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What difference does its age make?

7/30/2019

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When the question of the age of the earth arises, we are most likely to hear one of two opinions: That the science is settled in favor of billions of years, or that its age doesn’t matter – what matters is ____(insert a favorite cause)______.
 
These responses share an important characteristic: they are both lies.
 
First, the science is far from settled. In fact, the evidence strongly supports a young earth in a universe that’s not even 10,000 years old.
 
For proof, look here. Better yet, check out Jay Hall’s excellent book YES: Young Earth Science and the Dawn of a New Worldview. In it, Hall presents an avalanche of evidence that the old earth model can’t possibly be true – evidence that spans disciplines from geology to paleontology. He discusses the history of various tools and techniques that have been used to promote the illusion of an old earth, and reviews some of the data that are normally downplayed or ignored completely. What’s more, Hall does it all in a uniquely breezy and easy-to-read format that should make it as useful for youngsters as it is for us old folks.
 
Second, the age of the earth, and the universe, is critically important; what we believe about it could determine our eternal destiny because it impacts what we believe about God.
 
Forget everything you’ve heard about all the possible scenarios, from directed panspermia to punctuated equilibrium. In the end, all origins theories fit neatly into one of two possible categories: either the Time Plus Chance formula of evolutionary models, or Special Creation as outlined in the Bible.  Although some scientists would like us to believe it’s so complex that we shouldn’t pretty our little heads over it, there really is no other option; the universe as we know it came into existence either by random chance over vast ages, or it was created fairly recently by an Intelligent Designer.
 
Consider the implications: If any of the Time Plus Chance theories is true, God may or may not exist; He would in fact be irrelevant in any of these scenarios, because everything could have come into being without Him. But if Time Plus Chance is impossible, then Special Creation must be true – and the Intelligent Designer, AKA God, must exist!
 
Which God is the real deal? That’s another study, one that has been covered in many books (including my own, Heaven Without Her). For the moment, if you’re not yet convinced, I hope you will take the time to satisfy yourself on the origins question. And by all means, include YES: Young Earth Science and the Dawn of a New Worldview on your reading list; I think you’ll enjoy it.​
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The root of the problem

7/23/2019

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​Summer is here at last, and as usual I am spending countless hours in my garden battling aegopodium, AKA Snow on the Mountain, Bishop’s Weed, or Gardener’s Worst Enemy.
 
We didn’t introduce this plant to our property. It was here when we moved in 30+ years ago–just a tiny patch in a forlorn little flower bed in the northeast corner of our lot.
 
Truth be told, it was actually kind of pretty back then, with its delicate variegation, and it seemed to thrive on neglect. For the next few years it confined itself politely to its little bed while I stripped the landscape to make room for burgeoning collections of plants that had managed to steal my heart – mainly roses of every type, size and color, but also everything from peonies to iris, daylilies to anemones and clematis.
 
Our aegopodium patch did start to overstep its bounds in 1994. But that was the same year that we brought home a cocker spaniel puppy with a taste for the stuff. And over the next 15 years–much to his vet’s dismay–The Beaver kept it well under control, even as it set its sights on distant beds.
 
Alas, The Beaver died in 2009, turning his gardening duties over to a basset hound whose heart really wasn’t in it. And the oh-so-patient aegopodium finally made its move.
 
By 2014, this thug (cleverly marketed as a “groundcover” by sadistic plant merchants everywhere) had spread out in massive drifts throughout a quarter-acre of backyard flower beds, devouring scores of prized perennials along the way and threatening the survival of even the toughest shrub roses. It somehow leapt over the house to overwhelm the beds in front as well as the slope going down to the road. It was even starting to revert to non-variegated species in spots, a development that strikes terror in the heart of any serious gardener.
 
Clearly, further delay would mean defeat.
 
I took the environmentally friendly route at first, covering large drifts of the stuff with black plastic, piling mulch on top of it and then waiting two full years. It may not surprise you to know that it spent those months resting up for a new onslaught. Didn't even make a dent in the crop. 

In the meantime, I sprayed other stands of it with Roundup. It didn't even turn brown around the edges. I tried painting its leaves with undiluted Roundup concentrate. It laughed at me. I consulted the best gardening chat rooms and horticultural sites and spent weeks applying what sounded like the most promising technique – ripping out the tops, giving it a week to regenerate, and then dousing the new growth with Spectracide concentrate.


Nothing worked. Not that Roundup and Spectracide are ineffective; no matter how careful I've been to apply it only to the aegopodium, these products have killed just about everything else in the vicinity.
 
Plan B was more successful. It involved removing the desirable plants, then digging up the soil to a depth of a foot and physically removing every aegopodium root in sight. These roots are invariably still plump and white and pumping out leaflets even after all that weedkiller. It’s hard work, with miles of roots forming impenetrable mats beneath the surface of the soil. It’s also a painstaking task; as I discovered early on, if you leave even a trace of root in the ground, it’ll bounce back with renewed vigor.
 
