The end of a Heroic Era

Yesterday was more than the last Sunday of 2015; it was the end of an era.  A friend of mine entered retirement and left the local pulpit ministry.  Art had served this congregation for almost 30 years.  I’m not sure how old Art is or when he entered the ministry, but his early sermons were written on a scroll with a quill pen.  When you first meet Art, you get the impression that he is a pastor through and through.  That conviction remains, but as you get to know him better you become convinced that he is working on his inner curmudgeon.  And when you get past the gruffness, which is the way he plays, you realize he is a tendered hearted man who loves the Lord, His church, and people.

In addition to being a preacher, he has served in numerous ministry groups and civic organizations beyond the local church.  His faithfulness in his little town is a tribute to his patience, humility, and long-suffering nature.  Art is one of the ministers who has survived a coup by disgruntled church members, and while he was hurt, he never lost his hope. 

Besides all that, Art is a loving husband and proud dad of several kids.  His son wrote a song about a young married couple making their way through life and the minefield of marriage.  In a lot of ways that song could apply to life in ministry.  So, I want to say thank you to Art for your service and example.  And ask you, my readers, to listen to this song, and taking it out of context, try to apply it to the life of ministry. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NtTa81LyuQM

Strange Christmas Traditions

We all understand that Jesus was not born on December 25^th.  Most of our celebrations of Christmas are simply traditions that we have acquired and pass down.  Some of our traditions seem to have nothing to do with the worship of Christ at all, but they are for the most part harmless and fun.  I hope you have a joyful Christmas and that your traditions fill your heart, home, and church with the warmth of our Lord’s love.

And the next time you think your Christmas traditions are strange consider these:

Christmas log

The bizarre Catalonian tradition of caga tió (or "defecating log" in English) involves creating a character out of a small log - often complete with a grinning face and hat, and a hold drilled through it – which sits on the dining room table during the fortnight leading up to Christmas. It has to be fed every day with fruit, nuts and sweets, and then – on Christmas Eve – the entire family beats the log with sticks, while singing traditional songs, forcing the log to excrete its treats.

Festive fiend

St Nicholas's evil accomplice in Austrian tradition, Krampus is a demon-like creature that punishes bad children. Men dressed as Krampus roam the streets during the festive period, frightening the little ones.  Nothing tells of the Joy of Christmas like terrorizing children.

Christmas Caracas

In Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, it is customary to travel to early morning church services during the festival period on roller skates – roads are even cleared to provide Christmas worshippers with a safe passage.  You might even get a cast for Christmas.

Wicked Christmas

Norwegians believe that Christmas Eve coincides with the arrival of evil spirits and witches. Logically, therefore, households will hide all their brooms before they go to sleep.  You would hate to have a witch go cruising on your broom.

Goat to it

A tradition popular in Scandinavia is that of the Christmas goat (Julebukk in Norway or Julbock in Sweden). You can find straw goats on or near the Christmas tree or even a gigantic straw goat in the town square.  The custom has origins in the worship of Thor, who rode in a chariot pulled by a pair of goats.

I’d rather have Ham.

Christmas cuisine in Greenland doesn't quite compete with a Christmas Ham. Mattak – raw whale skin with a little blubber – is one festive delicacy, as is kiviak, which is made by wrapping a small arctic bird in seal skin, burying it for several months and eating its decomposed flesh.

Taking the plunge

It's difficult to understand how diving into a freezing body of water on Christmas Day ever caught on, but it has become an annual custom in Britain.  Brave Londoners leap into the Serpentine on Hyde Park or Brighton beach, in Ireland revelers head for the chilly Irish Sea, and in France there's an annual dip in Nice.  Here in Florida swimming on Christmas day might happen if accompanied by warm weather.

The ghost of Christmas past

During "consoda", the traditional Christmas feast in Portugal, families will sometimes set extra places at the dining table for deceased relatives. It is thought that the practice will ensure good fortunes for the household.  

Black Peter

In the Netherlands, Zwarte Piet - or "Black Peter" - is a mischievous assistant to Father Christmas.  He will appear at festive parades and is tasked with amusing children and scattering sweets.  As those who dress up as Zwarte Piet usually cover their face in blacking and wear a curly Afro wig, the tradition has become a controversial one, with some claiming it to be racist.

Night of the Radishes

Every December 23 in the Mexican city of Oaxaca, thousands of residents flock to the main plaza to see an exhibition of sculptures cut from radishes. Themes usually include nativity scenes.  In my opinion, this is a much better use of a radish than doing something disgusting like eating them.

