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When Your Horse is Dead

2025-08-25T12:24:20-06:00

On July 24, 2025, President Donald Trump signed Executive Order 14321, titled “Ending Crime and Disorder on America's Streets.” It was an initiative to get politicians, bureaucrats, religious leaders, NGO operators, and local citizens everywhere to come to terms with the out-of-control homelessness flood that is drowning America's urban centers, and now flowing into the suburbs and beyond.

Homelessness is one of America’s most confounding social issues. It’s been with us in one form or another since the United States became a country. In the 18th century, people without residence or resources were referred to as vagabonds and beggars. Those in similar circumstances in the 19th century were said to be vagrants and drifters. From the early to mid-20th century, folks wandering along the roadways, rail lines, riverbanks, and back alleys were labeled tramps, Okies, hobos, and bums. (You’d be hard-pressed to find someone in their 70s who, as a kid during the Eisenhower years, didn't at least once dress up as a hobo for Halloween. The grown-ups handing out the Hershey bars saw it as a snippet of Americana.)

Starting in pre-Colonial times, and running through the 1960s, this relatively small, penurious part of the population was primarily served by individual families, community churches, and institutions such as city/rescue missions, The Salvation Army, and private benevolent societies. (In my book, Invisible Neighbors, I address the many reasons why our system of solutions changed by the time we got to where we are today.) Beginning in the latter 20th century — when the number of down-and-out individuals started to really go up and off the charts — anyone left to the streets got funneled into a category we now simply called homeless.

One of the things the country had going for it in the first 200 years was that our collective core beliefs, and thus our civic systems, were anchored to absolutes. Our fundamental tenets were by and large based on Judeo-Christian values, so it was easy to work together to solve common social problems. That started to change by the time we hit the 1970s. By the time we got into the 2000s, those Judeo-Christian values that were once accepted, and then tolerated, started to be outright opposed. Today, as researcher George Barna explains it, America’s biblical worldview, based on theism, has been replaced by syncretism, which amalgamates perspectives from competing worldviews, like nihilism, postmodernism, secular humanism, Marxism, Eastern mysticism, animism, and more. Syncretism is not based on an authoritative truth, Barna says, but on personal comfort. While there’s nothing wrong with the desire to experience comfort, we run into problems when we violate our absolutes in order to obtain it. That is why finding solutions to today's social problems is so difficult. It's not just that we have competing methods; it's that we have competing philosophies. Even those who believe in God and understand the Christian gospel are highly influenced by syncretism. It’s hard not to be. This is one of the reasons we have such a divided country.

No one disagrees that homelessness has exploded in the last 25 years. It has indeed, for reasons too numerous to list in this article. The most recent causes include high barriers to housing, proliferation of cheap drugs, COVID-19, and unbridled immigration. Today, even the National Alliance to End Homelessness, which has advanced and applauded Housing First as the “silver bullet” to do what its name suggests, has now confirmed that despite throwing hundreds of millions of dollars at the problem, we are at the highest level of homelessness in our country’s history. Blame whatever or whoever you want, but the bottom line is abundantly clear: What America has been doing in recent years to fix the problem has certainly not stemmed the tide. The problem is plainly worse than ever.

So, what’s next? It seems logical that we should turn to an old Native American proverb: “When your horse is dead, it's time to dismount.” Attempting to spur on the deceased steed is sheer folly. To have the situation explained in more detail, watch the 86-minute documentary, Americans with No Address. (I wrote the chapter on adult homelessness in the documentary’s accompanying study guide.)

Saddling a fresh horse is what President Trump’s Executive Order is essentially seeking to do. But with what’s being vehemently espoused by those who have the most to lose by having the existing government programs dismantled or even augmented, it's easy to think that the upshot of Ending Crime and Disorder on America’s Streets is that everyone who is homeless will suffer this same fate: They will all be sent to prisons or asylums. That doesn’t have to be the case — and I certainly hope the president, despite the brash rhetoric used in making certain points, doesn’t think that’s what must be enacted. Just as all homeless people entered into their current state of affairs through different doors, they can all exit via various doors, depending on their condition and desire. Each door leads to a different destination.

While everyone’s situation is unique, the broad categories I share below explore, generally speaking, who’s out there, along with possible portals to their future.

First, there are the Unfortunate Victims. These are the multitudes who are desperately poor or are in dire straits. They have fallen through the gaping holes in society’s safety nets and are hanging by a thread. Some families have been dangling there for generations. They are experiencing homelessness because they have been abandoned, have wandered from their community, lost employment, just can’t make ends meet, have been displaced or evicted, or the like. They are couch surfing, sleeping in a vehicle, or staying in a shelter. Some are living in an encampment or “sleeping rough” elsewhere. On the whole, they are not mentally ill or addicted to hard drugs. These are those who will benefit from rapid rehousing, in whatever form it takes in the future. Government has an important role here that needs an all-hands-on-deck response. Red tape must be shredded to get more low-income houses built at an accelerated pace and a reasonable cost — which has been one of the most aggravating ongoing problems. Sensible rules must be put in place to get vouchers into the hands of those who urgently need to move in and are willing to be accountable for the resources provided.

These people also likely need additional education, job training, help finding employment that pays a livable wage, childcare, nutritional assistance, spiritual guidance (which is a specialty of faith-focused organizations), and counseling to help them get beyond what made them Unfortunate Victims in the first place. They also might need help shedding any victim mentality that could be haunting them. There are numerous NGOs that are ready and able to work together with the government to get this done. If there was ever a cause that could and should bring government and nonprofits together and work through philosophical differences to solve a pervasive problem, this is it.

Trafficking Escapees could fit into the Unfortunate Victims group, but they have come from such darkness and depravity that their level of PTSD and need for specialized care puts them in an entirely different category. They have already been imprisoned. They now need not only freedom, but also protection. Accessible online are numerous faith-focused groups committed to restoring those who have fled their human trafficking captors.

There is another group that could be considered Unfortunate Victims, but their situation is unique enough to give them their own category. It is the Formerly Fostered — those who have aged out of the foster care system. This is the group that needs help quickly. Statistics vary, but some studies have shown that nearly half of those who reach age 18 and have no continuing direction and assistance end up homeless. Again, the Internet is rich with resources and names of organizations that are ready to help those in this subset and provide purpose and direction. Also, the Administration for Children and Families within the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, which oversees federal foster care policy and funding, needs to visibly demonstrate that they have taken on the mantle of making the transition from foster care to independent living as smooth as possible so we can rescue these people from potential homelessness and exit those who are already in it.

And then we have the Mentally Ill, which are myriad. When it comes to those suffering this fate, the outcry is that institutionalization is cruel and inhumane. That’s because when most people think of institutionalization, they think of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest or Shutter Island. But mental health has come a long way since Ronald Reagan unlocked asylum doors in the 80s and sent people home to take psychotropic drugs (which, unfortunately, only about 30 percent did). Today there are places for those who are mentally ill to get help—modernized places where critical care, quality of life, and dignity are chief concern.

I recall an elderly woman I saw in an alley when I was doing a neighborhood walk with a city mission director. There was obvious psychosis as she was having an animated conversation with another person who wasn't physically present. The director told me she refused any help from concerned individuals at the mission. She slept on damp cardboard and picked daily through a dumpster for sustenance. Social services personnel were determined to honor her self-autonomy, so they allowed her to continue to live this appalling lifestyle. One must ask, is that real compassion? Wouldn't it be better for her to be in a warm, well-lit facility wearing clean and climate-appropriate clothing, surrounded by staff attending to her hygiene and nutritional needs, plus providing psychiatric care — even if she initially didn't want to leave her alley? Wouldn’t our cities be all the better for making life less scary for her and for passersby? There are hundreds of thousands of alley-dwellers like her who should be escorted to a more humane option. That is not incarceration, it’s human kindness.

None of the above groups — which include many military veterans — should be threatened with jail just because of their situation. But again, if people are going to make much-needed life changes, they do need services with accountability as opposed to charity and self-autonomy. The latter has led us to where we are today.

Because of the prevalence of alcoholic beverages, legalized recreational marijuana in half of our states, and wide availability of other narcotics, the Substance Addicted group is one of the largest. Some people are homeless because they're addicted. Others become addicted once they are homeless to numb the effects of extreme weather conditions, high levels of noise, physical abuse, insects, and rodents, and more.

