The run-up to our holiday started a couple of weeks early, when my dad woke up with chest pains. Of course, his first instinct was to wonder if he were suffering a heart attack. Mother rushed him to the hospital, and the initial tests failed to indicate any cardiac problems.

Daddy's family doctor first thought the pain might reflect acid reflux. He also couldn't rule out severe discomfort radiating from damage wreaked on his back and ribs by a car wreck four decades ago.

Uh-oh

More tests. More pain. And finally, a visit to a cardiologist, who sent him to an Oklahoma City hospital for an angiogram. She took one look at four blocked arteries in his heart, and she wouldn't let him go home.

That was Friday before the holiday weekend. In case you're wondering, hospitals look like ghost towns on holiday weekends.

But early on Labor Day morning, a team of operating room nurses showed up and wheeled Daddy away. Mother and I knew the cardiologist and cardiothoracic surgeon had taken Daddy's condition seriously when we arrived in the surgical waiting area. Mother, two family friends and I were the sole occupants of several thousand feet of floor space normally teeming with nervous surgery-waiters. Turns out, Daddy's was the only surgery taking place that morning in a major downtown hospital.

"Routine" surgery

About five hours later, his surgeon paid a visit. He just finished putting four bypasses in my father's heart. He called it "routine." That's a matter of perspective, of course. A doctor's "routine" is a nerve-wracking, prayer-inducing, knee-buckling event for folks whose loved one lies on an operating table.

Daddy's prognosis is excellent. His intensive care nurse pronounced his recovery painful but exceptional. He should be up and about fairly soon and back to 78-year-old "normal" in a couple of months.

This Labor Day Weekend, I've been thankful for the labors of skilled and compassionate medical professionals who work with God to heal people. Some folks question the existence of miracles. I think they happen every day in hospitals far and wide.

You've probably heard the Washington Monument is closed for the time being. After the recent earthquake rattled the East Coast, officials found cracks in the giant obelisk.

So, they closed it to the public. Nobody can travel to the top. Sure wouldn't want folks inside if the monument toppled over into the National Mall.

Revealing questions

My friend's observation — offered somewhat in jest — is on point. And it raises at least a couple of questions: (1) Did the earthquake cause the damage to the Washington Monument? (2) Or was the Washington Monument cracked prior to the earthquake, but nobody looked closely until after the quake?

Whichever is true, officials now know about the damage. So, they can correct it. If you look at it that way, the earthquake could have been a blessing in disguise — an opportunity to make lasting repairs to an American treasure.

So it is with many stresses in life. Sometimes, they cause damage, which must be repaired. 

Revelation and repair

But other times, they reveal damage. That revelation provides the opportunity to repair our lives. 

Do you need to patch up parts of your life? Mend a relationship? Fix a character flaw? Complete your education? Ask God, and others, to forgive you?

Pay attention to your stresses. They can guide you to wholeness.

Our grandson's new baby bed brought me to my knees all right. But for awhile there, I thought I'd probably lose my religion before I discovered anything redemptive in this little construction project.

Ezra plans to spend some time with us during the next few weeks. Actually, Ezra isn't planning to do anything just yet. He's only seven months old, and planning isn't part of his skill set, although he's great at sticking toys and bibs and fingers and toes in his mouth. He pretty much goes with the flow of his parents' plans. Nevertheless, he's going to stay with us for a few days or so.

In anticipation of Ezra's arrival, Jodi (his grandmama and my wife, Joanna) and Marvo (that's me), decided to buy him a bed for our home. "It'll be a good investment, not just for Ezra, but for all the grandkids to come," Jodi/Jo declared with confidence as she searched the Internet for good buys on baby beds.

Sticker shock

Jo eventually found a bed that appeared to be (a) safe and (b) reasonably priced, and we set out for the baby furniture/clothing/toy/doo-dad store.