Please drop me a note and let me know about your Christmas traditions, warm, witty or weird. 

In the Cause of Christ

Charlie

The Face in The Picture. Part 3

From Last week…

As long as he thought about football, he didn’t notice the sorrow so much.  So that is what he did now.  Ever since the first day of spring practice, Buzz knew this was a very special team. But Buzz buried himself in his work. It was how he kept from obsessing about Christa.

Ever since the first day of spring practice, Buzz knew this was a very special team. But Buzz buried himself in his work. It was how he kept from obsessing about Christa.

With great senior leadership and a very talented team the Warriors rolled into the fall with high expectations; they were not disappointed.  That year most games were over by halftime and Buzz was regularly playing JV and even freshmen to finish games. He was building a dynasty. The Warriors rolled through the regular season and the playoffs without being seriously challenged.

The day of the state championship, December 5^th, was a perfect day for football, clear skies, crisp air and an anticipation of a great game. With a conviction born of hard work and flawless execution the team was peaking at just the right moment, physically they were fresh and psychologically they were focused.   Many of the seniors would be playing on Saturday next fall so everyone was predicting a record crowd for the game. Buzz dressed out as many boys as the rule book allowed, hoping to let every kid play in the state title game.

Only one question troubled Buzz. Where was Christa? In four months the only contact was a postcard with a midtown Atlanta postmark that simply said, “I’m fine.”  Buzz resolutely pushed that question from his mind. He would deal with it later; he was determined to be in this moment for his boys, school, and community.

The perfect season had a perfect ending. The crowd of fans, scouts, and curiosity seekers watched one of the best teams in high school football history perform perfectly. The lopsided 31-0 victory was the result of Buzz’s restraint and not the level of competition.

After the trophy presentation, Buzz gathered his team in the field house.  Once the initial celebration and rowdiness had settled down he gathered the team in a semi circle and told them, “There are no rearview mirrors on a football helmet.” Then he paused, “But sometimes, it is okay to stop and look back and enjoy the view.” With that, he turned the boys loose.

Later that night, while the victory celebration continued down in the city square, Buzz sat in the seat Sandy always sat in, the stadium dark and silent.  Buzz sat alone, having the odd feeling of being a stranger in his own program and his own town.  Professionally, he had reached all of his goals, but he felt utterly alone.  For the first time since she left, Buzz gave himself over completely to thinking about Christa and the heart that was already broken and shattered.  Buzz sat in the dark and cried; it was the way he cried when Sandy died.  When he was done, he got up and went home-crying can accomplish only so much.  He went to Christa’s room and began searching.  When he found the boxes of his trading cards, he went to the kitchen table, made strong coffee, and started to work.

By noon the next day, he was walking in midtown Atlanta. With a backpack full of trading cards, thumbtacks, tape and staplers, he was leaving his picture in every sleazy bar, dive hotel, strip club and bulletin board he could find. Painful as it was to consider, Buzz knew that the big city had a way with young girls.  When he taped his last picture to a bus stop wall Buzz returned to his truck and then to Greenwood.

In the ‘50s, the Regent was a magnificent hotel, but now, like most of its patrons, it was a shadow of its former self.  It was the cheapest hotel in the worst section of Atlanta.   The Regent Lounge, located in the basement, was usually the end of the line for exotic dancers, but tonight was amateur night at the Regent Lounge and Christa needed money.

Christa was a shell of her former self.  She was thin, unkempt, and pale. She went up to the desk clerk. “I need a room.”

Without looking up, the clerk asked, “For an hour or the night.”

“How much for a week?”

“$150.00”

Christa calculated quickly and sighed. “I’ll take one night.”

As the clerk turned to get a key, Christa looked around. She glanced at the bulletin board with all its ads for massages and call out service. But something in the back of her brain fired a spark of recognition, the corner of something jumped out at her.  She stepped over and pulled down a flyer for a roommate. Looking at her was her dad’s face on a trading card, stapled a half dozen times, the trading card for Coach Buzz Sawyer smiled at her.

“Where did this come from?” She almost shouted. Heads turned. The clerk startled.

“What?”

“This picture.  This card.  Where did it come from?”

“I dunno.  It’s been there a couple weeks.  $25.00 lady.”

Christa didn’t hear him. She was shaking all over and trembling so badly she could hardly grab the card to pull it down.

