mon, 1 Sep 2008 08:34:23 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I have been to India. If you regularly read this newsletter that’s hardly news since I tell stories from all over the place. So let me tell you about Bombay. I was flying from Rwanda to Singapore where I was to complete my senior year of high school. On the way to Singapore I got to experience India.

Here is my experience: People lay, squatted, stood, and milled about like piles of litter. The smell was, well, memorable. It was boring. There was nothing to see, nothing to do. I wished I had brought a book with me. I remember a lot of dirt, little place to sit, inconvenient access to restrooms, no food. I didn’t enjoy India.

Oh, did I mention I never left the airport? I had a ten-hour layover in Bombay along with thousands of other passengers. We sprawled all over the airport, jetlagged, bored, unrested, unshowered. The fact is at any given time you can find a similar scene in any of a thousand other airports around the world including the U.S.

So how fair is it for me to say that I have experienced India? It’s not fair at all. A brief layover in the airport isn’t really visiting India. And yet, if I cared to, I could probably fool most anyone who hasn’t been to India himself that I had truly experienced Bombay. Indeed, if I wish I can fool myself into believing that. For proof just look at my map in Facebook where I can record everywhere I have visited. I marked India.

I also marked Japan, Uganda, Ethiopia, Burundi, and Bahrain. Yes, I’ve been to those countries—in the airport or in some cases just the airplane. Why did I mark them when I haven’t really visited those countries? Because it’s cool to say I’ve been there. It makes people say, “Wow! You’re quite the world traveler.” It’s fun to see the number of countries count up and compare your count to other Facebook “friends.” Call it the traveler’s version of “keeping up with the Jones’.”

I tell this because I sometimes think we deal in much the same way with our spiritual life. It can be convient and satisfying to be a Christian in America today. When we are surrounded by people who call themselves Christians it’s the agreeable thing to cast ourselves in that mold. Just ask campaigning politicians. In many arenas it’s cool to say, “I got saved on August 13, 1977.” It makes people say, “Wow! You’re quite the committed Christian.” It’s fun to see how your spiritual experience compares to that of others who call themselves by the same name. Call it the spiritual version of “keeping up with the Jones’.”

And even if no one can see a difference between your life before August 13, 1977 and your life after, it’s easy to fool someone who hasn’t really experienced Christ for himself into believing that you have. Indeed, if we wish we can easily fool ourselves into believing it. Just look at how many of us label ouselves “Christian” but in practice shame that name by not living it. I’m serious. If you see a bumper sticker that says, “Honk if you love Jesus,” you best not do it.

To be truly honest we need to take a hard look at our claims of knowing Christ, and if we realize that we have only visited the airport and have not really experienced him in a life-changing way, then perhaps we need to take immediate action to either remove our Christian label or get serious about experiencing Christ in a way that actually changes us.

I don’t know if the legend is true, but the story goes that Alexander the Great came upon one of his soldiers who had acted in a cowarldly or disgraceful way. Alexander asked the soldier his name and the man replied, “Alexander.” To that Alexander the Great replied, “Then you better change your name or change your ways.”

If you sense deep inside that you are not following Jesus as you should then do him the favor of not calling yourself by his name. Don’t call yourself a Christian until you’re ready to fully experience him, fully yield to him, fully commit your life to him.

May I suggest—even beg—that you choose to not give up the name but instead choose to live up to it. The power is in your choice—not just your choice on August 13, 1977, but your daily choice. Hit your knees right now and make that choice, and Christ will immediately take over and begin to do a good work in you. What are you waiting for? Do it now!

