Jeff Scoggins

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).
__________________________________________
* 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.

Regrets on an African River, Part 1

Tue, 1 Jul 2008 00:00:00 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins
The summer of 1990 I flew to Africa to visit my parents who were working in Rwanda as missionaries. My cousin, Cameron, was also visiting during that time. One day Cameron and I were discussing how to occupy ourselves for the day when Carl Wilkens, director of the Adventist Development and Relief Agency in Rwanda, drove up in his Isuzu Trooper and asked if we wanted to go river rafting with him that afternoon. We were enthusiastic despite his warning that the river was infested with crocodiles and hippos. After all, 20-year-olds are invincible, aren’t they?
Cameron and I changed into old shorts, t-shirts, and tennis shoes. I clipped a boot knife to my belt then filled up a liter bottle with water. We brought no food because we expected to would be home in time for supper. Carl arrived at 1 p.m. with his wife, Teresa, who would drive home and later meet us at a particular bridge down river. Carl hefted two baseball bats and asked if we thought we should bring some anti-crocodile implements. I patted my knife and agreed that caution was good. Caution? Well, anyway, we drove to the bridge where we planned to unload, but a group of soldiers there, despite our poor language skills, managed to communicate to us that we couldn’t put in there. So we drove off-road along the river until we found a suitable place.
Using a foot pump we filled two small rafts with air. Carl explained that when the motor batteries died we would simply stash them in the other raft and float with the current. We loaded oars, a patch kit, bats, water, electric motor and batteries, and no life jackets that I can recall. I sank to my knees in mud as we pushed the rafts into the river. Teresa would meet us at about 5 p.m. at the next bridge. We would simply wait if we arrived earlier.
The river was the color (but not the taste) of hot chocolate, and it averaged perhaps 50 feet across. Soft dirt banks anywhere from three feet to 25 feet high gave us the feeling of floating down a small canyon. The occasional mud bar jutting out into the river provided opportunities to refill the rafts, which deflated at a regular rate. These mud bars also served other purposes like sunning crocodiles.
“Croc!” we yelled in unison as we rounded a bend in the river. He was at least 20 feet long and two feet wide, though he may have grown over the tellings of this story—but not by much. However big he was, nothing that size should be able to move as fast and jump as high that crocodile did. Almost effortlessly he leaped three to four feet in the air and dove into the water in front of us. Cameron and I grabbed the bats. Go for the eyes, I remembered hearing. After a few moments when the crocodile didn’t surface, Carl yelled, “Row!” We rowed. Fast. And we didn’t stop until we were far from the area.
But no sooner had our heart rates slowed when we rounded another bend and yelled together, “Hippo!” I had been told that if I had a choice between wrestling a crodocile or a hippopotomous that I should choose the crododile. I had also been told that hippos walk under the water and then surface under your boat. Startled by our yelling, this hippo did indeed walk toward us into the water until she was completely submerged. “Row!” yelled Carl again, and again we dropped our bats and rowed with passion. After we slowed Carl said, “I don’t regret we came.” Cameron and I agreed with brave laughs. We inspected the next mud bar particularly well before pulling over to re-air and transfer our dead batteries and motor to the rear raft.
Back on the river we soon encountered a mid-river hippo party. “We better walk around this group,” advised Carl. We tied a long rope to the rafts and scrambled up the high bank. At the top a group of Rwandese farmers greeted us. Though we didn’t speak Kinyarwanda well we managed to understand that they were commenting on our intelligence level.
They followed us as we pulled the rafts toward the hippos. Unfortunately, a thick stand of brush and trees growing atop the very edge of the high bank wouldn’t allow us continue and still hold onto the rope. Not wanting to let go and not being able to pull the rafts out at this point Carl volunteered to jump down the 20 feet or so and row the rafts along the bank and by the hippos. If worse came to worse adrenaline would probably propel him back up the near vertical incline.
Carl leaped over the edge landing in the soft dirt about half way down the bank and then took another leap to the bottom. When the farmers realized what was happening their screams communicated clearly what they thought of Carl’s plan. Quickly they snatched handfuls of rocks and began running along the river yelling and throwing rocks at the hippos. Cameron and I followed suit, and Carl paddled through safely.
By this time we were nearly ready for our rendezvous bridge to show itself. At every bend we expected it. We asked everyone we passed in the fields how far to the bridge, but never received a definitive answer. We got hungry. “I still don’t regret the trip,” said Carl again. Again we courageously agreed, but as the sun hung low over the hills we decided to go easy on the little water we had left.
Then it got dark. So dark that we couldn’t make out the banks on either side of us. Our raft was dangerously low on air, but the invisible sounds of darkness around us made us reluctant to pull over. Suddenly we heard the distinctive laugh-like grunt of a hippo a little ways in front of us. Then another answered not far behind us, then another not far to the side. It sounded as though we had floated into large company.
“Do you think we should pray for help?” Cameron asked. Embarrassed, I gave an uncomfortable grunt. In my heart I had the same thoughts, but I said, “I think we have been praying already.” And the conversation died there on the altar of pride. I didn’t want to admit weakness. Truth is I was ashamed.
“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 then said, “But I still don’t regret the trip.” Our words agreed, but for my part my enthusiasm was going the way of the temperature. I shivered in my wet t-shirt and shorts.
To be continued next month.