“Hey, lady. The room is $25.00!”

Against her wishes, tears filled her eyes and spilled over to her cheeks. She wiped her face with her sleeve and turned the card over.

“Hey, you want the room or not?”

In the space for an autograph, she read, “No matter what you have done or become, I love you.  Come home.”

“Hey, lady, I’m waiting.”

Everyone in the little town of Greenwood knew it was going to be a tough Christmas for “Buzz” Sawyer.  He decorated a little more than usual, hung a few extra lights, had attended a few social events, but it was still very dark.  Even the Christmas Eve service didn’t brighten Buzz’s spirits.  As he drove home, he made his plans to be at the office early so he wouldn’t have to see families together on Christmas morning.

Buzz pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment looking at the nativity scene under the spotlight. He was flooded with emotions, of thoughts of Sandy and Christa, of the happiness of past Christmases and the loneliness of this moment. Looking at the nativity as he came up the sidewalk, he didn’t notice the Christmas envelope in the door until he reached for the doorknob.

He took the envelope, planning to open it another day. But it wasn’t sealed, it was already open. Inside, instead of a greeting card, there was a picture-not a picture-but his own face on a trading card.

Before he could process what this could mean, Christa spoke.

“Daddy, I’m home. Is that okay?”

“Honey, as far as I’m concerned there are no rearview mirrors on my heart.”

She fell into his arms. He hugged her and felt her shudder with great sobs. And through the mist that filled his eyes, it seemed that everything, even the nativity scene, was brighter.

I hope you have a blessed and bright Christmas

Charlie

Face in the Picture Part #2

From last week:

The excitement of football can mask a lot of pain. So Buzz and Christa hid their pain in a run to the state title game. With 38 seconds left, the Warriors missed a state title by less than a foot when a gust of wind blew the field goal wide.

That year for Christmas, Buzz received a Christmas card from his team. It simply said, “Next year, we promise.” Buzz sat in a darkened living room and read the card.  In spite of the sympathy and the good wishes of his team and friends, his world was dim.  There was a foreboding that seemed to be lurking in the darkness of his soul, and it wasn’t just the crushing loss of his wife.  He looked at the darkened nativity and thought, “Maybe next year.  Maybe next year the pain and loneliness would subside.  Maybe next year.”

During the spring Christa started playing softball.  She had her dad’s competitive nature and her mom’s cat-like reactions.  In softball she began to come into her own.  Once season was over and through the summer and even in the fall she trained tirelessly.  There were two results, she was becoming a great athlete in her own right and she became extremely close to her softball coach.  

That year, as men accustomed to winning often do, Buzz compartmentalized his life.  The pain and worrisome feelings were in one box, football in another.  On the first day of spring practice he gave his “there are no review mirrors on a football helmet” speech.  Determined that the past, not even his own, would not cripple the present, he focused on discipline, hard work, and flawless execution.   And it paid off, the team delivered on their Christmas card promise winning a state title with a 14-1 record.

But Christmas that year was the worst yet. Christa had wanted to go with her softball coach’s family skiing over Christmas.  Buzz declined the invitation on Christa’s behalf saying that Christa needed to be home.  She was home, but only in the technical sense of the word.  Christmas day she didn’t come out of her room until almost noon and took her gifts when her dad wasn’t watching and disappeared.  It seemed the only thing darker and colder than the nativity set was Christa herself. Once upon a time she could open up and be friendly and charming to everyone, but even that was changing.  She was still courteous, except to her dad, but others noticed she was becoming more sullen. Both Christa and Buzz were heartbroken about the distance that was growing between them.

Both buzz and Christa were glad when Christmas break was over and they could return to the routine of school and work.  Buzz was about to embark on a year that he would wish he could erase from the record books.  Winning a state title with a senior heavy team means that defending that title is going to be difficult.  But Buzz had never had problems with his players like he did that year.  Beginning with spring practice to the last game of the season, they were his team of underachievers.

He confided to a friend, “I think I have lost it. I can’t reach my players.  Dadgum, I can’t even reach my own daughter.”  In some ways Buzz felt like giving up.  He felt like Christa had final drifted beyond his reach; the gloom that settled over their home was pulling his life out.  His thoughts would drift back to when Sandy was still alive and everything was good.  Melancholy would descend and Buzz would look at the review mirror of his past and give up on today. 

