Several months ago, with weather still warm and
sunny, my wife and I purchased a boat. Hold your fire … this vessel is no
splurge of luxury. Our new yacht, stretched to its uttermost, is less than 13
feet long. It’s flat as a pancake unless filled with air. With my abundance of
hot air, a friend kindly observed, it could serve as a small dirigible. But, no,
we are the proud owners of an inflatable kayak built for two.

“We call those ‘divorce boats,’” grinned the
salesman, after he had taken our money. We chuckled along with his embellished
stories of couples pushed to their limits by a tandem kayak. Not us, we thought,
our minds humming with the romance of the open sea.

Then came the bright fall day when we hefted the
bundle of vinyl into the car and headed to beautiful Trillium Lake, tucked into
the forest at the base of Mount Hood. We inflated the boat, cinched up life
vests, picked up our paddles and launched out onto the placid surface.

Fifty yards from shore we discovered those
confounded paddles were defective. There was no other way to explain why the
kayak refused to go in a straight line. Spectators on shore began to gather with
voyeuristic delight. Had the lake been frozen, we could have won a prize for
involuntary figure 8s.

Frustrated, I took a break in shouting futile
instructions at the back of my wife’s head. After a moment or two of blessed
silence, the laughter spontaneously erupted: “Divorce boat!” we both exclaimed.
We took it easy after that, enjoyed the view and, after a few more
self-inflicted lessons, began to master the essence of a straight line. The
paddlers, not the paddles, had been the problem all along.

Now we’d like to try a river with some … modest
whitewater.

Life is not always a peaceful lake. Whitewater is
the very nature of our world — constant, unpredictable change. Management guru
Stephen Covey suggests the greatest need we have in this sea of constant change
is something that DOES NOT change. Besides change itself, Covey says, there are
two other important constants in this whitewater world: principles and choice.

I believe he’s right. Principles: We turn to
Scripture as the source for principles of Christian living that provide a
changeless core to our lives. And choice: where those principles are adapted to
the needs of daily living.

The challenge is in the choice. Jesus understood
that, and it’s why He sent us a gift — the Comforter, the Heavenly Helper. This
gift, Jesus said, was sent to guide us into all truth, to help us develop the
adaptable core so essential to coping with a whitewater world.

So have patience with the character dripping cold
water down your back. Don’t despair when your best efforts leave you going in
circles. Put down your paddle. Take a break. Take a breath. And, before you
resume your task, breathe a prayer of invitation to that Gift, the Heavenly
Helper now here.

The family had gathered from hither and yon. All were in fine festive fettle. The traditional “glutenous” feast had been prepared with delectable ingredients from such exotic locations as Worthington and Loma Linda. The table was exquisitely set with fall colors and autumn leaves. All that remained was the ceremonial making of the punch — a responsibility left to the alpha male of the tribe.

And so it was that I began the family tradition of combining several different fruit juices together along with a dash of 7-Up for a little zip. There was only one problem. The mixture resulted in an off-color shade that did nothing to complement the dining room motif. What to do? My brother-in-law slipped in to offer assistance. We pondered in silence for a few moments. Then inspiration struck like a bolt of lightning. “Hey,” exclaimed my partner. “Let’s just add a little food coloring.” It had the makings of a stellar idea, hampered only by one small but stark reality. Neither of us had a clue of what color combinations from those little red, green, blue and yellow bottles would bring the desired results.

Our first try ended in a stomach-churning olive-green concoction. “It’s getting worse,” he said. “It looks like spinach juice … gone bad.”

“Yeah, but let’s add this,” I exclaimed confidently, with the red bottle in hand. After a couple drops and nervous stir, the liquid turned a muddy shade of brown.

Someone called, “Is the drink ready?” My cohort and I looked at each other with the grim resolve of kamikaze pilots. Without a doubt, we knew the wedding feast at Cana would not be re-enacted here. While he quietly poured our revolting libation down the sink, I filled another pitcher from the tap and walked into the dining room. “We’ve got water and diet water!” I said brightly. “What’ll it be?”

When Jesus joined the celebratory throng at Cana, it was a scene of thanksgiving, a wedding, an occasion of excited gratitude for new life and opportunity. It brought joy to Him. But the drink had evaporated. All that was left was water, and plenty of it. So the Man of the Living Water answered the call. “”Fill the containers with water,” He said. You know the story. He didn’t just replace the wine. He took what was on hand and created something far better.

