WE OFTEN QUESTION: Issues That Should Never Separate Us From God

By Craig Georgeff

As Christians, we can encapsulate our faith with the thirty words set forth in John 3:16 of the Bible. That is why this verse is displayed in the end zone of televised football games and hung as banners from expressway overpasses. The message is clear and simple, yet we as Christians, those growing in Christian faith and those seeking what Christianity has to offer, cloud these simple words with all types of questions and doubts. This book attempts to deal openly and honestly with questions we have that divide us rather than bring us together and into the outstretched hands of a loving God. I am not a pastor or theologian, nor have I had a near-death experience. I am just like you, somewhat ordinary and struggling to understand. Why do I find it difficult to be an evangelist? How do I deal with science? Is there a limit as to who will be in heaven? Catholic or Baptist, Methodist or Mormon, Jesus can be for all. Why is my relationship with God sometimes a roller-coaster ride? The eighteen chapters in this book deal with questions and issues like these. And while the descriptions I give and the answers I offer may not be cloaked in theological jargon, they are honest and poignant, offered by an ordinary person who has experienced the fantastic highs in life and the sting of tremendous loss. If it brings but one person to a closer relationship with God, then it will have been a success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645699033

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WE OFTEN QUESTION

Issues That Should Never Separate Us From God

Craig Georgeff

Copyright © 2019 by Craig Georgeff

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

(Not a Pastor, a Minister, or a Priest but a Christian Like You)

(Confronted by That Sure Believer)

(That Glorious Moment or That Tortoise Walk through Time)

(The Saving Grace of Jesus Can Be for All)

(Not Going Door to Door but I Can Still Be a Witness)

(Catholic or Baptist, Methodist or Mormon, Jesus Is for All)

(Yes, They Are Seeking)

(Seven Days or Twelve Billion Years—No Need for Absolutes)

(She Had to Be a Virgin)

(Attacked, Demeaned, Burned by Some because It Offers Freedom)

(Disappointed by Some, Inspired by Others)

(God and Allah—So Different)

(A Simple Sharing of God’s Love)

(Infected by Past Sin When It Is All but Forgotten)

(Our Christian Life Does Ebb and Flow, and This Is Not Wrong)

(Abortion, Homosexuality, and Issues That Deserve Discussion)

(I Question, I Search, I Discover, I Fail to Understand, and I Grow)

Other Books From Craig Georgeff

Not All Angels Have Wings

Preface

What is this book about? It is about a Christian, maybe just like you, who is not a theologian, not a pastor, not someone who has experienced a near-death event and written about it. I am just plain and ordinary. I am someone who has experienced fantastic ups in life and felt the sting of loss and the pain of suffering, just like you. As I commence living those golden years, I have experienced more than some and far less than others. It is a book that will attempt to deal with what we feel, what we believe, what we question, and what we are sometimes afraid to discuss in sharing that coffee among regular folks on a weekday morning somewhere in our path through life.

I was seated at that McDonald’s one morning with a group of Christian friends and was involved in a discussion pertaining to our religion and faith. We were a group consisting of no one special, just four men from the same church who happened to enjoy a cup of coffee on a weekday morning. During that discussion, the word doubt came up as it related to our religious commitments. As the discussion progressed, one of the men turned to me and stated, You, you sometimes have doubts too? You do? He made the statement with a certain questioning, as if I were someone different or special that I had somehow advanced beyond experiencing that sense of doubting. Of course, he was wrong.

Over the forty years I have attended this church, I had taught some Sunday school, been involved in some Bible studies, and joined in certain service and charitable activities. Maybe I have done more than some and less than others, but I have done far less than I should have. But it was obvious that my statement had touched a nerve for him, as if my faith was somehow beyond that type of questioning. My admission seemed to be a surprise to him. It was as if he was admitting he sometimes had doubts, but that I, possibly because I often talked about my faith or was involved in certain activities, had somehow advanced beyond that feeling, that questioning.

I am no one special in this world, just an ordinary Christian struggling to deal with the problems that we all typically face. I often feel guilty because I have not used my talents, treasures, and time to better advance my faith and serve my God. I sin, sometimes I sin big. I oftentimes place stuff before faith. I covet, gossip, steal (even if only a pen from my employer). I do it all. And I frequently ask God for forgiveness for my shortcomings, admit that I fall so short of what I could be, what I could do, and pray that I could do better.

Maybe as I finish this book, I can finally place to rest some questions for me and maybe for the both of us. Then again I just might create many more. But if we do not question, how do we grow?

I Am Like You

(Not a Pastor, a Minister, or a Priest but a Christian Like You)

Some background, my father immigrated to the United States from Bulgaria, and my mother was born and raised in a Croatian neighborhood in Detroit. I was the firstborn in a family that would include two younger brothers, and we lived in an ethnic neighborhood on the north side of Detroit in the 1950s. My parents and I and then a younger brother occupied a three-room flat above the home of my father’s parents. Occasionally, my mother’s sister or brother would rent from my grandparents, and everyone spoke more Croatian and Bulgarian than English.