By the way, did you know you can spend $649.99 on a baby bed, and that doesn't even include the mattress? We didn't, but you can. Amazing. And you can spend $250 for little bed linens upon which a baby will poop and/or spit up before you can say, "Chubby little cheeks." We didn't, but you can.

The baby store kept Ezra's bed and mattress in stock.  So, the young man who works in the back of the store and rarely sees sunlight came wheeling it out to our car. The bed had been packed in an incredibly small and impossibly dense box.

Fearsome phrase

As I helped the stock boy with his cart, I realized a certain truth I knew all along but denied until that instant: "Some Assembly Required."

Can you think of more innocuous  words that draw from a deeper well of dread? "Some Assembly Required." That little phrase has signaled a Waterloo for wrenches, a Dunkirk for screwdrivers, a Little Big Horn for socket sets to generations of dads and granddads.

I encountered my first major "Some Assembly Required" crisis when Ezra's mama, Lindsay, was just a bit older than he is now. Popo, my grandfather, gave me money to buy a swingset for Lindsay, his great-granddaughter. I bought the set, brought it home and opened the box. It contained approximately the same number of parts as the Space Shuttle. 

A full Saturday and a Sunday afternoon later, Lindsay and I stood in our backyard and admired her new swingset. Fear muted my joy. See, I filled every hole in every piece with a bolt or screw, and I still held a six-ounce bag full of parts. But Lindsay and, later, her sister, Molly, climbed, swung, teeter-tottered and slid all over that swingset. And nothing ever fell off or broke down.

The big test

Twenty-seven years later, I knelt in our guest bedroom and surveyed all the parts for Ezra's new bed. I pulled out the assembly instructions, read all the warnings, checked the parts list and gathered several tools. Then I started putting the bed together.

After decades of experience with "Some Assembly Required," I'm fairly adept at deciphering instructions written by sincere and well-meaning people whose first language obviously is not my own. Instructions for assembling most toys and furniture make Yoda's syntax seem sensible. "Insert Flange C into Slot QQ you must, whilst toggling Switch J counter-clockwise is mandatory." Fortunately, for the most part, if you study the pictures carefully, think carefully and use brute force, you can put stuff together.

Unfortunately, the person who developed the directions for assembling Ezra's baby bed is not fluent in linear thinking. On multiple occasions, the illustrations and instructions for connecting the Whatnot to the Hosenose contradicted the previous instructions spelled out on the preceding pages. Logic and sequence are concepts with which the instructions-writer obviously is not familiar.

So, the baby bed assembly became a project of assembly, disassembly, reassembly. Eventually, I jammed, rammed, screwed, twisted and otherwise connected every part to another part. The bed stood in the middle of the floor.

I leaned on the bed—hard—just to make sure it wouldn't fall in on Ezra.  And I took inventory of my vocabulary from the previous hours. I don't recall that I cussed, but I think if I had, even the Lord would've said, "Amen."

Christians and confusion

Later, I reflected on my frustration with utterly confusing instructions. And then I thought about how confusing Christians' conversation must be to unbelievers. I wonder how many folks live far from God because the Christians they encounter make a relationship with Jesus sound either inane, arcane, complicated or simply not worth the trouble. 

We need to think about how others hear the gospel. And then make it plain, direct, compelling and simple.

The last few weeks have been brutal, haven't they? As if the current heat wave weren't bad enough, the government debt crisis and political Chicken match just about made life miserable. 

But Standard and Poor's dealt the real punch in the gut when it downgraded the U.S. credit rating.   The stock markets—which started tumbling as leaders of our government started behaving like two cliques of middle-schoolers—took a nosedive.

I can only imagine what my retirement plan looks like. "Imagine" is the operative word, because I'm not looking. What good would it do?

Meanwhile, I've been working on a sermon on the 23rd Psalm, which I'll preach at my church this Sunday.  In light of our governmental and economic catastrophes—which stand alongside plenty of other bad news—I've been struck by two lines in this beloved psalm.

