Last night I had one of those moments with my daughter that I hope I never forget.

Since the time we started home from school and her brother’s doctor appointment, 8-year-old Laura had been pleading with me to “Play Jonah” with her. When we got home, though, she wanted to play with our two neighbor children while there was still daylight. That was fine with me; she had finished her homework in the doctor’s waiting room.

But at bedtime, it was my night (Mom and I alternate with each child) to read with her and say our prayers together — and the subject of “Playing Jonah” came up again. I quickly discovered what it meant: after I had helped her clean her room Sunday afternoon, she had rediscovered a Jonah playset that I bought for her years before … on the clearance table of a Bible bookstore, for $5, as I recall.

Though the mast and sail had disappeared long ago, the boat and its crew and Jonah and the big fish (looking suspiciously like a whale) were intact. An orange monkey — who may have escaped his barrel — had joined the crew.

So I read the book of Jonah from her NIV Bible to Laura while she acted it out with her toys. God told Jonah in Joppa to go preach against Ninevah “for their wickedness has come before Me”, and Jonah ran the other way instead — catching a boat for Tarshish.

A storm rocked the boat convincingly. I paused in the narrative to ask: “Can you believe Jonah could fall asleep during a storm like that?” Laura looked up at me. “Why not? Jesus did!”

Jonah persuaded the crew to toss him overboard, and immediately the boat was becalmed. Right on cue, the big fish swallowed him whole. In the three days that followed, the fish either swam very fast through the Strait of Gibraltar, around the Cape of Good Hope, past Madagascar and the Sinai, through the Persian Gulf and up the Tigris River — or God helped that fish somehow! And during those three days, Jonah prayed his prayer of praise to God, thanking him for his deliverance. Thanking him? I thought to myself. In advance? Or did Jonah consider the fish deliverance from the storm? or from what God had told him to do?

If the latter, he was disappointed, because the big fish threw him up near Ninevah. So, probably hating every moment of it, Jonah went and preached against them. (Laura held up his arm and shook it at the former crew of the boat, now Ninevites. I don’t know where she got that. I don’t remember seeing our preacher do it.)

Well, those Ninevites repented — from the king down to the last cow — in sackcloth and ashes. I tried to picture what a cow must have looked like, wearing sackcloth. Their repentance really ticked off Jonah, because he knew God would forgive them if they did, and he didn’t think they deserved forgiveness.

So Jonah went and sat down where he could see what would happen to the city, hoping that God would destroy Ninevah (formerly the boat, as Laura arranged it), because that’s what they deserved. And a vine grew up over him to shade him from the hot sun. (Laura and I interlaced fingers in a viny shelter over the little figure.) Then it was eaten by a worm (our fingers parted and our hands melted from over him) and he was out in the hot sun again, and as mad as he was hot. “If that’s the way things should be, I’d rather just die!” he complained.

“Do you have any right to be angry about the vine?” God asked him. “You didn’t make it grow, but it grew. Do you have any right to be angry about it going away? There are more than 120,000 people in Ninevah. Shouldn’t I be concerned about that great city?”

Then the orange monkey danced around the gunwales of the boat, happy that everyone had been spared. That part wasn’t in the Bible, but it seemed a fitting conclusion to Laura.

We knelt by her bed and prayed that God would turn the hearts of bad people like he did in Ninevah, and especially the bad people in Iraq who make life miserable for the good people who live there.

I kissed Laura good-night, wondering how many Jonahs it would take for all of the Ninevahs in Iraq to be spared from further destruction.

The original one, of course, was destroyed by flood and flame and trampled underfoot until marching armies could not find its ruins — just as the prophet Nahum later predicted.

What was rebuilt nearby is now called Mosul, Iraq.

I’ve never been a very political animal. I have trouble deciding whether I’m a donkey or an elephant. I usually have just enough interest in the process to do what I should as a good citizen — get out and cast a vote for the better alternative (in my humble opinion).

My real government is God’s kingdom, and I try to vote for Him early and often.

But this time around, election season seems different.

