Holy Conversations

I was going to talk more about sanctification today—the process whereby God makes us more holy, after we come to know and accept his son, Jesus, as our personal savior. But instead, I want to talk about some “holy conversations” that I was blessed to be a part of, on our train trip to Chicago. I think we will see, along the way, how God is at work in each of our lives—wooing us to come follow him… justifying us, as we realize we have sinned and are in need of his forgiveness… sanctifying us, as he uses others around us to make us more holy… as he uses others to give us the opportunity to love him and his people more fully.

I only saw her through the reflection of the train window. She was seated in front of me, an older woman with short, gray hair. She began making comments when I was talking to Dakota about some of the buildings and things we were seeing along the way. Beautiful churches, and such. I could only see her reflection, as she spoke. And before I knew it, I was sharing photos of other churches in the area, on my iPhone, in between the space between the train window and the seat between us.          

Eventually, she moved forward and looked back, and we began talking about the things of God. She had an understanding of scripture that one usually receives when they have taken a course in theology… that scholars believe there has likely been a weaving together of writers in Genesis, who have contributed two stories of creation—one, focused on the creation of the universe, the other, focused on the creation of humankind. 

There was a connection there, between us… she was a member of the Free Methodist Church, which meant that women didn’t wear jewelry. She would paint pants on a photo of a doctor doing surgery out in the middle of Africa, so his bare legs wouldn’t show, in their denominational newsletter… because they were so modest. She also was a fan of the writer and theologian Henri Nouwen. I told her, you like Nouwen, you should read Thomas Merton. And Brennan Manning. And finally, she wrote her name and contact info on a piece of paper, and handed it to me between the window and the seatback. She wanted me to let her know if there were other books she ought to read. Later, Dakota would say, I knew you were gonna talk to her for, like an hour, when you began.

And then there was the younger woman sitting behind me, who was softly singing this song that sounded so familiar. I’ll try to sing it for you:

My God is awesome,

he can move a mountain,

keep me from the valley,

hide me from the rain.

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome.

She had her hair shaved on one side, dyed bright pink, and long, on the other. She was sitting across from her elderly parents, who had trouble smiling. At first, I thought it was because they were overhearing the conversation I was having with the woman in front of me… that they didn’t agree with, or approve of something I’d said. How often do we think that others’ actions are because of us, and they’re not? Amen?!

I talked to the young woman a bit about the song she was singing. Wanted to break out in song, there on the train, with her… and for some reason, asked if she knew another song I’d heard one afternoon in the hospital cafeteria. “Take me back, take me back dear Lord, to the place where I first received.” I hadn’t gotten a few measures into the song, when she started singing it with me. She got teary, said it was one of the most meaningful songs in her life.

She was from Liberal, Kansas, her parents, from Garden City. We saw them again, when we got to the waiting room at the train station, headed home. Oh my! We all said. How did we do this? Come to Chicago the same day, go back, the same day. They wondered that we would stay exactly the same length of time. Why were we there? They asked. For sightseeing, I said. Why had they come to Chicago? A celebration of life. Code name for funeral. But they said it twice, because they wanted us to know they had HOPE. Oh, I said… was this for family? Yes. For a woman. A niece, a sister? I asked. No, it was their daughter. Their oldest. Oh my, I said. Was it expected? Yes, she had battled cancer for 20-some years. She was only 52. I went over and asked the mother if I could give her a hug. Later, Dakota and I marveled that they had also put their luggage in the locker right next to ours. We were all supposed to be there, on both those trains, coming and going.

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome…

Before this, a man with dark, longish hair, ruddy complexion, sat down next to us in the waiting room. He pulled out a can of beer, and a red cup. He was talking to himself. He opened the can, poured it into the cup, and drank it straight down, all the while, talking. Then he opened the second can, poured it into the cup, and drank it right down, too. He was telling us that he had been on the train for two days, already. To get to Alabama, if I remember, he had to go all the way up to the northeast, down the east coast, and back west, to Alabama. He was heading home to California. Four days it took him, to reach his girlfriend, who was sick. If he’d flown, it would’ve only been something like four HOURS. I’m going to guess he had met her online. He was upset she hadn’t picked him up at the train station. It was because she had been in the ICU. But she was doing better. He just needed someone to listen to him. He was lonely.

My God is awesome
Heals me when I'm broken
Gives strength where I've been weakened
Forever He will reign

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

And then, we got up to go eat dinner in the dining car, and as some of you know, they will often put you with other people so you make a fuller table. We were sitting down, reading the menu, when an older man of slight build came in. He wanted to eat by himself at the next table, but the dining car attendant, a woman, would not have it. So he sat down with us, right next to me. He was wearing old, good clothes… rather eccentric looking. We waited for his story to unfold. He was staying in a sleeper car. Said he had not worked a day in his life, as far as he was concerned, because what he had done hadn’t been work at all. I slowly pried it out of him—he was a composer, had written some songs of note. Would we know any of them? Do you like Christmas music? He asked. Yes, we said. Do you know “Santa Baby?”