So when Christa asked or announced her plans for Christmas, rather than fight, he allowed Christa to go with her softball coach and family on a Christmas ski trip. By 10 am Christmas day, Buzz had put away the nativity scene and its light, thrown out the Christmas cards and put Christa’s gift on her bed to await her return. Buzz had never been so alone before; so, by noon, he was in his office planning the fall campaign. As he made notes on the yellow legal pad he read again the sign over his desk, “There are no rearview mirrors on a football helmet.” Besides football, what did he have?

Christa played lights out ball that spring, winning a place on the all-state team and getting the attention of some college scouts.

During Christa’s senior year of high school all that she and her dad shared was a last name and an address; it was as if there was a cold war being fought.  Buzz had successfully put the pain of his relationship with Christa in a box that did not adversely effect his coaching.  That fall the Warriors went to state, but were beaten soundly for the state championship.

Christa and Buzz made a pretense of a family Christmas that year, even making plans to join friends for supper.  But, by 11 that morning, the pretense was gone. A spat about nothing and Christa was off to friends and Buzz was back at his office wondering what idiot came up with, “There are no rearview mirrors on a football helmet.”

Christa had the kind of senior season that brought in the scholarship offers, even a couple for larger universities. Buzz hoped and prayed for reconciliation with Christa.  But it never happened. Graduation came and went and still the distance was there. If she was at home that summer, she was in her room packing, but mostly she was at work or with friends.

On Friday, a week before the first game, Buzz came in from practice to find Christa sitting on the trunk of her car. It was packed to the gills. He got out of the truck and walked over.

Christa started. “Here!” She handed him her house, truck, and office keys. “I’m going.”

“Which scholarship did you accept?”

“I’m not going to college. I’m not playing sports. I’m not being anyone’s daughter. I’m 18. It is my time to be me,” she exploded.

“How will I get in touch with you?”

“You won’t. If I want to talk, I’ll get a hold of you.”

“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to Atlanta, maybe Charlotte, and I’m going to be me.”

With that, she got in her car and drove off.  Buzz walked into the house, to Christa’s room, put her stuff on her desk, lay down on her bed and experienced a new level of isolation and sorrow.

Buzz briefly contemplated going after her. But knew her well enough to know that would never work. She was gone and nothing on earth could make her come back.

As long as he thought about football, he didn’t notice the sorrow so much.  So that is what he did now.  Ever since the first day of spring practice, Buzz knew this was a very special team. But Buzz buried himself in his work. It was how he kept from obsessing about Christa.

To be continued….

The Face in the Picture pt 1

I wanted to give my readers (both of you) a Christmas present.  In that this is a non-profit blog, I didn’t have much to spend.  So I am giving you a story.  Over the next couple of week I will share with you all a short story written specifically for Christmas.  It is vaguely based on a sermon illustration I heard a long time ago.  But I took a 3-minute illustration and made it into a 4-part short story.  Please read and, I hope, enjoy a Christmas gift for you.  Merry Christmas and may God bless your Holy Days.

The Face in the Picture

Everyone in the little town of Greenwood knew it was going to be a tough Christmas for James Edward “Buzz” Sawyer. But they figured he could handle it, because you don’t get a nickname like “Buzz Saw” if you are not tough. Buzz was the successful, and approaching legendary, head coach of the Robert Frost High School football team.

When he arrived, Frost High School was a program that celebrated a five-win season. Over the years Buzz changed everything.  He replaced the pastel blue and cream school colors with black and royal blue.  The school mascot morphed from the “Poets” represented by a quill to the Warrior represented by a Celtic savage.  But most dramatically he changed the psyche of the football team; over time his teams acquired his toughness.  The Frost High School Warriors were a force in 3A football.  In 15 years there were three state titles, 10 regional championships, and dozens of players had received scholarships to play at the next level.  His teams had a reputation for discipline, loyalty, character, and definitely toughness.

Buzz had a motto almost as famous as his toughness. “There are no rearview mirrors on a football helmet.” When he arrived, he used this slogan to help his team to move away from their past losing tradition. He used it to keep players focused on the next play, not their last one, regardless of how the last play went.  As the team began to experience success, this motto reminded them that past success did not generate future wins. In every practice, every team meeting, every pregame talk, somewhere he would say, “There are no rearview mirrors on a football helmet.”