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

The Lord is My Shepherd, I Want Bananas

Thu, 5 Jun 2008 15:37:50 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins
Because memorizing scripture is difficult work for most adults I think we underestimate the memorizing abilities of children. When he was two and a half years old our son, David, seemed to memorize long passages from books we read him just as easily as the short memory verses we purposely taught him from the weekly Bible lesson. His brain was like a dry sponge thirstily soaking up whatever we fed it.
That fact was sobering, first of all, when we realized that he was repeating more Mother Goose than Jesus, and secondly, because we weren’t taking full advantage of this time of easy learning to fill his brain with scripture. So my wife removed most of the Mother Goose books and I began repeating lengthy Bible passages to see if they might sink into his little head.
Since David preferred playing to eating back then, we had to entertain him during meals and feed him while he was distracted. It was a great time to teach Bible stories and verses. I started with the Lord’s Prayer and soon moved on to Psalm 23. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” I chanted while serving up broccoli and peas. Quickly David took up the chant and I moved on, “He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside the still waters.” And so it went.
David soaked up the lines effortlessly. Not like me. I have to work hard at it. But unless I’m careful it is effortless for me to interpret scripture in a way that suits my personal ambitions. We all do it. It’s a superficial comfort to believe scripture backs up a pet desire, belief, or even vice. Apparently children are not exempt from the temptation to cast scripture in their own image. David quickly seized upon the idea.
I started the chant again and David took over. “The Lord is my shepherd, I want bananas!” he shouted with glee. Trying to stifle my laughter, I tried again. David immediately picked up. “He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me—onto the deck!” He was just two and half at the time. What am I in for at age 13?
Once again I have learned something of myself and human nature in general from my children. It happens with disturbing frequency these days. Someday I think I’ll write a list of everything my kids have taught me about human nature. But to be fair, they have taught me a lot about God as well.
We humans are supremely selfish. Our thoughts swirl continually around ourselves. We work doggedly for our own comfort and gratification, even though we don’t know what truly comforts and gratifies.
How often does God promise that we shall not want, yet we work ourselves to death for (or borrow for) what we think we want? How often does God promise to lead us beside still waters, but we decide we would prefer the deck—or the jacuzzi or the fishing boat?
God’s word is indeed more powerful than any double-edged sword when it’s allowed to speak for itself. But when I force it through the filter of my desires, or the filter of my opinions, or the filter of my comfort, I have cast God’s word in my own image, which is merely a form of godliness that denies the power (2 Tim. 3:5).

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Goatees and a Worn Bible

Fri, 2 May 2008 13:59:14 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins
Mark and Darrell had joined me at the church to pray on Tuesday evening. “Let’s pray that someone else will join us to pray,” I suggested. We did. We prayed that someone would come pray with us, but I suppose we weren’t expecting God to answer immediately. Perhaps he would answer the next time we met—perhaps someday in the future. My expectations of God were low—as usual.
Just as we said “amen” the outside door slammed and in walked three young men. Sporting goatees, caps, loose jeans, sports shirts, and one worn Bible, the three of them strode confidently into the church basement. Two of them I had never seen, one I had met a couple of times, and he had even come to church once because he had been invited. “I will go pretty much anywhere at least once if I’m invited,” he had told me. As they strode in one pulled an old church bulletin out of his Bible. “It says ‘Please come,’” he said pointing to the announcement for prayer meeting.
“We were just praying that you would come,” we said. “Find a spot.” They sat down around our table and we prayed for another 15 minutes or so with them and for them. After that we talked.
I can’t relate the entire conversation in these few paragraphs, but the opening remarks were facinating. One young man was packed full of opinions. “I think God put everything here on earth for us to use. There is nothing bad if you do it to the glory of God.” I looked at Mark and Darrell out of the corner of my eye. They leaned forward as if to say, “Interesting idea. Tell us more.” I relaxed. It was a safe place for him to talk. And he did talk. They all talked and so did we. We asked questions. Over the course of the conversation that night all of us changed our thinking in some significant ways. All of us grew spiritually.
Finally, one of the young men blurted out, “Do you know why people like us don’t come to church?” I was all ears. “It’s because people automatically condemn us and the way we live without even knowing us. In church we can’t talk like we’re talking now.”
He was right. I instantly imagined the uncomfortable coughs and squirms I would see in just about any Sabbath or Sunday school if these guys were to make their rash statements there, embellished as they were with colorful language. I could imagine the arguments, the offended sensibilities, the defensiveness, and the closed minds. If I were these guys, I thought, I wouldn’t come to church either. “And it’s boring,” put in another.
But they had not come to complain about church. Church was a non-issue. Church offered nothing for them as far as they were concerned. End of discussion. But they had come to talk about God. They wanted to be heard. They wanted someone to listen and respect their opinion. Once they realized that we respected their opinion they relaxed and became open to hearing our thoughts as well. These young men were thinkers, striving to honest in their thinking. All they asked was that we be honest too—honest about our own imperfections, honest about our own limited understanding of God, honest about our own fears, honest about why we live the way we do.
If there is a qualification for growing spiritually I believe it’s a willingness to think honestly. By the same token, if there is a qualification for helping someone else to grow spiritually I believe it’s a willingness to allow someone else to think honestly even when it’s diametrically opposed to our sense of right and wrong. Only then can we hope to participate with the Holy Spirit in gently guiding someone’s thinking toward the truth as it is in Jesus.
The awesome thing about such conversations is that everyone grows. No authentic spiritual conversation takes place where one person gives everything and the other merely receives. Even a mature Christian has something to learn from a thinker no matter what he looks like or what he believes, as long as he’s an honest thinker and especially when he carries a worn Bible.

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Mistakes

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 06:30:37 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

I don’t think so any more but I once thought that one of the great advantages of living in Beirut, Lebanon, was the total absence of traffic control. Drivers paid attention to police only when it was convenient, like when traffic became so knotted no one could move. This happened regularly. The worst I saw a policeman do when someone ignored him was throw a wad of keys at their car. The only uniforms anyone paid attention to were the heavily armed soldiers who commanded the frequent check points.

However, chaos was not the great thing about the traffic situation. The great advantage I saw was that driver’s licenses did not exist, therefore anyone could drive. One time as our family drove a deserted mountain road a yellow sports car blew past us with a child at the wheel, craning to see through the windshield from his perch of phonebooks or pillows. We soon caught up with him as he sat stopped at a military check point. The soldiers were laughing. I got out of the car with my dad to check out this marvelous thing. The soldiers asked the boy how old he was. Thinking back today I realize that my memory must be flawed, but I distinctly remember the kid holding up five fingers. Now that I have a four-year-old I know that simply can’t be right. However old he was, though, he was younger than I was. So at 11years old I was awestruck.

That is why when one day my father roared across the lawn toward me astride a brand new motorcycle, I imagined glorious possibilities. Finally I would drive. Incredibly, he agreed to teach me. I climbed on the back, and we drove up the hill to a dirt soccer field. My dad made some skid marks on the ground for me to follow, and after a little clutch and throttle instruction I drove. It wasn’t hard. I quickly gained confidence as I guided the bike around the skid marks. One mark, though, bent at a right angle, and try as I might I couldn’t follow it.

Finally, determined to corner sharply enough I cranked the handlebar and in so doing I wrenched the throttle. The front wheel came up, and I quickly rocketed toward my dad and the high rock wall a few yards behind him. He yelled, “Let off the gas!” Panicked, I opened it wider and the back wheel also bounced off the ground for a moment. I think my dad was preparing to pull me off of the bike as I flew by, but before that became necessary I managed to bring it under control. Shaking, I gladly let my dad drive home. Perhaps unfortunately a couple of days allayed my nervousness and I began practicing again.