You wrote that? We asked. Yes, he said. The music. He knew all kinds of people—Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Eartha Kitt. But most of his contacts had died. Santa Baby only really became extremely popular when Madonna recorded it, back in the ‘80s. Then, it had taken off, like wildfire. His daughter was in charge of the royalties and licensing for the song.

He wanted to know about us. Eventually he found out I was a pastor, had been a writer. Before I knew it, I was summarizing a sermon for him, at his request, that I had written last time I was in Chicago, about the beacon lights on a tower, and the presence of God in our lives. Sometimes the clouds are so thick in our lives, we cannot see him anymore, and doubt he was ever there, in the first place, even though we have seen him in the past. The man wasn’t sure about heaven. I said, we will know it’s true, someday, when we get there. He told us about a time travel story he was working on, hoping to see it become a movie, one day. He would invite our whole family to the opening, if it happened, before he died. He talked about a father who wanted him to be a pianist instead of a composer because there was more money in it. It is a sad thing, he said, not to have your father’s approval.

My God is awesome
Savior of the whole world
Giver of salvation
By His stripes I am healed

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

And then there was the man two seats behind us, who I only discovered after the train stopped just beyond Kansas City’s Union Station, and the lights and power went out. Suddenly we could hear people talk, instead of the noise from the engine. He was worried his wife would be waiting at the station way ahead of time, because we were running late. He was headed to Needles, California. He had no cell phone to call her. So I let him borrow ours. He shared that he had been in Michigan, not by his own choice, but because he got thrown into jail for not paying child support. He’d been there, the past three months.

The clothes he was wearing were from a mission. There, he’d met a kind chaplain. The Michigan jacket was going to become a bed for his dog when he got home. Even thought it kept him warm, now, his time in Michigan would not be something he wanted to be reminded of, later.

He was diabetic, and needed something to eat. A man across the aisle threw a rice krispy treat his way. I found some pretzels and a bottle of water. I stood and listened to him tell his story. He had little, to no money. I gave him some extra, that I had from my trip. He was grateful, said, you didn ‘t have to do that. I said, I did—I’m a pastor. He threw his arms around me, told me about going to church at the mission, about a Bible he was carrying in his bag. God was providing for him, through his people. God was wooing him to him. (Prevenient grace, did you get that?)

My God is awesome
Today I am forgiven
His grace is why I'm living
Praise His holy name

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

My God is awesome, awesome, awesome, awesome

The End... or just the Beginning?

Mark 13:24-37

Advent 1

Have you ever noticed, how the beginning of one thing is often the end of another? The end of a pregnancy, if all goes well, is often the birth of a healthy newborn baby. And when that child is about 4 or 5, they will leave their parents’ side, and go to school for the first time. The end of their preschool years marks the beginning of the school years, a launching out into the world. We tend to realize the end of one thing is another, when we are in the in-between stage. For instance, next month my oldest son will graduate from college. He will mark the end of a season at Emporia State. And something new will happen… hopefully! He will get a job and find something to do, that he enjoys. Life is a series of endings and new beginnings, over and over.

It may seem strange to begin Advent season by talking about the end of the world, here in scripture… UNTIL we remember that the end of one thing signals the beginning of another. You see, the whole world was awaiting the birth of a king, when Jesus was born. They had been in this in-between time, waiting centuries… and finally, he came. Only, it didn’t happen in the way they imagined. Nor in the role they imagined.

He didn’t come to save them from temporary things, but rather, the eternal. He didn’t burst on the scene, determined to topple the throne. He didn’t plan a coup or a war. He came to change the course of history in an eternal, spiritual way. But oh, how they’d been waiting for something so different.

When we are stuck in between… when one thing has ended and we’re waiting on the next thing to begin, how hard is it to sit and wait? It can be extremely difficult, amen? Especially if the thing we’re leaving is something that was comfortable… and we can’t imagine what this new reality will be.

When we are in between times, we call this a period of liminality. Liminality. And here, there can be much dis-ease, discomfort. But the in-between times can be opportunities for us to truly count on God. Because we often find we have very little control over what’s happening. We may have done so much to try to hurry things up and get through this uncomfortable time, and in the end it amounts to not much more than spinning our wheels. That’s when we finally just throw up our hands and say, “Okay God, I give up. I can’t seem to make this happen on my own. I need you to intercede on my behalf. I need something from you to give me hope, that lets me know I won’t always be in this place.” That’s called surrender!

So after pouring our hearts out to God, we wait and watch. And sometimes, we will see God move. Advent is a season of stopping, watching, and listening… because something is about to happen!

We remember that all of creation was waiting for a Savior, and he did finally come. Advent also reminds that Christ has died, Christ is risen, and Christ WILL come again! Once more, we are here, waiting for a Savior who will come and make things right. To bring justice that falls down like rain. For those of us who are concerned about the end of times, who are fearful of what is to come, we remember that someone is looking forward to this. In Revelation chapter 6, we read that the Christian martyrs, at this moment, are under the altar in heaven, crying out for justice. They are waiting on the Lord to avenge their unjust deaths.