"I shall not want."

Really? That seems like a miraculous promise. Not because God will become the cosmic Santa Claus, but because I might limit my wants to what I already have. In our materialistic age, turning off our "wanter" is a miracle indeed.

Elsewhere in this psalm, we see an image of the Shepherd (God) guiding and disciplining his sheep (us). I've realized that when I'm living a focused, disicplined life, then what I most want is exactly what I need. When I come in from running in Texas summer heat, the only thing I want is what my body needs more than anything—water. When I'm consistent in practicing my spiritual disciplines, the first thing I want in the morning is precisely what my soul needs—Bible study and prayer.

So, although I refuse to believe God intends for leaders to squabble and behave badly, I believe God can use this crisis to help us focus on what's really important. (If God used the Assyrians and Babylonians to chasten Israel and Judah, God can—ironically—use the fallout of political food-fighting to help us see what's really important.)

And that would be a significant "wanter" adjustment. Perhaps this crisis will break our cycle of greed. That would be a far-reaching blessing.

"I fear no evil, for You are with me."

Interestingly, the psalm does not promise we will not encounter evil. It simply says we will not fear evil, because God is with us. 

Bad things happen. They always will. Good people get sick and die. Mean people do wicked things. Retirement funds take a tumble when you're about to turn 65. 

But through it all, God is with us. God is sufficient. Not that we won't suffer, or feel discouraged and disappointed. But God will be with us.

That's the Apostle Paul's point in the eighth chapter of Romans. Even in the worst of times, God works to bring good out of bad situations (Romans 8:28).

So, despite all the distractions and difficulties, we can look forward with hope. God will use these times to shape our hearts, to channel our aspirations, to deepen our relationships.

Surely, you know about The Response: A Call to Prayer for a Nation in Crisis, the big prayer rally spearheaded by Texas Gov. Rick Perry, who may or may not but most likely will run for president next year.

Simply put, I'm for prayer. But I'm against an active politician, much less an elected official, inserting himself in the big middle of a public prayer rally. Click this link to read the problems with Perry's idea. And click here to see a proposed prayer list for the Houston rally.

"… breaks my heart …"

The reader writes: "I thought it was sad when the atheists started complaining because we were going to get together and pray in Houston. But for Christians to complain about it just totally took me by surprise. … It just breaks my heart for people of God to throw negative comments at this because they're afraid it might be 'political.'"

You can understand the shock a Christian of a certain persuasion could feel when she learns another Christian agrees with an atheist over against her position on a topic. But as the shade-tree philosopher says, "Even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then." Just because an atheist is wrong on the ultimate issue does not mean he is wrong on all issues. And just because a Christian is correct on that ultimate issue does not mean she is correct on all issues.

I know this is hard for Christians at either end of the spectrum to understand, but fellow Christians often disagree with them precisely because of their biblical understanding and Christian convictions.

Not unconstitutional, just unwise

In this case, I do not oppose Gov. Perry's right to call out and even whip up a prayer rally. This is not a constitutional issue. The rally has been funded by private money. The governor has not mandated attendance by anyone. And even public officials have private rights.

But I do question the governor's wisdom in calling and organizing an overtly Christian rally. He was sworn to uphold the state constitution and to serve all Texans. The highly parochial nature of his call and involvement in the rally tells Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Texans of other faiths and Texans of no faith they are second-class, at best. Our state is divided enough already; we don't need the governor creating new divisions and stretching the chasm between groups.

As a lifelong—and what church historian and native Texan Bill Leonard would call an "old timey"—Baptist, I'm bothered by Gov. Perry's short-sighted theology. For 400 years, Baptists have championed the notion that all people are created in God's image and thus possess inalienable rights to religious liberty. That's why Roger Williams, founder of the first Baptist church in America, chartered Rhode Island Colony—to provide a haven of peace and protection for the minority Baptists who were persecuted in Massachusetts. But Williams was expansive. Rather than create a Baptist enclave, he set aside space for Baptists, Jews, Quakers, "Turks" (his word for Muslims) and people of no faith to follow the dictates of their consciences.