To date, I’ve filled more than 70 enormous lawn bags with roots. And I’ve barely made a dent in the project.
 
But there’s an upside to this battle. It's mindless work and it has given me plenty of time to meditate on some of my favorite biblical horticultural analogies, especially the Parable of the Sower (see Matthew 13 and Luke 8). You probably know the story, and the part about the thorns rising up to choke out the good seed – a small tragedy that just about any veteran gardener has experienced.  
 
The message is clear: As Christians, it’s our duty to sow the seeds of the gospel, and nurture them through germination and on to maturity. That means watering and fertilizing, of course. But just as important, it means destroying any weeds that may threaten our new treasures – the weeds of false doctrines and carnal concerns, for instance, which can spread like crazy in such carefully prepared soil.
 
On a more personal level, my aegopodium war has also given me ample time to think about how the roots of sin can lurk in our hearts. They may not surface in our lives until the conditions are just perfect. But beneath our squeaky clean façades, these roots can grow unchallenged into pertinacious tangles of iniquity, ultimately breaking out to damage the cause of Christ.
 
Fortunately, the Lord always provides an escape – in this case, by recognizing and confessing the presence of sin and inviting Him to conduct a thorough search-and-destroy mission.  
 
I have no doubt that these battles will continue to rage until the Lord returns. Surely my aegopodium will be tormenting gardeners decades from now, should He tarry. And surely we’ll all head to the brink of eternity with our hearts still frustrated by the most stubborn sin.
 
The good news is that God’s children are assured of a happy ending. One glorious day, human sin will be ancient history. And I suspect that aegopodium’s thuggy ways will be, too.
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For many, Jesus simply doesn't matter

7/16/2019

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A few years ago, I heard a preacher say something profoundly important for any Christian concerned about the eternal destiny of unbelieving friends and loved ones. 
 
Speaking specifically about those who fell away after being raised in a church, he said something like this: “People don’t quit following Jesus because they discover that Christianity isn’t true. They quit following Him because He no longer matters.”
 
Furthermore, the preacher pointed out that this abandonment usually follows a big change in life: a move to another city, or a new job, or a new school, for instance – any upheaval that places someone of superficial faith amidst unbelievers.
 
I hadn’t thought of it in such simple terms, but this is exactly right in many cases – perhaps most.
 
When asked, many of these people still claim to believe in “God” or even “Christ.” But that’s about all they’ll volunteer about Him. When pushed, they might say that their God is loving and forgiving and in complete sympathy with everything they think, say and do. End of conversation. 
 
And why not? As far as they can see, they have no reason to seek the real God at the moment; they have places to go, people to see, important things to do. They will perhaps give Him more thought when they are so old that they have nothing more to look forward to in this world; but until then, they’ll keep Him on a shelf in an unused closet, out of sight and out of mind.
 
I guess I’ve realized this at least subconsciously, since my prayer for unbelievers has generally been “Lord, do whatever it takes to get their attention.”
 
But I haven’t done a very good job of putting this thought into evangelistic action. Instead, I’ve spent my witnessing capital on trying to persuade these people that biblical Christianity is true. 
 
News flash: They don’t care. True or false, Jesus simply doesn’t matter to them at this stage in their lives.
 
Of course, we can point out that we’re not guaranteed even one more breath, underscoring this fact with a real life reminder of a mutual acquaintance or celebrity who died young. But in my experience, this approach is usually ineffective; we’re all pretty sure that we personally will live to a ripe old age. (Astoundingly, this seems to be true even for those with fatal diseases. At first, the focus is on medical science and cures; when these hopes fail them, they’re too often drugged out of pain and into oblivion.)
 
So here’s the challenge: How can we prove that Jesus Christ is relevant to the once-upon-a-time professing believer – that there’s really nothing that matters more? 
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Can't wait to meet these saints!

7/9/2019

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Left to right: Adoniram, Ann, Sarah and Emily Judson
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I’ve been reading some great biographies lately, thanks in no small part to the recommendations of Dr. and Mrs. David Saxon of Maranatha Baptist University. Chief among them is To the Golden Shore, the fabulous 1952 story of American missionary Adoniram Judson. But now, coming in a close second, is a book that Mrs. Saxon recommended in particular: Lives of the Three Mrs. Judsons (Filiquarian Publishing).
 
First published by Arabella Stuart in 1855, Lives of the Three Mrs. Judsons uses multiple sources (in particular, their letters to friends and loved ones) to paint astounding portraits of three remarkable women—women who, one after the other, helped their beloved Adoniram bring the gospel to the people of Burma in the first half of the 19th century.
 
This was not a call to luxury.
 