The rhetoric is harsher than usual. The lines in the sand are drawn more deeply. The sides taken are more entrenched and the invectives are angrier.

It seems like there is, somehow, much more at stake.

And I wonder, like a good Sheldonite* should: How would my Savior cast His vote? What would He say about all this conflict?

Would He vote Republican? Would He say: “Render not unto Caesar the things that are yours”? “The wise said to the foolish, ‘Give us your oil'”? “Blessed are the mighty, for they shall fear no one”? “You shall love your neighbor and bomb your enemy”?

Would He vote Democratic? Would He say: “Sell all that you have and give to social programs”? “A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife or husband”? “Blessed are those who have been persecuted for abortion’s sake”?

Would He vote the Green Party ticket? Would He say: “The axe shall never be laid to the root of the tree?”

Labor? “The workman deserves more than his wages”?

Socialist? “The workman deserves his wages plus everyone else’s wages divided by the number of workmen?”

Would He vote for the lesser of two — or the least of three or four or five — evils?

Or would He view it as voting against the greater/greatest?

One thing is certain: I have a lot to think about, and pray about, before the curtains close behind me November 2.

As political animals go, I believe I’m a sheep.

_{*author of In His Steps, origin of the “What would Jesus do?” mantra.}

Two extraordinary things strike me about what Jesus says in response to His detractors in Matthew 21:16 (giving Him trouble because children are loudly praising God for His arrival in Jerusalem).

He tells them, yes, He hears them; then asks: “Have you never read, ‘Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings you have perfected praise’?”

The first thing is that He seems to be quoting Psalm 8:2, which says “From the lips of babes and infants you have established strength, because of your adversaries, that you might silence the enemy and the avenger.”

Though the phrase “established strength” is variously translated “founded strength,” “ordained strength,” “made clear your strength,” and even “established praise,” there is an implication there:

Jesus equates “perfecting praise” with “establishing strength.”

And the second thing is that our example is our children. The ones pointed out to Jesus had been “crying in the temple” that He was the “Son of David.”

Is there something about “crying in the temple” that perfects praise and establishes strength?

I wonder about all those times when I hear a baby cry or a toddler giggle in our assembly. An embarrassed parent usually hurries the child to the nursery or a training room while worship continues as well as it can until the “disturbance” is removed.

I wonder if we’re removing a wonderful example of praise.

Yes, it’s an annoying noise and it interrupts. But when a baby cries, she lets everything out. She hasn’t learned yet to hold back; to hide her emotions behind a mask of control and ceremony. She wails at the top of her lungs. She hollers.

The toddler who gets tickled and cannot stop laughing hasn’t learned to. He hasn’t learned that life is supposed to have serious and respectful times. He hasn’t learned that there must be a time and place and reason to be happy. He just is. (I remember an instance a decade ago when our walking-but-not-yet-talking little Matthew started giggling fitfully in a pie shop for no apparent reason and pretty soon had us and everyone else there in stitches.)

Do we miss out on perfected praise — on unrestrained strength; on relief from grief; on unstoppable joy — by holding back when we worship?

Wonder what Walt would’ve wrought …

Before my family and I left in June for a week of vacation (five days to be spent at Disneyland), I told some friends that my children would return with all kinds of ideas about what heaven should be like.

Thinking back on that comment, I’ve wondered since then what “Paradiso” would be like if designed by Walt Disney instead of Dante Alighieri.

Instead of seven rings or circles of increasing piety, would heaven have seven different “lands” to accommodate believers with different approaches to their belief?

Would there be ….

… a MainStreetHeaven for the faithful who didn’t want anything about their faith (or anyone else’s) to change?

… a FrontierHeaven for folks who always liked to pioneer new ways of thinking about their faith?

… an AdventureHeaven for people who were bold enough to share it, no matter what others thought or what dangers it might present?

… a NewOrleansSquareHeaven for the party-hearty crowd who just wanted to sing and be joyful and leave the blues of the faith behind?

… a TomorrowHeaven for those who were always looking ahead and envisioning where their faith could take them?