Now, please resist the temptation to get sidetracked on whether the Master produced a better vintage of wine or an artisan brand of high-end grape juice. There’s a much more important point here for us — and it has less to do with the miracle of water to wine, than the Man who did it.

The lesson is simple: Jesus was invited to the celebration … and He made all the difference.

I’m done dressing up drinks with food coloring. I’d rather bring my often empty cup to the Man with the Living Water, and let Him make all the difference.

This Thanksgiving, make sure He is on your guest list.

An old story tells of a hopeful young bachelor searching eagerly for the Perfect Woman. Day in and day out the quest continues until finally he hits the mother lode — the Perfect Woman. She’s unbelievable, with internal and external qualities surpassing every item on his dog-eared list. He’s ecstatic … that is, until one day his friend finds him mournfully nursing a lemonade at the corner deli. Of course, in the original tale it’s neither lemonade nor a deli, but you get the picture. “Why the long face?” the friend asks. “You found the Perfect Woman … you should be happy.” “Yeah, but there’s a big problem,” moans the young man. “She’s looking for the Perfect Man!”

Your spouse or best friend has no doubt discovered the truth by now. Even the dog knows it. Weighed in the balances of perfection, we all come up tarred and feathered.

The reality that we are not the only blemished gems in God’s creation is fed by an ocean of data incessantly sweeping over all of us. With blinding speed, the Internet and other media continually confront us with the fallibility of politicians, professors, preachers and presidents. We are an increasingly jaded, skeptical, cynical society. We’ve witnessed sports heroes unmasked as charlatans, corporate icons turned to greed, religious pillars reduced to dust. And in the process, we’ve exchanged our rose-colored glasses for those of a darker tint. Far from expecting the best, we have begun to assume the worst.

Throughout my office are volumes of GLEANERS from the past century. Every so often, I coax one down off the shelf to join me for lunch. Sandwich in one hand, I step via musty pages into another time and place. Some might say they invoke a simpler, naïve view of the world and of our church. It was a time when Linketts were considered health food, H.M.S. Richards walked on water and Del Delker had perfect pitch.

But these pages also tell of innovative leadership — the kind of vision that enabled Northwest members to become leaders in supporting the church’s mission around the world. They may not have been perfect, but they were passionate.

This September, delegates will gather in Walla Walla, Washington, for the North Pacific Union Conference constituency session. Leaders will be elected, budgets reported, and strategic decisions made.

As these delegates take their seats, it will be 10 years to the day since the horrific tragedy of September 11, 2001 — when, by the actions of a few, our world became somehow darker and filled with fear.

May God grant us the wisdom to revise this story with a better byline that reads: “On this September 11, 2011, by the actions of a few, our world became somehow brighter and filled with hope.”

It can happen, one personal, passionate connection at a time. I won’t ever succeed at becoming the Perfect Man. But you and I can share One who is with the world right next door and just down the street.

There are vaccines for smallpox, polio and tuberculosis. Flu shots and inoculations against all sorts of unspeakable are in plenteous supply. But there is no such remedy for being dumb. Personal pedigree is no guarantee. Academic degrees do not prevent it.

I do not speak of mental or physical challenges brought through birth or illness. What I describe here is often perpetrated by those with the highest measurable IQs. I need only dip into my distant collegiate past to illustrate how dumbness can be cultivated in the very crucible of academia.

It could be the fire pole which swiftly transported tardy young men from the upper floors of the dorm to the worship hall — at least until an enterprising young profligate smeared a wide band of honey around the shaft about 6 feet from the bottom. The braking effect on bodies hurtling downward was breathtaking.

Or it might be the sophomore theology student with too much time on his hands who drilled a hole through to the dorm room next door and connected his own stereo amp to his neighbor’s loudspeakers.

Then there was the physics major, working clandestinely in the dark to install a remote volume control inside the church organ. His surreptitious ministrations from the balcony a few days later caused inexplicable things to happen during chapel, to the chagrin of the horrified organist. The inscription “Physics Dept” etched into the handle of a screwdriver inadvertently left inside the organ led to his eventual demise.

Sure they’re dumb, and perhaps juvenile. We chuckle, though, because some of us have similar shenanigans under our belts.

But there is dumb and there is dumber. Paul’s admonishment is key: “When I was a child, I spake as a child … but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

Some continue to struggle with that transition. The ubiquitous social media so many of us use highlighted this recently. Rep. Weiner’s misuse of “key texts” is a clear reminder that increased age and a vast store of knowledge, do not always add up to an advanced degree in wisdom.