We know that the end of the world, which is also called Day of the Lord, will be marked by three things, according to Christ. First, there would be wars. “And they shall hate one another, and provoke each other to fight.” That’s from a book called Second Baruch, typically not found in our Protestant Bibles, but found in something called the Apocrypha. The second thing is that there will be a darkening of the sun and moon. And the third is that the Jews will gather back to Palestine, from the four corners of the earth.

There are dozens of evangelists who make it their business to interpret the prophecies of the Bible, pointing to a time that has yet to come. And still, we know that some of the things Jesus prophesied, or foretold, happened shortly after he died—wars, earthquakes, famines. The Temple was destroyed… people were killed. It looked like the end. But it wasn’t.

Then a thousand years later, in 1343, the bubonic plague happened. Twenty-five million people in Europe died, as a result. But it still wasn’t the end. Surely there have been many times since then, when people have wondered, is this the end? Someone has estimated that about 170 million people have been killed for political reasons. And yet, it has not been the end, as we know it.

We hear words like “the rapture,” and that conjures up images of being caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. This can be found in 1 Thessalonians 4:16. And while movies like the recent one starring Nicholas Cage put forth this idea as a very real possibility, if we study eschatology, or end times theology, we see that for many centuries the term rapture simply referred to Christ’s final resurrection in general, That this belief that a group of people would be “left behind” on earth for an extended period of time was a school of thought that probably only came about in the last couple of centuries. The idea about a pretribulation rapture didn’t come about until somewhere between the 1600s and 1800s. So while the Left Behind series of books or movies may have given people a sense of urgency and helped draw them to the Lord, convincing them of their need for salvation, this is only one theory about how the end of the world will happen. We need to be cautious about accepting such things as fact. Just because a movie or TV show books itself as Christian doesn’t mean it’s totally accurate. They may be good guesses. But if Jesus himself didn’t know the hour or the day he was coming, then how can any of us say we can know anything for certain, except that it will happen? Amen??

What are other signs of Christ’s second return? We know that people will be tempted to fall for false messiahs. The books of First and Second John talk about something called the antichrist. Maybe that word sounds familiar, but what does scripture actually have to say about this?

1 John 2.18 says: Children, it is the last hour! As you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now MANY antichrists have come. From this we know that it is the last hour. (It seemed like Jesus was coming back, very soon after he ascended to the throne in heaven. And there was not just one antichrist, but many.)

1 John 2.22 says: Who is the liar but the one who denies that Jesus is the Christ? THIS is the antichrist, the one who denies the Father and the Son.

1 John 4.3 says: And every spirit that does not confess Jesus is NOT from God. And THIS is the spirit of the antichrist, of which you have heard that it is coming; and now it is already in the world. (The antichrists are those who would say that Jesus was not divine. He was merely a human, a good model for living, perhaps.)

2 John 1.7 says: Many deceivers have gone out into the world, those who do not confess that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh; any such person is the deceiver and the antichrist! (You know, in this specific case, some of our neighbors could be seen as antichrists. Many people throughout time could be legitimately called “antichrists,” if they didn’t believe that Jesus was fully God and fully man.)

Jesus says, "This generation will not pass away until all these things take place." And if we take that scripture literally, we know that they did. People in Jesus’ time were looking for him to come back while they were still alive.. And still, we hear Jesus saying to us, just “Be ready.” Did he say, I want you to stand around and try to figure this out, and be all anxious about it? No.

But if we conduct our lives in light of his eventual return, then perhaps we will live a holier life. Be bolder about sharing our testimonies with others. And keep a lighter touch on the things of this world, knowing that someday, all things will pass away.

Maybe it will keep some of us from fighting over a $5 Barbie doll on Black Friday. Maybe we’ll worry less about how our 401k plans are doing. Maybe we’ll be less affected by all the hostility in the world, if we remembered that someday Christ will come again and bring justice to the world.

We can be sure that our master has gone to a far country, and has left us behind to take care of this world. To take care of his church. And his people. He’s given us the authority to work on his behalf.

So let us be alert and eager, and ready, for whenever Christ returns, however he comes. Let us not be afraid of the time. But let us live each day in such a way that he will be satisfied with whatever we’ve done. Like the fig tree blossoming, something is about to burst forth. The end of the world, as we know it, will be the beginning of a new heaven and a new earth. The end of one thing will be the beginning of another. And it will be glorious, indeed!

More than Metanoia

Mark 1:1-8

Advent B, Week 2

 

Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord… prepare ye the way of the Lord.

On Friday, Shayne from Johnson Music Center came to Pleasant Grove Church to reconnect some microphone wires to a soundboard at the back of the sanctuary. There was a mess of wires, unused, that he cleaned out, in the process. Hopefully, it will make things easier to use, be more clean, more straightforward. We’re set up for about six or seven mics up front. If we need more, he’ll come back and add more in. At some point, we might need them.

