My husband and I have, in recent years, been caring for two rescue cats who have taught us some important lessons about what a relationship with Christ should look like – and should not.

Wally is the late Oriental Shorthair shown above left; with breaking hearts, we were forced to euthanize him this past week, when we learned that he was suffering from stage 4 kidney disease. Wally was quite simply the best cat we’ve ever had. Affectionate and vocal, he lived for us. Unless he was sleeping or tending to the other necessities of feline life, he had to be near one of us, preferably snuggling into a lap and purring up a storm. Our existence, and our love for him, were his reasons for living; he had room for little else in that huge little heart of his.

Mindy is the silver Persian at right. She is a living demonstration of the “dogs have masters, cats have servants” philosophy of life held by so many of her kind. She insists that we feed her delectable food and water, keep her litter box spotless, and provide daily combing to keep her looking her best. Except for these brief interactions, she has no use for us; her days are spent gazing out the windows, napping, perhaps taking a turn in the garden to nibble on grass for later deposit on our cream-colored carpeting.

I was thinking last night that these two are excellent illustrations of two basic approaches to Christianity.

There are some Christians who have a Wally-like relationship with Jesus: seeking Him daily through His word and through prayer, drawing as close as possible to Him, doing their best to live lives that are pleasing to Him according to His word, tending to life’s duties as needed but really preferring to spend their time with Him.

Then there are those who have a more Mindy-like relationship with the Lord: attending church when there’s nothing more entertaining to do, listening to a few verses read here and there and considering this an adequate spiritual meal for the time being, spending the rest of their waking hours living, directly or indirectly, for their own pride, pleasure and amusement.

Of course, there are many shades of cat and Christian in between these two extremes. But if you had to choose one, which type of cat would you welcome in to the kingdom you call home? More important, which sort of Christian best demonstrates a heart that’s most likely heaven-bound?

I do have some ideas about people and places and things I hope will be in heaven. And the Wilhelm Tell restaurant in Munich is one of them. 

It was on our second trip to Europe together in the 1970s that Mom and I discovered the Wilhelm Tell.

Instead of the grand old hotels we had stayed in on our Caravan tour the previous year, we were staying in cheap places that were just a step above pensions – all humble but clean, all featuring a bathroom down the hall that we shared with other guests. The name of our Munich hotel is lost to history – and here I never thought I’d forget these details – but it had the typical stucco exterior, painted a pale salmon pink, and our room was stark white and very austere.

The Wilhelm Tell was a tavern just down the street and around the corner from our hotel. It was dark and smelled of beer and cigarettes and a roast in the oven and we loved it. Although we really weren’t all that fond of German food generally, we ate lavishly here, feasting on pan-fried pork chops and carrot salad with a vinaigrette dressing and quite possibly the best French fries in the world. (The Germans really know their way around a potato.) And it was cheap to boot, especially for Americans in those days of favorable exchange rates.

This was no tourist spot; the neighborhood was pretty far from Munich’s major attractions. It was noisy and not exactly spotless, but the waiters were friendly and smiled encouragingly as we spoke in broken German (delivered with a Polish accent, one insisted), making us feel like part of the crowd.

I think we stayed in Munich three nights on that trip, and ate all three of our dinners right there at the Wilhelm Tell. I suppose, in retrospect, that Mom might have been bored with that, or, for that matter, less than thrilled with our accommodations. After all, she had traveled through Europe extensively with my dad on his business trips, staying at luxurious hotels and dining at some of the finest restaurants. But if she was either, she never let on. In fact, she seemed to thrive on rubbing shoulders with the locals, laughing along with them as she explained in her floundering German that her husband had been in Deutschland geboren and that we had beloved freunden in Siegen.

My mother had her dreams of heaven, dreams that included the “strange and lovely” streets of Salzburg and a crisp October morning and a 10 a.m. glass of beer.

I have mine, too, and one of the best takes place in a dark little restaurant called the Wilhelm Tell. 

(From Heaven Without Her, pages 244-246)

News item: Travelodge removes the Bibles from its rooms on grounds of 'diversity'  

How many lost souls, over the decades, have picked up a Gideon Bible in their lonely hotel rooms, not even realizing it was written for them? 

How many have been transformed by what they found within? 

How many have discovered in its pages the peace that surpasses all understanding? 

How many have crossed the threshold into eternal life upon learning that the price of admission is simply repentance and trust in Christ?

God only knows. But the British motel chain Travelodge has made sure that it won't happen again under its roofs.   

I wonder what pompous little mid-level manager made this decision – and if we will witness him or her trying to justify it on judgment day? 

Spotted on a white board in a video about the Institute of Creation Research:

"Truth is treason in the empire of lies." Isaiah 28:15

That's not a direct translation of this verse in the book of Isaiah, but it sure is an accurate observation about a culture where "we have made lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid ourselves" (Isaiah 28:15b, NKJV).  

It's certainly where we are in this country today. But it's not a sudden fulfillment of an ancient prophecy; it's precisely the condition that Hans Christian Andersen was exposing in his insightful 1837 story, "The Emperor's New Clothes" (illustrated above in a painting by Edmund Dulac ). 

You know the story, right? Swindlers convince the emperor, and just about everyone else, that they weave fabrics so magnificent that clothing made from their cloth is invisible to those unworthy of their positions. The swindlers proceed to make the emperor an imaginary suit which he then parades through the town. 

No one wants to be exposed as unworthy -- until a child with no pride of position speaks the truth:

"But he hasn't got anything on."

At last, a whisper begins to spread through the crowd, and at least some acknowledge  the truth. But the elite continue in their fantasy, Andersen tells us:

"The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, 'This procession has got to go on.' So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all."

It's a perfect analogy for what has happened among the world's scientific elites -- and what organizations like ICR are doing to help the crowd see through the lie. 

Truth has indeed become treason. Thank God for scientists such as those at ICR -- scientists who stand for truth in spite of the consequences.  

"And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." (John 8:32)

A bumblebee that tumbles into an open jar will not find its way out on its own, they say. It will try to find freedom through the sides at the bottom of the jar, until it destroys itself; it will never look up to see the easy escape route at the top. 

Same with a buzzard finding itself in a small, open-topped pen. It needs to run itself into flight. If it doesn't have enough room to do so, it will remain a prisoner until it dies.

This, at least, is what they say. I can't report from first-hand experience, never having personally captured either bumblebee or buzzard.

But what an apt illustration this is for what it takes some people to find their way to the Lord: We find ourselves in great distress, trapped in intolerable circumstances, and we beat ourselves up in trying to make a horizontal escape where no escape exists. It's only when we look up that we spot the freedom of everlasting life. 

This was certainly the case in my life. I was perfectly self-sufficient and contentedly earth-bound until May 31, 2000. That's when I was swallowed up in sorrow over my mother's death. Like the bee and buzzard, I looked around and saw no escape. But then, unlike these critters, I looked up and glimpsed true freedom.

Okay, so the analogy falls apart for me at that point. It took me over a year to sort through the evidence for a god in general, and the God of the Bible in particular. But the point is that I found the freedom I so desperately sought only by looking up. 

This is my constant prayer for the lost: Lord, please do whatever it takes to hedge them in as You did me. Help them to see that there's no escape in the world around them, not in money or achievement or even the most all-consuming love. Help them to look up and see You. Help them to trust in You alone so that they will find liberty forevermore. 

Do whatever it takes, Lord. Help them to know that, if the Son makes them free, they will be free indeed (John 8:36).