City mission staff around the country will tell you that hard drugs present the biggest challenges when working with the homeless population. There’s no end to what’s available on the street for the right price (or the right favor). Not long ago, fentanyl passed meth as the drug of choice, being cheap yet 50 times more powerful than heroin and 100 times more potent than morphine. Now, fentanyl is routinely being mixed with xylazine, commonly known as “tranq.” From 2018 - 2023, the death rate from overdoses of this “cocktail” rose 6,000 percent! Harm-reduction programs employed by many cities also factor in here. Harm reduction, according to the Harm Reduction International website, “refers to policies, programs, and practices that aim to minimize the negative health, social, and legal impacts associated with drug use, drug policies, and drug laws.” The site goes on to explain that harm reduction hopes to help the Substance Addicted group “without judgement, coercion, discrimination, or requiring that people stop using drugs as a precondition of support.” Basically, it’s a plan to let drug addiction run its course by providing safe injection sites, clean needles — and clandestinely, even free alcohol and drugs as inducements to achieve community objectives in certain situations.

Advocates of harm reduction say that it reduces overdose deaths, prevents infection from contaminated needles, diminishes the stigma of drug use, and reduces emergency room visits. Opponents say it normalizes drug use and keeps Substance Abused homeless people in their state of dependency and despair indefinitely. I think it’s yet another sign of a society that has given up on its people. It also is an example of how syncretism is steering philosophy: Right and wrong are fluid concepts. Moral judgement is taboo.

I’ll be the first to say that those who are addicted on the streets do not need long prison sentences. They need housing — linked to compulsory treatment programs. That’s the way it was from 2007 to 2013. Over that period, based on the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development’s own statistics, the number of unsheltered homeless people dropped by almost a third. But in 2013, government policy shifted. Programs that required wraparound service participation were penalized. Speed of placement became the priority and the measuring stick. Interestingly, over the next five years, the number of unsheltered individuals rose by more than 20 percent. It’s no secret that there are plenty of treatment options in every city, starting with Citygate Network missions, Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Centers, and Adult & Teen Challenge programs. To get back to where we were, those with housing should work hand-in-hand with those in addiction recovery. Both need to throw open wide their doors and expand their operations if there is going to be an all-out effort to get a handle on things.

Admittedly, the difficult part is getting addicted individuals to want to enroll in a program. Many do reach a point of desperation and seek a different direction, but just as many do not. It would help immensely if leaders in certain cities started to again enforce what is called quality-of-life crimes, such as graffitiing, public intoxication, public drug use, public urination/defecation, solicitation for sex, and misdemeanor theft. Having no ramifications for such behavior is proving to be the downfall of so many metropolitan areas.

Those who, even when sober, adamantly spurn quality-of-life laws and reject addiction-recovery help would fit into the next subset.

This is the group that is Willfully Resistant. Even though they are not all Substance Addicted, they are against almost everything and refuse to accept housing, shelter, or any services and assistance, whether offered by the government, secular NGOs, or faith-focused nonprofits. They thumb their noses at ordinances. They have been known to set up their own tent or shack settlements, elect their own officials, and make their own rules. Woe to those who violate them. In a few cities, they receive protected status. In most cities, they are simply ignored because dealing with them — and the advocacy groups that regularly come to their rescue — takes too much manpower and money and creates too much negative press (which is especially bad when elections are on the horizon).

As harsh as it might sound to the ears in 2025, we must go back to making lawless street life uncomfortable for this group. I’m talking about those who choose to be homeless and want to live in a way that threatens the well-being and livelihoods of those who are housed, employed, and following social norms. And we must elect politicians who will stand against the outcries of the skittish and show that misguided compassion is actually harming homeless people. A group called the California Peace Coalition has said, “Many [of these people] require the threat of jail or other forms of coercion to stop breaking laws and get their lives together. This is not the same as long prison sentences. In fact, research shows that swift and certain consequences for lawbreakers are more effective than slow, uncertain longer sentences.”

The Department of Justice’s National Institute goes on to state that “the certainty of being caught is a vastly more powerful deterrent than the punishment.” In other words, “if the chance of being caught and sanctioned is only five percent, and even if the threatened punishment is 20 years behind bars, committing the offense is still a safe bet by the numbers. But if the chance of being caught and sanctioned increases to 95 percent, even if the threatened punishment is only six months in jail, the likelihood of an individual committing the offense plummets.”

Unfortunately, the Willfully Resistant are the ones chasing away tourists and convention business. They are the ones causing downtown stores to board up or close down. In a way, they are like the motorist you see on a police show who, when pulled over, refused to present their documents, answer questions in a civil manner, or step out of their vehicles. Up to now, they have been allowed to roll up their windows and drive on. But because their actions are unlawful, and the Executive Order is about restoring law and order on America’s streets, these are also the ones who will end up in handcuffs, despite the predictable raucous protest of advocacy groups. It’s time to see if “swift and certain” ramifications, followed by monitored programs and services, will give us back our streets and other public spaces.

And then, we can’t forget about the Embedded Nefarious group. Cartels and gangs that rely on money from drugs and prostitution have been known to send their low-level soldiers into the encampments to live in tents and boxes and deal in narcotics and human trafficking. A study conducted in Los Angeles found that 17 percent of homeless youth identified as being a gang member and 46 percent as being gang affiliated. Others already in poverty continue to live on the streets and take advantage of those who are regularly in a stupor or mentally ill. These are criminals who need to be prosecuted.

One homeless subgroup that has grown significantly in the past several years is Misplaced Immigrants. Excluding the lawbreakers and foreign adversaries who slipped through, many aliens came into the country fearing for their safety in their homeland and hoping for the best in the United States Unfortunately, limited affordable housing options, a language barrier, and the inability to obtain credentials have narrowed their options. Moreover, reenergized enforcement of preexisting legal policy now has them stuck between trying to qualify for a U Visa or apply for asylum, or retreating to the shadows of homelessness or semi-homelessness and hoping they aren’t discovered. Unfortunately, while some states provide don’t-ask/ don’t-tell sanctuary, others are making it a crime for a homeless shelter to conceal, harbor, or shield undocumented immigrants for financial gain. It’s confusing for both the immigrants and those who are trying to help them. This subgroup will likely diminish on its own during the next few years, either because people will take government-sanctioned steps toward legal residency and maybe citizenship, or because they will self-deport or experience government-imposed deportation.

Executive Order 14321 is far from perfect, and there are a lot of questions to be answered involving capacity for services needed and capacity for love in the hearts and minds of fellow countrymen. Theism will have to do battle with syncretism because most of modern society doesn't want a God who says there are consequences for wrongful actions. Modern society, at least up ‘til now, wants comfort and self-autonomy for those living on the streets — even though these homeless people may not be able to fully grasp their situation or may be involved in abhorrent and criminal activity. Modern society has essentially been saying, “These people have a tough enough life. Let’s let them live as they desire on the streets, and let’s lift the penalties for any civil disobedience that may occur.” As a result, we have created what Christopher Rufo calls a “new class of ‘untouchables,’ permanently disconnected from the institutions of society.” However, while social media gives the impression that a sizable portion of the public sympathizes with those on the streets and wants city officials to leave them alone or go easy on them, a growing number of Americans are fed up. They want us to turn away from the insanity of perpetual hopelessness. They are comparing philosophies. They are exploring the soundness of a biblical worldview. This may be one of the reasons we are seeing younger generations embrace the Bible in what’s being called a new spiritual awakening. Maybe there’s a chance we will again find our lost absolutes.

It will be a tough slog to get the Executive order titled “Ending Crime and Disorder on America's Streets” off the ground, let alone get it accomplished. Lawsuits can be expected. And we will have to fight toxic empathy all along the way. Even so, for the sake of all of us, especially those precious people created in God’s image living in inhumane conditions on the street, it’s time to saddle this new horse and ride it into battle.

Don't Forget the Words

2024-05-28T06:58:18-06:00

Not long ago, I re-read Elisabeth Elliott's Through Gates of Splendor , penned in 1956. If you’re not familiar with the book, it’s the true story of five missionaries—including her husband—who were slain by the Auca Indians of Ecuador earlier that decade. I was completely pulled into a post-World-War-II frame of mind as the author described the upbringing, scholastic achievements, conversion, and courting years of each of the martyrs.