            Shayne talked to me while he worked. He started asking if I remembered some Christian musician from the 1980s… I said, Yeah, I probably do! Since that was an era I really paid attention to who was who. He said there was this guy named Phil Keaggy who played the guitar, one of the top guitarists in the world. Even Eric Clapton has reportedly said he’s the best. Yes, I said, I remember him. In fact, I interviewed him over the phone for a magazine article, once. Anyhow, Shayne and his band from church are opening for Phil Keaggy when he comes to the McPherson Opera House in mid-January. They’re going to be Phil’s OPENING ACT.

Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord… prepare ye the way of the Lord.

            All this past week, and some before, there’s been something going on next door to the parsonage. Have you noticed? They’ve been measuring and clearing the ground, making things level so they could dig for the footings on a new addition to the north of Korey and Charity Kincaid’s house. After they leveled off the ground, they dug deep holes to put in the forms so they could pour concrete. A little cold for pouring concrete, but they did it… And soon, there’ll be a frame going up. They’ll be building on the foundation.

The Gospel of Mark begins in an unexpected way. I’ve just read some of it for you. There’s no angel coming to Mary or Joseph here, no talk about the baby Jesus’ birth. No stable, no shepherds. Just some old, dry words from a wild and lonely prophet who’s talking about another strange voice that will come someday, calling out in the middle of the wilderness.

No prophetic voice had been heard, in a long time. In fact, it had been 300 years. That’s a long time to wait, don’t you think? The people were being held in captivity, hostages in a strange land. Was there anything left to hope for? they wondered. Has God stopped sending us prophets because He has nothing left to say? But then they hear that God is sending My messenger. My messenger, he says.

Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord… prepare ye the way of the Lord.

 (Isaiah 40:3) Someone is building up a great road for the arrival of a majestic king. Someone is filling in the holes, and knocking down the hills that are in the way.

Maybe for us, today, the real preparation is happening in our hearts. God moves in our lives, and a road is built. Building a road out here (finger pointing outward), building a road in here (heart): both activities are costly. Both involve lots of problems. Both require an expert engineer.

Baptism wasn’t something new in the life of the Jewish community. But it wasn’t called that, necessarily. It was more of a ceremonial immersion. Typically, the only people who went into the water and were covered up in it, completely, were Gentiles, or non-Jews who wanted to become Jewish.

In John’s day, if a Jew submitted to baptism they were essentially saying, “I confess that I am just as far away from God as a Gentile, and I need to get right with Him.” Maybe today, some of us are feeling like we are far away from God. That we need to get right with him.

So John prepares the way by baptizing—offering a ceremonial washing that allows people to confess their sin and show their repentance, or sorrow. The word for repentance in Hebrew is metanoia. A water baptism is outward and visible; it shows that something is going on inside of us, that can’t be seen.

John was not the prophet Elijah, but he sure looked like him—wild and lonely, wearing camel’s hair and a leather belt, boldly calling all of Israel to repentance. And yet, he says he’s not worthy of bending down and untying the sandals of the one who will come after him—and we know he’s talking about Jesus. In John’s day, it was said that a teacher might require his followers to do just about anything, except this: they couldn’t make their followers or students take off their sandals. They could ask for anything but that.

The Babylonian Talmud, Ketuboth 96a: “All services which a slave does for his master, a pupil should do for his teacher, with the exception of undoing his shoes.”

This person who is coming--this Messiah—is going to bring a baptism that is far greater than just repentance and water: it involves an immersion in the Holy Spirit. Can you imagine what it must be like to be dipped completely in the same life force that came upon Jesus at his own water baptism and empowered him to live out his ministry on earth as God’s Son?  This is something far greater than mere repentance, or turning. So much more than metanoia. Something life-changing is going on, inside whoever chooses to receive the Holy Spirit baptism that Jesus is bringing.

            Today, we remember our own need for baptism, for metanoia AND the Holy Spirit.  We see that John is the priest, the minister, the pastor. He proclaims and baptizes. In response, the people repent. God forgives. And Christ will soon come, bringing this new baptism with the Holy Spirit.

Advent 3--Unworthy, but not Unloved

John 1:6-8, 19-28

About this time of year, a memory flashes across my mind of a time when I sat in front of the Christmas tree with my dad, down in his den. This was a long room in the basement, next to my mom’s beauty shop. At one end was dad’s stereo setup, with the record player, four big speakers. He loved music. And each year he would string up Christmas lights on the ceiling in the shape of a big T, and wrap the lights in silver garland. We would sometimes sit down there, he and I, watching all the Christmas lights and listening to Christmas music.

And there, one evening, I dared to ask my dad a question. I said, “Dad, what were Christmases like, when you were a kid?” And he began explaining that there wasn’t ever much, in the way of presents. It was the Great Depression, and he and his brother were lucky to get a fresh orange or apple in their stocking, with a couple of pieces of ribbon candy.

