Real Courage

It is rather ironic that Vice President Pence finds himself in Japan today… the 75th anniversary of the Dolittle Raid on Tokyo.

On April 18, 1942, crewmen in 16 Army Air Forces B-25 bombers, commanded by Lt. Col. James H. Doolittle, flew from the carrier Hornet on a daylight bombing raid that brought the war home to Japan for the first time since the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The raid resulted in only minimal damage to military and industrial targets. However, it encouraged people back in the U.S. who were discouraged by Japan’s advances in the first four months of the war.

I was always fascinated with the story of Jimmy Doolittle. He was a pioneer in aviation and a real character… and I always enjoy characters! Still, when I think of the Doolittle raid I am more interested in Corporal Jacob DeShazer, a native of Oregon and one of the five-member crew of Bat Out of Hell, the last bomber to depart the Hornet. His plane dropped incendiary bombs on an oil installation and a factory in Nagoya but it ran out of fuel before the pilot could try a landing at an airfield held by America’s Chinese allies.

The five crewmen bailed out over Japanese-occupied territory in China and all were quickly captured. In October 1942, a Japanese firing squad executed the pilot, Lt. William G. Farrow, and the engineer-gunner, Sgt. Harold A. Spatz, along with a captured crewman from another Doolittle raid plane. Corporal DeShazer and the other surviving crewmen from his plane, Lt. George Barr, the navigator, and Lt. Robert L. Hite, the co-pilot, were starved, beaten and tortured at prisons in Japan and China — spending 40 months in solitary confinement — until their liberation a few days after Japan’s surrender in August 1945.

Amid his very real struggles, Corporal DeShazer had one source of encouragement.

“I begged my captors to get a Bible for me,” he recalled in “I Was a Prisoner of Japan,” a religious tract he wrote in 1950. “At last, in the month of May 1944, a guard brought me the book, but told me I could have it only for three weeks. I eagerly began to read its pages. I discovered that God had given me new spiritual eyes and that when I looked at the enemy officers and guards who had starved and beaten my companions and me so cruelly, I found my bitter hatred for them changed to loving pity. I realized that these people did not know anything about my Savior and that if Christ is not in a heart, it is natural to be cruel.”

After being repatriated to the States, Jacob enrolled at Seattle Pacific College and received a bachelor’s degree in 1948. He returned to Japan with his wife, Florence, as missionaries with the Free Methodist Church, in late December 1948. 

In 1950, he was privileged to share his faith story with a very remarkable man. Mitsuo Fuchida, the Japanese naval flier who had led the Pearl Harbor attack and had become a rice farmer after the war, read DeShazer's tract.

“It was then that I met Jesus, and accepted him as my personal savior,” Mr. Fuchida recalled when he attended a memorial service in Hawaii in observance of the 25th anniversary of the attack. Mr. Fuchida went on to become an evangelist and even made several trips to the United States to meet with Japanese-speaking immigrants.

Mr. DeShazer spent 30 years in Japan doing missionary work. I respect that. Flying on the Doolittle Raid was something. However, living your life on purpose to reach others in another culture for that many years took real courage and faith.

Over the years, Mr. DeShazer met Mr. Fuchida on several occasions. “I saw him just before he died (in 1976),” Mr. DeShazer once told The Salem Statesman Journal. “We shared in that good wonderful thing that Christ has done.”

Little Boys and Long Journeys

My father remembers what he was doing 87 years ago this week… really! As a five year-old boy he heard “the men” talking about Charles Lindbergh taking off from Roosevelt Field and attempting to fly across the Atlantic. It left an impression that has stayed with him until today and for Morgan it has been a very long journey to get to "today."
 
It may have been because of the way my father talked about him or because of my own interest in aviation that I developed a fascination with Lindbergh.  He was born a year before the Wright brothers made their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. He grew up in Minnesota with an interest in everything mechanical and a passion for flying.