I was taken by their copious references in their diaries to their faith, and their ongoing recitation of Scripture, spiritual poems, and hymns. Other than a few preachers on Sunday morning, very few people I know talk like that today—and I live in Colorado Springs were there are nearly 200 Christian ministries headquartered!

Indeed, it was their burning desire to stand before and preach the gospel to the lost that drove Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Pete Fleming, Roger Youderian, and Ed McCully together. And it drove them to that fateful encounter on the Rió Curaray in the South American jungle.

Not long after re-reading the book, I came across a piece by Brad Greenberg in The Wall Street Journal’s “Houses of Worship” section. Called “How Missionaries Lost Their Chariots of Fire,” it describes the significant swing in Christian missionary culture since the Eisenhower era.

Greenberg talks about how evangelistic fervor has diminished and how the emphasis in missions has changed. He suggests that missionaries used to go overseas to preach about Jesus and make converts.

“Christians today typically travel abroad to serve others, but not necessarily to spread the gospel,” he writes.

He suggests that the vast majority of them go to nations where Christianity is already known to work for social justice, and to expand their horizons or strengthen their spirituality.

In the article, David Livermore, executive director of Cornerstone University’s Global Learning Center, explains this paradigm shift: “In a postmodern context it goes against the grain to...do hard-core proselytizing. To Millennials, it really feels like al-Qaeda in Christian wineskins.”

Scott Moreau of the missions department at Wheaton College adds that two decades ago, half of his graduate students believed that building churches abroad was their leading objective. Fighting human trafficking, caring for AIDS orphans, and ending poverty are now the popular priorities. And while these are indeed very worthy concerns, the switch has evoked some to question whether the message of the cross has become secondary to serving a cause.

As I talk to people around our continent about the ministry taking place at missions and similar ministries today, I often hear things like this: “I, too, want to preach the gospel by feeding the hungry and housing the homeless.” It’s as if the very acts of hospitality are the essence of the gospel. Hospitality demonstrates the character of Christ, but without the words of Christ, the gospel is speculative rather than substantive (see Rom. 10:17).

The fact is, with society paying so much attention to the hungry, homeless, abused, and addicted…and with so many groups stepping forward to address the symptoms of sin and neglect…it’s easier than ever to marginalize the words we are called to proclaim.

Greenberg concludes his article by saying, “Spreading Christianity through deeds alone aligns with a quote attributed to St. Francis of Assisi: ‘Preach the gospel always, and if necessary, use words.’ But research suggests that non-Christians often miss the message without the words.”

Said another way, these days, people should not be expected to connect dots they may not even know exist. Fewer and fewer of the folks who go to Christian social service agencies and social justice ministries for services have any sacred history. The “old, old story” needs to be told anew. (I am not advocating that a homily must precede the hominy or vice versa; I am simply saying that in the course of your ministry, a literal message is critical, whether from the pulpit during a chapel service, across the desk in a counseling session, or on the sofa in the lounge during causal conversation.)

In a culture becoming paranoid of any proselytization, these words from the Apostle Paul to Timothy can be pretty intimidating, but they are, nevertheless, our continuing mandate: “Preach the Word! Keep your sense of urgency…Whether it is convenient or inconvenient, whether it is welcome or unwelcome, you as preacher of the Word are to show people in what way their lives are wrong. And convince them, rebuking and correcting, warning and urging and encouraging them, being unflagging and inexhaustible in patience and teaching” (2 Tim. 4:2, Amplified Bible).

We don’t have to talk like Nate Saint or Jim Elliot did—but we do have to talk.

Adapted from the book Invisible Neighbors by John Ashmen (Cross Section Publishing, 2010, 2011, 2015, 2017)

Coming to Terms

2024-05-23T19:36:09-06:00

A few months back, I was asked in a podcast interview about the “social justice work city missions were doing.” In times gone by, I would have ignored the host’s choice of terms and answered the question by describing the emergency services, addiction recovery, and follow-up work our members were undertaking with their guests and clients. But times have changed. The term “social justice” has been kidnapped. It now wears the cloaks of many causes, some of which are held high by various religious groups, but are not necessarily aligned with principles, practices, and precepts of most f the city missions I know. I took the time on the air to make a few clarifying remarks.

I told the host that I felt social justice is outward facing. It wants to know who is to blame for the disparity — either directly, indirectly, or by association. Social justice spends just as much time seeking out villains to punish as it does seeking out victims to help. When it identifies the offenders, it goes on a crusade for retribution, which can include redistribution. Fairness in such plans is always subjective, and that brings greater division.

In my exchange with the podcast host, I suggested that the alternative to social justice is biblical justice. This looks inward. Biblical justice begs every individual to ask this question: “Am I partly to blame?” Are my attitudes rooted in sin and making the problem worse in my areas of influence, or are they making things better for everyone around me? Biblical justice mirrors the heart of David, who cried out in Psalm 139, “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me and lead me in the way everlasting” (King James Version).

That is the attitude that I believe needs to exist in all of us, and in particular, all organizations that do frontline ministry with the poor. To be clear, this attitude doesn’t turn a blind eye toward the obvious inequities happening nationally or internationally. It speaks to the issues when it’s appropriate, but it works on the home front first. It comes to terms with the condition of the heart.

Very few Citygate Network members were aware that Citygate Network had a Racial and Spiritual Unity Cohort that met together monthly for more than a year. Pastor Robert Loggins helps lead it. The group was made up of an equally racially mixed group of CEOs. They studied together and prayed together. They went on trips together, like to Selma, Alabama, and walked hand-in-hand over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. They had goals (one of which resulted in an additional statement in Citygate Network’s Corporate Values). But sought first to understand — understand each other and themselves.

May I be so bold as to ask: How are you doing with your coming-to-terms efforts? Don’t let talk about social justice get you off track. It’s biblical justice we need.

The Power of Place

2024-03-10T21:01:49-06:00

My grandfather never seemed to mind that the twentieth century was passing him by. He just didn’t care for conveniences. Though he did own a Model-T Ford, it was permanently parked in one of his barns, encased in decades of dust. Dewey Gillogly walked everywhere he went.

Until the day he died, Dewey drew his water from an ancient spring at the base of the hill that held his house. Some of my kinfolk back in those southeastern Ohio hollows swear it was the untreated water that killed him, but since he lived to be 92, their arguments are a lot shallower than that old spring must have been. Every morning, with pail in hand, he would bound off his back porch and head down the well-worn path to pull up enough drinking and washing water to get him through another day.

It was probably the area’s first permanent settlers who deepened the spring’s basin and lined it with slate. At some point a tin roof was purportedly raised overtop to protect the pool from falling leaves and debris. By the time Dewey came along there was standing a 10’ x 15’ cement-floored springhouse. The overhanging pitched roof covered the actual spring. Behind the wide wooden door, the water flowed through a trough in the floor, along the north wall. It was a place where melons and steel cans of raw milk were kept cool. The elevated portion of the floor was where my grandfather stored the sacks of potatoes he harvested from his fields up behind the house, or the apples he picked from the orchard in the side yard. The air inside had a dank, earthy smell, but with a strange scent of sweetness.
During my childhood, all my Ohio aunts and uncles lived in the rural regions surrounding the Gillogly homestead. Some were close enough that they could hear the report of Dewey’s shotgun echoing through the hills. I, on the other hand, was a distant relative in the literal sense of the term, growing up in ever-progressive New Jersey. But once or twice a year, my parents would head west in our Hudson Hornet for a Buckeye visit, and I would reconnect with my cousins. We’d scamper through the cornfields, get dirty in the coal shed, get wet in the creek, catch snakes in the stone foundation of the smokehouse, and look for treasures along the rails of the New York Central spur line that ran through the woods, just west of the house.

But on those warm August afternoons, when my parents and I had Grandpa and the farm to ourselves, I would eventually wander away from the grown-up discourse and find my way to the springhouse. There, I would lie on the bank and stare up into the bright green canopy of the sycamore trees that towered overhead. I’d study the twisted branches and watch squirrels leap from limb to limb. I would close my eyes and try to distinguish the calls of the cardinals from those of the robins. With my eyes still closed I would ponder life (as deeply as a nine-year old can ever ponder anything). When my imagination awoke, I would pretend that the springhouse was a garrison and I was the commander of its loyal troop, fighting off make-believe foes with sticks and stones.