But one Christmas, he said, his dad came to them with something special. He gives them a handful of crude little metal soldiers, made by his own hands. Apparently he melted down one of his guns to get the metal. And he says, “Boys, I’m sorry,” and that was all Dad could say to me, at first.

“Boys, I’m sorry.” And as my dad told me this story, there was a catch in his voice. “Boys, I’m sorry, but this is all I have to give you this Christmas.” And I looked over, and in the twinkle of the colored lights, I could see he had tears running down his cheek. Now I don’t have the foggiest idea what I got that Christmas, but I will never remember that night, when my dad let me peek inside his heart a little.

Tiny handmade soldiers, made out of love and desperation.  It was a gift that, I imagine, cost my grandfather dearly. Not in terms of money, but in terms of something he valued. Because, you see, this was a man who had lived off the land for about 20 years, hunting and fishing and trapping up next to the Great Divide in Colorado. A gun would have been his closest companion. A gun would have protected him at night, put food in his belly, given him the means to trade for supplies. Maybe he’d had that gun since he was a young man. Maybe his own father had given it to him. No doubt, it was a great sacrifice to melt it down and make a few toy soldiers for his sons… but he did it, because he loved them so. Not because they necessarily deserved it, but because he simply loved them.

Have you ever received a gift you didn’t deserve, and couldn’t possibly earn, because it cost the giver so much?

This time of year, when we get to questioning who has more presents, or if we need to get more, so someone doesn’t feel slighted or unloved, we are reminded that there was this gift offered to each of us that we can’t ever possibly deserve or earn, that cost someone so very much. And that gift was the Christ child. The Christ child comes to us each and every year as a reminder of God’s ever-present gift of salvation, and it’s all wrapped up in love. He doesn’t give his Son to us and then demand we accept him. He doesn’t offer this gift because he wants to punish us. He does it because he loves us.

And to do so, cost him his only Son. It cost him everything. The Son he sent in love would one day die for us. And there was never anything we could do to be worthy of that. Nothing we could do to deserve that. We are children who have no idea how much this gift cost our Father. We are unworthy, but we are so very loved and treasured.

John the Baptist got it right, when he says “I am not worthy.” He wasn’t worthy to be Christ’s servant, but that’s exactly the place and the role God gave him. John knew and admitted he wasn’t the Messiah. He could have claimed to be. He could have just agreed with the people who thought he was the Prophet or Elijah. But he was full of humility and gratitude. He didn’t think he was entitled to have people bow down and worship him. His job was to point to the Son, the One who would come.

He was filled with humility. And this is something we all need to have, as followers of Christ. Not to think better of ourselves than others. Not to think others are any less deserving of God’s blessings, for whatever reason. If we look long and hard enough, all of us will admit we have been blessed at times when we didn’t deserve it.

Christ comes to us in the form of a baby this time of year, and if we will be honest, we will admit that none of us truly deserves this. Not really. Christ will come again, one day, to set the world straight and bring his perfect justice, and still, we won’t deserve it. But it was never a question of our deserving or earning it. It was always question of “why God?” Why God. Why did God choose to give us, his children, such a priceless gift? Something that meant the world to him? Simply because he loved us so very much. And he still does.

You see, he makes a supreme sacrifice because we are of immense worth to him. You, me, the people you’re sitting by, the people you pass on your way to work. The people who drive by you on the highway like you’re standing still. The ones whose children are on the angel trees this time of year. We all are of immense value to him. His love knows no bounds.

            So if you’re wondering whether you’re loved this Christmas season, look no farther than the nativity… where a baby lays in the manger. Don’t count the number of gifts under your tree, the number of Christmas cards that come. Count all that it cost your heavenly Father—his only, precious Son.

George Ablah: High risk, high reward

I received word this evening that George Ablah of Wichita had died. Years ago, when I was an editor for the Wichita Register magazine, I interviewed him; in a strange turn of events, the feature never ran.  If it were to appear in print, I would take more time to do some fine editing/rewriting. However, as it stands, I think the details about this gentleman's fascinating life are worth sharing and preserving. Thanks go to George's son, Jeff, for filling in many of the details.--KB

George Ablah

High risks, big reward

 

 

With George Ablah, what you see is what you get. The owner of Ablah Enterprises, he’s a freewheeler who can’t stand restraints. He typically won’t wear a suit and tie. And at a time when most people of his business stature won’t leave home without their Blackberries, he remains attached to a singular piece of paper. Ablah carries one around in his pocket, updating it constantly and filling both sides with everything he needs at his fingertips, highlighting what’s most important in several bright colors. 

At 16, he owned a gas station and a liquor store, and had traveled back and forth to Chicago to make real estate transactions. He did a stint at KU and WSU, but all the business acumen he would need was either already in his gut, or would be learned by trial and error. Along the way he learned perseverance, the importance of continuing, despite the odds. Ablah nearly died at 20 while working on a construction crew. A house jack he was manning snapped and hit him in the head. As a result, he lost the hearing in one ear. It affected his vision. But he’s never let either inconvenience stand in his way.