Around that time I decided to attend baptismal classes that were being held a couple of miles up the mountain. I would drive the motorcycle to attend. My dad said he would ride as I drove the first evening and after that I would drive myself. Rounding a curve with my dad on the back I once again popped a wheelie. How my dad hung on at that angle I’ll never know, but he somehow managed to push forward over me and force the front wheel back to the road.

Although I could tell many more stories about learning to drive vehicles, suffice it to say I messed up a lot. But I never heard disparaging criticism from my parents. Imagine if they had lost patience or been paralyzed by the fear that I would hurt myself, so that they decided to always drive for me. What if they wanted to protect me from making mistakes—even injurious ones? By definition learning involves doing things less than perfectly for awhile. And that goes for maturing mentally as well as maturing spiritually.

We understand this intuitively with our kids, and we urge them to learn despite and even through their mistakes. But what about fellow Christians? Somehow we seem to have less patience with their spiritual learning curve. We may do things better than they (if we do say so ourselves), but no one will ever improve if we don’t allow them to be less than perfect now and encourage them through their learning.

Parents don’t ignore their kids until they figure out how to drive for themselves. Neither do good parents chastize, criticize, and belittle children for their mistakes. That kind of behavior can damage a relationship forever. Rather parents kindly, patiently, carefully guide and encourage through the growing years, just as we should do for the spiritually growing—just as God continues to do for us. The operating word is grace!

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Snakes and Cold

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 13:07:09 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

“Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” –1 Peter 5:8

I married a Minnesotan. I call Tennessee home because that’s where my relatives live. Whenever I’m visiting Tennessee and someone mentions Minnesota the conversation steers immediately to the weather. “That’s where it gets soooo cold!” they say. And after a winter like this one who can blame them. To warm weather Southerners, that is all Minnesota is—cold. Very, very cold. The implication is that the weather makes Minnesota unfit for habitation by anything but penguins and polar bears for nine months out of the year; though, everyone admits that the short summers are beautiful.

On the other hand, when I’m visiting my wife’s family and the South is mentioned, I often find the conversation steers to snakes. “That’s where you have poisonous snakes!” they say. The implication is that there are pit vipers under every rock, crawling into your boots during the night, hiding in your bed, intentionally seeking victims to terrorize.

I now live in Minnesota and have experienced both sides of the equation, and I’m here to tell you Minnesota winters aren’t as bad as Southerners think nor are poisonous snakes as bad as Minnesotans think.

That said, it is true that when you live in either place one must make small life adjustments for weather and snakes respectively. That’s why I now carry a few emergency items in my truck in case I’m stranded in cold weather: matches, emergency blanket, hat, gloves, snacks, a small New Testament. For my wife, Becky, carrying these items in her vehicle constituted no adjustment at all. This was normal life for her and she does it without thinking. Doing so does not make her more concerned about the cold. It’s just instinct.

However, she also had to make a small adjustment when we lived in an area of Maryland with poisonous snakes. She had to learn to watch where she stepped. Out of habit, even in Minnesota, I never step over a log or move a large rock or reach my hand into a dark place without checking for snakes. I do it without thinking. Doing so does not make me more concerned about snakes. It’s just instinct.

I suppose that until I actually get stranded in a blizzard I will be a little cavalier about carrying a payload of cold weather supplies in my truck. So I can hardly blame Becky for being less careful than I about snakes. I can understand. Thinking about poisonous snakes all the time rather than relying on instinct to avoid them, actually causes concern. Concern can ruin an otherwise pristine day. So even while living near them Becky didn’t think about poisonous snakes all that much. Until one day.

We were walking a trail around a small lake. The trail wound through trees and was littered with sticks and forest debris. As always without thinking I kept one eye on the trail for any “stick” that might not be a stick at all. That’s why I saw a well-camoflaged copperhead just before Becky stepped on him. Not having time to warn her I simply stuck out my arm and held her back. I grabbed a stick and poked the snake, which suddenly bounded to life. Becky inhaled loudly then began to run backward as the snake slithered and even jumped quickly toward her. I’m convinced the snake was just heading downhill because that’s the direction he was facing, but Becky remains convinced that the serpent chased her.

It’s never smart to get so used to snakes or cold that you forget about them. Snakes don’t get less poisonous by forgeting them. Minus 40 doesn’t get less dangerous because you are used to it. Living safely with snakes and cold requires habitual vigilance. So does living in close proximity to the Serpent who would like nothing better than to make your relationship with God grow cold. He actually is looking for victims to terrorize.

Copyright 2008 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

What I Did Not Think About Fadi's House

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 20:35:33 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

“…unless you change and become as little children you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” –Jesus (NIV)

“Do you want to come to my house?” my friend Fadi asked me in broken English, which was far better than my broken Arabic.

“Sure,” I said. After gaining my parent’s permission to leave the fenced mission compound, which sat perched on the side of Septiah hill in Beirut, Lebanon, Fadi and I ran the length of the compound. We exchanged a hurried smile and wave with the elderly gate guard, Joseph, who faithfully sat at his post and took advantage of every opportunity to buy chocolate and 7-Up for us kids. I was probably 10 or 11 years old at the time.

Fadi led the way up the hill past apartment buildings crammed together on both sides of the road, then along the back fence of the compound, then up through a small pine forest shortcut to his house. Fadi lived with his older brother and father. I didn’t know anything about his mother because I never asked and he never volunteered.

We scampered up the steps and into the open foyer of a large apartment building, our footsteps echoing in the cavernous entrance. Rather than heading for the stairwell and the building’s apartments Fadi led me to a heavy wooden door at the rear of the concrete cave. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but if I had it would have struck me as odd to go through this door. It looked like the door to a janitor’s closet.

Fadi unlocked the door and we stepped up the single step into his home. It was perhaps 8 x 25 feet. One room. The floor was cold tile, the walls concrete painted white. A tiny window near the ceiling guarded by thick bars let only a sliver of sunlight into the room. A single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling lit the rest of the room.

Three single beds lined the west wall, and a long counter, cupboards, and a refrigerator covered the opposite wall, leaving a three foot aisle of walking space the length of the room. The aisle ended at a wardrobe on the back wall, where clothes were stored. The stove was a two-burner table top device. A television occupied the far end of the counter. I can’t recall a bathroom, though there may have been one by the door.