When we’d visit in autumn, the sycamores would lay a golden carpet all around the springhouse. I was particularly drawn to the place at that time of year. As I got older, I would sit on the slate-topped stone wall that formed the front of the springhouse, with my back against a corner post, and read for hours on end, fully absorbed in the quiet coolness of that special setting. Looking back on my later-teen years, I’d have to say that some of my very important long-term plans were prayerfully developed in the shadows of that old shack.

That springhouse will always be a sacred place to me. For an adolescent, it was a safe haven — a place where life took a shady side road, skirting arduous arithmetic assignments, playground bullies, and the increasing business in the burgeoning Levittowns that were epitomizing East Coast life as I knew it. For a young man, walking down to that springhouse was like going to visit a trusted friend — one who provided a link to my past, but moreover, cared about my future.

Every few years, I’d get a chance to return to my Ohio roots . . . and witness how time has whittled away at the old homestead. Today, the wide swath of grass that used to be a main road ends in a thicket just beyond where the house used to stand. The rails, ties, and ballast that formed the spur line are long gone. Two of my cousins have divided up the property. The coal shed has disappeared. So have the smokehouse and the other outbuildings. Grass is the only thing that now grows on the hillsides that were once furrowed fields. But the springhouse remains. A stubborn survivor of change, it yet sits at the foot of the hill like a proud monument to the power of place. But even if it were gone, it would still be there in my mind, and I would occasionally visit it and relive the moments that I savored in its shelter.

All of us have a need for such private places in our lives — places of peace where we can go for a reprieve from routines and explore our innermost feelings — natural settings of sanctity where we can, as Christ followers, ponder the promises of Scripture and seek the heart of God.

Jesus, Himself, retreated to such private places on a reoccurring basis — probably more often than we’re even told in Scripture. After all, it was His Father who pointed out, as far back as Genesis, that rest and reflection needed to follow a marked time of toil. Whether it was to clear his mind or to get clear direction, Jesus would disengage from the demanding crowds or His conventional confines and escape to a quiet place in the open air — a garden, a mountainside, the seashore, the wilderness.

That’s exactly what Judi and I found during our multi-month Scotland escape. The indigo loch reflecting the firmament, the castle turrets beneath the rocky craigs, the sound of circling seagulls, the Kyle-bound train passing by on the opposite shore, the distinct smell of coal smoke from a dozen different chimneys: This was our backdrop for treasured memories that will increase in value as the years roll by. The power of place enriched our deep conversations on long hikes and short walks.

Where is your private place where you can temporarily let the rest of the world roll by? A Highlands village worked perfectly for us, but you don’t have to go to a distant land. Your special place can be the porch of a cabin nestled in the pines beside a placid lake, a long wooden dock on a wide lake, or even a small gazebo in a backyard garden where the noise of the neighborhood can be temporarily turned down. If you don’t have such places in your life, I strongly encourage you to find one and retreat to it as often as you can. We all need regular respites from the rush. We need a quiet place where we can make memories and engage in meaningful meditation to soothe our soul.

Are You Hearing Me?

2024-03-01T12:44:58-07:00

THE WORDS

Even before we moved into our Scottish cottage, Judi and I were somewhat familiar with the language nuances between the U.S. and the U.K. Here are some of the common Scottish words and terms to which we’ve been reintroduced:

In Scotland, potatoes are tatties, French fries are chips, and our chips are their crisps. And if you eat too many of any of those, it’s not your pants that you’ll have trouble snapping, it’s your trousers.

Over here, a jumper is a pullover garment, not someone about to bound off a ten-story ledge; and trainers are not the fit folks at the gym pushing you to do one more pull-up, rather, it’s what you wear on your feet when you’re there working out.

You might think you would go to the supermarket with your shopping list and push a cart. But actually, you go to the grocery with your messages and wheel a trolley — that is, if you have a pound in your pocket to buy its temporary freedom from the others it’s chained to. And if you have a wee bairn at home, you’ll probably want to toss some nappies in that trolley. And maybe you’ll want a tin of shortbread biscuits and some squash to mix up and wash them down.

You don’t keep a flashlight in the trunk so you can see what you’re doing at night when you pull onto the shoulder to change a tire. Rather, you keep a torch in your boot so that when you finally get to a passing place you can…try to read the microscopic instruction on the mini tyre compressor you’re glaring at since none of the cars in Scotland these days carry spares. (Good luck if you have a blowout after dark on an unlit single track in the mountains where there are no lay-bys. But I’ll save expounding on that for another blog.)

There are plenty more. A toastie is not how you feel sitting in front of the coal stove, it’s a grilled sandwich. Being invited for a cuppa means you’re going to drink tea. If you have legal problems, you don’t look for a lawyer but a solicitor — unless you need somebody to defend you, and then you need a barrister. A burn won’t catch on fire because it’s a small stream. A moor is a swamp where numerous burns and the endless Scottish rain pool together. (There are more moors than you imagine.) A lass is a young man. A lassie is a young woman, and when several lassies get together to celebrate one’s upcoming betrothal, it’s a hen party. Bonnie means pretty. You can also say braw or tidy, which is the opposite of hackit. A coo is a shaggy cow, and shag has nothing to do with carpet. I’m sure you ken what I mean.

Even though we’re usually connecting all the dots, we still get caught off guard. Like last week:

Places to fill up the car with fuel are few and far between in the Highlands. If we’re traveling north, the closest station to the cottage is 19 miles, up and around the head of the loch in the village of Lochcarron. After that, it’s 29 miles to the next one in Kinlochewe, and another 32 to the one after that.

Last week, I pulled into Lochcarron station and noticed what looked like plastic flags on the handles of the green pumps. (In Scotland, opposite of what American drivers are used to, green-handles signify unleaded while black indicate diesel. Don’t get them confused!)

Thinking the streamers were tags indicating they were out, I walked in and asked Charlotte, “Do you not have gas today?”

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, “We’ll get some bottles in next week.” Her response slipped right by me because I was straightaway trying to decide if I wanted to chance going 29 or more miles north, or double back south 27 miles, past our cottage, just to fill up.

“But if you’re talking about the pumps,” Charlotte interrupted with a knowing look, “we have plenty of diesel and petrol.” Oh yeah. Petrol! That’s the word. It turns out that what I thought were flags were mini rolls of plastic gloves that pumpers can wear to minimize getting petroleum residue on the hands.

Yes, we’re still learning the lingo.

THE SIGNAGE

We’ve mastered driving on the left with the steering wheel on the right, but it’s the signage we constantly encounter — even on trails and in establishments — that have us questioning and chuckling and sometimes going back for a second look. Here are a few of our favorites that we’ve managed to snap as we’ve been out and about. We’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

THE ACCENT

This brings me to the trickiest part of communication in Scotland, the brogue. Let me say up front that I absolutely love the Scottish pronunciations and I adore the way certain phrases roll smoothly off the tongue like the fog rolling over the heather on the braes at morning’s first light. I also realize that, over here, we are the people with the accents. But honestly, sometimes trying to understand is like trying to figure out a word riddle, particularly when we encounter someone from Glasgow or a remote isle. Following a conversation with such a person, Judi and I will quickly and quietly step to the side and ask each other, “How much of that did you get?” It’s not uncommon to discover that we each heard something entirely different.

Interestingly, those from over the southern border also have a hard time communicating with some of the Scots. There’s a story about a Scotsman walking through a field. He sees a man drinking water from a pool with his hand. The Scotsman shouts “Awa ye feel hoor that’s full O’ coos Sharn.” (Rough translation: Don't drink the water, it's full of cow…pies.) The man yells, “I’m an Englishman. Speak English. I don't understand you.” The Scotsman shouts back, “I said, use both hands; you'll get more in.”

The point to all of this is that good communication is a two-way venture. The speaker and the hearer must be on the same wavelength. Eye contact is critical because facial expressions give valuable insights to what’s really being said. And clear communication takes time. Judi and I have agreed that our extended time together — without her heading off to a tennis match or me rushing to the airport for another five-day business trip — has forced us to verbally process what each other is saying on a deeper level than we have experienced for many years.

