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Daniel Hochhalter Posts

Battling demons and finding God on the ash heap

2017 finally comes to a close, and I am ringing in the new year firmly ensconced upon a pile of ashes.

This is definitely not the place others flock to when welcoming in a new year. Dusty, bleak, a place of exile and uncertainty. You don’t count down the final seconds of 2017 on the ash heap; instead, you wrestle with endless questions about how you got there with a God who seems more interested in the annual ball drop in Times Square. You wait, trying to understand the rationale of another who is infinitely above your pay-grade.

Kind of like Job after the Accuser chopped him off at the ankles. As part of what looks like a mysterious cosmic bet, Job loses his children, his livestock, his wealth, and eventually his health over a short period of time. He retreats to the mound of ashes where he sits quietly with friends, saying nothing for a week. Then the characters engage in a misguided debate about the cause of suffering and its relation to sin before God himself finally enters the discussion with one of the most beautiful and frustrating responses to humanity’s suffering in the entire Bible.

Most of the book of Job takes place on this gray, arid mountain of ash.

Admittedly, the events that brought me to my ash heap were nowhere near as dramatic as Job’s suffering. In most ways, my crisis pales to those others face. Shortly before the holidays my wife and I were informed that, due to cutbacks, our primary means of household income was coming to an end after a ten-year run. At our age, this can be especially disconcerting as Human Resource Departments seem more interested in terms like “fresh” and “new” over others like “skilled” and “experienced.”

So, at the start of 2018 our household sits upon an ash heap of uncertainty, caught in a strange vortex between the present and the not-yet. I am not sure what the next year will look like, or where. I can only be certain it will be different. Perhaps better, maybe worse, but definitely different.

Living in limbo is a life of distraction. It is difficult to concentrate on just about everything. We hold our breath, waiting to see if or how all those promises in the Bible will work out in our lives. Lacking focus or energy, everything seems on hold. The speed of life hits a wall. The world runs in slow motion. Nothing seems important.

Unfortunately, this includes even my writing, or more accurately, trying to maintain my fledging writing career. This has been my first attempt to write something since Thanksgiving. I’ve got all kinds of ideas swirling around in my head as my wife and I work our way through the uncertainty. But the words don’t come. My mind cannot generate more than a sentence or two before being distracted by the next shiny thing. Maybe it is simply because the heart is not there or anxiety crowds out the passion.

However, not only do I sit upon an ash heap of uncertainty but also one of self-condemnation. Questions about my lack of any marketable skills and abilities that haunted me years ago suddenly return with a fiery vengeance. The Accuser whispers in my ear words that reignite feelings of self-loathing that I had wrestled with a long time ago: worthlessness, failure, washout. At times, the Accuser’s words seem terribly convincing. Too convincing. My heart knows these words are untrue, but my head isn’t so sure.

It becomes yet another throw-down between my spirit and my flesh. My spirit reminds me that my value comes from God and his love for me. However, my flesh counters, nobody cares about that on a resume. God thinks I have worth isn’t a very marketable skill. My spirit won’t answer that point. Not because it has no answer, but because it stands solely on its initial premise and doesn’t see any need to repeat itself.

Finally, my ash heap is built on distrust. Not necessarily toward others, but specifically toward God. I want Jesus to come and move in my life, yet I also hopes he doesn’t. I never liked my life’s direction, but that doesn’t mean I would like to change it either. Then the realization hits me that even after decades of direct evidence to trust God, I still don’t really trust him. At times, I am not sure he has my back. Is he really looking out for me? Does he want what is best for me, or does he merely want to teach me yet another lesson I will never understand? Has my life used up its quota for miracles? Am I going to be truly thankful for the ending of my current ordeal?

Silly questions for a “mature” Christ-follower.

Oh how I wish I could be a Super-Christian. Heck, at this point, I would be happy just being Super-Christian’s clueless comic sidekick.

So, I watch the world’s new chapter from the dusty mountain of ashes. It’s a place of boredom and discomfort, of uncertainty and fear. It’s a place to battle my personal demons.

But it also seems to be the usual place for God to enter into my story. Like he did for Elijah in the wilderness (1 Kings 19). Or Jonah in the desert (Jonah 4). Or the shepherds in the chill of a night (Luke 2). Or Peter in the dungeon (Acts 5). Or Job on the ash heap (Job 38).

The ash heap—built upon uncertainty, self-condemnation, and distrust—is where my spirit battles my flesh, but it is also where I am sure God will once again enter into my story.

God’s objective is not to bless my household with wealth or certainty or even courage. He comes to the ash heap to remind me exactly who is in charge of the universe as well as who is really charge of, and thus responsible, for my life.

On the ash heap, God throws out a list of questions that point only to his power and sovereignty as the correct answer (Read those questions for yourself in Job 38-41 and see if you can answer them any differently). God’s objective is not to get me or my wife a good job. It is to get me to once again admit what is truly important.

So, as 2018 begins, I will find myself still ensconced on a pile of ashes.

However, this year also begins with Job’s final confession ringing in my ears and filling my mind and heart:

“I know that you can do all things;
no purpose of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, ‘Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?’
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know.
“You said, ‘Listen now, and I will speak;
I will question you, and you shall answer me.’
My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you.
Therefore I despise myself
and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:4-6)

I pray Job’s confession remains on my—as well as your—lips and heart all year long, whether in a new location or career or even while continuing to grieve on the pile of ashes. Whatever new challenges or chapters that come our way, God wants us to know that he is the one in control of the universe and that he is the one who controls our lives.

No what matter what ash heap we find ourselves on, that is the only outcome God wants.

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Being thankful when the storm comes

God has an infinite number of ways he answers our prayers. There’s the gentle nudging or the still small voice whispering in our ear. Personally, I prefer God uses these methods to answer my prayers: it is more pleasant and, frankly, has less drama. Then there is the prophetic word uttered from a loved one—more confrontational yet still tolerable enough.