Only two people knew about Buzz’s tender side, his wife Sandy and his daughter Christa. Christa had no memory before their life in the little town of Greenwood. Sandy and Christa loved being in a coaching family. They were deeply involved with the boosters and almost all the team events.  During the first few years at Frost High, Sandy, a college soccer player, even helped coach special teams a little.  When Frost won its first ever state title Sandy and Christa headed up the trading card fundraiser that commemorated the historic occasion.  Christa, overly proud of her dad, secretly ordered 2000 trading cards featuring his picture, and a place on the back for his autograph.   

In the fall, when the Warriors began their defense of their championship title, Sandy was not feeling too well. A summer cold and cough would not go away. By homecoming, the diagnosis was non-smoking lung cancer. When the Warriors faced a second round opponent and Sandy wasn’t in the stands for the first time since she married Buzz, no one’s concentration was on the game. A lesser team bounced the Warriors out of the playoffs, but in view of Sandy’s illness, no one seemed to care.

That Christmas, their last together, was picture perfect. The football team came in mass to carol Sandy. Sandy and Christa decorated the Christmas tree using only Buzz’s commemorative trading cards. And Buzz bought a beautiful hand carved nativity set that was placed under a spotlight in front of the picture window. Were it not for Sandy’s illness, it would have been a perfect Christmas.

Two days before fall practice began, Sandy died. At her request, all the Frost High players, past and present, served as honorary pallbearers.  In the church where they prayed for her healing, they said goodbye. The funeral procession drove by the stadium on the way to the cemetery where they buried “Coach Sandy.”

That season was a disaster. Expecting to rebuild, Coach Sawyer didn’t expect a lot, but 5 wins and 5 losses was unacceptable. After Sandy’s death, he really didn’t focus on being a coach as much as being a father. He and Christa clung together and found their strength in their faith and each other.

That Christmas began a new tradition for the Sawyer household.  Neither Buzz nor Christa had the heart to put up a Christmas tree.  So they didn’t have any decorations except for the nativity set. They put their presents in front of it, put a spotlight on it, and that was all the decorating they did that year.  It was the most painful year of Coach Sawyer’s life, and it was also the last year that he and Christa could enjoy peace.

It was during this year the relationship between Christa and her dad began to change. Buzz knew it was the pain of Sandy’s passing, but it was complicated by the fact that Christa was acting like a teenager; for these and other reasons things changed. Christa the bubbling, free spirit that was once a delight to be near had become a surly attitude that was willing to fight over any little thing.

On top of everything else, Buzz was concerned about his job. The boosters and community had gotten used to winning and no coach can keep his job in a town accustomed to winners by producing 5 and 5 seasons.  Last season’s record haunted him with the restless specter of failure that could only be appeased with a spectacular season.  His response to every crisis of his life had been to work harder, work smarter and remember there are “no review mirrors on a football helmet.”  So Coach Buzzsaw dug into his work.  Spring practice took on a passionate urgency for players and coaches alike.    The days were long even for a workaholic like Buzz.  Before the next fall, everything looked fine. Buzz was back to his old self. Christa had come into her own playing softball and the Warriors were about to put together a great season.

No one noticed what was missing: the closeness Buzz once had with Christa. Even though they noticed, neither spoke about the growing distance between them.  The excitement of football can mask a lot of pain. So Buzz and Christa hid their pain in a run to the state title game. With 38 seconds left, …(to be continued next week)

Secret to Great Ministry

“But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong”

This morning I had coffee with a friend of mine who gives new meaning to this verse.  Jennifer has a past that is somewhat less that pure as the wind driven snow.  In fact there was a time in her life when it would be hard to imagine anyone less suitable for a life of ministry.  That is all I’m going to say about that (I will provide contact information so if you like you can invite Jennifer to tell you her story).  It would be foolish to think God would use some one like her, but He has, indeed He does more with her than with a lot of premium people.

Jennifer leads a ministry to women who are coming out of prison, addition and/or various dysfunctions.  She has an impact on the lives of people disproportionate to her upbringing, experience, or education.  As we (Jennifer her husband John, my wife Lorie, and I) talked this morning I was a bit overwhelmed by what God has done, is doing and may yet do in the life of this one person. 

As we talked about the joys and frustrations of their ministry (John is all in) I kept wanting to ask one question.  It is the kind of question that I love to ask in an interview or conversation and then share in some way or another.  That question is “What is the secret to the success of your ministry?”  But I the answer was obvious.  I have seen the answer in the lives of other heroes of ministry.  I saw it in the life and ministry of a man who ran a crisis pregnancy center in a pretty rough neighborhood.  I saw in an older minister that ran VBS programs in the public housing projects of Atlanta.  I saw the same secret in a preacher that at the age of 83 still preaches and leads more sinner to Christ than men half his age and twice his energy.  You may have seen the answer in your heroes of faith. 

