When Steeples Fall

Two old codgers from Kansas decided to make a trip to California. On the way, they stopped at the Grand Canyon. Staring down at the Colorado River 6,000 feet below, gazing at the far side of the Canyon 18 miles away, awestruck by the canyon’s multi-colored layers of rock, the two men stood speechless. Finally, one drawled, “Sumpum musta happened here.”

Yep. It took several million years, but something indeed happened there. And it’s a beautiful display, many would say, of God’s handiwork in nature.

If you could have flown several hundred feet over Tuscaloosa, Alabama, or Joplin, Missouri, or Monson, Massachusetts, the day after tornadoes struck their cities with devastating force, you could have joined the old timer’s declaration of the obvious: “Something must have happened here.”

But unlike the gradual formation of the awe-inspiring beauty of the Grand Canyon, it took only a few minutes to wreak havoc in Tuscaloosa, Joplin, and Monson. And it was horrible.

We observe the creation of the Grand Canyon and stand amazed at how God put it together; we look at the tornado’s destructive path and wonder if God went to sleep on the clock.

Tornadoes descend from the sky with strike force efficiency, destroying hospitals, high schools, and homes.

And houses of worship, too.

Harmony Heights Baptist Church in Joplin was hit by the tornado on Sunday, May 22, 2011, killing three women. Pastor Charlie Burnett believes it could have been much worse. "It has to be from God," Burnett said. Fifty people walked away from the church "when it looked like they should have died."
More than one church was hit by the tornado that trounced Alabama on April 27, 2011. Among those churches was the First Assembly of God in Pleasant Grove. Pastor Lamar Jacks tried to make some sense of it, “I don't understand it," Jacks said. "If I try to tell you I understand it, I'm lying. God's saying to us, do you trust me? Don't lean on our own knowledge. Just trust in him. God can take the bad and the hurts and lift up his name."

And in Monson, Massachusetts, Pastor Robert Marrone, on June 5, 2011, the Sunday morning after the storm hit his community, was also trying to make sense of it all. In his sermon, he asked where God was during the storm, “Did he take a break between 4 and 6?"---the time the tornado struck Massachusetts. It knocked down the steeple and severely damaged the historic church he pastors. But, Marrone saw evidence of God at work shortly after the storm. People began checking on and helping each other.

The technical term for these explanations is a theodicy---an attempt to defend the goodness and justice of God in the face of evil and suffering. If God is good, why does he allow tornadoes to strike buildings with people in them? It’s one thing for him to permit a gradual transformation in creating something beautiful like the Grand Canyon. But what to do with a Tuscaloosa, a Joplin, or a Monson?

Somewhere between a view that attributes all suffering to a capricious God who uses natural tragedies as a way of punishing people---a God who destroys one house while leaving another intact, a God who grabs one baby from one mother’s arms while leaving another alone---somewhere between that and the view that pain and suffering is somehow an area God didn’t quite “fix” in his universe, lie the words of Jesus, who himself, although he never turned down someone in need of help, including healing, did not rush in, constantly intervening in the course of natural laws.

In speaking of who is responsible for tragedies, either from the hands of ruthless rulers or in construction accidents, Jesus made it clear it was not the result of wrongdoing on the part of the victims. Then warning his audience, Jesus said, “Unless you repent, you too will likewise perish” (Luke 13:3).

In other words, make sure you are straight with God, for you know not when the steeple may fall in your life.

So maybe we don’t need to defend God. After all, he doesn't explain himself. And if he did, who of us could comprehend it all? Rather than giving an explanation, God gives himself.

Whether it’s in the breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon or the heart-wrenching tragedy of destroyed buildings and lost lives, God is somehow there--- in us--- helping us respond to the beauty of the canyons or the beast of the calamities.

When steeples fall, he is there.

Even when words are beyond explaining how or why.


Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

The garage sale: an old-fashioned social network?

I was so deep in thought---reading a book about evil and the justice of God, that when my cell phone rang, I flinched. It was my wife, Lori: “I thought this weekend would be a great time for a garage sale,” she informed me.

It wasn’t the news I wanted to hear.

“Why?” I pleaded, glancing at the book about evil and the justice of God, trying to resist the temptation of associating the first word of the book with garage sales.