In his book We, Pilot and Plane Lindbergh wrote:  "The life of an aviator seemed to me ideal. It involved skill. It brought adventure. It made use of the latest developments of science… There were times in an aeroplane when it seemed I had escaped mortality…” I identified with those sentiments as a young man and had my commercial pilot’s license by the time I was 21 years old. 


In 1919, Raymond Orteig, a hotel owner in New York City, offered a prize of $25,000 to the first pilot to fly nonstop from New York to Paris. By 1927 four men had died attempting to win the money and several others were left injured. Still, the prize remained out of reach. Lindbergh convinced nine St. Louis businessmen to finance his own attempt - using their funds to purchase a modified plane built by the Ryan Aviation company in San Diego, CA.

Many people doubted the ability of a single-engine plane to cross the Atlantic. Previous attempts had all included multi-engine planes. Also, other flights had included a co-pilot for the 3,500 mile journey. Lindbergh decided to fly alone with no parachute or radio – all with the purpose of having more gasoline on board. As a result, the newspapers called him "the Flying Fool."

On May 20, 1927, at 7:52 a.m., the Spirit of St. Louis accelerated down the runway and lifted into the sky.  The plane barely cleared the telephone wires at the end of the strip. Lindbergh flew north by northeast over Cape Cod and Nova Scotia, finally setting out over the ocean as the sun set. 

Lindbergh found his biggest struggle was drowsiness – he had slept very little in the days leading up to his takeoff. He fought to stay awake as he occasionally flew only ten feet above the ocean.

After 30 hours of non-stop flight, a tiny fishing boat gave him hope that he had almost reached Europe, and within an hour he saw land below him. After flying over Ireland and England, he headed through the clearing night weather to France.

Finally, after traveling more than 3,600 miles in 33 and a half hours, Lindbergh landed in Paris. A crowd estimated to be between 100,000 to 150,000 swarmed around the plane to welcome him. The papers stopped calling him the “Flying Fool” and he became “the Lone Eagle" and "Lucky Lindy."

On Tuesday of this week - the 87th anniversary of Lindbergh’s takeoff - another boy began his own adventurous journey. Isaac Robert was born in Chicago to my daughter, Krista Ophus. I can only imagine what kind of things life will present to him in the years ahead. If he lives as long as his great-grandfather he will still be around well into the 22nd Century. I hope that by then they manage to get a few kinks worked out of this thing we call life.

It was Samuel Clemens who wrote, “There comes a time in every rightly constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.” My prayer is that Isaac will spend his time as he travels to the next century searching for the right treasure in the right place.

Godspeed, Isaac Robert. You are cleared for takeoff.

Can Any Good Come From a Crown of Thorns?

Several years ago Su planted a flowering bush in her special garden behind our house. It's local name is "corona de espinas" or crown of thorns. Unfortunately, this particular plant has suffered its own "Via Dolorosa" since taking root in our backyard.

While I was trimming the lawn, I accidentally cut a great deal of it away with the weed-whacker. You can imagine that Su was NOT impressed with my lawn care skills that day. Later, one of our gardeners from the campus cut it back when he was taking care of our lawn while Su and I were both away. I am not bitter, but I seem to remember she was much more gracious with him than she had been with me. During a few rainy seasons the star grass almost overwhelmed it. Recently it survived one of our worst dry spells ever. Of course, for the past three years Su has not been able to take care of her hidden garden - and all the plants have missed her careful attention.

Still - having survived negligence and attempted "planticide" - it is now in full bloom. 

Looking at it this weekend, I couldn't help but think of its historical namesake that we see in Matthew 27:29 and John 19:2-5. After the illegal trials and beating of Jesus, the Roman soldiers "..twisted together a crown of thorns and put it on His head..." (John 19:2, ESV) All of us have probably thought about how painful that was. However, the crown of thorns was probably more about mocking Jesus than it was about pain. It took a symbol of His God-given kingship and turned it into something degrading.