You don’t have to come to Scotland to improve your communication, but if you do, you’re guaranteed a dialectal and cultural bounty to boot. As the Scots say, it will be pure dead brilliant.

Creation's Proclamation

2024-02-23T16:51:24-07:00

There’s an old joke about a burley backwoodsman who applied for a job as a lumberjack, claiming to be the fastest axman alive. When the boss asked the calloused codger where he might have gained the experience necessary to do such a job, he responded that he worked for years as the lead cutter in the Sahara Forest. The boss, taken aback, inquired, “Are you talking about the Sahara Desert?” The boastful logger replied, “Yeah. That’s what they call it now.”

That same lumberjack must have also worked on the Orkney Islands. This curious archipelago off the north coast of mainland Scotland is almost totally void of forestation. In fact, there is a landmark on Albert Street in the town of Kirkwall known as “The Big Tree.” It’s a sacred 200-year-old sycamore that’s kept erect by a metal rod through its hollow trunk — an attempt to preserve it for future generations.

But even without woodlands, somehow these 70 separate islands — only 20 inhabited — come together to offer a peculiar beauty that promises to send pensive viewers into a melancholy state. Chartreuse hills tumble into inky peat bogs then rise again and climb to the overcast horizon. Now and then, brilliant sunbeams break through the steely skies to shine on countless sheep, grazing wherever they please. Ancient stone fences cordon off long-abandoned cottages made of matching material. The population today lives in newer farm compounds — cottages, barns and outbuildings clustered together in a way that when viewed from a distance look like wee kingdoms on a Carcassonne game board.

In the Orkneys, a coastline of some kind is seldom out of sight: off to the east, a sheer 300-meter cliff with angry waves beating its base; out to the west, a white-sand beach with rows of imbedded black strata temporarily holding back the tide. These settings are replete with winged wildlife as the Orkneys are home to the United Kingdom’s largest colonies of seabirds, which, when they’re not nesting, continuously glide and squawk aloft. Yet the dominant sound is always the howling wind from the North Sea. And that’s why the locals say they are treeless: salt air and constant gales.

But behind this desolate façade lurks some of Europe’s greatest mysteries. Roughly a half century before the first blocks were set in place at the Pyramids of Giza, a thriving colony existed on the Orkneys. Perfectly preserved under sand until 1850, Skara Brea now provides a pristine example of what life was like on these low-lying islands 3,000 years before Christ. Who these people were, how they got to these isolated islands, and where they went still has archeologists guessing.

Then there’s the nearby Ring of Brodgar, the third largest stone circle in the British Isles. Thirty-six of the original 60 stone slabs still stand. How it ties into the Skara Brea's culture remains a subject of debate between Neolithic historians. Was it a rudimentary astrological observatory or perhaps a temple? (Some archeologists think the Ring of Brodgar may have been a shrine for sun worship while the neighboring Stones of Stenness was a place to pay homage to the moon.)

Dozens of stone circles, chambered tombs, and burial mounds are scattered throughout the islands. Other settlement sites also exist — some with rudimentary indoor toilets! More are undoubtedly waiting to be discovered.

Nick Card, professor at the University of the Highlands and the director of excavations on the Orkney Islands, has written, “London may be the cultural hub of Britain today, but 5,000 years ago, Orkney was the centre for innovation for the British Isles. Ideas spread from this place. The first grooved pottery, which is so distinctive of the era, was made here, for example, and the first henges – stone rings with ditches round them – were erected on Orkney. Then the ideas spread to the rest of the Neolithic Britain. This was the font for new thinking at the time.”

As Judi and I explored these places — essentially having them to ourselves — we talked about what life would have been like for these people whose primary focus was to hunt, fish, and farm in order to survive another day. Did they have any inkling that the world was round and that there was a myriad of more-hospitable places to live?

We also talked about what might have been their concept of the Creator and whether their rituals around the stone rings might have left room for the God of the Bible. To ponder this exposes the possibility of divine subjectivity and the complexity of holy grace. Did these people have a sufficiently appropriate faith-response to God’s revelation through creation and to that which He placed in their hearts? Instead of thinking as the Ring of Brodgar and the Stones of Stenness as evil places of pagan ritual, perhaps they were constructed in an attempt to respond — the only way the Skara Brea people knew how — to that which was intrinsic and to reach out to a God whose name they never heard uttered.

“For ever since the world was created, people have seen the earth and sky. Through everything God made, they can clearly see his invisible qualities — his eternal power and divine nature” (Romans 1:20, NLT). And when those “who have never heard of God’s law follow it more or less by instinct, they confirm its truth by their obedience. They show that God’s law is not something alien, imposed on us from without, but woven into the very fabric of our creation. There is something deep within them that echoes God’s yes and no, right and wrong. Their response to God’s yes and no will become public knowledge on the day God makes his final decision about every man and woman” (Romans 2:15-16, The Message).

It’s likely that Paul in Athens was talking about people like those from Skara Brea when he said, “… we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill. In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent” (Acts 17:29-30, NIV).

If God’s grace and mercy is applied as I trust it might be, maybe in heaven we’ll not only be able to coax Noah to describe his feelings when the first raindrops fell or inquire of Peter what it was like to walk on water, but also ask someone from Skara Brea who first came up with the idea of indoor plumbing.

Just Another Foreigner

2024-02-12T13:34:59-07:00

In any of the many tourist shops in Edinburgh, Glasgow, or Inverness, those of Scottish descent can purchase countless tartan products denoting their clan. If you’re a Stewart, Campbell, Fraser, MacDonald, MacLeod, MacKenzie, or any of the other 30 or more “Macs,” there’s a kilt, scarf, fly or tie in your personal plaid, either on the rack or in the back.

Notwithstanding, in our past visits to Scotland, we’ve never been able to find anything bearing the colors of my mother’s father’s family. They were Scotch-Irish with the surname Gillogly. On those occasions when we inquired about our kin’s woven standard, the shop clerks would always get puzzled looks on their faces and say they were unfamiliar with the name — and then refer us to another shop that had more inventory or a self-avowed genealogy expert.

Actually, we didn’t need the latter. My mother’s sister was a genealogy aficionado. Long before the days of the Internet and ancestory.com, she taught college-level courses on lineage research. By spending countless hours in libraries, courthouses, and cemeteries, she traced her father’s ancestors back to Europe in the 17th century. Thanks to her diligence, we knew when, why, and how our people journeyed from Ireland to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to the mountains of western Pennsylvania to the hills of southeastern Ohio. In the “old country,” they were farmers who worked the land on several islands in Lower Lough Erne, near Enniskillen, in County Fermanagh, Ulster. My fifth great-grandparents, John and Mary Jane (Moore) Gillogly were both born in Enniskillen in 1847 but died in Muskingum County Ohio, she in 1816 and he in 1855 — yes, he lived to be 108.

But what about the Scottish origin, and what took them to Ireland? Starting in the early 1600s, Scottish protestants living largely in Dunfries and The Borders, the southernmost parts of the country, were coerced, even forced, to leave their homes and move west across the water to populate the Plantation of Ulster so England would have a foothold in Ireland. Those peasant pawns were the first to be known as Scotch-Irish. The English plan was to confiscate all the lands of Gaelic Irish nobility and set the Scots up as farmers on those same properties. But the farmers weren’t fighters. For this plan to work, they needed enforcers. So London looked north and decided the rascally, rugged Highlanders who had been giving them fits since the days of William Wallace were who they needed to hire.

But what’s interesting is that many Highland warriors were already in Ireland — recruited hundreds of years earlier to comprise private armies for Irish chieftains. The irony is that by the 1600s, you had Highlanders protecting the Irish from Highlanders serving as soldiers for the English. Whenever my relatives got to Ireland — probably in the 1200s or 1300s — and whatever side they were on — probably the Irish — they were apparently mercenaries. As a neighbor here in Plockton told me, “Highlanders don’t need much of a reason to fight.”

