Ah, those predicaments . . . life is full of them. Often they are of our own making. Other times they just seem to happen mysteriously to us. Occasionally, predicaments are comical or borderline crazy. Sometimes they can be irritating and troublesome. But one thing is for sure: Predicaments are unpredictable. And embarrassing. And confusing. And really weird.

Be honest now, can you keep a secret? When privileged information passes through one of the gates of your senses, does it remain within the walls of your mind, or is it only a matter of time before a leak occurs? Do you respect a person’s trust or ignore it, either instantly or ultimately?

How do you feel about intrusions? Like an early-morning knock at your door? Like a talkative passenger next to you on a packed-out flight? Like an injury or illness that strikes at the wrong time?

If you question your depravity, check your attitude toward intrusions. Having a French origin, “intrude” emerges from two terms, meaning “to thrust in.” An intrusion, therefore, is someone or something that thrusts itself into our world without permission, without an invitation, and refuses to be ignored.

Nobody is a whole chain. Each one is a link. But take away one link and the chain is broken. Nobody is a whole team. Each one is a player. But take away one player and the game is forfeited. Nobody is a whole orchestra. Each one is a musician. But take away one musician and the symphony is incomplete.

His face was covered with a full beard. His hair fell almost to his shoulders. When he smiled, his white teeth flashed in contrast to the blanket of brown that concealed his skin. His eyes were blue, clear, and alert. His laughter was strong and familiar to my ears. It reminded me of the times we sat together as friends in seminary, wrestling with reason and trying to unscrew the inscrutable.

Paul’s exposé of depravity in Romans 1:18-32 is a chilling account of human wickedness, a vivid pen-portrait of unleashed unrighteousness, unashamed godlessness, and unnatural lust. Reaching the final argument of his prosecution, the teacher from Tarsus twists the accusing knife with cruel eloquence: “and although they know the ordinance of God, that those who practice such things are worthy of death, they not only do the same, but also give hearty approval to those who practice them” (Rom. 1:32).

Can’t and won’t. Christians need to be very careful which one they choose. It seems that we prefer to use “can’t.”
“I just can’t get along with my wife.” “My husband and I can’t communicate.” “I can’t discipline the kids as I should.” “I just can’t give up the affair I’m having.” “I can’t stop overeating.” “I can’t find time to pray.”

When I was deep in the redwoods some time ago, I lay back and looked up. I mean really up. It was one of those clear summer nights when you could see forever. So starry it was scary. The vastness of the heavens eloquently told the glory of God. No words could adequately frame the awesomeness of that moment. One of my mentors used to say, “Wonder is involuntary praise.” That night, it happened to me.