Regrets on an African River, Part 2

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 06:58:33 -0500

(Story continued from July 2008.)
By Jeff Scoggins
The story left off with Carl, my younger cousin Cameron, and I rafting down a crocodile and hippo infested river, and the trip was taking much longer than we had anticipated. It got dark. “Should we pray for help?” Cameron asked. The same thoughts had gone through my mind, but three strong young men praying together just felt too uncomfortable or too vulnerable. So I dodged my cousin’s suggestion by saying, “I think we have been praying already.” And the conversation died there on the altar of pride. I was ashamed to pray with my companions.
“I think we had better land and try to walk out,” said Carl. “I can come back on the motorcycle tomorrow to pick up our gear.” Carl paused and then said, “I still don’t have any regrets.” We again agreed, but for my part my enthusiasm was going the way of the temperature. I shivered in my wet t-shirt and shorts.
We cautiously steered our raft to the west bank our eyes willing the darkness to reveal anything that wouldn’t appreciate being stepped on. The moon did, in fact, make a welcome appearance as we collapsed the rafts and hid our gear beneath a clump of riverside bushes. Carl would have to return early if he hoped to find everything before someone else did. My watch read 10 p.m.
We began to walk south with the river through the soft dirt of the newly hoed sweet potato fields. Before long we happened upon a smoldering tree stump that someone had been burning out that afternoon. It wasn’t warm enough to do us much good so we trudged on. We were soon stretched out single file a 100 yards or so apart, the distance growing. We shuffled silently, heads down, watching our feet like we were trekking through a desert. About 11 p.m. I met Carl coming back. “It’s all swamp ahead,” he said flatly. “I couldn’t find a way around, and we definitely can’t go through.”
As Cameron caught up to us, suddenly, on the opposite side of the river, a pair headlights cut through the night tracing a path along a distant road. Our hopes suddenly soared and we walked quickly to the river bank. That road could lead us out of this situation. We stared warily at the black water swirling below us and seriously considered swimming across, but better judgment prevailed. “I guess we’ll be out here for the night,” said Carl. “Why don’t we go back to that burning stump to see if we can start a fire?”
Back at the stump we spied a large stack of dry grass nearby, which had been cleared from a field. I grabbed an armload and threw it onto the stump. It erupted into flame flinging back at us a welcome burst of heat. It lasted all of three seconds. We threw on another load then another, but realized that as large as the stack was, this fuel wouldn’t last long. Instead, why not crawl inside like a haystack and sleep in the pile of grass. It seemed like a good plan, but when we had carried the stack to a good spot and removed the top in order to bed down, it occurred to us that we were going to have to sleep close—very close, uncomfortably close. Finally someone said, “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” We agreed and drew straws for the unlucky person who would take the middle spot. The lot fell to me. We climbed in, pulled the top of the stack on top of us. I fell to sleep as someone said, “I still don’t have any regrets.”
About an hour later both Carl and Cameron leaped up, grabbed a large load of grass and threw it on the stump for the brief blaze. I groggily asked what was going on and they chattered, “We’re freezing.
“Why?” I said. “I’m toasty!” Suddenly the middle spot was the coveted one.
“Cameron is next,” ordered Carl, “Then me.” We spent the rest of the night rotating between warmth and sleep and cold and restlessness. I suppose I have never welcomed a sunrise as I did the next morning.
As the sun burned its way over the hills it also burned hope into us. We bounded out of our haystack, burned it, then struck off to find our boats. Our gear was untouched, but as soon as we uncovered it we attracted a crowd of farmers who were arriving in the fields. We patched a few holes, inflated the rafts, and with no crocs or hippos in sight we put out to open water.
Around 10 a.m. we heard the distinctive chop, chop, chop of a helicopter, and turned to see a fully armed French military gunship weaving its way down the river toward us. Carl stiffened. “Guys, please don’t wave until we know they are searching for us.” It quickly became apparent that they were, in fact, searching for us, because as soon as they saw us they began to circle. We waved and gave them a thumbs up. They waved back and relayed a message to our families that we had been found safe and our ETA at the bridge, which was about two kilometers further down the river. We found out later that a friend who had a number of friends on the French military base in Kigali had asked them to look for us.
When we arrived at the bridge an hour later my father, Carl’s wife, and a platoon of Rwandese soldiers awaited us.* My dad pulled us in and said dryly, “You think you’re going home, but you’re not. You’re going to jail.”
“I don’t care,” I answered, “as long as they will give me water.”
In discussion with the soldiers we learned that rafting this river was, oddly enough, illegal—something we honestly hadn’t known. They quickly realized this and took pity, ordering us to go home, clean up, then to file a report at the police station downtown, which we did without further incident.
As we left the station Carl said, “I still don’t have any regrets.” We agreed, but inside I had to admit I had one regret. When my cousin had made the best suggestion of the trip—that we pray—I had been ashamed.
“If anyone is ashamed of me and my words, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his glory and in the glory of the Father and of the holy angels” (Luke 9:26).
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* The genocide in Rwanda began a year or two after my family had returned to the U.S. When the UN evacuated the missionaries in Rwanda, Carl stayed. I later learned that during that horrific time one of those soldiers, a general, saved Carl’s life because he recognized him from that day on the bridge.