But think twice before you pile on the minister, professor or politician who lays bare his or her human frailties. Those who slip from dumb to dumber, sometimes in the most public ways, reap their reward without us even casting the first stone.

Our responsibility lies closer to home, with the potential log in our own eye. With our computers or mobile devices constantly at hand, it’s far too easy to let an irreverent moment slip out to worlds unknown. More than ever before, our digital world demands we live with transparent integrity.

So, why not instead embrace the age-old principle in Proverbs 11:25. To paraphrase: “A word fitly spoken, a photo thoughtfully sent, an action carefully considered, is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.”

Thinking of an investment in gold or silver? Try a word fitly spoken.

They were gathered around the restaurant table — husband, wife and two girls. Between bites of my own dinner, I observed their marked lack of interaction. There were no shared smiles or playful winks. Each was lost in a separate world, fiddling with their mobile devices. Were they playing games, texting, surfing the Web? I couldn’t tell. But I could see the bored expressions, the vacant eyes, the distant body language. I felt sadness for this family where the simple joy of sharing a meal together was lost. Surrounding that little table, they were miles apart.

Their unintended tableau reminded me of a quote from Christian media guru Phil Cooke: “The most sought-after commodity today is someone’s undivided attention.”

The plethora of mobile communication devices, including ever-present cell phones and iPads, mean many of us carry a billion streams of information with us wherever we go. Atlas mythologically carried the world on his shoulders. Hey, we carry it in our pockets.

Having immediate access to all this information is exhilarating. Got a question? Even an obscure one? Give me a couple minutes with Google and you’ll have your answer. Want to reach me immediately? Send me a text. I can answer that quietly, even in a meeting, or, ahem, in church.

But, this multitasking we’re getting used to is taking a toll. While we connect with the outside world, we are in danger of losing what’s nearest at hand. Talking with a friend recently, I noticed him repeatedly looking down at his cell phone as incoming text messages interrupted our conversation. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m addicted to this thing.”

He’s not too far off the mark. Our mobile devices are enabling us as information junkies, addicts in every sense of the word. FOMO is a new acronym coined to describe what many are experiencing with Twitter, Facebook and other social media networking — Fear Of Missing Out.

Flash mobs, hundreds of individuals prompted by the peer pressure of a Twitter message to do something in common at a given time and place, converge on shopping malls. Personal accounts of news and events blaze around the world, passing from one person to the next — as quick (and reliable, at times) as gossip.

Now, I’m a fan of technology and mobile communication. But this headlong rush that so often absorbs us prompts two basic questions: Is quicker better? Because we can, should we?

I think not — at least, not without first taking stock of more basic and lasting values. The simple act of lending our undivided attention to a friend, giving respectful eye contact to a colleague, lets them know they matter. In spite of all our virtual “friends” on Facebook, the ones who really count are those right in front of us who search our faces for evidence we care.

There’s another Person who desires our attention. We were designed to walk with Him in the cool of the evening through a garden of another place and time. As we eagerly seek out the latest, coolest gadget, or provocative tweet, is He watching anxiously for a glimmer of eye contact with us?

Turn your eyes upon Jesus … you don’t even need an app.

“We walk by faith and not by sight.” 2 Cor. 5:7

In Mark chapter 5, fate makes its play, but faith comes out the winner.

Two lives hang in the balance as Jesus makes his way through the pressing throng. Two lives, with everything to gain and everything to lose, await His next move. The drama has been 12 years in the making. Everything hinges on what happens now.

It had all started simply enough. An important man’s daughter, all of 12 years old, lay dying. That Jesus should come to his town is Providence too great to ignore. But time is short. Jesus must hurry. And so He does, pressing through the crowded street toward Jairus’ home.

But fate intervenes, as it so often does. A woman also views Providence at work on her behalf. She does not see the father’s anxiety-ridden face. She does not know his 12-year-old daughter is near death. Her own past dozen years have been filled with an illness so great it has ostracized her from family and friends. All her resources have evaporated in the failed efforts of a litany of doctors. Fate has left her destitute of any other support. She is a woman with no future — unless there is something Jesus can do. So she stretches out a hand of faith to touch One who carries the promise of something better.