For those of us observing Holy Week during the next seven days, the crown of thorns reminds us that Jesus is the "King of kings and Lord of lords." (Rev 19:16, ESV) What the soldiers thought was a convenient way to mock Him became a picture of Jesus' roles of suffering servant (Isaiah 53) and of conquering King. He really does come out on top in the end.

Of course we should never forget that Jesus was willing to endure the shame AND the pain on our account. Because of what He went through we can also experience His victory over the petty, the painful and, even, the degrading.

Even though I was one of its original tormentors, I am glad Su's crown of thorns stuck around and bloomed during our final week in Costa Rica. It gives me hope that some good will come out of all the pain of saying good-bye. It reminds me - like the old preacher said - "Friday was full of pain and suffering, but Sunday is a comin'."

Water, Desperation and Fear

Since the end of January our water has been rationed. At first we received three hours in the morning and three hours in the evening. Fair enough. We changed our schedule a bit to make sure we could do our wash, take care of cooking and cleaning up, and, of course, engage in personal hygiene. It did provide a whole new definition for “toilet training,” but if there is a shortage of water everyone has to do their part.

As the dry season has continued, we have had less and less water trickling through our pipes. For the past eight days we have had absolutely none. Fortunately, the Multiplication Center campus has a reserve cistern, and we could walk over to take our showers… among other things. This past week the reserve went dry and desperation set in.

Finally, on Thursday the municipality sent us a truck with free water and we filled up every bucket, container and bottle we have. I have never seen a group of people so desperate for water – and so relieved for the smallest amount they could find.

Yesterday emotions in the neighborhood rose when the Multiplication Center paid for a truck to come and fill the large cistern on campus. We had to. We have a church group here this weekend and a short-term team arriving on Monday. When the neighbors saw the truck they all came out with their buckets thinking it was a free, municipality truck. When some elderly ladies who live nearby did not receive any water they apparently taught the driver several new cuss words  

During our years in Costa Rica, water - in one form or another - has been a central topic of conversation. We have received up to 130 inches of rain in one year. I can promise you that amount of water falling from the sky creates its own challenges. Sometimes water becomes the source of danger. Over ten years ago Su almost drowned when she was taken out to sea by a riptide. It has taken her almost that long to get over her fear of the ocean.

In Mark 4 and chapter 8 of both Matthew and Luke we find the story of Jesus and His disciples getting in a boat to cross the northern part of the Sea of Galilee. Almost immediately Jesus settles down for a nap. We all remember how a fierce storm came down on the lake and the boat began to fill with water. With good reason the disciples jumped to the conclusion they were going to die. They woke Jesus up with the question, “Teacher, don’t you care that we’re going to drown?” (Mark 4:38b, NLT) He, in turn, rebuked both their lack of faith and the wind. “Why are you afraid? Do you still have no faith?” (v. 40, NLT)

I must admit that under the right circumstances fear can fill my own heart. No, not when terrible things happen. For some reason, I get very calm in bad situations. When I swam a kilometer out into the ocean to get Su, she says I stayed pretty cool. When we had bullets come through our windows in Bolivia, I kept thinking about the next thing we had to do to survive. As bad as our water shortage is now, I know the rains will eventually return.

Still, I can get frightened.

My blood pressure rises when physicians put on latex gloves in my presence. When dentists look into my mouth and make “tut-tut” sounds under their breath, I start to sweat. Right now, the idea of moving back to the States fills me with a bit of insecurity – a rare emotion for me. Well, to be completely honest, it frightens me.

In my morning quiet time this week I read these words, “Fears deserve to be questioned. We ought to ask ourselves regularly, ‘Why am I afraid?’ When fear is in control, faith is stifled. Acting fearfully is not acting faithfully.” (Life Application Study Bible Devotional: Daily Wisdom from the Life of Christ)

When the disciples woke Jesus up I doubt they expected him to actually do something. Still, when He did, they quit being afraid of the water and, instead, were “terrified and amazed” at Jesus and His power.