I surveyed the room without a single thought about what I had and Fadi did not have. The truth is I probably thought about what Fadi had and I did not have: a television. I didn’t think this with jealousy, only how fortunate I was to have a friend who had a television so I could watch it from time to time. I determined I would visit Fadi’s house at every opportunity from now on.

One time Fadi’s father came to visit my parents, and they offered him supper. Once again the sight of how intently he ate did not strike me as odd. But as I think back, the man must have been awfully hungry. All I remember noticing about this family was that they were my friends. Fadi came to play with me most every day. He told me the story of “Ali Baba and the Forty Theives” and other legends of the Arabian Nights. He came to my birthday party. Over our three-year friendship we laughed and cried, fought, and made up, as kids do. He told me of his dreams to move to Australia, which he eventually did. He is a lawyer there now.

Since those days of childhood innocence I have lost something special: the capacity to not judge someone based on appearances. I wish, as an adult, I still had the ability not to believe I know a person based on the size of his house or the look on his face or anything else. But that ability is gone.

Now I walk the aisles of the grocery store and effortlessly presume to know something of a person by the food in her cart or the style of her clothes, the length of his hair or the grammer of his speech, and a thousand other non-indicators.

In direct disobedience to Jesus’ commands on judging others, I have acquired the capability of unconsciously stuffing people into boxes of my own invention—boxes that would not even begin to fit if I knew the person.

That’s the people I don’t know. But what of those I do know? If I’m honest I must admit I’m not much better. I rarely allow someone out of their assigned box. At the most I reframe it for them slightly, and then congratulate myself on my open mindedness. Goodness knows what would happen if I ever let them out of the cozy little home I’ve built for me—er, I mean, that I’ve built for them. Things might get out of control. Perish the thought.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Camping on Bear Highway

Sat, 22 Dec 2007 05:22:59 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

As a child I imagined myself a rugged mountain man. My favorite books were Kit Carson, Daniel Boone, and Jeb Stuart biographies. I spent as much time as I could in the woods trying to get lost so that I could make use of the small survival kit that rode on my belt at all times.

It was my dream to fly into a remote location in Alaska to “survive.” On paper I made lists of what I would take, and even designed my own raft for the long trip down some forgotten river. In my mind the only living things I would encounter would be grizzlies, bald eagles, deer, and the like. I would fish, hunt, and live off the land to test myself against nature. The fish would bite anything because they wouldn’t know better having never encountered a human, much less a lure. It was a grand dream, I thought.

My dream finally came true in my late twenties. My college roommate, Greg, and his wife had moved to Alaska, and they invited my wife and me to visit. I knew the trip wasn’t going to be quite the way I had imagined as a child, but it was good enough. We wouldn’t be floating down a river for a month living off the land, but we would fly into a semi-remote area to fish. And there would be grizzlies.

We planned the trip to coincide with the salmon run, and Greg told me that I could also try “combat fishing,” where people stand shoulder to shoulder, thigh deep in freezing glacier rivers to catch a few of the millions of salmon returning to spawn. The experience was interesting, but I wouldn’t care to do it again.

Finally, we loaded our gear into a six-seater pontoon plane, which floated by the dock. We flew for an hour or so to the Kustatan River, where the pilot landed in a grassy lake, which was more grass than lake. From there we toted our gear and a small boat motor about a half a mile to the river where a small aluminum boat was kept for this purpose. Soon we were motoring up the river in search of a good camping and fishing spot. I couldn’t see any people besides the four of us, so I was content. I did want to see a bear though, and they weren’t making themselves visible.

We found a good spot for a tent with some woods nearby for firewood. After hurriedly pitching our tents, Greg and I grabbed our rods and waded into the shallow river. Fishing was slow, but I caught a couple of the biggest fish I had ever reeled in. I stashed my stringer of fish back at the bank and was in the middle of the river again when I heard some splashing behind me. A teenage grizzly had located my fish. He deliberately lifted the stringer as though familiar with this method of fishing. He selected the largest fish and with a tug stole my fish, then calmly walked back to the woods for lunch. Signs all over Alaska had already warned me that I could not consider any fish to be my property, and if a bear wanted it, he had the government’s permission to take it. I had no right to interfere. So with more watchfulness I returned to fishing.

The bears remained virtually invisible until after lunch. The four of us relaxed and napped in the warm afternoon. I was preparing to fish some more when I looked back toward the tents where the others were sleeping. There I watched the biggest grizzly in Alaska stroll up to our campsite. He raised himself up to his full 45 feet or better to survey the tents. I yelled, “Bear!” and instantly wondered if it was really true that I couldn’t outrun a grizzly. I would have considered trying except I felt I should defend my wife, who was asleep in the tent. But heroic efforts became unnecessary when the bear, obviously impressed by my size, strength, and bravery, decided to leave. My fellow campers scrambled out of their tents in time to see the grizzly amble nonchalantly away.

Evening came much too quickly, and with it came swarms of bears similar in size to our earlier visitor and similar in number to swarming mosquitoes. Evidently we had pitched camp smack in the middle of Interstate Grizzly. It was after midnight when things finally quieted down enough to sleep. Yeah, right. We kept the fire company all night.

Be it from lack of sleep or dehydration or fear of another sleepless night, I got sick the next day. Sometime in the late morning some oil well workers bumped along the rough road toward us in a four-wheel drive. We talked to them and they radioed Anchorage to send our plane today rather than tomorrow. The fishing was lousy anyway—just two fish, and the biggest one stolen from me. The whole trip just wasn’t what my dreams had looked like.

The truth is we all have dreams for the future and we work on those dreams, both imagining them and making them come true. Yet more often than not when we finally get what we dreamed it’s not what we expected. We “arrive” and end up disappointed. Why? It’s because we set our sights too low. We don’t dream far enough or big enough. We settle for dreaming shallow dreams.

God has promised a future beyond our wildest dreams—beyond the possibility of imagination. Still we spend our thoughts and our time working for our earthly dreams. I suppose we deserve the bears that ruin our dreams because we should be dreaming of something so much better.

As we begin a new year I challenge you to dream bigger this year. Seriously consider exchanging your current dreams for “an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” Start imagining your place in the kingdom of God!

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Wishing You a Forgetful Christmas

Sun, 2 Dec 2007 13:27:10 -0600

By Jeff Scoggins

Dear Brothers and Sister in Christ,

Thank you so much for the privilege of serving as your pastor and for being my friends. It’s been four years now since my family and I came to work here, and they have been good years. Great years. If any discouraging moments have slipped in there, I’ve purposely chosen to forget them. 
Christmas is the perfect time to forget past discouragements by remembering the greatest event that ever happened to human beings. God came to live with us! When I reflect on that unbelievable fact there’s not much room left in my mind for recalling discouragement or pain, because that miracle was the ultimate painkiller.