Roger Williams would not support the prayer rally. Neither would Thomas Helwys, an early British Baptist, who died in prison for telling England's King James to butt out of the religious lives of his subjects. Neither would John Leland, the 18th century Virginia Baptist pastor, who secured the religious liberty clauses in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Neither would George W. Truett, voted by Baptist Standard readers the most influential Texas Baptist of the 20th century, who continually advocated for religious freedom for all people.

Politicized prayer is offensive, but here's a way out …

And finally, despite what the letter writer wrote, infusing politics into prayer is highly offensive. We can't know for sure, but many have wondered if Gov. Perry's call for the prayer rally has anything to do with his possible run for the presidency. Presenting oneself as the boldest Christian of the bunch might be an effective way to pick up votes. That seems to be taking God's name in vain in the extreme.

If the governor  desires to signify his prayer rally sincerely is about prayer and not about his political fortunes, then he can resign as governor, declare he will not run for president and volunteer to be the nation's chaplain-in-chief.

The great 20th century theologian Karl Barth advised generations of ministers to approach life with the Bible in one hand and a newspaper in another. He realized  faith isn't of much heavenly use unless it's up to earthly good. The only way for that to happen is for Christians to apply their understanding of Scripture to the situations they face in the world around them.

That's Jim Denison's sweet spot. He developed a reputation for practical preaching as pastor of Texas and Georgia congregations, most recently Park Cities Baptist Church in Dallas.  He began applying those truths more broadly about two and a half years ago, when he founded the Center for Informed Faith—recently re-named the Denison Forum on Truth and Culture—and  became theologian-in-residence for the Baptist General Convention of Texas.

God Issues …

For awhile now, Denison has written the enormously popular "God Issues" blog. I enjoy reading it every morning, because it causes me to think theologically about news of the day—sometimes earth-shaking events, sometimes the latest from sports, and occasionally simply the downright weird. Click to see "God Issues" here. To receive it in your e-mail in box every morning, fill out the simple registration form on the right side of the "God Issues" homepage. To visit the Denison Forum's Facebook page, click here.

A longtime ally of the Baptist Standard, Denison writes the "Reading the Culture" column in the first edition of the paper each month, and he also pens the "Short Answers to Tough Questions" column in Baptist Standard E3, our enhanced electronic edition.

Facts about radical Islam

Also, plan to read Denison's new book, which will be released just ahead of the 10th anniversary of 9/11,—Radical Islam: What You Need to Know. “The battle waged against the West by radical Muslims is the war of our generation,” Denison says. “Killing bin Laden doesn’t end this war.” He has become one of the foremost Western experts on radical Islam. At a time when we're engulfed in so much misinformation and fear, his factually grounded, Scripture-based, clear-eyed analysis will help you understand this important aspect of our dangerous world. 

Jim Denison and the Denison Forum on Truth and Culture are invaluable assets in your quest to live a thoughtful, practical, useful Christian life. Say a prayer for Jim and his staff, visit their website and Facebook page, and join them in their quest to apply Christian faith to the important issues of our lives.

Of course, I love God more than I love my dog, Topanga. Don't be silly.

God is my Savior and Lord. As Father, God created all that is, supplied me with superb family and friends, infuses my life with joy, grants my next breath, holds tomorrow in divine hands. As Son, he accepted the limitations of humanity and journeyed from heaven to demonstrate to me (and to you, too) the depths of his love, accepted the burden of  sin, sacrificed his life to atone for those sins and rose again to defeat death and to transform mortality into immortality. As Spirit, God remains ever-present, infinite help in time of trouble, creative comfort amidst distress, transcendent  light in the face of darkness, exhilarating humor in the breach of banality.