And everything stops. Jesus stops. The crowd bunches to a halt. Jairus, pushing ahead, turns around with anxious agony. Every moment counts. But beyond his immediate understanding something else has stopped as well. The bleeding has ended. The desperate reach of faith has brought instantaneous healing to a weeping woman who kneels now at Jesus’ feet. And Jesus is giving something even more. “Daughter,” He says. “Go in peace and be whole.” Daughter — an outcast no more; a welcomed part of the family; a woman with a future!

But there’s another daughter at stake here, and fate strikes again. A grim-faced messenger wedges through the crowd. He tugs at Jairus’ sleeve. “There’s no need to trouble the Teacher anymore,” he murmurs with a grim face. “Your daughter just died.” Something inside Jairus crumbles then. If only the interruption had never occurred. If only Jesus had kept going. If only … they might have been in time.

But Jesus has overheard. He has seen the agonized face; He has felt the anguished heart. He knows the brutal whimsy of fate is no match for the reach of faith.

You know the rest of the story. The ledger does not stop at 12 years for Jairus’ daughter, who is awakened from her “sleep” by the Master’s touch.

And so today, fate and faith continue the struggle for mastery in our own hearts and lives. Sometimes we reach out in faith and find our prayers answered dramatically, immediately, just like the woman. At other times, fate seems to intervene. Like Jairus, we wait anxiously, impatiently, wondering at Jesus’ delay. Like Martha of another time and place, we cry, “Master, if only You had been here…”

But beyond our immediate understanding, God is on His way. Those who have fallen asleep awaiting Jesus’ arrival will, like Jairus’ daughter, hear His call and awake to something far better.

In the meantime, we still have a choice — to live under the shadow of fate or the promise of faith.

As a lad and the youngest of three boys, I eagerly accepted the role of chief underdog and pest. Having three guys in one bedroom was interesting enough, but placing me in the backseat of an automobile with two older brothers was a formula destined for disharmony. Trips longer than 30 minutes in the faithful old ’49 Plymouth crossed some sort of invisible barrier beyond which decibels rose and turf wars raged.

“If you don’t settle down RIGHT … THIS … MINUTE, I’ll …” Dire words such as these from the front would inspire a tenuous truce. Elbows would be withdrawn from seatmates’ ribs, and a thin veneer of civility would form for a fragile few minutes — but only for a few.

And thus was born my mother’s invention, a fabric contraption to hang over the front seat. In it, each of us boys in the back had our own pouch for books, games, toys and such. The effect was miraculous —almost as if a wall had been created between us. With better things at hand than fomenting strife, we three sons would arrive at the distant destination — fingers, toes, noses and ears all accounted for — still friends.

In spite of all the rhetoric we hear in America today about walls of division, perhaps some walls are best left standing. Perhaps they protect what would otherwise be forever damaged or destroyed.

Human relationships flounder when force is applied; they flourish when freedom is fostered. But liberty, and with it all the freedoms we cherish, is fragile. Like three bouncing boys in a back seat, it needs boundaries to survive.

So, I worry when I hear voices rising in our country, calling us to tear down the wall that guard the distinctly different roles of church and state, religion and politics. I worry when I hear Adventists joining others who berate the core values of religious liberty for what they imagine is the greater good — a “Christian nation.”

Such was the climate that led some Adventists of an earlier generation to align themselves with a charismatic leader promising pure motives, a return to solid values and a bright future. Their hopes died along with the ashes of a million and more Jews. Must we countenance another Hitler, another Holocaust, before we wake up and smell the Postum?

Sound-bite opinions travel with lightning speed through the Internet and social media connections like Twitter. Personal perspectives are formed with little contemplation, providing fertile ground for a populist movement with no critical evaluation of history or principle. It’s not hard to imagine a prophetic timetable accelerating to a place unthinkable just a few years ago.

There has seldom been a more important time for Adventists to place the message of religious liberty front and center. The wall of separation we champion is not just a good idea for three rambunctious boys on a journey to Grandma’s house.

It’s on behalf of all of us in this dying world and the message we’ve been asked to share, as the celestial clock ticks off the final minutes.

I remember the earthquake vividly. Ceiling tiles cascaded; walls crumbled. As I tried to run, the floor rolled violently up and down, then gave way. I felt myself falling, falling.