But why no personalized plaid? What I recently learned was that Gillogly was an Anglicized forms of the Irish surname Galloglaigh, which was an Irish variant of the Gaelic name MacGalloglach. In Gaelic, the mac, of course, means “son of.” The gall part means “foreigner” and oglach (or owglass) means young warrior. Pushing this historical door open a bit further, it seems my Scottish ancestors were heavily armed fighters referred to as Gaelic-Norse who originally rowed over from the Skrettingland area of southeast Norway. Essentially, they were Viking marauders and plunderers who liked what they saw in Scotland and decided not to row back. But instead of being known by their family, they were known by their macabre profession, and thus there was no family crest or tartan. However, the Scottish home base for the MacGalloglach clan was the Balmartin area of North Uist in the Outer Hebrides, Scotland’s far northwestern islands. That means they would have been intermingled and probably intermarried with the Clan MacDonald who laid hold to that land early on. Now that I know, I guess the closest I’ll ever get to a Gillogly tartan, is a MacDonald hand-me-down.

In Act 1, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, an unnamed wounded soldier tells King Duncan and his sons, “…the merciless Macdonwald....from the Western Isles of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied.” In other words, the MacDonalds had military might at their disposal: the Kerns, lightly armed foot soldiers who generally carried a wooden shield and a sword; and the Gallowglass (a.k.a., Galloglachs… Galloglaighs…Gilloglys), heavily armored warriors hand-picked for their strength and massive size. They were known for carrying halberds, which were battle axes on long poles. Thankfully, they eventually beat their weapons into farming tools and took a more peaceful path forward — although I have a couple of cousins…never mind.

It's been fun to find from whence my family came. But after having a three-day dalliance with days-of-old, two things jump out at me. The first is that we are all foreigners — every one of us. A few centuries here, and few centuries there, but humanity is constantly on the move — and often bloodshed follows. Perhaps we’ve learned our lesson over time and welcoming the stranger in the days ahead will be an art that we finally and peacefully perfect. Actually, I think Christians have a mandate to do so. See Romans 15:1-6.

The second thing is that we are who we are where we are. It’s been fun to romanticize about having Highland roots. We love being part of the local culture here in Scotland, and Judi will probably start making potato-leek soup when we get back to Colorado. (Her mother’s family is also Scotch-Irish.) But the truth is, I could wrap on a kilt and chase the deer on Sgùrr Alasdair all day long, but I’m not a Highlander any more than I’m a Viking voyager or an Irish cottier.

We all need to appreciate, even celebrate, our heritage. But if we regularly tie our identity to the hitching post of heredity, rather than the rail of current reality, we could forget where we truly live and what’s expected of us. Overemphasizing that someone is an Italian American, Mexican American (Chicano), African American, Asian American, or however it's declared in these days of political correctness, results in more isolation and less assimilation.

I encourage you to explore your heritage, whatever it might be, but be who you are where you are. And if in your searching you find out that we might be distant relatives, let me know.

There's More Where That Came From

2024-02-03T11:10:26-07:00

We’re completely content with the simplicity that abounds in our humble hamlet of Plockton. Take, for example, the procurement of groceries. The biggest store in the Highlands is Morrisons in Inverness, two hours and ten minutes northeast by train. There are smaller food co-ops in Kyle of Lochalsh, Broadford, and Portree. But here in our village, the main market is Plockton Shores.

This unassuming shop blends in with the long row of look-alike homes on Harbour Street — all of which were built to house herring fishermen and their families in a former century. Karen (pronounced Kay´-ruen) is Plockton Shores’ primary operative. Her always-bright welcome is a suitable substitute for sunshine on back-to-back days of Scottish mist and opaque skies.

The north side of the establishment is a café that serves homecooked meals and local brews. It’s open for breakfast and lunch this time of year — and dinner when warmer weather and a longer-lingering sun on the craigs lures tourists to town for fabulous photo ops and a loch-side supper.

The south half of the store is where locals buy stamps for the post — the red box is just two doors down — The Daily Record, fresh baked goods, and takeaway tea and coffee. But more than that, the south side’s also the village grocery.

Five steps further inside there’s a fresh produce section where 15 different fruits and vegetables share space in ten wicker bins on the wall. Naturally, you’ll find a neep or two (think rutabaga). You can’t serve haggis without mashed neeps. But the potatoes and leeks are the first to sell out every week as they are the named players in potato-leek soup, a Scottish favorite. (Judi has tried out two recipes so far. One was good enough to give a portion to the pastor to take home when he stopped by for a visit two evenings back.)

On adjacent shelving there are tins (cans) of Cullen Skink, Cock-a Leekie (also made with leeks), and a couple of other soups. You’ll find a few tubes of biscuits (crackers) and some bags of crisps (chips). The bread table has about a dozen loaves when freshly stocked, plus there’s a few sacks of flour underneath for those who’d rather bake their own.

Behind the till is a glass-fronted fridge with a sampling of butter, yogurt, and cheese, plus a pack or two of pork sausage. Squash (diluted juice) and fizzy drinks are kept cold on the bottom shelves. You can always find Coke, craved the world over, and Irn-Bru, a unique soda with popularity that starts to go flat south of Glasgow.

Beer and various household necessities occupy the rest of the shelves in Plockton Shores. If it’s not in stock, you can borrow from a neighbor until the next trip to Kyle.

What’s amazing is that the entire market takes up about 90 square feet!

Before I go on, I would be remiss not to mention auxiliary sustenance sales in our little village. Many of the crofts vend fresh eggs and preserves. You just have to know what lane to walk down, which barn door to enter, and where to leave your pounds. But our favorite food buying experience rolls our way every Wednesday: Yogi’s seafood van. In probably 20 cubic feet of refrigerated space in the back end of his wee lorry he portions out fillets of salmon, haddock, smoked haddock, halibut, hake, and monkfish, plus langoustines and other crustations. He simply blows his horn, and the locals scurry out to the street to see what fish have been freshly caught. Yogi is a grown-up version of the Good Humor man. Instead of a King Cone you get king crab.

I must admit, it's novel to live for a time in this world of reduced options and limited supply. It’s a world away from the mega stores in major cities — even Inverness — where the contents of just the endcap displays in the first two aisles would be more than Plockton Shores’ shelves could hold.

Buying food in our current location certainly makes us appreciate both the incredible variety and sheer volume of commodities that are found where we usually shop. It also reinforces the fact that the having vs. lacking match is always won in the late innings by the latter. We find ourselves paying more attention to our pantry than we do at home, and asking each other what needs to be used up next before it goes bad.

There’s absolutely no question about it: We can very easily adjust and live well on the inventory of local stores here in the Highlands. People all around us have done it for decades. We’re actually quite content. And the generosity of friends is always an added blessing. Even so, the word that that I’m contemplating during this season is abundance. There is scarcity — which we are far from. Then there’s sufficiency — which is where we are. Abundance is what one finds in Inverness or Glasgow or Colorado Springs.

The question I’m pondering: When it comes to God’s spiritual inventory in his storehouse of blessing, am I content with sufficiency even though abundance is always available?

“[God] is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us… (Ephesians 3:20, KJV).

“I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly” (John 10:10, KJV).

How many times do we hurry to a corner store for spiritual staples when our Heavenly Father’s supermarket is open ‘round the clock? What’s more, His inventory is infinite. Even when we empty a shelf, there’s always more where that came from.

A Cup of Kindness

2024-01-26T05:15:35-07:00

Last night, in pubs across Scotland, glasses were hoisted and shouts of Sláinte Mhath! resounded. That’s because every year on January 25, on the evening of the day of his birth, Scots celebrate their cherished poet, Robert Burns. (They also celebrate him on July 21, the anniversary of his death. Sláinte Mhath! one more time.)

“Rabbie,” as he is affectionately called, penned more than 700 poems in his lifetime, including one traditionally recited every year on Robert Burns Night: “Address to a Haggis.” And then they pass out the forks and knives and serve it up. (If you’re not familiar with this National Dish of Scotland, it consists of a sheep’s lungs, liver, heart, and other parts, mixed with oatmeal, onions, and suet, and baked in the sheep’s stomach — which some say is why the Scots invented Scotch whisky). See what you missed last night.

Back to Robert Burns. You might not be abundantly familiar with this rhymester’s repertoire, but I guarantee you’ve heard — and probably even sung — one of his lyrics. Even in Old English, you’re sure to recognize this:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne,
we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

A current-day translation of the Scottish words auld lang syne would be old long ago. The song is about fond memories of the past. Taking a cup of kindness refers to men and women sharing a drink to symbolize friendship that has lasted through the best and worst of times.