But then there is a catastrophic method of answering prayer. This is exactly how it sounds:  prayer gets answered, but it takes the form of a broadside where God kicks our wheels out from under us until we find ourselves completely out of control, sliding sideways across the road toward a retaining wall. Everything becomes blurred. there’s a lot of screaming and shrieking. Occasionally, someone breaks out in a chorus of “Jesus, Take the Wheel.” Eventually, everything rocks to a stop, leaving behind a trail of bent metal and shattered glass. Clearly, this method is my least favorite, although I have a sneaking suspicion it is God’s preferred go-to.

November 10 was like any other typical November Friday. My wife and I had our birthdays to look forward to the next week. We share the same birthday and traditionally celebrate with a dinner out.

Even more exciting was a trip to Montana for Thanksgiving for a wild-and-crazy week with my family—undoubtedly the highlight of my whole year.

With so much to look forward to, this particular Friday morning was an active one, preparing my wife’s birthday present and heading to the store to pick up a carload of Christmas lights—never too early to get a start on the season.

All in all, it really was a wonderful Friday.

Until the telephone rang.

My wife was on the line. She had just come from a meeting that let her know that her job of ten years was over. Just like that. No more passing Go. She was a casualty of downsizing, so in an instant, the greatest portion of our household income went up in smoke. In moments, our life was chopped off at the ankles.

We are heading into a season of thanksgiving, hope and anticipation. However, instead of approaching this season with celebration, we found ourselves stumbling forward into it trying to keep our feet underneath us. It’s astonishing how sudden and complete chaos and uncertainty can pound life into a stupor. One minute—life as usual; the next—a fog of grief and panic.

The last two weeks have been in limbo. Life seems to be in a state of incompleteness and perpetual waiting. Everything is half-done, on hold, and discombobulated. Suddenly the immediate future looks to be extremely different yet entirely unknown. The darkness of uncertainly surrounded our house.

Yet today is Thanksgiving Day.

Today, we give thanks.

And, surprisingly, I am truly thankful.

I am thankful to our God, who amidst our wide swings of fear and sadness, has set my wife and I upon a solid foundation of peace within this storm. We truly believe God is somehow behind this and is preparing us for a dramatic life-change. More than once since receiving the news of unemployment, we have had to remind ourselves that we actually prayed for this. I have long been feeling antsy, restless. Over the summer, I had finished my second manuscript but instead of celebrating I fell into depression and became irritable, and I constantly reminded loved ones and friends how frustrated I was. I prayed to God in no uncertain terms that ten years of waiting is long enough — it is time for him to do something in my life. Interesting enough, my wife was struggling with the same feelings. And now God seems to be moving. I don’t know what the immediate future holds, but I am thankful.

I am thankful for a God who created a stunning Thanksgiving morning sky over Hauser Lake in Montana. Only our Creator can paint the sky in this way to serve as a reminder that he is still in control.

I am thankful for the grace to walk through this chaos imperfectly. I want to have faith; I want to surrender my control; I want to not be afraid. Some days are better than others. But God’s mercy is constant. And I am grateful he cares for us the way he does.

I am thankful for our wonderful home community, who surrounded us when the news broke. They prayed for us, were present with us, and even helped us to be able to pay for this Montana trip, which by the way, also serves to prospect jobs. Our home community stood by us within our tears. Each week they teach me what love and life in community truly is, and this week they went far above and beyond the call of duty. They are as much a part of this journey as we are.

I am thankful to be a part of a great family gathering on Hauser Lake outside of Helena, Montana. I never grow tired of the laughter and love of family.

I am thankful for the colors and smells of autumn.

I am thankful for the majesty and beauty of wildlife as well as the scenery.

I am thankful for the anticipation of the Advent season.

I am thankful for a wife who clings to God alongside me in this time, who feels this same peace as me.

I am thankful that this peace of God is real.

This Thanksgiving, despite the storm in our lives, I can truly be thankful that God is good.

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Is it ever okay to celebrate a sinner’s downfall?

Sin is frightening and dangerous. Its seed is within all of us, lurking and waiting for its moment to act. It slithers beneath the surface, never proclaiming its presence until it is too late. In many ways, it knows us better than we know ourselves, and it definitely knows what buttons to push.

Sin’s allure is hypnotic and seductive. It can even be beautiful. Sin appeals to our own hedonism and promises us the world. It assures us that there is nothing wrong with it, that it’s actions are victimless, and that it feels really, really wonderful. And most importantly, it assures us that we will never get caught—provided we are uber-cautious in covering our tracks, we have the power and finances to silence any witnesses or bury any evidence, or we have a good alibi or rationalization to at least minimalize our guilt and shame in the event we get caught.

In fact, sin is so good at convincing us to act on it that we never bother to ask the question, “If there is nothing wrong with my action, then why should I even worry about getting caught in the first place?”

However, there comes a point in every person’s life when sin comes full circle back on us, where its sirenic mask is ripped away exposing all its true ugliness. Sadly, this often happens in view of loved ones and sometimes, even worse, in the watchful eye of the camera.

In an instant, the tantalizing pleasure of your sin explodes with a humiliating flash. And when your life begins crumbling around you, you look with astonishment at your new friend Sin only to discover that it has betrayed you and now stands as your accuser.

With the dominance of social media, it doesn’t take long for one’s sins to go viral under the seething judgment of cyber-finger-pointers.

When word began to surface about the extracurricular activities of Hollywood film mogul Harvey Weinstein, I must admit my initial reaction was one of smugness. I became one of those finger-pointers. I have never really liked Weinstein for any number of reasons, primarily because we share very different political opinions. This in and of itself is not a problem. What bugs me, is his arrogant hyperbole against anyone who disagreed with his political agenda. He was an elitist, judging everyone to the right of him as little more than an ignorant rube who don’t know any better. His movies come across more like propaganda than art. He had an agenda, and he was never hesitant to throw money and vial words to achieve it. And I really grew tired of his—and other Hollywood elites—diatribes against us from behind every glitzy awards podium, reminding us idiots of all the evils of the world caused by, well, us.

Recently, sexual harassment accusations against Weinstein flew across cyberspace, gaining steam and picking up momentum—a snowball evolving into an avalanche. Only God knows how many more women might come forward. The liberal media were slow to cover the charges, but the conservative media were quick to fill in for the lapse.