In the first place, the trip from New England to Burma, via India, took literally months, mostly with no land in sight, via ships we 21st century creampuffs would never set foot on. And once there, they found the accommodations primitive, the climate oppressive, the government often brutal, and the medical care practically non-existent, with no one to help them deal with the illnesses that frequently assailed them and their precious children.
 
The Burman people were not unfriendly, but for a long time, communicating with them was next to impossible. Adoniram and the first Mrs. Judson, Ann, had to learn a new language, complete with a new alphabet; To the Golden Shore shows pages of their writing in this strange new tongue, and it looked to me like a bunch of circles piling up on one another.
 
I don’t know which of the three Mrs. Judsons had the most difficult time.
 
It was Ann who saw Adoniram spending months in a ghastly jail, being hung upside down by shackles night after night. She had to beg, borrow and steal access to him in order to bring him food and consolation—and, eventually, to smuggle in his Burmese Bible translation-in-process for safekeeping against increasingly hostile Burman officials. 
 
The circumstances of Ann and Adoniram’s lives together were horrible by any standards. Yet apparently she did not seek relief from these trials. Instead, as she wrote in a letter home towards the end of her life, “The anguish, the agony of mind, resulting from a thousand little circumstances impossible to delineate on paper, can be known by those only who have been in similar situations. Pray for us, my dear brother and sister, that these heavy afflictions may not be in vain, but may be blessed to our spiritual good, and the advancement of Christ’s church among the heathen.” (Page 78) 
 
Ann died in 1826, leaving a broken-hearted Adoniram to carry on alone. But in 1834, he married Sarah, the widow of George Boardman. The Boardmans had been missionaries to the Karen people, and Sarah stayed in Burma to continue this work after George’s death in 1831.
 
The cruel trials continued for the second Mrs. Judson, with Adoniram’s failing health being the most painful.
                                                     
But Sarah was never without comfort. As she wrote to her husband when he was sent off on a long sea voyage to treat a severe cough, “I hope I do not feel unwilling that our Heavenly Father should do as he thinks best with us; but my heart shrinks from the prospect of living in this dark, sinful, friendless world, without you … But the most satisfactory view is to look away to that blissful world, where separations are unknown. There, my beloved Judson, we shall surely meet each other; and we shall also meet many loved ones who have gone before us to that haven of rest.” (Page 140)
 
As it turned out, Adoniram recovered from this illness. It was Sarah whose health would soon begin to fail. She died in 1845, en route to America for medical treatment.
 
Adoniram married a third time the following year. His new wife was Emily Chubbock, a writer whom he commissioned to write a biography of Sarah. Her Memoirs of Mrs. Sarah B. Judson was published in 1850; her husband was pleased with the manuscript, she said, and she cared little whether anyone else liked it.
 
The third Mrs. Judson also fell gravely ill in the mission field. It was then that she wrote a poem entitled “Love’s Last Wish,” which included these lines:
 
“Thou say’st I’m fading day by day,
And in thy face I read thy fears;
It would be hard to pass away
So soon, and leave thee to thy tears.
I hoped to linger by thy side,
Until thy homeward call was given,
Then silent to my pillow glide,
And wake upon thy breast in heaven.”
 
Emily recovered, however, and her wish to outlive Adoniram was granted.  “Closing Scenes in the Life of Dr. Judson,” her moving account of his last days and his 1850 death, is reprinted in Lives of the Three Mrs. Judsons (pages 154-161)—as is an excerpt from her poem, “To My Husband” (page 167): 
 
“Here closely nestled by thy side,
Thy arm around me thrown,
I ask no more. In mirth and pride
I’ve stood—oh so alone!
Now, what is all this world to me,
Since I have found my world in thee?
 
“Oh if we are so happy here,
Amid our toils and pains,
With thronging cares and dangers near
And marr’d by earthly stains,
How great must be the compass given
Our souls, to bear the bliss of heaven!”
 
Oh, to have the eternal eyes of these three women! But reading about them, as well as scores of others featured in biographies and books on Christian history, has at least shown me that it is possible to truly live for Christ, and for eternity. May we all learn to do just that. 

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"Every Picture Tells a Story"

7/2/2019

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It’s no secret that I am a big fan of the preaching of Chris Carrillo. Every month, he brings terrific biblical insights to the folks gathered for the Christian Music Hour at Care-age of Brookfield.
 
Take, for example, his message from this past Sunday. Please don’t miss it. I believe you will be moved by it, and you may even find yourself changed.  And for once, that’s all I’m going to say by way of introduction.
If you’d like to hear more from our favorite preacher, please check out our Messages from Chris Carrillo page.
 
And if you’re reading this via email, be sure to click on the headline above so you, too, can hear “Every Picture Tells a Story.”
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    Kitty
    Foth-Regner

    I'm a follower of Jesus Christ, a freelance copywriter, a nursing-home volunteer, and the author of books both in-process and published -- including Heaven Without Her. 

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