…. a FantasyHeaven for the believers who just thought any kind of faith was fine and good enough? Complete with a “Small Heaven After All” celebrating all the different faiths and nations, as a comfort for those who never went and never sent?

… perhaps even a ToonTownHeaven off to the side someplace, where reality is a little off the mark, just for the people who think they’re the only ones who should be there?

Maybe more importantly, which part of Walt’s Heaven would be the eternal home of my faith?

HeartWorship

Most months, I write a short church bulletin article to help my spiritual siblings prepare for worship. Many are kind enough to tell me that they enjoy and appreciate them. I tell them they are “Barnabases” — encouragers.

And even as I say “Thank you” to them, I feel a little dishonest. Some of the “HeartWorship” items I write don’t even feel like my writing even while I’m punching the keys, let alone days or weeks later.

Here’s a sample of those familiar/unfamiliar items from the past few months:

Security Guaranteed

If the values we cherish most are found in clothes or cars or cash, we’ll have to face the fact that there will be moths and rust and thieves.

Stocks rise and fall. So do banks and nations and men.

No one knew that better than King David, who — at one time or another — lost virtually everything that can be lost: power, dignity, respect, wealth, family relationships, finally his health. Sometimes, he regained what was lost.

But at all times, he recognized Who was his rock, his fortress, his tower, his strength, his refuge, his glory, his salvation — the One who saves what is lost.

(Matthew 6:19, 20; Psalm 61, 62)

Joyously Ever After

She worships him. And he would do anything for her.

In fact, he did. He rescued her from a fate worse than death, braving insult and torture and the ignominy of her own scarlet past. He willingly bore that burden though it separated him from his own father for a time … and then from her.

That time passed quickly for him, though it seemed much too long to her. When the rescue was complete, he would wash her and present her with a beautiful white bridal gown, and a promised reunion with his father.

But theirs was no fairy-tale relationship. The rescue cost him his life.

It’s no wonder she worships him, and awaits his return.

(Ephesians 5:25-32)

Beautiful Feet

The feet anointed for burial by a sinful woman had walked many miles, and into many places of worship.

The feet nailed to a cross had walked through Samaria to bring good news of worship in spirit and truth to another sinful woman whose concept of worship was tied to a mountain.

The nail-scarred feet His followers clung to as they worshipped Him had returned so He could remind them of His example of mission and worship. He came back to commission them to do as he had done, and — before those feet were lifted from among them one last time — to promise He would still be walking with them in Spirit.

For the beautiful feet of His followers bear a message of salvation and praise that is one and the same, just as prophesied many hundreds of years ago:

“How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!” — Isaiah 52:7

Drenched, but not drowned out

Two mornings ago, while rain poured down and thunder rumbled discontentedly far away, I awakened to hear a songbird joyously trilling away in our backyard as if the sun were blazing. It sang alone.

Yesterday morning, while rain trickled down and skies were grey and pouty, the bird sang solo again.

This morning it was the same, though the clouds were reluctantly giving way to shafts of sun. This morning, a few other birds joined in.

I’m no Maya Angelou. I don’t know why the caged bird sings. Or why the soaking wet songbird persists. I don’t know how Paul and Silas could sing in prison at midnight. How Habakkuk could rejoice in Jehovah during famine.

I wake up grousing. I’m a grouser. I’m a Job. I’m more like Ecclesiastes: Woe is me and everyone else, too.

I wake up thinking, “Why is that dumb bird singing?”

This morning I thought I heard it chirping its answer:

“Why not? Why not? Why not?”

Mission Monday

Yesterday’s annual “Mission Sunday” morning worship was a memorable experience.

Our gathering at the Lord’s table was prefaced by a reading I had written as our weekly e-mail/bulletin article “HeartWorship” that prepares our members for worship:

The feet anointed for burial by a sinful woman had walked many miles, and into many places of worship.

The feet nailed to a cross had walked through Samaria to bring good news of worship in spirit and truth to another sinful woman whose concept of worship was tied to a mountain.

The nail-scarred feet His followers clung to as they worshipped Him had returned so He could remind them of His example of mission and worship. He came back to commission them to do as he had done, and — before those feet were lifted from among them one last time — to promise He would still be walking with them in Spirit.