In a matter of days, the board of his own company fired him and changed its name. Recently, it was announced that Weinstein’s wife left him. Words like “rape” are starting to be thrown around which would surely warrant a criminal investigation. News came out that Weinstein was flying to Europe or Arizona to enter rehab—the Hollywood euphemism for “damage control.”

Then, rumors swirled about police responding to a possible suicide call…

We can only guess what new developments will come out today.

With each new, sad revelation, I began to think more and more about Harvey Weinstein. I picture him standing within the smoldering rubble of what once had been his sparkling empire. I wonder what is going through his mind. Defiance? Panic? Bewilderment? Sadness? He was a very powerful man in Hollywood. He could make or break multi-million-dollar careers. He hobnobbed with presidents and other important people. He has more wealth than any of us could imagine. It was a kingdom he himself had built. And now it is a kingdom he himself had destroyed.

I no longer saw Harvey Weinstein the man standing there. I saw Harvey Weinstein the sinner.

Then, I saw myself standing there in the rubble of my own sin.

My smugness at his downfall started to wither. Suddenly, my perspective changed.

What filled me with glee that some elitist jerk finally got his come-uppance now became sadness of a man broken by his own sin. Not only has his sin destroyed and humiliated many lives, his sin had also destroyed his own.

So why would this make me happy? Why am I so smug? Why do I inwardly cheer at the immensity of his downfall?

What if that was me?

Harvey Weinstein man who needs a savior’s forgiveness, or even my forgiveness for that matter. This is a man who genuinely needs not my pointy fingers or smirking condemnation but my prayer.

Please believe me—I am not trying to minimize the damage that man brought on to others. What Weinstein did was disgusting, atrocious, and evil. If it warrants jail time, so be it. His actions were despicable.

Just like my own sins.

Granted, I can say with certainty that I have never sexually harassed a woman. But Jesus said that if a man lusts after a woman “has already committed adultery with her in his own heart” (Matthew 5:28). Sadly, I can’t say I am not guilty of that.

Rich and powerful Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein is no different than I.

Sin has placed us on the exact same level: sinful humans in need of the cross.

As this mess continue to unravel across the internet, my glee has turned morphed into remorse. In many ways, I am not writing about Weinstein’s sins. I am writing about my own. To watch fellow conservative media dance with glee at Weinstein’s downfall in the same way the liberal media dances over the grave of the fallen minister or politician troubles me. I am a sinner just as capable to committing the same sins. I need to treat Weinstein with the grace of Jesus, the same grace I hope others treat me with when my own sin catches up to me as accuser.

I find it interesting about how Jesus deals with the sinner. Standing over the woman caught in adultery, surrounded by a crowd ready to stone her, he offers her no condemnation, telling her to “Go now and leave your life of sin” (John 8:11). Jesus reserves his judgments for the accusing crowd eagerly waiting for permission to cast their stones at the sinner’s head and says, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone” (John 8:7).

Never should we celebrate someone else’s sinful downfall.

No matter how much we think they deserve it.

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When the world rejects your prayers, pray anyway

It didn’t take long after the tragedy in Las Vegas for the bloviating and hyperbole to begin. While many expressed shock and sadness for both the victims and for the city itself, sadly others took the massacre as a call to arms to press their political agendas. In the name of compassion, this latter group rejected the compassion of a country that was shocked into momentary paralysis as though they even had right to reject it in the first place.

Armed with the principle of never letting a crisis go to waste, they insist, “No! Only action is compassion.” And so, they shame, guilt, and demand action even before the blood is dry.

This has always bothered me. While the nation is still doubled-over in shock, using intense grief to promote an agenda—no matter how sincere—seems to amount to little more than emotional abuse. Any grief or pastoral counselor will tell you, decisions made in the heat of emotion almost never turn out well. In seminary, I had a professor tell his class, “Never resign on a Monday.”

Nevertheless, the demands for action ring out. In the past, that tactic hasn’t worked. So, inevitably, the outraged turned up their rhetoric to include blame, hate, and even prayer-shaming.

The cry of “prayer is not enough” became the new catchphrase. Following other mass-shootings before Las Vegas, U.S. Representative Elizabeth Etsy once said, “A moment of silence or prayer is insufficient to the task.” Senator Chris Murphy once tweeted, “Having lived through Sandy Hook, I know that thoughts and prayers are important, but they’re not enough.” Then-President Barak Obama said, “Thoughts and prayers are not enough. It’s not enough. It does not capture the heartache and grief and anger that we should feel.”

Comments like these in the face of tragedy irritated me. They seemed condescending and elitist. However, in the days following the Las Vegas shooting, my perspective shifted a little. Why should I be irritated? It made complete sense that a non-believer or a worshiper of the secular culture would see prayer as nothing more than a platitude, a superstition, a symbolic ritual, or an empty gesture expressed by simpletons. They see no power behind prayer. Why would we expect them to believe anything different? They’re simply staying true to their belief system.

On the other hand, for the Christ-follower to say such a thing is more troubling. In her response to the tragedy, Christian writer Jen Hatmaker posted on her Facebook page that her “blood is boiling over and I want to run screaming into the streets. I feel like we are standing in the middle of a violent, endless nationwide crisis swirling all around us, and we keep ‘sending thoughts and prayers.’ I want to rip my hair out.”

To say prayer is not enough says a lot about that particular Christian’s view of prayer. Prayer is good, so long as it is not the holy-roller, chandelier-swinging variety, but it doesn’t truly have a power to make a difference in anything. It is something to say with children before tucking them in. It makes us feel good. It is merely an act of faith, something to hold onto. But in the face of evil, these prayer-shaming Christians seem to see little actual power in prayer.

It is not enough, they insist. Prayer is not enough. We must do something.

Because everyone knows that we humans are far better capable of solving the problem of evil than a God who created the universe and defeated death. Seek ye first the kingdom of government, and all these things shall be added unto you. Most certainly, the problem of evil can be fixed through congressional legislation, which is often brought about through manipulation, fear-mongering and compromise.

Rest easy, America.