So, for those reasons and an infinite number more, I love God more than I love Topanga. After all, without God's goodness, Topanga wouldn't even be part of my life.

Persistent question

 Still, that question popped into my head as I made a right turn at a stoplight on the way to work. Do I love God more than I love Topanga? I have no idea where that came from, except perhaps  I'd been thinking about Topanga—feeling a bit guilty because the night before, I watched a TV program after I finished some work, even though I knew Topanga really, really, really (dogs can be so enthusiastic) wanted to go for a walk.

Upon reflection, I decided "Do I love Topanga more than I love God?" isn't the correct way to phrase the question. What I specifically wondered (or maybe the Spirit asked me) was this: Do I act like I love Topanga more than I love God?

Now, there's a good question.

No … 

From one angle, the answer clearly is no. Topanga is neither an idol nor a substitute for God. My faith and trust lies in God alone. Through my daily life, my family and my vocation, I seek to serve God and follow God's plan, not just for the generic "my life," but for each day of my life. Joanna and I cheerfully and convictionally give our time, energy and skills, as well as our money, in service to God. Obviously, I'm not perfect and never would make a claim to be, but I truthfully can say  Topanga never has gotten between me and doing God's will. I have not failed to allocate time, talent, money, passion and commitment into God's kingdom because I lavished any of it on her.

And yes

But from another angle, I've got to admit, it sometimes looks like the answer is yes. I regularly go out of my way to do things for Topanga, just because I know it makes her happy. Often, it's taking her for a walk or simply out to pick up the newspaper or get the mail. It's seeking her out to play a game of fetch. Or scratching her ears and rubbing her belly. Giving her treats just because she will sit. Picking her up and cuddling on the sofa. Tossing her the used dryer sheets so she can tear them to smithereens.  Taking her for a ride so she can hang her head out the driver's window, even when the temperature is 102. Letting her lick my face.

Showing love

I do all those things for Topanga because I love her and want her to know it. But how often do I spontaneously do something—anything—just because I know God will get a kick out of it? 

Of course, God doesn't look at me with big, brown eyes. God doesn't wag a tail in sheer delight. God doesn't jump up into my lap and nuzzle my neck. But Topanga shouldn't gain the affection advantage just because she's tangible.

OK, so this question doesn't have a tidy answer.  I'm still working it out. But as long as I've still got points to ponder, I've got plenty of possibilities for improving how I show my love for God.

 I really didn't mean to break the speed limit on my way to work. Honest. 

Here's how I think it happened: The commute from our house to my office is about 18 miles. Part of it is controlled by traffic lights. For most of the rest of the trip, my potential speed is curbed by congestion. But not on Loop 12, a straight-line connection between Interstate 35 and Interstate 30 through the far eastern edge of Irving.

During the early years when I worked for the Baptist Standard, I chafed over my long commute, which at the time was about 28 miles. I enjoyed my job, but I just detested the time I spent in the car every morning and afternoon. Most of the trip, I traveled in the same direction as everyone else who lived in the northern suburbs and worked in Dallas. But on Loop 12, I caught a break, since most of the downtown-bound traffic stayed on I-35, and the prevailing Loop 12 traffic consisted of folks from the southern suburbs who work on the northside, heading in the opposite direction. 

So, for the first 11 years, I confess, I regularly broke the speed limit to make up for the agonizingly slow pace of the rest of my commute.

Slowing down …

But then several things happened: We moved from Lewisville to Coppell, and I cut my driving distance by 10 miles. I started downloading podcasts of favorite radio programs, which made my drive much more enjoyable. And I "grew up" and decided to relax and quit rushing. (I guess I could say I developed a conscience and felt more compelled to strictly obey the speed limit, but that would be a lie.)

So, most mornings now, I stay in the right two lanes of the four-lane expressway, content for the speed demons to zip by. 

