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Recently, while speaking on the campus of The University of California in San Diego, David Horowitz, well-known speaker and writer, encountered the student you will see and hear in the video below. She represented the Muslim Students Association on that campus. Her comments are stirring, but even more provoking, are the thoughts expressed by Horowitz as he concluded his remarks to her. Many Americans believe that Muslims who sanction Jihad are the radical adherents of the religion. The Quran, however, is replete with admonitions for followers to “slay”, “smite”, “destroy” and “kill” its adversaries. Those Islamic people who participate in Jihad are those who are diligently obeying their “holy” book. Christians must be aware of the relevance that Jihad has to the very heart of the Muslim faith. One cannot be a faithful Muslim without believing that Christians should be killed. The Horowitz incident is captured here: youtube link

Now read a few passages from the Quran. There is no ambiguity in these words. And make no mistake about it, those of us who believe that Jesus Christ is “the way, the truth and the life” are the “enemy” in these passages from the Quran:

(For more information about the Islamic faith, the Quran and its threat to believers, visit www.apologeticspress.org. From this site you can purchase an excellent book called “Quran Unveiled,” by Dr. Dave Miller. The above passages were obtained from this site.)

Have you ever watched the people on a plane while the flight attendant tells us what to do if we start to plunge down into the middle of the Pacific? Yeah, that’s right. We sleep, we hurry up and finish texting before she catches us with that cell phone still on. We eat lunch and we visit with the stranger who is sharing that miniscule armrest and getting all up in our personal space. We read the newspaper, the SKY magazine or the novel. We go to the restroom. We do all of these things while she tells us where the exit rows are, in case we need to get out of the burning jet. We are working a crossword puzzle while she tells us how to strap the mask on the small suffocating child sitting next to us if the cabin pressure plummets and nobody can breathe. We are checking a football score while she tells us where the oxygen mask is located and that it will be working even if it does not fully inflate. We are trying to figure out how to squish the bulging bag under the seat while she tells us which part of that seat is our flotation device. And I think I have seen about one person in all of my travel actually “viewing the information in the pamphlet in the seatback in front of you.”

Why do we not listen? Some say they’ve heard it before. Yeah, you heard it another time, but do you know where the oxygen mask is on THIS plane? Do you really know, if you are sitting on an exit row, how to open that door all by yourself, or are you just sitting there for the extra legroom? Are you sure you know how to strap on that mask and would you really be able to quickly do it while gasping for air? And how about that exit row?  Have you “looked around for the nearest one” on THIS plane? I’m really not sure we all know this stuff just because we’ve heard it all before.

I’m thinking, as I’m sitting on this plane typing, that the real reason I didn’t listen so well is because I don’t think we’re crashing today. I don’t think it’s a happening thing. I did pray that we would have a safe flight. I want the Lord to be with me. But really, I have to admit I’m among the many who think the chances of safety are good. That’s why I didn’t listen. And really, thanks to modern technology and safety laws, they are.

But are we nonchalant about more certain catastrophic events? Why are our lives so messed up with sin, and yet we really don’t listen when the preacher tells us what to do about sin in view of impending judgment?  Why is that man on pew three still getting drunk every Friday night when the Bible clearly says those who do such things can’t have eternal life (Galatians 5: 19-21)? Why is that teenager clinching the pew through every invitation song, when she knows there would be no hope for her unsaved soul if Jesus came today? Why is that young man whispering and laughing with his girlfriend all through the sermon that’s filled with the “emergency” readiness information about the catastrophic end of the world?  Why do the couples who understand that they are living in adultery keep choosing to ignore the clear warnings of Scripture?  In short, why are we not listening?

I think it’s likely the same reason. We just don’t really think it’s a happening thing. Sure, we’ve heard it all of our lives and, on some level, we believe it. I mean, we do believe in God and, at some point, probably before most of us can recall, we learned about what happens at the end. We learned that the final and eternal destination of our “flight” is determined by how well we listen to and heed the instructions in the good book.  But some of us put that information out of our minds each time we hear it. It’s uncomfortable to think about the “safety information.” We’ve heard it before and to listen again is redundantly difficult. So we turn a deaf ear to the information that will be sorely needed in case of an emergency. Only this upcoming event—the end of time and the destruction of the earth—is not truly an emergency at all. It is a promised event; something that will factually occur just as described in scripture. It will be horrendous for so many. It will be astonishing to all…beyond anything we’ve ever imagined. But it will not be a surprise to those who have been in the Book. This cataclysmic event is not described as “in the unlikely event.” It’s not an off chance or a marginal possibility. It is a happening thing. It’s also more than just a possibility that we could be saved if we apply the “safety information.” It’s guaranteed. So why do we not listen?