And please ignore Paul’s words about the foolishness of God being wiser than the wisdom of humanity (1 Corinthians 1:25). Or that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms (Ephesians 6:12). He certainly didn’t mean it that way. We must invoke action. We must do something. And we must do it in the moment when the world is rocked back on its heels.

Sarcasm aside, it is imperative that we ask ourselves exactly what is prayer. What happened in Las Vegas was the face of evil.

The very thing prayer-shamers reject is the very thing that can help.

However, before we get defensive and counter, we followers of Jesus must come to terms with prayer as well. Do we believe it? Is prayer a platitude, an exercise to say before dinner, or a symbolic act of ritual? Do we believe that in prayer we are seeking the face of Jesus against whom no evil can stand? Do we truly believe that invoking the name of Christ is an act in which the demons flee and the captives go free?

Prayer acknowledges humanity’s helplessness in the face of evil. It forces us to see our own powerlessness. Only through prayer will we ever understand the true nature of the battle.

So if politicians and media trolls want to shame Christ-followers for “merely” praying, let them. I would expect nothing different. Let them think they are doing something productive. Let them think that prayer isn’t enough. This has never intimidated God before. I would place my trust in a holy God that I cannot see over politicians who claim they have the wisdom to curb the power of evil when they don’t even have the know-how to overcome the NRA.

Besides, prayer-shamers—both within and outside of the body of Christ—should not be our focus. God should. Legislative acts will do nothing to stem the face of evil other than make the legislators feel good about themselves. That is, until the next evil act occurs after which the whole cycle repeats.

Finally, I would like to comment about what I believe is a legitimate point that prayer-shamers make: Prayer should never be used as an excuse for apathy. There is enough truth here that should challenge us Christ-followers and even make us feel uneasy if we realize that it in fact applies to us. If we say that we are praying for Las Vegas and we do not actually pray, then we are using prayer as an excuse for inaction. That truly is apathy.

Posting a picture of the Vegas skyline with the words “praying for Vegas” is not praying. Actually praying for Las Vegas is.

If all we do is share a “praying for Vegas” post on social media without any follow-through, then we indeed have reduced prayer to simply another form of hashtag activism—a narcissistic attempt to show the world we care while accomplishing nothing. Saying we’ll pray without actually praying is nothing more of an empty exercise than that of jumping up and down with outrage, pulling our hair out, demanding “now is the time” that we do something to fix evil.

Rest assured, we will get our just rewards, if patting yourself on the back is all the reward you desire.

Meanwhile, evil prevails and the suffering continues.

I challenge us Christ-followers to pray. Really pray. Don’t pray for show. Don’t pray to make yourself feel good or uber-spiritual. Pray from the position of helplessness. But pray truly believing the power of prayer. Pray with the full knowledge that we are seeking the face of a holy God.

In the face of mockery, when others reject the power of prayer, I want to encourage you to pray anyway.

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Final thoughts: Jesus, his kingdom, and predicting the end of the world

Apparently, in a matter of hours, we’re all going to die.

Really.

According to a Christian Numerologist—whatever that is—September 23, 2017 is the day when an unseen planet known either as Planet X or Nibiru will come crashing to earth, creating tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, hurricanes, flooding, and—far worse—the widespread release of the movie mother! to a frantic public.

This will result in wide-spread panic, confusion, and other levels of mayhem.

There is already evidence of this: The Great Solar Eclipse, Hurricanes Harvey, Irma, and Maria, the flooding in Houston, and the Mexico City earthquake.

Even the Bible backs up this claim, Luke 21:25-26:

“There will be signs in sun and moon and stars, and on the earth dismay among nations, in perplexity at the roaring of the sea and the waves, men fainting from fear and the expectation of the things which are coming upon the world; for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

Clearly, if you omit the last total eclipse in 1999, the next one in 2024, the lunar eclipse/blood moon of 2015, the four blood moons, as well as Hurricanes Katrina, Hugo, Inike, Camille, Andrew, Ike, Patricia, etc., the tsunamis in Indonesia and Japan, the 1993 and ’27 Mississippi River floods, how can one not see these verses are referring specifically to September 23, 2017?

To my knowledge, the world ended in 2003, 2011, 2012, 2015, in addition to the coming apocalypse on Saturday. That’s just the twenty-first century.  And who can remember all the times the world ended in the last? I am still suffering from the doomsday apocalypse of Y2K. And these are just the Christian predictions.

As I count down my final hours before Nibiru appears as a fiery sphere in the sky, a couple of thoughts come to mind. Why are we in Christ’s body so obsessed with the end of the world? And is all this effort within the body of Christ to predict the end of the world doing anything to further the kingdom of God?

Make no mistake, I believe that Jesus Christ will come again. I believe the prophecies of Revelation will happen, although I am unsure exactly what they will look like. But I also know that Jesus states that no one knows the day or the hour of his return (Matthew 24:36).

So why haven’t Jesus’s words stopped us from trying?

It would be easy to simply blame the writers, speakers, and promoters of popular eschatology (the study of the last days), taking advantage of a multi-million-dollar industry. Who wouldn’t want a cut of those profits? The cynic in me could just stop there.

But I think there is more to it. These end-time entrepreneurs wouldn’t have a market if we, the Christian body, weren’t so obsessed with it.

So why the obsession?

One wouldn’t have to look too far beyond the headlines for the answer. Every day for the last couple of months, there seems to be yet another catastrophic hurricane out in the Atlantic, another forest fire, another earthquake, another incident of mindless violence, another reminder of the deadly stare-down with North Korea, or another terrorist attack. Humans no longer talk to each other; we scream, degrade, and if those don’t work, kick the snot out of each other. It is overwhelming. In the words of singer Randy Stonehill: “It’s a great big stupid world, and I’m feeling kind of queasy as it spins around…”

What is most troubling is the realization that all of this is completely beyond our control. We simply don’t know how to fix the universe. We look to science, reason, and government to stop it but to no avail. There is simply nothing we can do. There are powers far greater than the human mind. These horrible events are daily reminders of our helplessness.

For us Christ-followers, we look beyond the natural for meaning to the chaos. We search the darkness for something to cling to. Obviously, we turn to Jesus. This is not a bad thing. In fact, I highly recommend it. He is, after all, “the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). He is the Savior of the world, the lighthouse in the storm, the loving shepherd and protector. Jesus is exactly to whom we should turn.