Thousands of people love garage sales; they thrive on them--- anticipating the weekend thrill of making a profit or finding a bargain---browsing here, looking there, returning home with trophies of something for next-to-nothing.

I am not among the garage sale devotees: I dread them; I dodge them; I deny their existence.

Lori is by no means a garage sale enthusiast, either. But she is not as staunch an opponent of the trade as I am. So, whenever we pass a garage sale, and Lori is tempted to stop, I pretend not to hear. “What? What? Oh, I’m so sorry; I couldn’t quite make out what you said. You… (Here it helps to pause), you don’t want to turn around now do you?’

Sometimes it works; usually, I find a place to turn around.

Now, her reason for the garage sale: “Next weekend is that ‘Million Mile Garage Sale’ (she meant the annual “400 Miles of Antiques, Collectibles and Stuff,” sale, which includes our city), and remember, the last time we had a garage sale, it wasn’t a good time because we had it during the ‘Million Mile’ thing, and no one wanted to come all the way down our street, since there was so much to shop for on the highway.”

She was right. Only the lost or the true garage sale professionals took the time to leave the abundance of stuff on the highway to drive down our road. The lost found their way out; the pros turned up their noses at our paltry sale. It wasn’t a good day.

“But don’t you remember that day?” I protested. “We vowed never to do it again.”

“Yes, but we need to get rid of some things, and we could use the money,” she rejoined.

She was right on both counts.

And so the deed was done; the date was set; no more reading about evil and the justice of God: a garage sale was coming my way.

An elderly saint of a man was once asked what his favorite verse of Scripture was. “And it came to pass,” he responded. Some life experiences are of the “and it came to pass,” category.

Garage sale day is one of them.

But in between the jolt of people arriving thirty minutes before we opened at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday and the last customer leaving as we were boxing up everything that didn’t sell, more than just a little good came my way. There was the excitement I saw in the eyes of that young engaged couple looking for furniture, the elation in the voice of the single girl finding the perfect couch for her first apartment, and the satisfaction in the demeanor of the lady purchasing a bedroom suit she liked and could afford.

And, how relieved we were to get rid of that porch swing which no longer had a swing, the flower arrangements that no longer fit our interior décor, and the antique piece that never did suit Lori’s taste.

But the best part of garage sale day was reconnecting with people. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are the kids? Remember how we used to get together…”

“Oh, yeah, those were good days, and what are you doing now?”

And so it went through the day: it was a garage sale reunion---a place where people reconnect, an old-fashioned kind of social network.

And sooner than I thought possible, it came to pass.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Lori and I looked out at the back patio, now clear of the porch swing that didn’t have a swing. “You know,” she said, “I was thinking about looking for some patio furniture, and that million mile thing is this weekend…”

“What? What was that? I am having trouble hearing,” my voice trailed away from her as I hustled to the garden.

You can contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com

The Rapture Racket: Cashing in on the Apocalypse

Oops. He missed it again---the date for the rapture, that is. But that’s okay, miscalculating the date for the end times is nothing new for Harold Camping.

In 1992 he published his book, “1994?” in which he predicted September 6, 1994 as the beginning of the end. Undeterred by that non-happening, Camping did some re-calculating and published another book in 2008, “We Are Almost There!” He conveniently forgot to mention his 1994 prediction’s failure to launch.

Then, last summer, Camping and his followers made another effort to spread the word: “The rapture is nigh!” Specifically, May 21, 2011. At exactly 6 p.m.

Now that it didn’t happen, Camping simply revised his date…again. He apologized, sort of, for not having the dates “worked out as accurately as I could have.” May 21 was a “spiritual judgment.” The world won’t really come to an end until October 21, 2011.

Aren’t you glad he clarified that?

Camping was preceded in his revision by one of his own followers, Robert Fitzpatrick--- who plunked his entire life savings of $140,000 into advertising the rapture.

Give it some time, and we can anticipate more of the same from rapture rousers.

That’s because there is something comforting in being assured that you will escape the worst of times by being whisked into the heavenlies. And the harder the times, the more urgent becomes the call for the apocalypse.

People are curious; they want to know: when will it happen?

Those who claim to know created a rapture racket that has reaped big financial dividends.