… but not enough

But on the way to work the other morning, I suddenly realized I was driving in the left—around here known as "fast"—lane. And I have no memory of how I got over there. Probably it had something to do with 18-wheelers and changing lanes to avoid trailing them or getting boxed in by them. 

At any rate, I didn't consciously intend to drift left, but there I was.

About that time, I realized I was "going with the flow" of the fast-lane traffic. And within a couple of seconds, I topped a little rise and saw the police officer sitting on his motorcycle, pointing his radar at me.

So, I wasn't surprised when he turned on his red-and-blue lights as I passed, and I immediately made my way to the right shoulder.

The stereotype of a traffic cop is gruff and surly, but this officer was as nice as an icecream-truck driver. Maybe he's just a friendly guy. And maybe it was because I already had my driver's license out and a "guilty as charged" look on my face when he walked up.

"How bad was it?" I asked.

"Seventy-one," he said. Since I've driven that road more than 3,000 times, I know the limit is 60.

"Oooh. Sorry," I said. He kind of smiled and took my license and insurance card back to his cycle.

When he walked back to my car, he handed me a long piece of paper. (Who knew traffic tickets have so much information?) He showed me the number to call to arrange for paying my fine.

"OK, just be careful," he told me as he walked away.

How it happened

If anyone could say they had a pleasant experience receiving a ticket, that would be me. But as I drove away, I wondered how that happened.

And then I knew exactly: First, I just wasn't thinking about what I was doing. Instead of monitoring my speed and my position, I got caught up in the podcast program streaming through my speakers. Second, I lapsed into bad habits. All those years of willfully breaking the speed limit came back to haunt me, because I subconsciously lapsed into that same old pattern as soon as I pulled into the fast lane.

Lesson learned

My driving failure reminded me of spiritual failures—both my own and others' I've observed through the years. When we form and cultivate bad habits, they become ingrained, and even when we think we have broken them, they remain hard-wired into our psyches, ready to pop up at unexpected moments. And those moments occur when we fail to think about what we're doing, when we don't remain vigilant.

From my experience, spiritual vigilance lapses when I fail to practice disciplines—particularly reading Scriptures and other discipling/inspirational writings, praying, and meditating on God's plan for my life that day.

The speeding ticket will take a bite out of my bank account. But it will make me a better, more alert driver. And I pray the broader lesson I learned from it also will make me a better, more alert Christ-follower.

I've been spending my "spare" time during these lazy, hazy days reading about a couple of personal heroes who have blessed many thousands of people across the decades.

Virginia Connally, M.D.: Trailblazing Physician, Woman of Faith by Loretta Fulton describes the life and times of the first woman to practice medicine in Abilene, Texas. James M. Dunn and Soul Freedom by Aaron Douglas Weaver chronicles the tenacious career of one of Baptists' foremost ethicists, activists and religious liberty champions. 

They're both terrific books, and I recommend them to you with gusto. I plan to review them in upcoming editions of the Baptist Standard, and the reviews also will be published on this website, of course.

Reading about Virginia and James has reminded me of God's blessings—on countless people, but on me, too. I thank God to call both of them dear friends, but that doesn't make me special. My number is legion. And even a good number of folks can count not just one of them, but both, as friends.

Mentor & cheerleader

James factors into one of my earliest memories. In my mind's eye, I still see this skinny young man standing in front of the Baptist Student Union building at West Texas State University, waving vigorously at my dad and me as we drove away. That was the spring of 1960 or ’61, and I was only 3 or 4 years old. James was the BSU director at the university. Daddy and I drove to the campus in Canyon, where James set up interviews with students who applied to be the "summer youth director" at our small church.

Through the years, I've wondered why I remember that day—and James—so clearly. Most certainly, it's because James is the kind of grown-up who pays personal, direct, animated attention to people, even little children. I'm sure I remember him so well because he spent time that day down on my level, talking and joking with me. Not many people do that, but James did.