The problem comes when we turn our focus more on Jesus’s return than we do on the Jesus himself.

We don’t do this intentionally. We know that good wins over evil. The book of Revelation and the second coming point to an end of the suffering and chaos, an end which results in victory. And this focus brings relief. Knowing this, the next logical step is to turn our attention to when that will be. The when becomes the point of emphasis.

The when, however, is intentionally ambiguous. If the Son of Man doesn’t know, then how can we? Yet we continue to look at the Bible as a code, a numbers game, a treasure map. The Bible is the Word of God, the answer to all; therefore, the when just has to be in there somewhere. It is there simply for us to discover.

So, we scour the Bible for new clues. We read books that look to the sky claiming to have unlocked said clues. We attend seminars meshing current events to the Scriptures to understand.

I can’t help but to wonder if this is our attempt to run toward Jesus, to cling to someone bigger than ourselves.

The truth is, we are burning too much of our energy and resources trying to unlock the details about the end of the world. Instead, we should turn that energy to being the kingdom of God in the face of great suffering and chaos.

Whenever I see a headline of yet another Christian predicting the end of the world, I cringe. The truth is, end-time Christians who make bold, specific predictions about the end have never been right. After their predictions turn out wrong, they don’t reform themselves. They simply let enough time pass before they can figure out and write about the next celestial event that will most certainly spell the end.

But every time a failed prediction passes, the body of Christ loses a little more credibility. After all, if Christians are so wrong about predicting the end of the world, couldn’t they also be wrong about the deity of Jesus, the cross, and the resurrection? Why should the world accept the message of the cross when its followers get the end of the world so wrong so frequently? Why should we even be trusted?

These failed predictions do little more than affirm the world’s stereotypes that Christians are nothing more than superstitious buffoons. They put the Christian faith on the defensive and cheapen the message of grace the cross brings.

And the cross should always be our focus.

 

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When the world went strangely dim: God’s glory amidst suffering and hate

My wife and I traveled down to my sister’s house in Albany, Oregon to experience the great eclipse a couple of weeks ago. From Oregon to South Carolina, the moon blocked out the sun, casting a 70-mile-wide shadow across the United States. Albany happened to be in the path of totality. Portland would get a 99.2% showing of the eclipse.

But what a difference .8% makes.

My wife and I sat in my sister’s backyard and donned our dorky eclipse glasses.

For an hour, we watched the moon slide slowly across the surface of the sun. A show like one we have never seen was about to begin. About fifteen minutes out of totality, Albany grew darker—a strangely dim type of darkness, not quite twilight, not quite dusk. It was like looking through oddly-tinted sunglasses.

Then, in the final moments of totality, the sun went completely dark.

For a moment.

A ring of fire burst out from around the perimeter of the moon. Cheers erupted throughout the neighborhood. Dogs barked. I snapped some pictures and then watched in quiet awe. Words cannot describe the event. The only thing going through my mind were the words of the Psalmist: “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1).

For two minutes, a wondrous act of the Creator brought the nation to standstill. Suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about my life. I wasn’t worried about the upcoming semester of classes, or my anxieties, or even what I was going to each for lunch that day. Heck, I wasn’t even worried about the drive back to Portland—a normally ninety minute journey that would take almost seven hours. All that mattered at that moment was the dazzling display high up in the heavens.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

The heavens declare the glory of God. Summer 2017 had been quite eventful, emotional, and one of great transition.

Early on, my wife and I planned a trip back to my home state of Montana. Originally, the plan was to attend two weddings only ten days but five hundred miles apart—one in Billings and the other in Spokane, Washington.

However, that simple plan quickly turned sideways. my grandfather had a massive stroke that took his life just a few days later. Then, my father’s gall bladder attacked him during our special Father’s Day dinner, sending him to the hospital. This, of course, was followed by emergency surgery. Then, if that wasn’t enough, my dachshund Copper decided to get in on the fun when his mouth unexpectedly swelled up, requiring an urgent visit to a vet. My wife and I bounced around Montana like a ball in a pinball machine—Helena to Coeur ‘d Alene, Idaho and back to Missoula, then Great Falls, then Billings for the first wedding, then the mega-metropolis of Savage, back to Missoula, and finally to Spokane for the second wedding.

All in three weeks.

When it was over, my car aged over 3200 hundred miles. I didn’t fare much better.

It was a strange blend of laughter, sadness, celebration, stress, adventure, and of course, transition. A niece on my wife’s side of the family and a nephew on my side transitioned into the world of marriage. For us who are merely uncles and aunts, our relationships with them would transition into something entirely new as they cling to their new spouses and start a new life. My grandfather transitioned into his heavenly home, and those of us left behind transitioned into an unknown life completely without him. My father’s health transitioned back and forth on a daily basis, and I transitioned into a new experience of dealing with an aging dad.

O soul, are you weary and troubled?
No light in the darkness you see?
There’s a light for a look at the Savior,
And life more abundant and free!

The heavens declare the glory of God. The last several months have seen an escalating in the great American Civil War—one that has been fought largely with stilted rhetoric. Then violence started to creep in, slowly—almost unnoticeably. All this violence didn’t have the impact on us as a nation.

Until a woman was run over and killed by a neo-Nazi in Charlottesville, Virginia.

I am afraid this rhetorical civil war is escalating into a violent one.

On August 26, a category three hurricane named Harvey pummeled Texas in one of the most violent displays of nature since, arguably, Hurricane Katrina. Watching the suffering and loss on TV, I couldn’t begin to fathom what is going on in the minds and hearts of people who lost everything. Also present were endless examples of people helping each other—lifting them out of harm’s way, providing financial resources, food, and lodging, and even encouragement.