      The eldest son, he left his father’s business, Ablah Hotel & Supply, to strike out on his own. The company made everything from coffee mugs to dinner tables to restaurant floor plans. George worked until 2 and 3 a.m., drawing up designs. For a time, he and his wife lived with their young family in a College Hill duplex shared by his father and uncle’s families.

      With his wife, Virginia, working at his side for often six days a week, Ablah built a real estate and oil investment business that spans almost fifty years and every major city in the United States. There’s probably no metropolitan area in America that Ablah hasn’t considered a piece of property in. At 78, he’s got no plans of slowing down. Currently, he’s doing business in Memphis, North Carolina, Texas and Arkansas.

      By all newspaper accounts, Ablah seems to swoop in, quickly assess a property, snatch it up and swoop back out again, confidently decisive, holding onto the land or buildings only long enough to turn a profit. He is a true entrepreneur, a risk taker and a gambler. When others would balk at property based on the fact it’s one hundred percent vacant, Ablah sees clear potential, and buys it without a second thought.

      And his interests are diverse. Aside from oil and real estate, he’s had his hands in medical supply, steel, health care, computer software, restaurants and more. He goes to Las Vegas once a month, whether he needs it or not. And in his typically larger-than-life fashion, he’s managed to win $1 million at the table in one sitting.

      Time is one’s most valued commodity, he tells his grown children and those fortunate enough to hear his twelve steps for business and life. One way he saves time is through an uncanny ability of quickly scanning information to determine if a piece of property is worth pursuing.

      It was thirty years ago that Ablah bought Chrysler Realty with Charles Koch, dba ABKO. Ablah, realizing it would take him a year to visit two of the six hundred car dealerships each day, didn’t wait on his personal surveys or the written ones before he signed on the dotted line. Time was of the essence. Doing business as usual with a gentleman’s agreement, he took the word of the sellers that everything regarding the multi-million dollar holding was as it should be.

      Personally involved in more than $2 billion in real estate transactions, Ablah has never been in a lawsuit, a testimony to his personal ethics. While others burn bridges behind them, he knows he can look at himself in the mirror each morning. He also knows he can go back to the same people, over and over, and they’ll be happy to do business with him again. Perhaps another reason for this is that he tries to see things from the other side. Quite literally, he reads contracts from both sides of the table to make sure they’re fair, rising from his chair to sit on the other side of the table to look things over to see if he’d be comfortable doing business with himself.

      Locally, Ablah owned much of the land from Rock Road north of 29^th Street. He built Northrock Theatres and the bowling alley, Jimmie’s Diner, and the five-story building at 29th and Rock where Wendy’s sits. “He built that on spec,” his son, Jeff, says of the latter in amazement. “At the time, there was nothing there. I remember, because I was out hunting in the field across from it, where Walmart is, now.”

      Ablah donated land to the city for the K-96 Expressway with the stipulation that construction begin in 1992. Thus, commuters on the north end of Wichita have been able to fly to their workplaces every day for years, while those who work farther south still await the Kellogg flyover completion.

      Time is of the essence. Ablah starts his workday at 5 a.m. And every morning at 11:25, like clockwork he walks down his office hallway and offers to buy lunch for anyone who will join him at his big heart-shaped desk, and chat. He knows all about relationships. The loyal friendships he’s made throughout his life have helped carry him through any rough patches. Because even the best gambler runs out of luck sometimes. 

      And the true measure of any person in any setting is how they perform when things aren’t going their way. “When most would fold up their tent and say, ‘I’m done,’ he kept going,” says son Jeff, who works in the family business in investments. (Ablah has another son who also works at Ablah Enterprises and focuses on oil.)

      Each time, Ablah has come back, successful once again. Jeff remembers the day his dad “lost a huge deal, and went on with his normal day. ‘Don’t you want to go play some golf, or go home awhile?’ he asked his dad. But Ablah doesn’t waste time thinking about things he can’t change. Do that, he told his son, and “you lose that moment forever.”

      A bleu cheese dressing fan, when Ablah sampled a particularly tasty batch in Colorado, he immediately asked the restaurant owner for the recipe. He was led out to a barn, and was shown the large wooden bucket where it was made. Ablah wanted the recipe for himself, so he bought it and formed a company called Swiss Chalet. Even now, the mini croutons sold in grocery stores as Crispins, are the remaining signs of his salad days. When he sold Swiss Chalet, he briefly became the largest individual shareholder of the Clorox Company.

      There came a point in Ablah’s life when he sometimes flew to three different cities in one day before arriving back home in Wichita. And so, he became partners with Jack DeBoer, and bought out DeBoer Aviation. Then he made his pilot, Ron Ryan, a full partner, and formed Ryan Aviation. The pair later sold it to a public company called PHH before Ryan bought it back again.