It is not that these heroes have a profound creative theological perspective, nor an advanced degree.  It is not their mastery of Hebrew, Greek, German or a dialect spoken only by a few thousand people.  It is not their ability to preacher sermons that knock your socks off.  Nothing wrong with any of these things and most of the heroes can do many or some of these.  I have known people who could do almost all of these and were ministry duds.  Here is what Jennifer and every other hero I have ever known had, and they have it in common.

They have all had a profound, dynamic and active love for God and for people.  As we talked this morning there was a story of a person whose life was a shambles but found their way to grace.  I looked and Jennifer’s eyes were filling with tears.  They didn’t over flow on to her face.  But a story of God’s grace meeting a sinner is always a profoundly moving moment for a hero of faith.

Here is the take away.  We can all grow in our love for God and people.  I will never be a great theologian; I just don’t run that deep.  I will never be a master of languages; I failed freshman English twice.  I will never be able to preach like Dave Stone or Andy Stanley; I stumble over my words and never realize it.   (I once, speaking of an out of balance ceiling fan, said, “Could someone turn that fan off.  It’s whacking off is bothering me.  Yes I said that, at least it was during the announcements.)  What I can do is love God, and love people.  I can grow in that love.   If I want to be like the people I most admire and respect there is a simple pattern to follow: Love God and Love People.

For more information about Jennifer and her ministry follow this link: https://www.facebook.com/herhopegainesville/?fref=ts

Pray for France, but how?

After Friday’s cowardly attack by faithful disciples of Islam, we have been asked to pray.  But what are we supposed to pray?  I have heard some pretty inane prayers.  Generally, it has been a vague petition for God to bless the people of Paris or France.  What do we mean by that? 

Are we supposed to ask God to protect those who are lukewarm toward Him from those who are driven my demonically twisted concepts of Him?  To be sure Islam is wrong and those who practice Islam, in whatever form, are lost until they come to faith in Jesus Christ.  But they are neither more nor less lost than those who are indifferent toward God.  The non-believer who wants nothing more than to be left alone and allowed to pursue a life of pleasure and self-satisfaction is in no better condition spiritually than the Islamist that is prepared to die a martyr. 

The West has already lost to Islam, unless and until, we reject a worldview that is godless and morally uncertain.  It is impossible for the inherent weakness produced by post-modern thought and political correctness to be able to stand against the misguided moral certainty of Islam.  In the West, we do not know what is right or wrong, we can’t clearly define marriage; we are not even sure what is male and female.   While leaders of Islam are contemplating world conquest, our President is concerned with the dressing room situation for one terribly confused child in IL.   If post-modern thought is correct, then the attackers in Paris cannot be condemned.  Political correctness only works in polite society.  It only works in a culture where you can, if you choose, be stupid.  It will work as long as the culture at large has the moral foundation to protect you while you are being an idiot.  In other words, the politically correct are doomed in any society other than a Christian worldview.

If we wish to condemn the actions of this weekend’s assault, then on what basis do we bring that condemnation?  On shared human values?  Political correctness says you cannot impose your values on a person or a group.  Do we condemn them because they broke some moral law?  What moral law?  The attackers were consistent with the teachings of the Koran.  If we say what they did is wrong, we must appeal to a lawgiver who has the authority to speak with finality.  That is the one thing that a post-modern, politically correct understanding of the universe cannot allow.

The very thing that can allow a society to rise up against the moral malignancy of Fascism, Nazism, Communism, or Islam is the one thing that western democracies are incapable of using.

As I look at Isaiah 8-10, I see that God used a wicked people to bring judgment and to awaken Israel from her moral slumber.  I don’t believe that the preservation of Western Democracy is very high on God’s priority list; however, I do believe that repentance is very near the top of that list.  So then, in answer to the question how do we pray for France and all nations, for that matter, I believe our prayer should be something like this:

Almighty God,

By Your mercy and grace, use these circumstances to awaken us to our need for a true, heart felt, and lasting repentance.  Use the pain of this moment to cause us to turn to You and by Your grace draw us to You.  Help us Lord, our God to surrender to You our rights, our will, and our control, and give ourselves over to You completely.

In the Name of the only One who gave Himself completely to your will,

Jesus Christ

Amen.