Sadly, not to be outdone, brutality and malevolence found its way back into the trending headlines. In the days following, the devastation on the lives of countless Texans was eclipsed by sorry souls who have the heart of Swiss cheese—some of it is missing, and the parts that remain stink. The faces of Harvey were replaced with debates about climate change, whether or not Trump’s response to disaster was better than Obama’s, how Joel Osteen’s church responded or didn’t respond, and whether Melania Trump’s shoes were inappropriate. A professor tweeted the Harvey was karma on Texas for supporting Trump. Politico ran a cartoon mocking victims giving glory to God for their rescue while at the same time making government its own god. And the French satirical magazine Charlie Habdo, who twice was the victim of radical Islamic terrorists, published a cover with Nazi salutes coming out of the water and the headline: “God exists! He drowned all the neo-Nazis of Texas.”

I shake my head in sadness.

It’s almost hard to remember that between Charlottesville and Harvey, a great eclipse brought the United States—from sea to shining sea—to an halt. For two minutes, the nation’s eyes turned upward.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,
Look full in His wonderful face,
And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,
In the light of His glory and grace.

The heavens declare the glory of God. To the conservative and the liberal, to the believer and the atheist, to the oppressed and the oppressor, to the human of every race and even to the beast—we all looked in awe to the skies. No one worried about their lives. Political causes moved to the back burner. No one fought or called each other names. No one listened to beltway pundits and arrogant journalists flap their gums. We were all humans again. We were community. For two minutes, the heavens declared the glory of God.

Sure, some tried to turn our attention away from the wonder. One writer tried to argue that science is greater than God because predicting the path of the eclipse is somehow greater than actually creating it. Another tried to use the eclipse as a hook to discuss racism. Fortunately, those attempts got little to no traction. Majesty blurred human nature.

Two minutes later, it was done. Light returned.

“Normal” once again pushed out the “extraordinary.”

Even though the eclipse was only a few weeks ago, it already seems so distant. Allowing life and sin to overwhelm God’s glory is not at all difficult.

It is also sad when it happens.

Perhaps it is time to step away from our personal causes, our debates, our vindictiveness toward others, and our hatred toward those who don’t see things the way we do, and once again look up to the heavens. Everything that matters to us—no matter how important we may think it is—will, in the words of Helen Lemmel’s great hymn, “grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Lyrics from the song “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus,” by Helen Lemmel, 1922.

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With the world coming apart, the church still must be the church

I haven’t said much during this week following the violence in Charlottesville. I have followed the rhetoric on social media and have been saddened by what we have become. But I felt it unwise to say anything, even if it meant not expressing sadness. In truth, I really don’t know what to say that wouldn’t merely contribute to the growing cesspool that is social media. I have no idea how to fix this ugliness.

But my heart is churning.

Although I lean conservative, I am finding it impossible to take sides. I cannot, in the name of Jesus, stand with the white nationalist groups. Their ideology is repulsive and un-Christlike. Any attempts to hijack the name of Christ to their cause is an abomination. And nothing could justify the violence done.

On the other hand, I have watched the violence, intimidation, and hate perpetrated by the Antifa movement over the last several months, and also despise what they stand for. Using violence and silencing people who don’t agree with you isn’t the best way to persuade. Oppression used in the name of fighting oppression is still oppression.

Both groups are two sides of the extremist coin, one that historically never goes well. If either side truly gets their way, freedom ceases to exist. There seems to be no heroes, no “good guys.” Both sides effectively dehumanizes the other so successfully that when one group physically attacks the other, it becomes nearly impossible to express any kind of grief or outrage—even when an individual’s life is tragically snuffed out.

It is imperative to remember the person who was killed as a person and call out the violence against her for what it was—evil.

It is also imperative, as Christ-followers, to not allow ourselves to take sides. Both the Evangelical Right and Progressives are making the exact same mistake: instead of calling out the evil of the extremes for what it is, we are minimizing, justifying, or ignoring the evil if it comes out of the narrative with which we identify. We sacrifice our prophetic voice in the name of what we consider the “greater good.”

Karl Barth once said, “When the church weds itself to the spirit of the age, it will find itself a widow in the next.” Our nation, and even our church itself, is experiencing a serious identity crisis. We don’t know who we are anymore. We must not give in to the temptation to side with one extreme or the other.

Church, in the name of Jesus, be the church.

We are not the church if we allow our prophetic voice to fall under the submission of a political cause or politician. We are not the church if we justify or minimize evil acts from either extreme of the political spectrum. We are not the church if we are selective in our outrage. We are not the church if we liken the kingdom of God to any political cause. We are not the church if we take any side to the left and right extremisms for the cause of the “greater good” no matter how we define it.

We must be the church. We are the church when we are a church of love, loving and showing that love in the face of all forms of extremism. We are the church only when Jesus is our cause, not a political side (note: there is not a single political cause worth fighting for can fully represent the Kingdom of God). We are the church only when we are a church of prayer. We are the church only when we sacrifice our political voice at the expense of conservatism or liberalism. We are the church only when we look to Jesus as the answer and not some political cause.

We don’t know what this nation will look like if or when we ever solve this identity crisis. But rest assured that no matter how it turns out, Barth’s warning is accurate: if we allow our churches to wed to the spirit of the age—whether political conservativism or progressivism, then the entire body of Christ will be a widow in the years to come.

That is something we cannot allow to happen.

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Changing our response to a violent world

We live in a violent world. Always have. And if I were a betting man, I’d say we always will. If humans excel — truly excel — at anything, it is coming up with new, exciting ways to kill each other. This will always be the case, as long as we exist in a broken, sinful world.

At the May 22 Ariana Grande concert in Manchester, England, a terrorist attack killed 23 people and injured 116. Days later, on a cross-town train in my town of Portland, Oregon, a white supremacist knifed three protectors trying to stop his hate speech toward two minority women. The women escaped, but two of their protectors died.

Acts like these obliterate the idea that this world can somehow overcome violence and achieve peace. We can preach platitudes, but does anyone really think Katy Perry can change the heart of ISIS by begging them to “coexist”? We can pass laws, but does anyone truly believe determined terrorists can’t circumvent them? And if we ask our governments to respond, virtually their only tools are sanctions (not always effective) or brute force (more violence).

Bottom line: We should do our best to avert violence, but people will still kill one another. I realize this is not an ideal reality, but it is one with which we are stuck.