      Along the way, he also became a golf course developer. Willowbend was to become the first for him, but so far, it’s his one and only. He simply wanted to prove one needn’t be a millionaire to enjoy the perpetually green scenery and spend time out on the fairways.

      Equal access is a theme that runs through another project, this one on a tremendously creative scale. When Ablah became the largest owner of Henry Moore sculptures in the world, he offered to loan several pieces to New York City. People who typically didn’t see the inside of an art gallery ought to see the inspiring works of one of the world’s most renowned artists, he thought. So he wanted to place the sculptures outdoors, in the city’s parks and boroughs.

      Fearing the priceless work would become victim to graffiti and vandalism, Mayor Ed Koch wanted to wall off the artwork with guards and fences. But Ablah said no, and took personal responsibility for the art himself. As if some divine force were protecting it, Moore’s sculptures remained untouched the entire year they were on exhibit. Time Magazine would publish a book about the unique outdoor installation, calling it the “Museum without Walls.”

      He met Moore, became a friend of his. And yet, over the course of his lifetime, through all his accomplishments, Ablah has been most proud of his family. First and foremost, he told his kids, you are Christian. The reason your family fled to America is because other religious groups were killing and persecuting Christian Arabs.

      The second thing he told them was, you are not Lebanese, you’re an American of Lebanese descent. Speaking English was important at the Ablah household. In fact, the only two Arabic words his son Jeff used on a regular basis as a child were jiddy, which means grandfather, and sitty (grandmother). It was important that George took one of his children to eat breakfast with sitty every Sunday morning. “Grandma had a premium influence on Dad’s life,” Jeff says.

      Ablah’s mother came over to America as a young girl with not much more than an orange, which was given to her with the advice to only eat it if she really, really got hungry. When Sitty died, her family found that orange in her dresser drawer, dried up and shrunk to the size of a marble.

      He may form a partnership with someone, but if the business has anything to do with real estate or something he’s very adept at, he won’t take a back seat. In fact, he won’t answer to a board of directors. He can’t ask someone for permission. He’s got to be on his own. And he certainly isn’t concerned with what others think. A true individualist, he tells his son, “I’ve gotta go when I’ve gotta go.”As Jeff says, “He’s so real, and he won’t put on any airs. He dances to his own song.”

      At this point, Ablah shows no signs of slowing down. His goal is to live to be 129, and all he’ll need, he says, is a new set of eyes and organs, and he’ll just keep right on rolling.

The antidote for depression? Discovering you are never alone

I have not written much on depression. I have preached about it, and it is a large part of my spiritual story. I have told people how I felt so very close to God, his Holy Spirit at one moment, then had absolutely no idea where he had gone, the next. But because there is so much focus on it this week, with the untimely death of Robin Williams, and because he was so closely associated with joy and laughter, and depression seems miles away from that, and because people are writing so much about depression and Christianity in the past day or so, I thought I’d share some thoughts.

It is not a club you ever want to belong to. But once you do, you can quickly relate to others who are going through it. Strangely enough, this is in huge contrast to actually going through depression, in which you feel utterly and completely alone.

My biggest, most vivid word picture to describe major depression is feeling like a hollowed-out, chocolate Easter bunny. It felt like nothing was inside. I felt… nothing. And I felt so much pain in my soul, all at the same time. At times, I would walk or drive through the cemetery and be jealous of the people who had peace and release from all the anguish I was feeling. When I saw a dead tree one day that looked like a broom stuck in the ground, upside down, I though, oh, that’s me. That’s exactly how I feel. I didn’t want to die; I just wanted to not feel the way I was feeling, every moment of every day.

If I had not felt so close to the Lord right before I was catapulted into the darkness--like his Holy Spirit was breathing on my neck--it would not have seemed like such a cruel thing. Because part of living in major depression, at least for me, was that it felt like God had pulled up his tent stakes and moved a thousand miles across the desert. There was, like, absolutely no contact with him, whatsoever. For most of a complete decade.

That was what I longed to feel, most. His holy presence. Any shred of feeling that he was near me. I thought I’d done something very wrong. Why else would God pull the rug out from under me? But all I’d done, in fact, was give birth to my second son. Just days, weeks, months before, he’d been right there beside me. Then, because of, or alongside an unexpectedly early birth (he was only three weeks early), an experience that was highly anticipated because I’d almost lost hope of ever having another child, and because this highly anticipated birth experience went nothing like I had envisioned, it felt like the walls were tumbling down. (He was healthy, I was healthy, but everything else had seemed so disappointing.) A huge part of this was that I no longer felt as though I could trust the man I had married, the father of my now two sons, to do the right things for my benefit (although I’m pretty sure that he thought he was).

And the worst feeling, the most long-lasting feeling, was the sense that I had been utterly, completely alone during the birth experience. It was something like an out-of-body experience, except I was there, and everyone in the room was not. I could see them, but somehow they were so far away, they could not help me, would not respond to my cries for help.