According to Family Radio’s IRS filings, contributions and grants to Camping’s organization topped $18 million last year. Warning the doomed of their fate in the predicted apocalypse wasn’t cheap. Family Radio spent as much as $1 million on the billboard campaign alone. But, what’s a mere $1 million when your radio network’s net worth is about $122 million?

So, when 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 came and passed uneventfully, Harold Camping may have been hurt, but not financially. He still sat on a personal net worth estimated at $72 million.

That’s right, $72 million.

“$72 million,” I whimsically thought to myself at approximately 6:01 p.m. Saturday as I scanned the horizon for any paranormal activity. Later, I repeated the figure aloud to myself, sitting in my lawn chair on our back patio, picturing how many hungry and homeless people could be fed and housed with just half of $72 million, and fantasizing what I would do with just a fraction of the revenue gleaned from the rapture racket.

Camping is not the only one who has profited from the prediction of the world’s end. Bart Centre, an atheist, sells insurance policies to those who might be worried about what will happen to their pets in the event that the raptured believers will leave their dearly beloved behind.

Then there is Mark Herrod, who according to the Wall Street Journal is a 52-year-old Evangelical Christian who created a business for believers who want emails sent to friends and relatives in the event of the rapture. He has over 100 clients who pay $14.95 a month for the service.

And then there are those who hawked T-Shirts and assorted paraphernalia. There was the "I Survived Judgment Day! and All I Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt" shirt for $25, the "2011 Rapture Survivor" mug ($15), the "Darn, I Slept Through Judgment Day" baby onesie ($15), and the truism, "If you can read this, we're both sinners--- 5-21-11," available in shirt, mug or thong ($15-25).

And I’m on the patio, warmed by the glow of the setting sun even as I’m plagued by thoughts of the homeless, hungry and hurting, and yes, rising expenses in my own house.

Then, I recall that Jesus never promised it would be easy this side of eternity, even though ultimate victory is promised to the believer. The trouble is, we just don’t know what the date is for that final triumph, for Jesus himself put a damper on rapture predicting when he said, “No one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven or the Son himself” (Matthew 24:36).

And Jesus had stern words for those who focus on the irrelevant as they grab more and more while ignoring the needs of people in front of them: “When you refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing to help me” (Matthew 25:45).

Now, that’s the message I’d like to see on a T-shirt or billboard---somewhere, anywhere. The only problem is---this side of the apocalypse, who on earth will buy it?


David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. and an adjunct instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Pornography: Unplug the Drug

Why did the news that the Osama bin Laden’s residence contained a sizable amount of pornography grab our attention? After all, our culture is saturated with pornography; it’s everywhere; it’s even an accepted part of life for much of society.

So why are we surprised? Bin Laden--- mass murderer that he was--- nonetheless exuded an image of religiosity. Professor Akbar Ahmed, Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies at the American University in Washington DC, observed in an interview on ABC news that “it is surprising that pornography was found because he (bin Laden) was known to be a rather austere man, a rather religious man, a man who…gave up the world.”

Even if he turned his back on the world, pornography followed bin Laden---at least into his compound. ABC news correspondent Martha Raddatz reported that although we can’t know for certain that bin Laden actually viewed the pornography, it was found right there in his bedroom, and according to Reuters news, it was a fairly extensive amount of pornography at that.

It is the suspicion of hypocrisy that attracts our attention. Bin Laden was unequivocal in his denunciation of what he believed was the US exploitation of women. In a 2002 letter to the American people, he railed, ''Your nation exploits women like consumer products or advertising tools, calling upon customers to purchase them,'' he wrote. ''You plaster your naked daughters across billboards in order to sell a product without any shame. You have brainwashed your daughters into believing they are liberated by wearing revealing clothes, yet in reality all they have liberated is your sexual desire.''

That’s a fairly accurate description of a pornographic industry that is worldwide today, an industry that may have seduced an otherwise religious and austere Osama bin Laden.

That’s why pornography is usually a private affair: secrecy conceals shame and shuns embarrassment. But hidden habits lend themselves to hypocrisy. And we flinch at hypocrisy, especially when we sense it in a person who wears a religious image.