(By the way, James says his first memory of me goes back even further. He says he changed my diapers when I was even younger. Well, that's pre-memory for me, but I wouldn't be surprised if his recollection is accurate. Not many men change other people's kid's diaper, but James would.)

Years later, when I became a journalist and started working for the Baptists, James became a mentor, cheerleader, story source and friend. We shared our common Texas background, penchant for barbecue and Tex-Mex, and mutual friendships and affection. Beyond that, James cemented my passion for religous liberty. Before I entered seminary and began studying church history, James taught me about our spiritual forebears who suffered persecution and even death, but who championed cherished principles of soul freedom and separation of church and state.

Through the years—at the Texas Baptist Christian Life Commission, the Baptist Joint Committee on Public Affairs (now Baptist Joint Committee on Religious Liberty) and Wake Forest University School of Divinity, James has been the foremost advocate for the rights of all people to worship as conscience dictates. And he still marches on at Wake, teaching a rising generation of ministers about valuable faith principles.

Friend & inspiration

Even though we didn't know it at the time, Virginia and I crossed paths at First Baptist Church of Abilene in the fall of 1975. She was a highly respected community and church leader, whose beloved husband, Ed, had just died. I was a whippersnapper freshman at Hardin-Simmons University. Too bad I didn't come down with laryngitis or an ear infection; maybe I would have met her much sooner in my life.

We became friends not long after I returned to Texas and joined the staff of the Baptist Standard in the fall of 1995. I quickly learned one of the most faithful, generous and quietly influential Texas Baptists was this retired physician out in Abilene. 

One of Virginia's great gifts is making people feel completely at home in her presence. Soon, I felt as if we actually had been friends since my freshman year at HSU. She has that impact on people.

Now, almost 16 years later, I doubt anyone has given me more books than Virginia has. One of her great legacies, even at age 98, is that she never, ever stops learning. She's always reading, and when she likes a book, she buys a big stack and gives them away. 

Virginia inspires me. Not only to keep learning, but to commit all my days to the Lord and to serving others. She never has wavered from that commitment herself. And she inspires me to keep moving, because people half her age would do well to keep pace with her.

Lovely & lovable

Well, I apologize if you feel I've been rambling about folks you don't know. I wish you knew Virginia and James. I love them, and you would, too.

When I "grow up" I want to be just like them!

You don't have to look far to realize most Americans feel their country is rolling downhill. In fact, I just Googled "survey" + "America" + "decline" and turned up 31.9 million results.

Evidence for decline

To some degree, evidence of decline is relative, a matter of perspective. For example, strong cases can be made that  …

• Our morals are worse than ever. When you study movies and music, observe the behavior of public figures, think about the degradation of sexuality, and generally look at how people dress and behave, you can confirm the feeling. But compare those actions to the systematic immorality of Jim Crow laws and the cultural abuse of people of color in the mid-20th century, and you can see evidence of improvement, at least in some areas.

• Government has declined. You can make an excellent case for this point, particularly the blind and brazen partisanship that characterizes lawmaking at the state and federal levels. (Certainly, I am far from being the only American who feels neither party represents me, since the nominating process of political candidates rewards extremism and ignores the broad middle.) But students of history can point to previous examples of partisanship and extremism. Think how McCarthyism dominated post-War America two generations ago.

•  Business is morally bankrupt. Every time I read the news, or watch or listen to programs that explain the financial crisis that has plagued our society for the past three years, my head spins and my heart aches. A cadre of business elites made obscene fortunes but produced nothing. The best way to describe it is they figured out how to bet on national and global financial markets and transactions, and they set themselves up to make fortunes, even when millions of people lost life savings, retirement funds and jobs. Still, you can look back and see where similar oligarchies prospered on the backs of the populace generations ago.

What does God think about borders?

We live in a world of time and space. So, issues of citizenship and national borders matter tremendously.

For millennia, people the world over have defined themselves in geo-political terms. People root for their country's team in international sports competitions. They favor their nation and its interests over the fortunes and casualties of other nations. As we've seen, particularly in America and Europe, people are passionate about immigration, particularly when immigrants break laws to enter countries. 