The poem has five verses. As outdoor enthusiasts, two of them engender countless fond memories of wilderness experiences Judi and I have had, with each other and with friends, at home and abroad. Here they are in standard English:

We two have run about the hills,
and picked the daisies fine;
But we've wandered many a weary foot,
since auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,
from morning sun till dine;
But seas between us broad have roared
since auld lang syne.

And the last verse goes like this:

And there's a hand my trusty friend!
And give me a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

I wish for the life of me that Christians could consistently have closure like that. Not necessarily the drinking part, but the simpatico part.

All my days I have been around ministry organizations, in the States and overseas, where staff and volunteers have come and gone. The coming part is always celebratory: New team members are often seen as saviors, surely able to fix what those before them broke. But in a relatively short time, expectations to excel exceed ability to perform. The rapid descent from the status of special to that of ordinary actually makes them appear less than ordinary. Parties are too busy, too proud, or too inept to seek a remedy for what has turned into a rocky relationship. By the time the termination or resignation is official, fellowship is broken, usually for good. There is no genial auld lang syne.

Did you know that more than half of the Christians who go overseas to serve as career missionaries never complete their first term on the field? They leave for reasons that could have been rectifiable — often conflict with other missionaries or their sending agency — and never go back into mission work. Again, no cordial auld lang syne.

The same thing happens in churches (and associations) where people possess a dangerous avidity that compels them to walk if they don’t win. When Judi and I were over here in 2016, we spent time in the Outer Hebrides — essentially the last stop going east until you run aground in Labrador. One Sunday, in a small village, we had a choice of attending the Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland Continuing, or the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland.

I asked a local to orient us. He said, “These different churches all came about because of fights and splits over one thing or another down through the years.” Shaking his head he added, “And they still don’t get along. That’s why church attendance is pitiful around here.” He then stared off at the rain clouds rolling in from Iceland and made this sad observation: “I don’t know how these people can think their faith will make any difference in the world if they can’t come together and love one another on this little rock in the Atlantic.”

You’d think that with all the legendary beverages in Scotland they would at least want to share a cup of kindness.

The truth is, Christians do not do closure well. And many believers carry for decades the scars of departure, be it from a full-time ministry job, a mission field assignment, or a church they loved.

Succession is the dominant subject these days in many Christian camps and city missions (and certainly other ministries). Even though I’m no longer officially in leadership capacity at an association, I continue to hear from association members — specifically outgoing CEOs — who see me as a trusted friend in whom they can confide about the pangs of departure. There’s a lot of hurt out there.

If you are involved in ministry on any level, I urge you to take some time — call it a Robert Burns moment — to think about closures that have happened in your organization over the years, and see if there might be someone who you suspect (or know for a fact) is still hurting because the closure didn’t go well—be it their fault or yours, or one of your predecessors. Consider reengaging and working to bring about the kind of closure that demonstrates ultimate Christian love and can alleviate the anger and anguish that is probably afflicting this person (or persons) like an incurable chronic illness.

And if not work related, you might want (need) to do this totally on a family level, immediate or extended.

What you can give those suffering is central to the Gospel. It’s what's talked about in Isaiah 61 — the attributes that Jesus’s coming to earth can bring to its inhabitants:

…garland instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
the mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting

We all can be thickheaded and thin-skinned. And whether you, yourself, have been a victim of cold shoulders or heated words, the cause of Christ is worth the work—and make no mistake, it will be work. You might even need to engage professional help.

But don’t let that hold you back. Reach out and do it: Pour a cup of kindness — not just for auld lang syne, but because the world, more than ever before, needs to see that reconciliation is possible when Christ is part of the process.

Going Green

2024-01-20T11:48:53-07:00

Proximity to the Atlantic is the primary reason snow accumulation is a rarity up here on Loch Carron. Thus the 20 centimeters or so that blew in from the Arctic this past week were enough to close the schools. Bus drivers didn’t want to navigate the network of sinuous single-track roads in the area — and parents agreed that a worry-free week was worth having their wee ones at home.

But -5°C and a few inches of powder is October weather for Coloradans. Clipping on the Yaktrax we hit the hiking trails, checking off Duncraig, Ob an Duine, and Coral Beach from our list of must-do rambles. With every step we took in crisp air and stunning views.

But our conversations kept returning to one thing: the greenery. We were fascinated by the January verdure — in the mountains, no less! The number of plants blooming far outnumber the ones dormant or dead. No matter which way you look, mixed in with the assorted evergreens you will spy a variety of broadleafs that proudly clench their emerald jewelry, even when wearing a snowy mantle.

Friends who have seen our photos have asked if those were really palm trees…in the Scottish Highlands?! Indeed. And there is also brilliant rhododendron, gorse, daphne, holly, koromiko, bracken, and even bamboo. The list is long. Wester Ross is certainly a region of bliss for botanists.

The New Christy Minstrels had a hit song in the 60s titled Green, Green. Barry McGuire and his accompanists would sing out:

Green, green, it’s green they say;
On the far side of the hill.
Green, green, I’m going away;
To where the grass is greener still.

Barry, if you’re going to the west coast of the Scottish Highlands, you’ll reach your destination.

The locals are swift to point out that there are two primary reasons for the perpetual vegetation. The first is the warm water of the Gulf Stream that makes its way out of the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, and then up and across the ocean, eventually turning into the North Atlantic Drift. Where we are is as far north as the Hudson Bay in Canada — where the sea freezes over in winter. But not here, thanks to that curious flow. Grab a globe and ponder that. The science of it should make us all want to be more involved with creation care. We must not forget our stewardship obligation, entrusted to us by God.

The second reason our new neighbors say it’s always green is year-round rain. There’s an age-old adage in Scotland: “You know it’s summer because the rain is warmer.” It’s raining now. It comes and goes. The Scots all but ignore it.

A few hours ago I was working with a joiner — a profession you don’t hear a lot about in the States — on a two-century-old cast iron rain gutter. As we were moving a ladder, a momentary torrent blew through. The craftsman paid no mind to the rainfall. No duck and cover. Normal as the seagull’s squawks.

When you think about it, what many would consider an inconvenience actually brings the vibrance. And if it ceases to be bothersome, you’re only left with the beauty. I pray we all can, as much as possible, tune out life’s tolerable frustrations and focus on the splendor.

Suffering in Silence

2024-01-16T07:53:53-07:00

The message from the minister at the Free Church of Scotland in Kyle of Lochalsh this past Sunday was from Luke, Chapter 8. It brought to mind a devotional I contributed for a Days of Lent book that M. J. Murdock Charitable Trust published in 2016. With the news from back home of friends of friends recently passing, I thought I would recirculate it.

The compacted crowd in Luke 8 would have made a claustrophobic hyperventilate. Despite the congestion, a woman with a chronic condition wormed her way through the throng and reached her intended target: the garment of a rabbi whose authority was to be her remedy. Instantly, he felt a discharge of power. Immediately, she felt years of hemorrhaging and hardship end.

The story of the afflicted woman is certainly one of faith and determination. But it goes deeper. Knowing what we do about her condition, and factoring in Jewish law, we likely have the saga of a woman who suffered in silence, living more than a decade in a culture that would have considered her unclean.

In this life there will be suffering, be it related to physical pain or mental anguish. It’s hard enough to endure when you have friends to fall back on, but to suffer solo amplifies the agony. We need to cast our cares on Christ, but we also need to be in community where we can seek solace and share the hurts of our heart. Ephesians describes this as “bearing with one another in love.”

I find it interesting that Jesus did not let the woman be cured incognito. He called her out from the crowd so she could tell her story. I’d like to think that she was quickly surrounded by peers with whom she could lose her cares and find her voice.

Christians should never suffer in silence—or allow others to do so.

PRAYER:
Loving Jesus, no one understands suffering like you do. Thank you for enduring the agony of the cross and the devastation of separation from your Father so I can embrace sacred assurances in the midst of my infirmities and grasp divine hope in the midst of my heartaches. Open my eyes to others around me who desperately need my presence and your promises in their times of suffering. Give me a deep desire to serve them selflessly. I ask this in your powerful, abiding, and comforting name, Amen.

Who Do You Know?