It’s difficult to keep something as potentially powerful as pornography under the bed forever. Like a drug, pornography can be addictive. Scientists surmise that dopamine and oxytocin are released in the male brain during intimacy. According to behavior therapist, Andrea Kuszewski, it’s a “biochemical love potion.” But, these same neurotransmitters fire when watching porn. “You’re bonding with it,” says Kuszewski, “and those chemicals make you want to keep coming back to have that feeling.” Men, in effect, can develop a neurological attachment to porn.

Of course, the negative downside of that sensual high is that pornography replaces real relationships. In her article, “The Porn Myth,” feminist Naomi Wolf argues that the internet has “pornographized,”our culture. The effect is that instead of amplifying men’s sexual activity with their actual partners, it renders men less sexually responsive to real women. That’s because erotic images replace real people.

The result: some men prefer porn over real life partners. The recently released movie, No Strings Attached, has Alvin (Kevin Kline) complaining to his roommate, Adam (Ashton Kutcher), “I can’t focus on my porn with all this real sex going on.”

With porn on the brain, meaningful intimacy is a challenge. As a 43 year old composer put it an interview with New York Magazine: “I’ve got to resort to playing scenes in my head that I’ve seen while viewing porn. Something is lost there. I’m no longer with my wife; I’m inside my own head.”

No doubt, porn messes with the mind. But it’s a matter of the heart as well, as Proverbs 4:23 would remind us: “Above all else guard your heart for it determines the direction of your life.” And Jesus of Nazareth took dead aim at those who pretend that as long as it’s a secret, it’s not really a sin: “Anyone who even looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28).

Maybe bin Laden would have agreed with Jesus, since his own holy book, the Qur’an states, “Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and protect their private parts. That is purer for them. Verily, Allah is all-aware of what they do...” (24.30-31)

But apparently it was difficult for bin Laden to unplug the drug of pornography, especially since it was in the privacy of his bedroom, where certainly no one would ever intrude without an invitation.


David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct instructor in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can email David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website www.davidbwhitlock.com

Saluting those incredible canine heroes

I could have sworn my dog, Max, quietly napping on my left side, perked up when Diane Sawyer introduced the story about the Navy SEAL dogs on the evening news. Max’s brother, Baylor, with eyes half closed, was perched like a cat on the arm of the couch. But when Diane mentioned those heroic dogs, he snapped to attention, instantly turning his head in the direction of the television.

At least I thought he did.

My miniature Schnauzers are about as close to being Navy SEAL dogs as I am to being a Navy SEAL. But we three enjoyed the story anyway.

Those Navy SEAL dogs are really something. When the 79 valiant Navy SEALS made their surprise visit to the Bin Laden residence, they were accompanied by one of their highly trained canine comrades. These dogs are capable of sniffing out explosives, finding enemies and when necessary, chasing them down. They are highly outfitted too. The dogs wear protective body armor, and some are trained to communicate with their handler up to 1,000 yards away by means a speaker attached to a vest. The vests are equipped with infrared and night vision cameras that allow the handlers to see what the dog sees. The canine commandos are capable of parachuting, rappelling, and swimming. And they can pack more than a punch with a bite that has a force of between 400 and 700 pounds.

Navy SEAL dogs are not the only doggie heroes. Dogs can be trained not only to detect bombs but to sniff out cancer as well. According to Japanese research published online by the British Medical Journal, studies have confirmed that a cancer scent exists and may be circulating in the body. Dogs are capable of nosing out cancer in stool and breath samples.

According to a report on ABC news, Dr. Sheryl Gabram-Mendola, a breast surgical oncologist at Winship Cancer Institute of Emory University, maintains that cancer causes the body to release certain organic compounds that dogs can smell but people cannot. She and her team of researchers developed a test that allows dogs to smell the breath for evidence of cancer in the body.

"Dogs smell different things and they understand different things," says Charlene Bayer, a principal research scientist at Georgia Tech Research Institute. “They may not know what’s wrong, but they know there’s something that’s not normal, that you don’t smell the way you normally do,” she told ABC news.