That is the Jesus I serve. He is not tame or “domesticated.” He does surprising things even in hard circumstances. He walks with me into the physical exam, the dentist’s office and, even - maybe especially - as we make this move back to the States.

At the very least I hear you folks have working showers up there. That will give me a chance to occasionally wash the flop sweat off my brow.

Stress and the Test of Time

Frederick Saunders was a librarian and an author. He wrote a straight-forward statement about stress, “Brain cells create ideas. Stress kills brain cells. Stress is not a good idea.” It is hard to argue with that kind of good, clear thinking. Still, I prefer the wag who defined stress as, “The confusion created when one's mind overrides the body's basic desire to choke the living daylights out of some jerk who desperately deserves it.”

We all respond to stress in different ways. Su takes all of her stress in, processes it, then, gets out the calendar to start planning exactly what and when she needs to do something so that she can get out of the stressful situation. Facing the same stress, I tell stories. Su’s response allows her to change the stressors in her life in a very practical way. Mine makes more people smile.

Right now we are facing some significant stress in our lives. As Paul Harvey used to say, “Let me explain.”

One of our sending churches, Autumn Ridge Church, called me a while back and asked if I would consider returning to the United States to serve as their missions pastor. That did not cause stress. In fact, it was a real honor to have them even consider me for the role. What has produced the stress is that, after originally discouraging the idea, I said “yes” to their invitation.

That’s right, after ministering in Latin America for most of the past 37 years, we are planning a move back to the United States. Not only are we planning to move to North America, we are planning on moving to Minnesota! After this past winter, no one can accuse of us of making the change for the wonderful weather.

As most of you know, Su has suffered from chronic health conditions which required several surgeries over the past three and a half years. We now realize that she is probably going to live with some of the remaining nerve damage for the rest of her life. In addition, in the midst of cycles of pain, pain relievers, surgery, and more pain relievers – all repeated several times over - Su has experienced significant depression.  

Our move will put Su at the doorstep of the Mayo Clinic where she has received some of her best help. It will also allow me to remain involved in missions in a vital fashion. Sounds good, right?

Still, leaving our ministry in Latin America and the team which we have helped form is just plain hard. Leaving our home in beautiful Costa Rica is tough. Leaving our friends and co-workers is painful. All of this creates some real stress.

Su already has her calendar out; so, let me tell you a story.

I never wanted to be a missionary. Truth be told, I didn’t even want to be a Christian. Fortunately, God put a lot of grease on the slippery slope of grace which resulted in me losing my skeptical footing and falling into faith.

Still, having become a Christian, I certainly was not going to be a missionary. No, no, not me. I had heard enough missionaries speak and seen enough slide presentations to know that God just HAD to have something different for me in life. Besides, I couldn’t stand the smell of the mothballs they all seemed to have on their clothing.

Then, in a vulnerable conversation while I was trying to impress my future father-in-law, I told him that Su and I were praying about missions. Since he seemed pleased with the idea, I actually began to consider it. Once again, I started to lose my solid footing in life.

Su and I packed our corduroy bell-bottoms and sweaters and moved to La Paz, Bolivia, in 1978. By June of 1979 I was SURE I didn't want to be a missionary. In the depths of some serious culture shock I could only think about how I could get out of my commitment. Since I could not think of an honorable way to escape, I decided I would have to finish out one more year in Latin America.

Sometime during that year I fell in love with Bolivia, ministry and missions. It couldn't have happened to a more unlikely prospect.

Next to experiencing a relationship with God and enjoying my wonderful marriage and family, serving “out here” has been the greatest joy of my life. As I count up the miles flown, I realize that I have had the privilege of ministering in over fifty countries. How did that ever happen to kid from Zumbro Falls, MN? Only God knows.