The feeling was compounded when I went home and could not sleep. It went on for about four months. Later, I would learn that this is how some military groups torture prisoners—forced wakefulness. By the time I picked up the phone to call my caregiver, I was in quite a bit of trouble. And, for the first time in my life, I had to take antidepressants. The stigma of this was compounded by the fact that my paternal grandfather had been hospitalized for the latter part of his life in a state mental institution, following what had been called a nervous breakdown. All I knew was that I never knew the man, and by all indications, he was rather sensitive. Which explained why my father, for the most part, had been emotionally distant and out of touch with his own feelings for most of the time I’d known him. I loved him, he loved me, and my mother explained that, “he just didn’t know how to show it.”

So the meds helped, but there were side effects, and I worried how this all would affect my new little baby boy. Somehow, we both survived. My darkness continued. Talk therapy helped. Figuring out that most of the things that happened to me in my younger life that seemed weird and strange were pretty common to many people was extremely helpful—I wasn’t nearly as alone as I thought! But perhaps the thing that was most comforting was a little brochure I found one day, in the doctor’s office. It said that people who have depression often say that they cannot feel the presence of God. Oh. My. Word. I thought. I’m not the only one who feels this way? The two can be tied together? Glory, hallelujah!! Thank you, Jesus!!! I so wanted to find the person wrote those words, and give them a great big hug. And a million bucks, if I had it.

Just having that awareness was so freeing. No matter the cause and effect—which came first, the chicken or the egg—if this Divine sense of aloneness was tied to my depression, I could deal with that, somehow, for as long as the darkness decided to hang around. (Later, I would take a seminar at a women’s Benedictine seminary and find that this is one of the most devastating places to be—wedged between major depression and what is called a dark night of the soul. But once again, finding out I wasn’t the only one made it all seem bearable. I wasn’t the strange freak I though I was, even though the looks on most of my friends’ faces told me otherwise, when I tried to explain what I was feeling, or not feeling.)

And then came this Humungous Epiphany, which felt like the only place it could have come from, was outside myself. Which I like to explain as the moment when God broke through. This voice, somewhere from inside my soul. Someone speaking to me, telling me, “You know what, Kim? Your emotions are important. After all, I have made them. They feel oh, so powerful to you, like they can finally mow you down at any second, but let me tell you something: your emotions are, and never will be, powerful enough to make Me go away. What I mean is, I am a whole lot bigger and more powerful than anything you will ever feel or not feel.” So, what I had been feeling was not true! God HAD NOT pulled up tent stakes and moved on. It only felt that way! Perhaps he had turned his face for a time, but he never really had left me.

When I heard this, when the words rattled around inside my soul, let me tell you, I wanted to do a little happy dance. Lift up my hands and shout. Because suddenly, I finally felt free. And I knew that if I just kept going one more day, and another day, and another day, that finally I would break free and come out from under the darkness. And you know what? I finally did. Not all at once, but gradually. And the residual effect is that I now have oodles of compassion for all those who have been, and are going through, the same thing.

Depression doesn’t mean you’re not a Christian, that you don’t pray enough, or believe strongly enough. Depression doesn’t mean you have sinned and need forgiveness any more than anyone else. Depression is a medical condition that affects your whole being—body, mind AND spirit. I’m pretty sure that, if Job’s friends had come alongside me in my time of darkness and offered their two cents, God would not have been happy with them at that point, either. So pat answers are never a good thing. But coming alongside someone and sitting next to them, and offering a caring heart? Sharing that other people have been there, through no fault of their own, and have come out on the other side? Now, that’s what I think the Lord had in mind. That’s what I think he intended for us to say and do. Give people Hope.

No, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. But I know I am a much different person because of what I’ve been through. For one thing, if I hadn’t felt such an absence of God, I wouldn’t have striven so strongly to find him again. And I wouldn’t have met him again in such a life-changing way that ultimately led me to give up one way of life, and devote my time to serving him, and his people.

I was a pretty selfish person, before all of this happened.  I wanted nothing more than to make MY life better. And then I realized, I was not alone. I was never really alone.

The Widow’s Offering
(Jesus) sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.
--Mark 12:41-45

Willing to be Made Empty
Two small coins,
Little copper pennies
Enough to buy a hollow
Bright-colored piece of gum
That lasts for twenty chews.
This is all she had
This is all she gave.
So much more than the rest
So much more than they would ever give.

What if that is all he ever wants?
Our desire to give it all
All of our breath, all of our energy,
All of our sanity, all of our lives.

The willingness to empty our pockets
With even the lint
Inside out, for all to see.
Yes, that is what he hopes to receive
This all he longs to hold.

Would you give him two small pennies
If that were all you had to rub together?
Would the things he gives you
Be worth it all, in exchange?

What could we give, that would be worth so much?
The Savior's love and forgiveness
The pathway to God's heavenly throne
The assurance we will live forever
In a peace that, as yet, is unknown.
--KB