Last week, Glenn and I were speaking in Pennsylvania. With some consternation in her voice, the lady (whom I did not know until this night) who was in charge of the women’s part of the seminar, asked me if I needed an introduction or if I was good to just dive into the material I was going to discuss. She seemed very relieved when I told her that I’d be fine without any preface to my remarks. She even said something like, “Oh that’s good news. I was really worried about pronouncing that word correctly.”

Well, I could not imagine a word in the bio she had requested a few weeks earlier being difficult for her to pronounce. There were a few longer words in there, but I figured she could say Argentina and lectureships… just nothing too challenging in there.

I finally asked her exactly what word she was having trouble saying. She said it was incontinent.  I smiled and allowed that the word incontinent is not in my bio.

She looked a little sheepish and said, “Yes, it is.”

I knew the continents, as in “Cindy Colley has spoken in several states and on 4 continents” might be in there, so I explained that. She insisted that the word was INcontinent.

She got the folded copy of the worn bio out of her purse. There, encircled several times and syllabically divided was the word: in/con/ti/nent. The entire phrase was as follows. “Cindy’s attends the West Huntsville church of Christ, where her husband serves as the pulpit minister, an elder and a coach for the incontinent.”

“No! Surely not. How can this be?” I read and reread and, sure enough, there it was in black and white. “Where did you get this?”

“From your husband,” she responded. “We wrote and asked him for your bio and he sent this in an email.”

Then, it hit me. Several months ago, a well known website had asked Glenn for our bios for use in promoting a seminar series. Glenn was very busy at the time and asked me to type a short one up and e-mail it to him. I did so, including that little “joke” about him and enclosing a little note asking him if he minded proofing it for me before sending it in. Just a little husband/wife nonsensical fun I was about, you see. He would read it, chuckle and edit it. Just a quick little piece of everyday, marital fun that flavors our days. I thought no more about it.

Several days later the lectureship was mentioned and I asked him if he got those bios in. He said he did. I asked him if he proofed mine and he said, “It was great, I’m sure.”

You guessed. After one moment that included explaining what I had done, a “You did NOT do that!”, a “Yes, I did,” an amazing blush and a bewildered look on his face, a bit of craw-dadding on both parts and a laughter that slowly erupted and filled the room, he made a quick call and, sure enough, to his chagrin, the bio was already posted in cyberspace.

That’s it. The bio was already up and the page had already been visited by a limited number of people. “Well…we need to edit that bio, like, maybe, right now.” I heard the urgency in his end of the conversation. Thankfully, the edits were quickly done and the continency coach nor the coach’s wife ever heard any more about the blooper and we forgot all about it…

Until last week.  We’ve come to the realization now that the email was originally entitled Cindy’s Bio. Further he failed to delete the e-mail from his inbox. And furthermore, he has been forwarding it on to who knows how many churches requesting biographical information.

Three lessons you should learn from this post:

If I were hunting a spiritual application to this post, it would be difficult to find. But I am going to stretch and make one anyway. Of all your relationships, marriage should be the most fun. It should get to be more and more fun through the years. You should have advanced through all of the levels of communication with each other and you should have finally found the freedom level of communication, in which you can be an open book to your spouse without fearing his ridicule or anger at your ideas and opinions. You should both be secure in knowing that neither of you would ever do anything purposefully to truly embarrass the other. You should laugh (a lot) together and cry together when necessary. The key word is together. You should together enter the fiery trials of life and emerge as a stronger and better unit. Sometimes the misunderstandings and miscommunications are funny. Sometimes they may be less funny and more serious. When there are serious unresolved issues, the together part is more difficult. But keep holding his hand even when you may be questioning whether or not you hold his heart.

I once was privy to the words of a godly wife to her husband in a time when her trust in him had been seriously betrayed. These words she left on a greeting card on his dresser. I will never forget them: “We have made it through some really hard things together. I think we can make it through this, too. I love you…” That was many years ago and this faithful couple is doing great things together in His kingdom still today.  They are deeply devoted to each other. When laughter is a staple of your home life, it flavors on the best of days and heals on the worst of days. And this medicine has no expiration date.