Perhaps as a result of the information age, in which acts of violence from around the world are streamed daily onto our TVs and computers, we have lost our ability to process and to grieve.

On social media, images of terrorism mix with funny memes, vacation pictures, and kitten videos. If the latest horror doesn’t involve us, we scroll past. Only when it touches our personal values do we get angry and demand justice, and then usually only through hashtag activism which costs us nothing. We act as if some deaths matter, while others do not. We pick and choose which violence offends us.

Humanity has always been violent; that doesn’t change. So what must change is how we respond. Here’s what I mean.

We must re-humanize oppositional voices. Our nature is to de-humanize those whose perspective or experience varies from ours. We use labels like “those people” or “people like that”—often with a subtle lip-curl or eye-roll. Usually this shift is subconscious—we don’t even know we are doing it. But slowly, gradually, we begin to see “them ” as subhuman. We are the humane, enlightened ones; they are not just wrong or different, but actually evil. After this switch, we can justify violence as tolerable — even righteous — because we now believe “they” are the real problem. So attacking “them,” we rationalize, serves the greater good.

We must stop politicizing violence. Tragedy has become so politicized that after each new horror, instead of uniting in healing and grief, we split apart in hatred and blame, reducing the victims to mere pawns in the political debate. As stated in the “Rohm Rule” by Rohm Emanuel, current Chicago mayor and former White House chief of staff: “You never want a serious crisis to go to waste.”

Immediately after the Manchester concert bombing, some on the political right cheered the attack as poetic justice because Grande once said she hated America. Others used the tragedy to demand a clamp-down against immigrants and refugees coming in to the West. Never mind that the bomber was a British-born citizen.

On the other hand, after the Portland slayings, some on the political left immediately blamed Trumpism. Even former presidential candidate Jill Stein tweeted: “Another heartbreaking tragedy in Trump’s America, as a white nationalist shouting anti-Islam slurs murders 2 on Portland, OR subway.” Never mind that the killer opposed Trump and supported both Bernie Sanders and Jill Stein.

When we use tragedy to advance our own agenda, we trivialize it—and its victims. We become disconnected from the fact that this is not about left or right, but about the fact that something terrible has happened.

People lost their lives. This matters more than swiftly (and usually erroneously, as above) blaming one’s political opponents.

We must remember that we all have violence within. I own a gun, for hobby shooting and self-protection. However, I am not “pro-violence,” and the odds are very slim that I’ll ever have occasion to use it for the latter purpose. Owning a gun does not make me a killer, any more than owning a cutlery set makes you a slasher.

Yet this doesn’t mean there’s no violence in my heart.

In the Old Testament, God says simply, “Thou shalt not kill.”

But in the New Testament, Jesus expands: “You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘You shall not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with a brother or sister will be subject to judgment” (Matthew 5:21-22, NIV). And the writings of John confirm: “Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer” (1 John 3:15, NIV).

Show of hands: How many of us have never murdered someone? Most of us can raise our hands because we’ve never broken that Old Testament commandment.

Show of hands again: How many of us have never felt anger or hatred in our hearts toward someone? Ah…who’s raising a hand now? If you are, you’re lying.

This would be much easier if we stopped with just the Old Testament. But the New Testament says we’re all killers in our hearts.

When we flame someone on the internet, we are killers. When we rage against Team Trump, Team Obama, or Team Hillary – we are murderers. When my anger flares up toward Antifa rioters starting fires, throwing rocks, or stifling free speech, I am committing homicide in my heart.

This sobering realization proves that I am no better than Salman Abedi (the Manchester bomber) or Jeremy Christian (the Portland slasher).

With this realization comes gratitude that, even so, Jesus still saved my sinful heart.

And with this saved heart, I can once again feel grief for the victims of violence, no matter who they are or why it happened.

Violence will plague us until Jesus comes. But when it does, we believers must respond as he did. We must stop rushing to political agendas and personal vendettas, and instead respond with genuine sorrow, empathy, and compassion.

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Why is the cross so hated around the world?

Last Tuesday, as I waited outside for someone to unlock my church for an event, a young couple walked by. As they passed, the woman read aloud, not once but twice, a sign on the door and gave a loud, exaggerated snort of derision. Then she actually turned around and came back to snap a photo of it. Judging from her sharp, sarcastic laughter, I was sure the photo would be posted online with a snarky comment — something about the stupidity of church people.

On the outside, I briefly made eye contact with her and gave her a nod and a smile.

But on the inside, I sensed the insult and felt a rush of snappy retorts. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit kept my pie-hole closed.

After she left, I turned to see what she had found so funny. The sign just said: “No woman’s [sic] Bible reading tonight.”

Other than the spelling error — “woman’s” instead of “women’s” — I could see nothing there to inspire her derisive laughter – much less a photo surely destined for social media.

I started to think that her actions had been for my benefit. I can read, and I’m sure her companion could too — so why did she feel the need to keep reading this sign aloud? And why was she so intent on mocking it that she retraced her steps to photograph it, right in front of me? I’m just a Christian who happened to be standing outside my church, waiting for someone to open it; I never did anything to her. Yet I really think she was making a dig against Christianity in my presence. Maybe it was something else, but I don’t think I misread her meaning.

Two days earlier, two ISIS terrorists had blown themselves up in Coptic churches in Egypt, killing forty-four and injuring many others. The worshipers in these churches were celebrating Palm Sunday, just as we were doing here.

Somehow, these two events seemed distantly related to me.

Let me be very clear. The mockery (if that’s what it was) I experienced on Tuesday is nothing compared to the horror and sorrow of the explosions in Egypt last Sunday. The two events aren’t even on the same scale.

But both events share a similar seed: a hatred for Jesus and the cross. Every other group now has defenders to be sure they are not mocked or persecuted; only Christians are still fair game. On one end of the spectrum, TV and movies virtually always portray Christians as naïve, bigoted idiots who contribute nothing to society. On the other end, we hear constant reports of the rape, torture, and slaughter of Christ-followers overseas. Christians are the last remaining scapegoat in cultures around the world.

Clearly, Jesus isn’t surprised by this hatred: “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first” (John 15:18, NIV). I’ve always wondered why this is so. Why does the world respond to Jesus with such hate and animosity?