With a deep shuddering breath, I opened my eyes to darkness. My heart was pounding, yet all else was quiet. I was alive and in my own bed. “I just had a horrible dream about an earthquake,” I murmured to my long-suffering wife. “I’ll bet you did,” she said with a sigh. “You were snoring so loud, I had to bounce up and down on the bed to get you to stop.”

While I smile at that memory, I’m confronted with staggering images of Japan’s recent devastation, with miles of coastline buildings, boats and bodies churned into a sickening slurry. Television reports benignly beamed into our homes thousands of miles distant can never adequately convey the stories of personal loss and lives forever changed. While relief agencies scramble to help, we who remain are left to ponder our own mortality. Our beautiful Northwest is due something just as dramatic, just as devastating.

No doubt this earth, as the Bible says, is “waxing old like a garment.” Many of us will see this latest disaster as yet another measuring stick of prophecy. But let’s not miss this present “teachable moment.” This is a wakeup call to our immediate need: everyday, Christ-centered living.

For sleep, while necessary, can go on too long. The 13th chapter of Romans cuts straight to the core. “Make sure you don’t get so absorbed and exhausted in taking care of all your day-by-day obligations that you lose track of the time and doze off, oblivious to God. The night is over, dawn is about to break. Be up and awake to what God is doing! … Get out of bed and get dressed!” (Romans 13:11–13, The Message)

Both physically and mentally, it’s good to get a benevolent spousal shake when our snoring gets too loud. Spiritually, an earthshaking experience provides an opportunity to re-engage and replace our own status quo with priorities of eternal value.

A disaster like that in Japan sobers us all. But every day there are individual earthquakes, too, when relational or financial tsunamis come in like a flood; when our faith hangs in the balance; when personal defeat seems more than we can bear. From my hard experience, one thing is certain — Romans 8:28 is true. Satan’s worst efforts are God’s best opportunities. Faith, when stretched, gets longer and stronger. Like Jacob, we wrestle with God in our most intimate challenges, and cry, “I will not let You go without Your blessing!”

And because of this daily, weekly crucible of faith, when the final minutes of this tired earth tick away, when the ultimate wakeup call comes, we’ll be ready to heed the joyful summons of Scripture: “Look up; lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh!” (Luke 21:28)

It’s a wakeup call I refuse to miss.

“If in faith you seek for a greater measure of God’s Spirit, you will be constantly taking it in and breathing it out. Daily you will receive a fresh supply.” (Ellen White, The Upward Look, p. 143.)

The crisis came suddenly. One minute the strong young man was enjoying the ocean swells out beyond the breakers; the next, he was in a grim battle for life, caught in an unyielding riptide.

Whether the struggle took minutes or hours, he does not remember, but he does recall a face — one he will never forget.

It belonged to a petite teenage girl who found him motionless, face down in the water. She dragged him to shore and administered CPR. Helpless to help himself, this moose of a man drew a sudden, rasping breath, fluttered his eyes open and beheld the face of his savior — the source of his revival.

When a pastor or church leader calls us to revival, urges us to pray for the Holy Spirit, what should be our response? Some Adventists through the years have determined the Holy Spirit is hard of hearing or, worse yet, reluctant to answer. After repeated prayer meetings and fasts, they reason the delay is all because of them — they are not yet ready, not yet dedicated enough. They feel no rush of emotion. They see no tongues of fire.

It’s a strange parallel to the earnest Jews who, millennia ago, prayed in vain for a Messiah to match their expectations. Today their descendants line up at Jerusalem’s western “Wailing Wall,” still pleading for a Messiah who has already come.

Is there a lesson here for us? Could it be those tempted to think they must become better or pray more earnestly before the Spirit will listen are unaware the Spirit is a gift already given? Have our human expectations blinded us to the amazing promise already at hand and daily renewed?

Acts 2 reminds us of two conditions for receiving the Spirit: repentance and baptism. One involves a willingness to renounce self and do things God’s way, and the second, a public acceptance of new life serving a glorified Lord. Acts 2:38 is no mystery: “Repent ye, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ unto the remission of your sins; and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.”

The Spirit is not offered as a reward for becoming good. It’s a gift to guide and empower believers on a growing journey of faith. That seems so simple. When did it become complicated? Why did it become so uncertain?

Will revival come when we recognize the gift has already been bestowed … that the Spirit is already ours? To the cripple at the pool, Jesus said, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.” His command was a promise.

Today the same promise is ours. Every morning we have an opportunity to “rise and walk” with Him. So take a deep breath and get ready to watch the Spirit at work.