For the beautiful feet of His followers bear a message of salvation and praise that is one and the same, just as prophesied many hundreds of years ago:

How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, “Your God reigns!” — Isaiah 52:7

It was followed by the contemporary communion hymn, “How Beautiful.”

A guest speaker, who has served in several mission outreaches in South America, told powerful stories of native Americans there begging to buy his Bible … of a family who had given up their house as a place of worship, sleeping on mattresses in the garden shed … of new converts glad to be threatened by Communist insurgents not to harvest their crops, because it meant they could preach full-time.

One of the bellwether (bellewe?) members of our flock – a dear lady who, along with her husband, have actively supported mission outreach there for years – responded on behalf of all of us that she sought prayers to become “more mission-minded … more evangelistic … more like Jesus.”

A plaque was presented to the church from an independent missions training organization for our full-time support of 13 missionary families.

Our annual special missions collection that morning yielded more than $50,000.

But nothing that happened yesterday moved me as profoundly as seeing the two lidded plastic cups that happened to be on the floor of the parking garage next to my space this morning.

I recognized them, you see. They were the cups of plain milk and strawberry milk that I had prepared for my children before taking them to school last Thursday. They had been too busy chattering to drink the entire contents before we arrived.

So I had thrown the half-full cups away in a trash barrel on the way in to work, not wanting the souring milk to smell up my car after a hot day in the garage.

Sometime over the weekend while the garage was closed, someone had removed them from the trash. Someone had emptied them of their contents, leaving the lids on the cups and the straws still in the lids – a green one for Matthew and his strawberry milk; a purple one for Laura and her plain – and left them standing upright, by chance, next to the space where I usually park.

By chance?

The hungering and thirsting aren’t just starved for righteousness, and they’re not just in far-flung places around the globe, I’ve discovered.

Sometimes they hang out where I park.

When faith becomes fact

The topic my preaching minister chose for Easter Sunday was: “The Resurrection Changes Everything.”

My job was to call my fellow Christians to worship with the reading of Matthew 28:1-9, the story of the women who followed Jesus – following Him to the tomb, only to find it empty.

I had to wonder, while preparing to read: What makes the resurrection real today? At what point does faith become fact?

Maybe faith becomes fact when you act.

Two weeks ago this afternoon, I pulled up at the church’s parking lot to pick up my children after school – only to see my wife putting their backpacks into the trunk of her car … and also to see a big, scruffy-looking red-haired fellow asking her for a ride across town. I pulled closer, rolled down my window and offered to help him instead.

I admit, a part of me thought “What if he’s a murderer?” and then, “Well, better just me than Angi and the kids!”

But that other peculiar part of me thought “What if he’s an angel?”

As we rode together, he told me he felt weird asking for help at a church but he was tyring to get his truck fixed, needed a part from across town, and was out of money and out of options. I told him not to worry about it; he’d come to the right place.

I told him about how, 20-some years ago, a big black man named Bill Johnson ran out of gas and money and options on the highway near the church while on his way home to New York City. I told him how our elders helped Bill get home and even began supporting him as a full-time missionary there, and how that church in Springfield Gardens had touched so many lives since then.

About that time, my son Matthew called me on my cell phone to make sure I was all right. My rider said, in his rather scary-sounding, desperate way, “That’s a good kid. He’s making sure ol’ dad didn’t pick up a killer.”

I laughed and assured Matthew I was fine.

He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t an angel, either, I’m pretty sure. He was just a guy who needed a ride.

Maybe it was a stupid thing to do, to offer a ride to this stranger. But I couldn’t regret it then, or now. It was a ride that made me a little nervous, to be sure; a little excited. But for the life of me, I can’t tell you that I was afraid.

Please don’t read this as a boast, but rather as a confession: I don’t think I have ever acted on faith like that before.

Shame on me for taking 48 years to discover first-hand that the perfect love of a resurrected Christ casts out all fear.

Because He stands near that tomb, talking to those women, as an absolutely irrefutable guarantee that life is His to give.