My grandmother smothered a small fenced-in backyard with a garden that included every possible vegetable. My grandfather and father were both alcoholics, and each of the remaining adults demanded a certain amount of license to express their opinions, criticize the drinking of the two men, and generally chime in to the constant din that was present in the household. I recall sitting at the top of the landing observing the commotion and hearing the loud voices from below. I was not afraid or concerned, it was just family doing what they do. We were not poor, at least as a child I did not think we were. We had food on the table. I had clothing to wear. We owned a single car, and my father had started a shoe repair business in a suburban area just north of Detroit. I would help, more or less watch, as my grandmother would take one of the chickens or rabbits kept in a series of pens running along the back of the property and slaughter it for a dinner. I would also watch as my grandmother would hit my grandfather with a broom when he came home drunk. And I recall sitting with my mother and a younger brother in a red Kaiser sedan in front of a local bar waiting for my father to finish the day with one more drink.

As my father’s business grew, in spite of his drinking, we moved out to suburban Southfield, just north of Detroit—my father, my mother, my grandparents, my uncle, my brother, some chickens and rabbits, and me. We added some lambs to the menagerie in the backyard, the garden expanded to fill the two acres of land, and the constant din offered up by the conflict in a dysfunctional family that encompassed two alcoholics remained. Everything was good, everything was nice. This was our normal.

My grandmother prepared my lunches for school. When the other students extracted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Hostess CupCakes from their lunch boxes, I pulled open the wax paper and experienced such delicacies as stuffed peppers, stuffed cabbage, or a concoction of chicken, rice, and vegetables. I had homemade hard bread to dip in an herbal tomato sauce we called lutenica and baklava for dessert. I owned two pair of pants and two shirts, one set always clean. I was a bit confused by the English language and could not read, not because I was ignorant, but because I needed glasses, which I quickly rejected and seldom wore. It was in third grade when Mrs. Haines recognized I spoke exceedingly fast in order to avoid the slippage of a foreign language into my thoughts, that I was at least of average intelligence, and that I wanted to learn.

The brother who was four years younger than me died when he was fifty-seven. It was the culmination of having inherited the genetic flaw of my father and grandfather. My remaining younger brother and I, who is twelve years younger, often marvel as to our own normalcy. We oftentimes chuckle about our family experiences and then recognize that we were no more abnormal than some and no less normal than others. We were a first-generation American family struggling through occasional tough financial times, a family hampered by alcoholism and strained by having three generations under a single roof. But we were loved, even though the expression of love was different than that displayed on television by Ozzie and Harriet. We succeeded, even though my father never saw me play in high school or college or in the state finals in basketball or win a national championship in baseball. Nor did he attend my brother’s graduation from one of the best engineering schools in the country. We laughed together as brothers and then found a diversion to avoid our father or escape an argument and then came back to love and care for him. Yes, my family is just like yours—more normal than some and less abnormal than others. We are just like you, no one special yet no one ignored. Our experiences, your experiences, are just a bit different, they just encompass situations that sometimes sadden and sometimes gladden, but we seem to persevere and move on to another set of situations that compose our lives. We are so much alike.

This is the perspective from which I am writing this book, from the perspective of a common man sitting in a church pew far too infrequently, having some doubts, knowing that I could contribute a lot more in treasure, time, and talent, and wanting to say that I am still a Christian.

I am not a theologian. I am not a pastor or even on the administrative board at my church. I do not quote a lot of Scripture. I have experienced those inquisitive periods in my life when I might immerse myself in some current religious topic or event. There are times I find myself with a thirsting to serve, to be part of my church community, to be involved in teaching Sunday school, visiting shut-ins, and participating in all types of charitable endeavors. And there have been times in my life when I find myself wandering away from my God, when my church attendance is less frequent, when I pray less often, and when I have chosen to walk a path a little too distant from a strong faith.

Being in my early seventies, I have experienced life. I have experienced more than some of you and less than others. I have experienced periods in life when nothing went wrong or even seemed to consider going wrong. And then I have experienced a tremendous sense of loss. I share some of these life experiences in writing this book, and they will show you just how much we are alike.

An Elevator Ride

(Confronted by That Sure Believer)

On January 25, 2008, I lost my wife to lung, brain, liver, and bone cancer. She had never been sick and had experienced only one stay in the hospital, that being the birth of our only son thirty-four years earlier. She was working out one day in mid-October of 2007, as was her daily routine, and complained of a shortness of breath. Two days later, she was diagnosed with lung cancer that had already spread to her bones, liver, and brain. I watched my wife of thirty-seven years slowly suffocate to death as no medicine, no amount of prayer, no radiation or chemo treatment, and no experimental drug could slow the advance of the disease. During the last ten days while she was medicated and in a coma, I would read the New Testament to her while at her bedside, routinely stop to pray, and frequently run the small sponge swab across her lips to ensure that she was not thirsty. It was the lowest of times.

I attempted to keep a positive attitude during those three and one-half months. I did not want to show anyone how much I hurt, how