Sin is the common denominator for all pain. Jesus came to conquer sin and with it pain. And he did it! He conquered sin. Pain’s days are numbered.

Do you grieve for a lost loved one? Jesus conquered that. Do you suffer from a life-sapping disease? Jesus conquered that. Do you struggle with addictions? Jesus conquered that as well. Are you weighed down with guilt? Jesus conquered that, too. Whatever your pain, whatever your prison, Jesus conquered it.

Now we’re just waiting for him to clean up the battlefield. The divine rescue operation succeeded, so I don’t need to fear the future as long as I cling to the Rescuer. How do I do that? By faith I cling to the promises of Jesus, believing that he is in control and will work all things together for good for those who love him. But frankly faith itself soon becomes drudgery if it’s not combined with hope. Just as faith must constantly grow, hope also must grow, because in discouraging and painful times hope reminds me that faith is worth it. Recalling my future reward makes the grueling race worth it. So how do I exercise hope?

My three-year-old son, David, was at breakfast across the table from me. He had stopped eating and was looking at me so I asked if he was finished. He looked down and grabbed another handful of food, ignoring the fork by his plate. Then he said, “No, I’m not finished. I’m just looking at you happy,” meaning that he was looking at me and being happy.

That’s the way to exercise hope. I look at Jesus and be happy simply because he is with me and I am with him. Stephen Iverson sings a meditative song called “Just Sit and Be with Jesus.” I don’t even have to talk. Indeed, it’s often better not to talk. Just sit and be with Jesus. It’s wonderful to remember what he did for me in the past, but beyond that I must also take time to imagine what he has in store for me in the future.

I try to imagine meeting my guardian angel. Will I recognize him from a time I met him on earth and didn’t know it? I try to imagine what the journey to heaven is going to be like. What will I see on the way? I try to imagine the home Jesus is custom building for me. In my mind I walk through its rooms. I try to imagine the job he is creating especially for me. I hope it will be part manual labor. Carpentry perhaps. I try to imagine meeting my Bible heroes. Will the biblical David be like the man in the pictures I’ve seen in my mind for so long? I try to imagine exploring a world completely different from anything I’ve ever conceived. What will the creatures look like? I try to imagine what kind of song Jesus will sing for the redeemed. How long will it be? Will he be accompanied?

When I think about it, Christmas is about much more than that night long ago in Bethlehem. It’s about the future—a future so bright that the discouragements of today are simply not worth remembering. So here is wishing you a blessed forgetful Christmas.

God bless,
Pastor Jeff

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Four Viewpoints Four Stories

Sun, 28 Oct 2007 06:18:22 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

Two men, one a defense attorney and the other a university professor of religion, were eyewitnesses to a fatal miscarriage of justice. An innocent man was sentenced to death and summarily executed. Two different men, one a prosecuting attorney and the other a pastor, hadn’t been present at the trial but heard about it from eyewitnesses. All four of the men were emotionally impacted by the event and went on to write about it: four different accounts of the same incident.

Naturally, the defense attorney, whose name was Matt, wrote in defense of the man who died. You see, not everyone agreed that the courts were at fault. So the attorney presented evidence that he felt exonerated the innocent man. No one at the time faulted him for leaving out details that were clearly unnecessary to his case. And he made a powerful case because he had known the man.

The pastor, Pastor Mark, who had not seen the trial himself, felt compelled to learn everything he could about the one who had died because he had heard of this man before. Apparently he had been a great man, a model citizen, a spiritual man, someone a pastor could hold up before his people as a true Christian and servant of God. So when Pastor Mark told his congregation about the incident and the man involved, no one at the time faulted him for emphasizing certain details and leaving out those details that were clearly unnecessary to his sermon. Also, since the pastor hadn’t know the man people cut him some slack when he quoted him differently than others. After all even if the wording was slightly different the content was the same.

The third man, Luke, a prosecuting attorney, approached the event in a different way than the defense attorney. He also defended the man who had died but in the way a prosecuting attorney would in such a case. When he wrote he created for the people a sketch of this man’s life that would help them to understand what kind of a man the world had lost that night. He convinced many simply by telling those stories that showed this man’s compassion for people. No one faulted him either at the time for emphasizing those details that bolstered his case. No one criticized him for leaving out details that other writers had already pointed out. And again, since he hadn’t been there himself, it was quite all right that maybe his account sounded slightly different from the others simply because it came from a different point of view.

Now Professor John, being a scholar and on intimate terms with the man who had been executed, approached the incident in literary fashion. He really wrote this man from a common human being into a being out of this world. The professor made all sorts of connections between the life of this man and history and even the predictions of futurists. Once again no one faulted him at the time for leaving out some details and emphasizing others that made his point more clearly.

After all, these four men Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John had all “seen” this incident from an entirely different point of view, and wrote about it for entirely different purposes and for entirely different audiences. And you’ve probably figured out by now that this miscarriage of justice happened two thousand years ago in Jerusalem.

So now when people argue that the four New Testament Gospels can’t be true because they are different, they might be missing the point. Matthew wrote to the Jews in defense of Jesus as the Messiah. Mark wrote primarily to a Roman audience uplifting Jesus as the servant of God. Luke wrote to the Greeks emphasizing Jesus’ compassion as an example of the ideal human being. And John wrote to his own people with the particular burden to show them how Jesus was the fulfillment of everything they ever hoped and dreamed.

Just as four different people would write four different accounts of any other trial and not be lying, so would the Gospel writers’ accounts be different. Each saw this event in a different light, at a different time, from different angles, for discussing with different people for different purposes. Of course their accounts of the same incident are going to be different. Not only does this not hurt the credibility of the Gospels, but in fact it supports them all the more.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

How to Get Unused to War

Sun, 7 Oct 2007 10:10:01 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

Huddled under my blanket in the dark room, I pressed my back up to the cold concrete wall and shivered, not from cold but fear. It was my first night in a war zone. For a nine-year-old it made no difference that I was well out of range of the machine gun fire in downtown Beirut. It was 1979 and Lebanon was in civil war—a war that would last many more years.

My family had arrived in Lebanon as missionaries that day. We had moved the few belongings we carried with us on the plane into our apartment on the mission compound, which was located on a mountainside overlooking the city. Neighbors came to welcome us and we learned about the war going on below. Their indifference to the fighting seemed odd to me. They seemed to hardly notice it.