Lord willing, we will spend the next years of our lives mobilizing other men and women with poor footing to reach out to the world. Just as we have valued your support and prayers for the past 37 years, we would value your prayers during this next stage in our lives. 

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Each year my co-worker, Mark Edwards, and I choose a devotional to use together throughout the next twelve months. When we meet on Mondays we talk about what we have learned in our reading during the past week... well, that and politics and sports and dreams and plans. One year he gets to choose the book and the next is my turn. In 2014, I chose the Life Application Study Bible Devotional: Daily Wisdom from the Life of Jesus.

I am enjoying the book, but it does have one problem: Since it is going through the life of Jesus chronologically, it starts out with the Christmas story - and I am about "all Christmased out" this year. I must admit I started into the week of reading with a bit of the Grinch in my withered holiday heart.

Still, as I studied the account of Jesus' birth in the New Living Translation a phrase jumped out at me: "Joseph.. was a good man.." I have probably read some version of those words a thousand times, but this week I couldn't get them out of my mind. A man with certain technical skill - but little formal education - living in an unjust society and at a tough time in history was known as a "good man." And, as we all know after reading  Flannery O'Connor in high school, "A good man is hard to find."

As I shared with Mark about how that phrase impacted me, the final scene from Saving Private Ryan flooded back to my memory and - men, you can look away here if you need to - made my voice break with emotion. That's right. I started to cry.

If you saw the movie, you remember that three days after D-Day, Captain John H. Miller takes a group of seven men to find Private First Class James Francis Ryan and bring him to safety - Private Ryan's three other brothers have been killed in action and General George Marshall doesn't want Ryan's mother to receive a fourth telegram from the War Department. At the end of the movie, five of the squad members have been killed in the rescue mission and Captain Miller lies mortally wounded. Ryan is with Miller as he says his last words, "James... earn this. Earn it."

In the last scene, a now elderly Ryan and his family visit the American Cemetery and Memorial at Collevill-sur-mer in Normandy. With a great deal of emotion James Ryan tells his wife, "Tell me I have led a good life." She responds with an incredulous, "What?" He looks at her intensely and implores her, "Tell me I'm a good man."

I think that I could have resisted my actual display of emotion if Su and I had not also been reading a book by John Pollock entitled A Fistful of Heroes: Weak People Made Strong. The book has short biographies of Christians like Lord Shaftesbury, R.A. Torrey, Elizabeth Fry and many others. The chapters are just the right length for one of us to read to the other while we are washing the supper dishes.

About the same time as I was meditating on Joseph being a good man and thinking about Private Ryan's question to his wife, Su and I were reading the story of Sir Henry Havelock (1795 - 1857). Now, I must admit that even though I have stood by his statue in Trafalgar Square, I didn't know much about him. That is unfortunate, because he really was a good man.

General Havelock is one of those men who seem to have fallen out of favor in popular history because most of his military experience was earned in protecting Britain's empire in what is now Afghanistan, Pakistan and India. Still, his dedication to his troops, his bravery and his personal commitment to Christ create an incredible story. As his troops attempted to liberate Cawnpore - where many British women and children were being held as hostages by the rebels - they came under heavy gunfire. They were on the verge of defeat; most of the British troops lying on the ground looking for what cover they could find. Havelock's son, Harry - who won the Victoria Cross for bravery in the same series of battles - described his father's actions this way: "He rode round to the front of the prostrate Highlanders, calmly smiling while bullets and shells whizzed and whined within an inch of his face."

Major North, serving with Sir Henry, wrote, "With increasing darkness the shadows lengthened which added to the imposing effect of the rebel line. General Havelock, who had just had his horse shot under him, now appeared boldly riding a hack, the only man who dared raise his head - so close and thick was the fire that rained upon us. He reined up with his back to the fire, facing the line, and spoke clearly, firmly and without a trace of excitement, and still smiling: 'The longer you look at it men, the less you will like it. Rise up. The brigade will advance, left battalion leading.'"