As Diane Sawyer closed the evening news report on the Navy SEAL dogs, I was feeling better and better about my own furry companions’ distant relationship with those doggie heroes. Neither one of my Schnauzers can ferret out terrorists or corner criminals. The only thing Baylor is trained to do is roll over on his back so I can dry his wet paws, and Max, faithful dog that he is, doesn’t even do that, although when I command him to quit digging in the dirt, he obeys almost 50% of the time. But, perhaps like their cancer detecting counterparts who can sense when something’s wrong with us physically, they do curl up to any family member who isn’t feeling well, and they will bark furiously when a stranger, or a bird for that matter, enters our property. And what would my morning be without the dogs begging me for a hug?

As I clicked the channel to another station, both dogs simultaneously raised their noses as if to sniff something. Were they about to detect an explosive in the room? Were they going to smell a terrorist hiding in the house?

Nope. Instead of sniffing, they yawned, closed their eyes, and silently slipped back to sleep.


Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.

Weather Watchers Watching Over You

I used to wonder why my wife Lori and her family are such avid weather watchers. Whenever we are in a storm warning in Kentucky, my mother-in-law in Oklahoma usually knows about it before I do. Not long ago she called me on my cell phone: “Are you okay?”

I had no clue why she asked. I quickly glanced around my office for vandals, felt my pulse and answered, “I guess so. Why?”

She didn’t call me a doofus, but neither could she hide her surprise at my ignorance, “Don’t you know you are in a tornado warning?!” She was in the process of checking on my wife and kids. (No, I didn’t ask her if I was the last one she dialed.)

Thank God for people who care enough to warn others.

That particular day, I was the only one left in the building. I could have been in real trouble had a tornado actually hit.

My wife, Lori, is like her mother. When a storm awakened us at 2:30 a.m., last week, I only wanted to put the pillow over my head and continue snoring, but Lori turned on the television, watched for the storm path, and proceeded to call any of our children living in the vicinity of the storm.

“Why is she like that?” I asked myself as I rubbed my eyes and gave up on sleeping.

Later the answer came to me when she asked me a question. “Where would we go in case of a tornado?” As I thought of an adequate response (I didn’t have one), I remembered what it was like growing up in southwestern Oklahoma during tornado season. When the sirens went off, warning us of a tornado, we would hustle across the street to the Parkers’ house. They had a storm shelter. The men would then gather at the top of the shelter’s stairs and watch while the women and children would huddle below.

And our source of information in Altus, Ok. was radio station KWHW. Lori’s dad, George Wilburn, was part-owner of the station, and he was the guy we listened to. George was by the necessity of his job, a storm chaser.

He had a few close calls with storms and naturally encountered people in dangerous situations. One time he was reporting on the path of a tornado when he saw a pregnant lady lying in a ditch. She lived in a trailer house and was trying to escape the oncoming tornado. George rushed her to the local hospital. “I thought she might name the child after me, but she didn’t,” he teased.
Chasing storms as a hobby began in the 1950s. One of the pioneers in that field was a man named Roger Jensen. As far back as he could remember, Roger was fascinated with storms. Roger lived near Fargo, North Dakota. The rumbling of distant thunder, the crack of lightning announcing the approaching storm, the swirl of wind in his ears---all this Roger loved, and he became virtually addicted to the thrill of the storm. Roger said he was “born loving storms.”

Some people, like Roger Jensen, are “born loving storms.” But storm chasing can be dangerous. The 1996 film Twister and the television series, Storm Chasers, both depict the risks involved in chasing storms. At one point in Twister, Dusty (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) spots a tornado and yells to his fellow storm chaser, Bill (actor Bill Paxton), “It’s coming! It’s headed right for us!”

And Bill screams back, “It’s already here!”

Storms are like that. All at once, they are “here.”

My father-in-law was not a storm chaser by choice. But he warned others. And when he could, he would rescue people in trouble. That quality was transferred to his family.

What I interpreted as a storm obsession was really a concern for people who could be in distress.

So, when that destructive tornado descended on Tuscaloosa, Alabama and unleashed its fury, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the phone, disregarding the time, and dialed the number of my close friends, Butch and Cindy Larkin in Livingston, Alabama, not far from Tuscaloosa.

“Are you okay?” I hesitatingly inquired.

“We’re fine, David. We’re fine,” Cindy told me.

Then I waited while she paused.

“Thanks for caring,” she said.


Email David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com