2024-01-13T13:00:31-07:00

The phrase living in community has become popular in recent years. I’ve heard it defined as “becoming family with the people around you.” Here in Scotland, we’ve decided to not just move into a cottage, but into a community. In the short time we’ve been here, we’ve gotten acquainted with probably 15 of the locals — which I think is about three percent of the population.

But word is circulating that outlanders from Colorado are holed up in Tigh-na-Dalach, down on Bank Street, and they plan to stay for a while. Who would be doo-lally enough to do that in January, the abyss of low season? Such notoriety will likely lead us to meet quite a few more folks.

The residents we’ve gotten to know so far are ordinary Scots…at first blush. But beneath those Rab jackets and plaid scarfs are friendly, hearty people with interesting tales to tell. Take Annag. She runs a croft at the top of the hill and raises Highland cattle, pigs, sheep, and chickens. She supplies the locals with eggs and chutney and serves takeaway farm meals to summer tourists. When she stopped by to check on us the other day, she said she had just been swimming. Judi wondered aloud where the indoor pool was. “In the sea, Dearie,” she proclaimed to our amazement. “I swim at Coral Beach all year long. I swam on Christmas and Boxing Day,” she continued. She usually stays in the ocean for 20 minutes, then gets out and walks home! We’ve been invited to go swimming.

Then there’s elderly Callum. We met him while trying to find the trail to Duncraig Castle. He was on his daily walk from his house, through town, and up the hill to the railroad station. He told us to go park our car and he would meet us on the road opposite the trailhead. We got back and there he was on the frosty sidewalk, pointing to the path with his white cane. Callum is blind. For years he ran the broadsheet (newspaper) shop in town. He greeted everyone who came through the door by name when they said hello because he knew all their voices.

Rhona and her husband live three doors down. They run the local brewery, which is in their backyard. He was a naval captain. When he retired, because there were no jobs to fit his needs or fulfill his desires, he found a new niche: supplying the area pubs with a local favorite. Rhona is showing us the best places to trek.

We’ve also met Angus, the butcher who taught us how to cook haggis; and Kirstine, who just moved to town to join the teaching staff at the primary school; and Rory, who instructed me as to which brand of coal burns hotter and cleaner. We’re getting to know them one by one. Maybe in church tomorrow we’ll get to know a few more. Who will you meet tomorrow that will join your community?

All names changed for privacy reasons.

Jesus Off the Wall

2023-12-23T09:43:31-07:00

The walls and windows of the churches of my childhood were adorned with paintings of a softhearted, submissive, and subdued Jesus: praying anxiously in a garden; cradling a lamb plucked from the flock; meekly tapping on a thick wooden door; smiling at a circle of well-behaved children; sitting down to dinner with a dozen disciples; and alas, hanging lifelessly on a cross.

I sometimes have problems reconciling the Jesus of church décor to the Jesus frequently found in Scripture—the epigrammatic one who has his finger in the face of a Pharisee, calling him a disgusting fraud and low-life snake.

These days, I seem to be drawn to the Jesus of pithy, unexpected responses and politically incorrect conduct. In Matthew Chapter 8 there are four back-to-back clips that show this Jesus.

In verse 19, a religious leader, evidently intent on learning more from this iconoclastic rabbi, says he wants to tag along.

The walls and windows Jesus: “Thank you for your interest. You’re in for some amazing insights about my father’s kingdom. Just go over there and introduce yourself to Phillip. He’ll take you under his wing and show you how we roll.”

The real Jesus: “Are you ready to rough it? We’re not staying in the best inns, you know” (The Message).

In verse 21, an unnamed student tells the teacher he wants to continue on in Jesus’ traveling classroom but needs some time off to handle his father’s funeral arrangements.

The walls and windows Jesus: “I’m so sorry for your loss, and I totally understand how you must be torn here. Listen, Thomas will give you a schedule of where we’re planning to be over the next two weeks so you can find us and join back in after your family’s affairs have been handled and you’ve had time to comfort your grieving mother. And by the way, I appreciate so much you honoring your father, as Scripture teaches. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

The real Jesus: “Follow me now! Let those who are dead care for their own dead” (Living Bible).

In verses 23–27, Jesus and his crew set sail east, across the Sea of Galilee. By mid-course, the captain is asleep; everyone else, however, is awake and wide-eyed as waves from a sudden storm rhythmically break into the boat. Desperately seeking security, they rouse him.

The walls and windows Jesus: “Wow. This is quite the squall. I can’t believe I slept through this. Hold on tight until I can get a handle on the situation. And guys, don’t feel badly for being panicked. It’s a normal human reaction—and more so for the three of you who can’t swim!”

The real Jesus: “Please! What are you so afraid of, you of little faith” (The Voice)?

The last of the four vignettes is found in verses 28–34. Jesus and his followers are now ashore, trekking into territory originally belonging to the tribe of Manasseh, but now inhabited primarily by Gentiles.

Soon they come upon two demon-possessed men who are striking terror into the hearts of the locals, causing them to skirt the crypts these hellions are calling home. But when Jesus shows up, the tables are turned; the beasts from beyond are the ones who are terrified. Jesus honors their request for new hosts: He casts them out of the humans and into a nearby herd of swine. To everyone’s astonishment, pigs fly—over the cliff and into the sea where they all drown!

There certainly is no walls and windows Jesus in this story. The innocent pig farmers lose their livelihood. The animal rights activists (no doubt) pitch a fit. The townsfolk, who apparently prefer peaceful pigs to an impressive prophet, give Jesus and his boys the boot for such socially irresponsible behavior. So, off they trot, back to Nazareth to offend some more Pharisees.

What are we to make of this Jesus whose words and actions regularly tempered the hubris of the sanctimonious and left onlookers aghast? Did Jesus really have an abrasive side—this Jesus who knew that a soft answer could turn away wrath; who sat on a hillside and taught others that words matter, and that if you thoughtlessly used insulting words you could find yourself on the brink of hellfire; who said in the same setting that we should treat others just like we want to be treated?

Yes, I believe he quite often was Jesus off the wall, somewhat sardonic; but let me point out a couple of things. First, he was never cruel or callous, just provocative and penetrating. And if that Jesus makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, you are not alone. There are a lot of folks who favor a kind and gentle guardian over a Lord, mighty in battle. Personally, I think it is because over the course of the last several decades in North America we have increasingly emphasized niceness over frankness, hoping to make Jesus more appealing to unbelievers. But I think such efforts have only caused believers to revere and fear him less.

Second, if you read the red letters, you will see that Jesus did frequently use acerbic words, but they were reserved for those who should have known better—the religious leaders, the teachers of the law, and his disciples. And what he told them was intended to get their attention—to cut through the cords of incredulity and confusion that bound their hearts and minds. Jesus also didn’t hesitate to appropriate his creation (e.g., the pigs, the fig tree, etc.) on occasion to make a powerful point.

But to the poor and powerless and those farthest from the fold, Jesus spoke and demonstrated total grace, mercy, and compassion. I hope you are as frustrated as I am that there are far too many Christians today who don’t make that same differentiation. Comments to and about certain people outside of the faith are just as harsh and condemning as the words they lay on brothers and sisters in Christ who don’t line up with their orthodoxy. I’m sure Jesus has a few choice words he’d like to drop on them.

In your leadership role, never be cruel or callous. Know your various audiences. Speak the truth in love. But don’t hesitate to be firm and forthright when it’s appropriate. And don’t let your Spirit-directed remarks be held for the ransom of an apology that isn’t warranted. It annoys me to no end how someone will employ social media to implore the masses to be outraged enough to shower an opponent with shame and get him or her to cough up a mea culpa. Victory is then declared. If Jesus’ three-year ministry were taking place today, the Twittersphere would be melting down with demands for apologies coming from every sector of society. He would be “crucified” on the Internet long before being crucified on a cross.

In closing, know that it’s okay to be comforted by the calm Jesus depicted in the paintings on the wall in the narthex of your church. But know that you can also seek solace in the Jesus who is off the wall and outside the frame—the one who casts aside niceties, when needed, to make a prodigious point. This is the Jesus who can grab your attention and keep you veracious and ambitious.

I often hear people utter that clichéd question: “What would Jesus do?” My mind immediately goes to a poster I once saw. It suggests that overturning tables and chasing people with a whip is within the realm of possibilities. Perhaps that’s a picture that should be on the wall behind the pulpit in our churches these days.