The kids who would become my friends often entertained themselves searching the flat roofs of the houses for shrapnel and bullets. No one seemed uncomfortable with the situation except me. I was wary enough during the day. The night brought all sorts of nightmares.

When morning finally arrived I realized that I must have slept. The sun brought new hope and I even looked forward to hunting shrapnel. As the day wore on I noticed the gunfire less and less. That evening I oo’d and ah’d with the others at the spectacular tracer bullets slicing their red arcs across the night sky and the occasional bright red cloud of an exploding rocket.

That night I slept like a hibernating bear. Soon entire days slipped by when I didn’t hear the noise at all, kind of like someone who lives by railroad tracks and doesn’t hear the trains thunder past. I got used to war. When the fighting came too close I casually ambled toward the bomb shelter at the rear of the group with other macho boys. I remember once when my mom woke us in the middle of the night to move to the bomb shelter, and I insisted that they go ahead. I wanted to remain in bed. War was no longer a concern to me. Indeed, I had come to enjoy it from my relatively safe perch on the mountain. When furlough time arrived three years later, I didn’t want to fly back to the U.S. for fear of missing part of the action.

Looking back it’s incredible how easily I became desensitized to the evil of war. But is it any less incredible how easily we get used to evil in general? The first time you ever saw a murder on television you were shocked. Today the average kid sees 8,000 murders on TV by the time they leave elementary school, and it’s considered highly desirable entertainment. How many family camping trips have been cancelled—or never planned—for fear of missing an important episode of the latest murder mystery?

The first time you took a drink of alcohol or gulped a lungful of cigarette smoke you probably choked, but now you may not even want to quit. The first time you glimpsed porn your heart pounded, but soon the soft stuff wasn’t enough. We’ve been desensitized to evil.

John Bunyan, in his book The Holy War, tells the thinly veiled allegory of the city Mansoul, which came under attack. For awhile its gates, the Ear Gate, the Eye Gate, the Mouth Gate, the Nose Gate, and so on, were closely guarded. So long as the gates were watched the city stood unconquered. Unfortunately, the gates were eventually breached and Mansoul finally fell.

Every Christian has been conquered by evil to some extent, but all is not lost. How does a sincere Christian regain innocence and become re-sensitized to evil again? It’s easier than you might think. Simply slam shut the gates to your soul. Be a vigilant guard of your senses.

“The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart,” said Jesus, “and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks,” (Luke 6:45 NIV).

You have heard that you are what you eat, but the truth is that you are also what you listen to, what you watch, what you taste, what you read, what you touch, even what you smell. In short, you are what you allow into your mind. To regain sensitivity to evil carefully guard what you allow into your mind.

To believe your soul is strong enough to resist the evil that sneaks in through your senses is a dangerous—no, fatal—presumption. The only safe defense against the onslaught of evil is to barricade the gates of your senses, which so easily get used to the war.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

God May See a King

Sun, 7 Oct 2007 10:08:36 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

God called Gideon to lead an army to attack against the marauding Midianites, who were invading his country. Gideon was nothing extra special before God called him. In fact, he was one of the least likely to receive such a commission. Not only was his clan the weakest in Manasseh, but of his household, he was the least, (Judges 6:15).

Why did God pick him? Why not someone who had some experience in administration? After all, that’s what it would take to effectively lead the kind of army required to conquer an army whose number was compared to sand on a beach. Why didn’t God pick someone with a little experience with tactical strategy? Why did he pick a farmer who never had so much as a karate lesson?

Look through the Bible and you quickly see that God has a habit of picking the least likely people to do some of his most important jobs. Think of David, a shepherd/musician, who became Israel’s model king; or Paul, a Christian-killer; Esther, an orphan; or even a little boy on the side of a mountain with a few pieces of bread and a couple of fish. The list goes on and on.

Ray Boltz is apparently correct when he sings that “When others see a shepherd boy, God may see a king.” We know that God has a special purpose for each person, but why does he pick the kind of people he chooses to fulfill some of His most difficult tasks?

Could it be because when we are even somewhat competent in an area that we tend to place too much confidence in ourselves? Not that confidence is a negative attribute. Quite the contrary, when our confidence is correctly placed. But consider how the conversation between Gideon and the angel may have gone if the angel had visited, say, a general in the defunct Israelite army.

“You want me to what? Get rid of the Midianites! With what and whom? My army is gone. We tried that before and got spears in our backs for the trouble. I know because I was there. Besides, Mr. Angel, even if we did have an army, we don’t have enough food for them since the enemy has taken everything. Just think of the logistics of such an endeavor. I mean, the books all say that you should never go onto the battlefield without….”

If we didn’t already know Gideon’s story, the general’s reasoning is good, solid common sense.

Gideon, being a farmer, didn’t even know where to start arguing about military logistics, much less think he might know more than God on the topic. Therefore, if God wanted to accomplish something his way rather than a human way, Gideon was a prime candidate for the job of general because Gideon had no choice but to rely on God. And that’s what God asks of each of us—that we put our confidence in him and in his way of doing things and in his timing—even if it means cutting down our army from thousands to just 300, or less.

The next time you’re tempted to think that you’re not qualified to do much for God, think of all those very young, under experienced, under qualified people that God used in Bible times and still uses today. And never forget why God takes so much pleasure in using them: they place their confidence in him rather than themselves.

When others see a low GPA, a criminal record, a jaded background, or no potential, God may see an effective evangelist, a top executive, a Nobel Prize winner, or, who knows, maybe even a king.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

The Tale of Laverick, Oved, and Ceron

Wed, 1 Aug 2007 09:50:51 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

An old Indian storyteller once told me that all stories are true and some of them even happened. The following story is a made-up true story that has happened all too many times. I hope you will read it with your Bible in your hands because it may not make much sense without it.

For several years three young orphan boys lived and played in the courts of the palace. They were named Laverick, Oved, and Ceron. Every day they enjoyed the hospitality and love of the king and his officials (Rom. 5:8). When the boys reached the age of accountability the king called the boys. He explained that he wished to adopt them as his own sons—princes, heirs to his throne (John 1:12). The boys were surprised and pleased with the king’s generosity. Immediately the king had the scribe draw up the necessary documents and officially adopted the three boys.

Of course, as sons of the king, he told them, they would be expected to act as royalty (Matt. 7:20). Would they like to know some of what that entailed? All three boys nodded their heads enthusiastically, but the nodding seemed to have a drowsing effect on Laverick and he nodded right off to sleep and didn’t hear much of what followed (1 Thes. 5:6).