It was a bright summer morning and the small talk of the neighborhood could be heard as I meandered through the crowd that had gathered in the yard of the old home on the corner of 5th and Madison. The old couple had been married for more than 50 years, but all of the laughter and love, trials and tears that were a part of this old home place had been reduced to an echoing memory. The porch was cluttered with the “stuff” of this now vacant house and the people, some who had known its inhabitants, some who were dealers in antiques, and some who were just curious about the goings on of an auction, were milling about and browsing through the musty smelling memorabilia turned merchandise. The clock had been ticking at the base of the big staircase for all of the old man’s life and all of his father’s and…well, now no one seemed to care. Dealers  examined its old Seth Thomas label and tried to determine what it would bring. There were quilts that had been stitched at quilting bees in the old parlor and there was even one that had been a wedding gift to Great Grandmother, but it had been removed from the old rope bed  in the guest room and thrown in a big pile of bed linens on the floor of the wooden porch.

At ten o’clock sharp the gavel came down and the auctioneer began to chant. His call was intriguing and it was easy to become lost in his song and hardly even notice the items as they were sold, one by one, to the highest bidder. Wardrobes, dressers, watches, dishes, tools, washtubs, crocks and hats with big boxes…all with numbers,  sold to people with numbers,  for dollar values. It all seemed such a thoughtless way for this old place to end. Yet the anxious bidders continued to nod with excitement as they anticipated taking home something that had caught their fancies.

The grandfather clock was different, though. At first, the dealers bid quickly against one another, until one by one, they were eliminated. Finally one of the bidders found himself bidding against an old white haired lady who stood solemnly on the bottom porch step . As I glanced her way, astonished at her persistence in bidding against the wealthy dealer, I saw a tear roll down her cheek. Knowing then that the clock was more to her than an investment, I strolled over as she held up her number, relieved that her competitor for the prized clock had finally relinquished it. “You see,” she said, “that’s my father’s clock…No price is too high.”
 

Perhaps there are lessons to be learned from the Saturday morning auction that is a part of Southern Americana. I doubt  that the couple who ambitiously worked , played and raised their children in this old house ever gave serious consideration to the fact that one day this house  and all of its contents would  be  listed on an inventory and sold to strangers. None of the members of this family would have ever considered selling out; not just a few years ago. But now things are different and it’s a little easier, now that the old folks are gone. It’s not so hard to watch the items go, one by one, knowing that each one is bringing its fair price. Life is changing and so these remnants of another time, are slowly bartered, and with them goes the recollection of the way things used to be.
 

There’s a sense in which we as Americans are witnessing an auction. It’s a grand estate…this home we call America and many sacrifices were made through the years to maintain it. It has weathered many a storm and has been a haven of freedom and happiness for generations. 

Times are changing and those who built the house have long been gone.  The “stuff” of this house is on the porch and the auctioneer is chanting to the crowd. One by one the” pieces” of this old home are placed on the auction block. Several of the most valuable and memorable items have already been sold and the prices they have brought have paled in comparison to their true value. Someone can recall a time when purity filled this old home, but alas it has already been sold out to immorality. Fidelity was a foundational part of the house, but it has been replaced and so the auctioneer sold it cheaply. Hard work and its rewards have stood side by side in the house for generations, but, alas they, too, have been split into small lots and are being sold a little at the time. The Word of God was the centerpiece of this old dwelling. How many memories emerge from its use in this place! The children were taught daily from its pages and the family gathered around it each night before bed. For years, now, though it has been unopened and forsaken on the shelf.  Life without it just hasn’t been the same. It was placed in a box and auctioned off as a box lot along with public prayer, the sacredness of marriage, the leadership of fathers and the value of mothers in the home. Life is changing!

As a matter of fact, it is time for the bartering of life, itself. Could it be that the value of life itself could be defined by a mere crowd of bidders gathered around the front porch? They are always there in every auction crowd… those who take no thought for the real intrinsic value of an item… those whose interest in the piece is merely mercenary. Could it be that no one who remembers where this life came from, to whom it belonged in the very beginning, will even enter a bid? Doesn’t the thought of the real value of this precious article come to the mind of someone who recalls that it was a gift given by the Father before this house was even built? Which merchant in this thronging crowd can presume to know the value of this entity called life?

“What am I bid?” calls the auctioneer.

As a tear rolls slowly down my cheek, I enter a bid from the steps of the porch. You see, this is my house. That is my Father’s. And no price is too high.            

 Article by Cindy Colley as first published in Christian Woman Magazine, Gospel Advocate, Nashville, TN