Discussions about immigration, not to mention the arguments that ensue, are wrenching. They are  philosophical—rights and responsibilities vs. opportunities and privileges. They're also material—standards of living, jobs, wages, health care, taxes, education and infrastructure. And they're personal—me and mine vs. you and yours.

Unlikely source of criticism

Immigration is such a volatile subject it has created a singular situation in the annals of recent church history. The Southern Baptist Convention has received strong, strident rebukes—from the right. 

At its recent annual meeting, the SBC passed a resolution that called for the government "to implement, with the borders secured, a just and compassionate path to legal status, with appropriate restitutionary measures, for those undocumented immigrants already living in our country." Supporters called it a “realistic and biblical approach to immigration.” But detractors labeled it "Southern Baptist amnesty."

Does God care about nationality?

National interests seem important in a world of countries and borders. They provide a sense of security for citizens of developed nations, such as the United States, whose standard of living far exceeds most other inhabitants of their shared planet.

But it's hard to imagine that God, who created every person in God's own image, cares all that much about borders and national citizenship. We live in a world where the place of birth means Person A enjoys the benefits of a nurturing home, education, good job, excellent medicine and daily security, while Person B grows up orphaned, illiterate, underemployed, ill and at risk to physical attack. It's hard to square the life, message and ministry of Jesus with Person A's rationalization that he somehow deserves all those blessings and Person B does not—simply because of the location of their birth.

Evangelical Christians, including Baptists, profess we believe all people are made in God's image, and we want all of them to know Jesus and go to heaven when they die. But we don't seem troubled by the suffering of people who simply had the misfortune to be born in the wrong country. Oh, we contribute from our excess to world hunger offerings, but we do precious little to change the systems that ensure their poverty and ignorance and ill health—their hell on earth.

Lord Knows, I've disagreed with much of what the Southern Baptist Convention has done the past 30 years. But they're on the right track with this resolution on immigration. All Christians need to stop looking at the world through the lens of nationality and see all the world through the eyes of God.

The great naturalist William Beebe and his close friend Teddy Roosevelt did more than any other two human beings to preserve America's natural beauty and pristine spaces. But Beebe acknowledged they knew their place in the universe.

Beebe is quoted as telling this story: "After an evening of talk, we would go out on the lawn and search the heavens until we found the faint spot of light mist in the constellation Pegasus and one of us would recite: 'That is the Spiral Galaxy of Andromeda. It is as large as our Milky Way. It is one of a hundred million galazies. It is 750 thousand light years away. It consists of 100 billion suns—each larger than our sun.' After a moment, Col. Roosevelt would grin at me and say, 'Now I think we are small enough. Let's go to bed.'"

Here were two giants of the 20th century, and they prepared to rest for the night by considering how miniscule they were in God's creation. I like that. A lot.

Lately, we've had our fill of folks who got too big for their britches. I won't recite the litany of names. It's too depressing, unless you've got a late-night TV show and you need fodder for folly. If you want to come up with names, click over to a news website.

It seems so much of the world's problems occur because individuals think more of themselves than they ought. They've gotten too big.

If you consider the heavens, you gain much-needed perspective. The fascinating Very Short List website pointed me toward helpful information.  VSL tells about Nick Risinger , a young marketing manager who quit his day job to photograph the night sky. It's called the Photopic Sky Survey, and it's composed of 37,440 synchronized photos of the night sky. 

Click on this link to visit the Photopic Sky Survey and see the night sky as never before. Tool around the site and try to comprehend tens of millions of stars, nearly all of them larger than our sun. 

The Psalmist was onto something:

"When I consider your heavens,
   the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
   which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
   human beings that you care for them? You have made them a little lower than the angels
   and crowned them with glory and honor" (Psalm 8:3-5).

 How big are you?