The other two boys listened intently (John 10:27). The discipline needed for living as a prince was astoundingly rigorous (Luke 14:26-27). They would learn to conduct themselves with grace, humility, honesty, strength, and so on (Gal. 5:22). They would learn wisdom for judging (1 Cor. 6:3) and leadership skills for governing (1 Tim. 5:17). They would learn to use the sword and battle strategy (Eph. 6:17). They would build physical strength and endurance (Heb. 12:1). They would study hard to gain broad knowledge and a wide array of understanding (Prov. 4:7). They would learn social skills (Matt. 10:16) and affairs of state (Mark 12:17). The list went on. Fortunately, the king promised that in this difficult process the most skilled teachers in the land would be their personal tutors (Phil. 1:6).

After the king had finished and dismissed them, the two boys quietly nudged the sleeping boy awake and they left the hall. Outside Laverick exclaimed how great it was to now be a prince. They other two agreed enthusiastically but then Ceron shook his head and said he was having a hard time believing it and that they didn’t deserve this great honor (Ezra 9:13). The Laverick disagreed and said they did deserve it. And Oved said that even if they didn’t deserve it they soon would after all the work they needed to do to become princes (James 2:18).

“It’s no work at all,” Laverick exclaimed, because he had slept through what the other boys had heard (James 2:26). But Ceron again shook his head and said that even if they did all the work perfectly they still wouldn’t deserve to be princes (2 Tim. 1:9).

The training began that day and Laverick was understandably shocked, since he hadn’t heard the king. So he quietly skipped the more difficult classes and only showed up for the fun stuff (1 Tim 4:1). The other two boys worked incredibly hard (Phil. 2:12). And if you were to listen to the boys during high stress moments in their training you could hear Ceron whispering under his breath, “I still can’t believe it! I’m a prince. The king is so wonderful!” (Eph. 2:8). While Oved could be heard whispering, “I will be prince. I will be a prince.” (Eph. 2:9).

Once Ceron asked Oved, “Why do you keep saying that you will be a prince? You’re already a prince! (1 Cor. 6:11). You watched the king sign the papers. You even call him father now” (Matt. 23:9). But then Oved insisted that he was in the process of becoming a prince—that he must gain a 4.0 grade point average in his education first. The younger boy didn’t believe an adopted son could ever accomplish that (Matt. 19:17).

Then Oved scowled and said, “Then why keep working and studying at all?”

“Because,” replied Ceron, “The king has made me a prince. More than anything I want to be just like him” (1 Pet. 2:21).

On one of the increasingly rare days that Laverick showed up for a class he sat on the sidelines watching the other two hard at work. Suddenly he shouted out them, “You know what?” The boys turned and looked at him questioningly. “You’re both legalists.”

And even though he shouldn’t have been judging them (Matt. 7:1), in one case he was right (Rom. 9:32) and in the other case he was wrong (John 14:15).

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Mob Mentality

Wed, 1 Aug 2007 09:48:59 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

In college, back in the late eighties or early nineties, my friend Doug and I drove to the mall. We were searching for another friend by the name of Tom. We began to roam the halls looking for Tom, but it soon became evident that we could be looking for a long time in the crowds.

Doug decided that in addition to looking we needed to call for Tom so he suddenly called out, “Tom!” He didn’t yell, but he said it loudly enough to be slightly embarrassing. It’s not that Doug was unaware that what he had done was embarrassing; he intended it to be embarrassing. Doug and I often sought creative ways push the social etiquette envelope, just for the shock value. Therefore, I immediately felt the need to one-up Doug’s boldness.

So slightly louder than Doug had, I followed suit by calling out, “Tom!” To my satisfaction more heads turned for my call than had for Doug’s. Doug yelled again more loudly, then I yelled even louder. Soon, in a mall packed with shoppers, Doug and I were walking the halls and stores yelling, “TOM!” at the top of our lungs.

An act that just minutes before would have been unthinkable, we now did with gusto. Something we would never have done alone we did easily together. There’s a sociological term for it. It’s called “mob mentality.”

Screaming in the mall, while a bit immature, is a harmless manifestation of mob mentality. But the same mental phenomenon frequently takes on a more sickening shape. It’s how law-abiding citizens can start riots in Los Angeles. It’s how teenagers sample illegal drugs. It’s how suicide bombers can strap on explosives. It’s how guards in Abu Grebe prison can torture inmates. It’s how terrorists can behead innocent victims. And, unfortunately, it’s often the way you and I choose our path in life.

Put a dozen brains together in the right circumstances and they can’t seem to think separately. Peer pressure and mob mentality is powerful enough to make people do what they wouldn’t do alone. And we can’t reserve the effect for teenagers and terrorists.

In less jarring instances mob mentality is called conformity. It happens when you get onto the elevator and turn to face the door. Try stepping onto an elevator someday and don’t turn around. Just look directly at everyone else.

It happens when we have babies. Watch the nurse’s face when you dress your new baby boy in pink and ribbons.

It happens everywhere. No one builds a stilt house in suburbia. Men wear ties even though they serve no function. By nature we conform to those around us in good and bad ways.

I’ve seen people temporarily reject their Christianity in a setting of unholy influences. But I’ve also seen people suddenly gain a Christian experience when that seems to be the cool thing to do at the moment.

In my opinion, one of the characteristics that God values most in his children is our ability to think for ourselves in spite of what is going on around us. That, I believe, is what Jesus meant when he commanded us to “be in the world but not of it.” Just as a ship is in the ocean but not of the ocean, so must God’s people exist in the crowd while not being lost in the depths of its influence.

But what do we do with that powerful desire within us to conform? First, using God’s Word as our filter, we can see where we may be tempted to conform in ways contrary to God’s will. Next, using prayer as our lifeline, we ask God to do the work in us we can’t do for ourselves. Finally, we can learn to enjoy being non-conformists.

I’m never wearing a tie again. Just kidding.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Wrestling My Bully

Wed, 1 Aug 2007 09:47:27 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

“But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” –Matt. 6:15 (NIV)

I don’t remember how old I was when I finally exceeded 100 lbs. on the scale, but I do remember that I weighed into my senior year in high school at only 111 lbs. To state the obvious, I was a scrawny kid growing up. This made me prime victim material for bullies in elementary school, one of whom was Danny. We were both in the 8th grade.