Of course, that is NOT the scene which got to me. After all, John Wayne and even Martin Sheen have done the same thing in movies. No, what really got to me was when, a few months later after relieving the siege at Lucknow, General Havelock became ill with dysentery. The night before he died, he lay in his one remaining, faded uniform. When the thirst was bad he would call, and Harry would bring him water. As daylight came, Havelock called faintly, "Harry, Harry." When his son arrived at his bedside Havelock looked up, smiling, and said, "Harry, see how a Christian can die!" And, he did.

A good man may be hard to find... but it seems they can still be found in Christ.

By the way, in 2003 the then mayor of London suggested that Havelock's statue be removed from Trafalgar Square to be replaced with a "more relevant figure." I am not sure if he wanted to put up Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney or, even, Sir Mick Jagger. However, I have a hard time imagining any of them standing up, bullets whizzing around them and showing people how a follower of Christ can die. 

A Grinch in Bethlehem

I have had the privilege of visiting Bethlehem twice. I must admit that I have been disappointed both times.

Bethlehem is a small city (population about 26,000) on the far side of a large wall which divides it from the metropolitan area of Jerusalem. The security measures make a short trip much longer than it needs to be. For some reason, they also make the trip depressing.

In 1948, 85% of the town’s population identified themselves as Christians. Today, that percentage has been reduced to about 40%. Of course I cannot be sure of this, but my theory is the Christians left because they grew tired of everyone trying to sell them camels carved out of “genuine” olive wood from Gethsemane.

Shopping is a big time business in Bethlehem – especially at this time of year. My memories of the city include tourist trap after tourist trap only separated by the occasional restaurant where all the staff is trained to sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in English. I don’t think I would find all of this so disconcerting if the waiters did not insist on singing the song ALL YEAR LONG.

In the Fifteenth Century a group of Franciscan friars from Italy introduced the art of mother-of-pearl carving to the town. Let me assure you, if you can make it out of Bethlehem without an olive wood carving or something created out of mother-of-pearl, you have probably experienced the second greatest miracle to ever occur in the city.

It makes you wonder how this circus actually began.

On a more positive note, the Cremisan monks founded a winery in 1885. In 2007, their production had grown to about 700,000 liters a year. The actual monastery is within the Jerusalem city limits, but the storeroom on the other side of the parking lot is under Palestinian Authority, located in Bethlehem. As you can imagine this is causing a headache for everyone – and not just those consuming the wine!

Now what DID catch my attention around Bethlehem was the fortress that Herod the Great built about 3 miles southeast of the town. The highest point of the Herodium (That’s right, he named it after himself) is about 2,500 feet above sea level – making it the highest peak in the Judean desert. Looking down from the top of it towards Bethlehem, I was reminded of the soldiers who must have poured out of it and down the slopes to kill the young children (Matthew 2:16-18) once Herod realized he had been outwitted by the Magi.

Another memory of Bethlehem that is etched into my mind is a Christian ministry attempting to reach out to the Palestinian refugee children in creative ways. They had sponsored a photography competition for the kids. As I toured the small building, a young man of about 11 or 12 years of age grabbed my hand and insisted I look at one of the framed black and white photos. It showed him – the same little guy now holding my hand – pointing a rifle at an Israeli soldier who was working his way across an open field. The boy looked up at me with real pride in his eyes, pointed at the picture and then at his chest.

Sometimes it is hard to know how to respond.

I think of another little boy born in Bethlehem before all the carved camels and bottles of wine with carved mother-of-pearl made their appearances in the local markets. I think of what it must have been like for a girl “that age” giving birth during her own visit to the town.

In Touching Wonder, John Blase imagined it this way: “Joseph thought Mary pushed. The truth is, she shook and rocked on exhausted knees as I held her by My strong right arm and the brightness grew until she could bear no more. Time pulled eternity from the womb of a girl, and bloodstained Love spilled on the hay.”

Well, done Mary! However, did you know what you were beginning?