If you ask non-Christians–and even some Christians–in the United States why, most will point to Christians themselves as the primary reason. They might say that Christians are too judgmental, or hypocritical, or filled with hate.

Fair enough. All Christ-followers are guilty of those things at one time or another. I know I certainly am. Sadly, I often beat myself up for saying or doing things that embarrass the cause of Christ. So this criticism against Christians is not unfounded.

But the same criticism also applies to pretty much everyone else on the planet. I can’t think of a single person who is not judgmental, hypocritical, or filled with hate. Welcome to humanity. 

No, I believe the hatred of the cross and its followers is something deeper.

Sure, the cross was a grisly torture device, designed to cause death in the most sadistic, pain-filled way possible. So to unbelievers, celebrating the cross naturally seems creepy and scandalous. To them, the whole bloody sacrifice thing is nauseating and worthy of scorn.

But even deeper: The cross confronts our idolatry. It threatens the god of Me. It exposes the fact that we are hopelessly lost and broken – and we cannot fix it.

We don’t want to think about that.

Ironically, we are so determined not to face our brokenness that we respond to this exposure with hatred, derision, and mockery. And in so doing, we silence the rest of the message: the freedom and redemption that comes through the cross.

Jesus’ death obliterated every obstacle between us and Almighty God. Through Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross, we receive the redemption that comes with it.

I can’t force the world to hear, understand, or accept this message. I can only reflect Jesus as best as I can to those around me.

Even so, it is likely the world will continue to hate my Savior and, by extension, me. We Christ-followers shouldn’t be disturbed by this hatred. Jesus warned us it would come, and you don’t have to delve too far into the daily news to see his warning fulfilled.

I am okay with this.

Because the world may treat Christians with hatred and scorn – but we have the cross. Without the cross we are broken, sinful, and inadequate. But with it, I pray that each of us may respond as Jesus did – with his authentic love and forgiveness in return.

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The joy of being found

I have been owned by dachshunds long enough to know three things. First, they do not ask for attention; they demand it. Second, the intensity of their midnight “potty urgency” corresponds directly to the depth of my sleep. And third, they have ADD.

Of my three wiener dogs, the one who most embodies these tendencies is Missy. One recent night she jumped off the bed – which means, “I gotta go now!” My wife heard her before I did, and went downstairs to let her out.

Soon after, my wife started calling, “Mis-sy!” (which sounds really loud at 3:00 in the morning). She then called to me that she couldn’t find Missy and needed help looking.

So I checked around to make sure Missy hadn’t slipped back upstairs (she hadn’t), and then went down to search for her.

As I walked down our long driveway, flashing my flashlight back and forth, I caught a small movement. It was Missy, wandering down the street.

I called her. Her head snapped in my direction, and she bolted to me.

I scooped her up and held her tight.

When we returned to bed she burrowed under the covers and pressed her body against me, shivering. All night long she clung to me, as if terrified of losing me again.

I surmised that while doing her business she got distracted by something, ran out to the street to check it out, and lost her bearings in the darkness. When I first saw her she seemed to be exploring different driveways, looking for the right one. When I called her she rushed to me, flooded with joy and relief.

It made me think: Do I remember what it was like to be lost? Or, even more important: Do I remember what it was like to be found?

I had just been reading one of  Jesus’s parables about “lost” things – the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11-32).

In this story, a young man goes to his father and demands his inheritance – a very crude thing to do to someone who is still living. Basically, he is saying to his father’s face: “You mean nothing to me. I wish you were dead.”

But surprisingly, the father grants the son’s wish and gives him his inheritance. So the son takes it, travels to distant lands, and squanders it faster than a Powerball winner. He falls so low that he takes a job feeding pigs (unclean animals, to a Jew) and becomes so hungry that he craves the pods they are eating – yet “no one gave him anything” (Luke 15:16, NIV).

It dawns on him that although he has abused his father and destroyed his position of sonship, perhaps he could return to his father as one of the servants, who have food and shelter.

So he returns.

The most amazing moment in this parable is what happens when this young man’s scraggly carcass appears just over the horizon:  “But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him” (Luke 15:20, NIV).

Two observations catch my attention here. First, the father spotted him from a distance. This means the father had been watching for him, anxiously awaiting his return all this time. And second, the father is so thrilled at the sight that he runs to him. If the father’s character is that of God, then Jesus has just described the only time in the Bible when God ran.* 

This is an intense image. It shows how desperately God wants to blast through the obstacles between him and us.

The cross does that.

In Luke 16, the prodigal son has reached the end of the line, the bottom of the barrel. It seems he has broken his father’s heart beyond repair. So he is hoping for a chance to return home in some low position; he isn’t expecting much.

Think of his fear as he realizes just how lost and alone he really is. When he had money, I’m sure he had all the rich food, fancy possessions, and good-time friends he could want. But now, it’s all gone. He’s broke and hungry, with no money to provide even minimal safety on the long journey back home. At any point he could have fallen victim to an accident, assault, or even murder, never to be found again.

Being “out there” is scary when you finally realize how alone you are, how badly you need to be found, and how unlikely it is that the one you’ve hurt should ever take you back.

So imagine the son’s initial bewilderment, turning to incredulous joy as his father runs to him and calls for a giant “welcome home” celebration.

This story is perfect for Lent, during these weeks leading up to the cross. It reminds me of Missy bounding to me, overjoyed to be found by someone who loves her.

Do I remember the feeling of being found by the One who loves me?

Do I remember the joy of being plucked out of the dark – lifted from isolation into security? Do I cling to my Savior in relief that I am safe in his grasp? Do I remember the happiness that I am no longer lost, but am now found?

Or am I beyond that now because I am too educated, too mature, too independent to need him?

No. The cross daily reminds me that I am still a broken man who will never be beyond needing Jesus. I am still as capable as ever of getting lost in the cold darkness – and I still need to listen for his voice, calling me to him. I still will run to him, rejoicing greatly that I am found.

The cross is a reminder that there will never come a time when I do not need Jesus.

 

* See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asU6FXnHWus for Benny Hester’s 1985 song with this title.

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