I’m not sure what Danny wanted to prove, but evidently he needed to prove it at the expense of the smallest kid in the class. Every day I managed to cross him in some significant way: my shadow fell on him, I raised my eyes from the ground accidentally meeting his, and so on. These crimes gave Danny all the reason he needed to challenge me to fight. For reasons that were obvious to everyone except Danny, I wasn’t interested. He tried to provoke me by calling me names, shoving me, and hitting me in the shoulders. I lived in terror of Danny.

Although I was skinny as a reed, I must have had a little hidden wiriness, because even though I didn’t fancy myself a fist-fighter, I held my own in wrestling matches. At evening Pathfinder meetings (a Boy Scout-style club) before the program got started, we would pull out the gymnastics mats and tag team wrestle.

Once, unfortunately for me, Danny not only showed up for a club meeting, but he was also chosen for the opposite wrestling team, which meant that I might wind up in the ring with him. We lined up on opposite sides of the mat and the first two wrestlers began their scuffle. The lines moved as new wrestlers were tagged and the tired wrestlers moved to the rear of the line. The rules were simple. No hitting or other such non-wrestling actions, and you won by making your opponent wimper, “I give!”

I watched Danny carefully as both of us inched toward the front of our lines. My heart rate increased the more it appeared my fears would come true. Finally, we were both next in line to enter the ring. Imagine my relief when Danny was tagged by his teammate while Ted, the biggest kid in the class and my friend, was still in the ring. At least I thought he was my friend.

When Ted saw who had been tagged he smirked and he reached out and tagged me into the ring. My jaw dropped in disbelief. Ted knew my issues with Danny, but he just whispered, “You can take him!” I didn’t have a choice with so many spectators, so I stepped onto the mats. Everyone knew this was going to be an interesting match given the history of the contestants.

Rather than describe the wrestling match itself, suffice it to that say that Danny said the magic words, “I give.” Everyone cheered and I jumped up triumphant. Our wresting tournaments were always conducted in good sportsman-like fashion, so I turned to shake Danny’s hand as I was supposed to do. But as I turned I met his fist full in my left eye. Blood spurted onto the mat. I was so shocked that I just stared at Danny as he screamed at me to fight him for real. I finally turned on my heel and walked to the bathroom to inspect my eye. Pretty noble of me, right? Unfortunately, that’s where my nobility ended.

Anger replaced shock as I dabbed at my eye with a wet paper towel. When I exited the bathroom Danny met me and did something for which I still admire him. In front of everyone he sincerely apologized to me. Unfortunately, I was so angry that I did not respond in kind. I faked an angry lunge at him and immediately he reverted to a fighting stance and challenged me yet again. Then I walked away. This time I had proven something, I thought smugly. I don’t believe I consciously remembered Matthew 6:15, but subconsciously I was plagued by guilt that someone had asked my forgiveness and I had withheld it. Graciously accepting his apology in the first place would have been so much easier than what I now had to do. I had to go and apologize to him. How would he react to my apology after how I had reacted to his? Thankfully, he accepted it graciously and we even became friends.

“But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.” –Matthew 6:15 (NIV)

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved

Scammed

Sun, 6 May 2007 12:00:00 -0500

By Jeff Scoggins

While I was living in Russia, my boss from the U.S., Mike, flew over to tour some projects in Central Asia. He and I were going to travel from there through Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan to Tajikistan. I had already flown from Moscow to Almaty the capital of Kazakhstan. Mike was to arrive around 11 p.m. that night. Since someone else was going to meet him at the airport, I went to bed to get over my jetlag.

When I awoke the next morning I found out that Mike was lost. When someone had gone to pick him up at the airport the night before, they found that the last flight had arrived early and the airport had already shut down. It wasn’t a large airport and the officer on duty assured them that Mike had indeed arrived and had taken a taxi.

If Mike is anything, he’s a seasoned traveler. He spends much of his time in the airports of every imaginable country. And Mike is a big, imposing man. Though crime is common in Almaty, it would take a pretty brave criminal to take advantage of someone his size. So no one worried that night. Mike had probably just gone to a hotel and would call in the morning. However, when he didn’t call the next morning we began to worry.

We gave two secretaries the task of calling every hotel in the city while the rest of us went to the office morning worship. After worship I discovered they still had not found Mike. And there were only two more hotels to call. Finally, the Sheraton, the last hotel on the list, said, “Yes, Mike is here.”

We cheered and they transferred us to his room. Mike answered, “Oh, hi, I was wondering when you were going to call.”

“What do you mean? After we didn’t find you at the airport we didn’t know where you might be. We’ve called every hotel in town hoping you might be at one of them and not dead in a gutter somewhere.”

Well, to make a long story short, Mike had been scammed, and the airport people were in on it. They got his name—probably from an airport worker or from his luggage—and approached him. “Are you Mike? Welcome to Kazakhstan! I have the car just outside when your luggage arrives.” Mike had expected to have to wait for his ride since the plane was early, so he was pleasantly surprised. Meanwhile, the person who had really been sent to pick him up was being redirected by the officer outside. When Mike finally exited the airport, he noted that it was a hired car that awaited him, but that wasn’t suspicious. The man loaded his luggage and drove him into town to the Sheraton—about a 15 minute ride.

“They want me to stay here tonight?” Mike asked, since he had expected to stay in one of the guest rooms at the church office.

“Yes, they will call you in the morning. That will be $200 please.” Mike had started to open his door and stopped.

“How much? Did you say $200 for 15 minutes?”

“Yes sir.”

“I won’t pay you that much,” said Mike, understanding that he was being ripped off. He generously gave the man $50 and said, “If you don’t like that then take me back to the airport.” The man decided to take it.

So all’s well that ends well. Mike avoided the money part of the scam, thanks to his experience, but he didn’t avoid the first part. And how could he have? There was no reason even to be suspicious. Had there been, Mike probably would have sensed it. Jesus said in Mark 13:22, “For false Christs and false prophets will appear and perform signs and miracles to deceive the elect — if that were possible.”

Have you ever considered how the final great deception that Satan is engineering for planet earth could possibly fool so many people—so many Christians? From my study it appears to me that the great lie is going to look like God’s honest truth to all but those intimately acquainted with the Word of God.

The only way Mike could have avoided the scam was if he had been forewarned of this particular trick. Fortunately, the Bible does exactly that for God’s “elect.” It forewarns us of a coming deception when Satan will masquerade as Christ himself and lead the world after him. We can recognize the scam if we will take the time now to become intimately acquainted with Jesus and his Word.

Copyright 2007 by Jeff Scoggins
All rights reserved