Why I Don't Play the Lottery

Just a few reasons why I don't play the lottery...

1. I don't use those things that cause detrimental addiction. I have a tendency to stay away from things that have warning labels from Surgeon Generals or help lines to help you stop using their product. If there is a danger of bondage... I stand firm in my freedom. "Play responsibly" is my signal to not play and thus be responsible.

2. I care about the poor. Lottery is like the proverbial carrot on a stick for those dealing with poverty. It is the elusive pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. However, in reality, it is the parasite of another dollar siphoned away from essential needs. For the sake of others I abstain and look forward to the time when the lottery is discarded.

3. I care about families. Every dollar spent on lottery tickets is a dollar neglected in a place of higher priority. If you really want to care and provide for your family, don't chase ghosts through the fog. Get a job, be faithful, and take your family to church on Sunday. The lottery has never helped a marriage, raised a child, or reconciled a family, but it sure has broken many homes. Don't be deceived.

4. It is bad stewardship. I have heard people talk about the revenue going toward "a good cause" like education. But the truth is that less than 1/3 of the total revenue goes toward the "good cause." Most goes toward winning, advertisement, administration, etc. You want to give toward a good cause, find another way to do it that doesn't have the enormous overhead. Something tells me, however, that few are thinking about helping their local schools when they are buying their ticket.

5. It is contrary to contentment. I have learned the reality of the fact that there is great gain in godliness with contentment. Coveting leads to unrest, discontentment, and anxiety. I want to learn to be at peace whether I have much or I have little. Right now I have all I need. It doesn't mean I won't have more some day or have less some day. But I am going to be grateful for what I have.

6. The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. It isn't evil itself, but is sure is the root of it. Coveting, jealousy, laziness, greed, lack of self-discipline and the list goes on. All these things can sprout a life focused on the pursuit of temporary wealth. The fruit of a life consumed with the love of money is something we vilify and hate in others, but are sometimes blind to in ourselves.

7. Winning would be on the backs of literally millions of other people who have lost. They may not miss my few dollars that I refuse to spend on lottery tickets, but I refuse to be part of something that costs so much to so many. How can I claim to love my brother when I participate in something that is so detrimental to him? How can I rejoice in my winnings when there is some child out there without good food to eat because his parent thought the way out was through the lottery. No, I cannot risk being the oppressor.

8. You'll lose. The chances of you dying on the way to purchase your ticket are much greater than you winning the lottery. It has been said that the lottery is a tax on those who are bad at math. Maybe you won't miss the change you spent today on lottery tickets. But the money spent on an alluring mirage can actually add up quickly. Maybe wealth would come quicker from starting a savings account.

9. Even if you win, you'll probably still be a loser. The day the winner is announced there are tales of philanthropic ventures and charitable gifts. All the good that will be done with the winnings. A year later there is often brokenness resulting in family discord, marital divorce, bankruptcy, greed leading to more gambling and loss, hate, grudges, and even homelessness and murder. No it doesn't happen every time someone wins, just some of the larger winners. Do you want to tempt the odds again?

10. I'm a Christian. There are more important things to me than money. I have come to the apparently rare revelation that money is not the greatest need of my existence. It does not solve my problems. It does not bring me fulfillment. It does not make me whole. It does not last forever. I live for a higher purpose. 

Also check out...

Why I Don't Drink Alcohol

Why I Stopped Giving to the Poor

A Perspective Changer

I made a pastoral visit in the summer of 2013 that could change your perspective. If you have a few minutes I want to share with you about that visit. (Warning: Some of the details of the visit are fairly graphic.)

This particular day I was making a fairly routine visit that I had made before. I was in the middle of Lexington, KY a urban, generally well kept city. Many people living in Lexington would never know that a neighborhood existed like the one that I was preparing to enter. Is is located just off a major road in Lexington, but hard to access as you have to go down a couple of streets, under the major road, and veer off onto the gravel extension of the street. (Who knew there were actually unpaved roads in Lexington?) The gravel extension of the street is fraught with pot holes, usually filled with gray colored water. The street, if you can call it that, ends in front of a little hovel. I take a right into the dirt/grass driveway of a smaller block building with a roof that had obviously long lost its ability to keep weather out. There were numerous "additions" to the original block building that had probably been constructed by someone with the carpentry skills that I possess... which isn't saying much.

I stepped out of my vehicle barely missing the deep muddy ruts that presented themselves as the driveway. As I closed the car door behind me I realized I was wearing my new brown pants. I had purchased them under the watchful eye of my wife only a couple of weeks before. "I better take care of these," I thought to myself.

There was a stale stench that beckoned me to the front door. Broken concrete masqueraded as the front porch. Grass had taken up residency in some of the cracks. The front door was obviously not a standard size door as my head bringing a height of about 6 feet would clear by only an inch or two. I have always been thin, but the width of this door would present a problem to someone slightly larger than I.

My knuckles rapped the small door and a couple of the window panes shook in their positions. A dirty white curtain prevented me from seeing into the tiny block home. Someone on the inside yelled something. I said: "It's Pastor Jared." Someone again yelled something, though still somewhat inaudible. I presumed they said, "Come in," but was unsure through the door. I became more unsure as I reached for the door knob. It was old, rusted, and covered with the grime of many dirty hands before me.

As the door opened any previous stench was eclipsed by a new wave of even stronger smells. The odor is indescribable and took me a few moments to adjust to. My mind reminded me that entering the home would mean that I would "smell that way" for the rest of the day. The door's threshold was concrete. A few inches in you can see where some vinyl had given into the traffic of a main entrance.

Vinyl flooring through the rest of the room could barely be seen through the dark brown layer of dirt and probably other things on the floor. There were definite path ways through the room I had just entered where other feet had repeatedly travelled. The paths were mainly from the door straight through the room to the entrance into the next room, but there was also a short path to the left that led to a grimy television set sitting on top of a small dresser. The dresser had lost all but two of its handles and was missing the front off the bottom drawer and was covered by scuff marks on the visible side. There appeared to be a potted plant on the floor next to the dresser that had given up the ghost at least a year ago.

A couple of bulbs hang from a broken light fixture on the ceiling in the room. It was not centered, but it was not functioning either. Only one bare bulb struggled to light the dim room. There were two windows, but one was covered with cardboard. The other had sun bleached curtains pressed against the window by boxes piled up in front of it.

As I stepped further into the room I noted the elderly lady lying in an old hospital bed to my right. The hospital bed had once been new, but had long since lost its ability to function. It was now covered in sheets that dated to the late 1960's or early '70's. The age of the sheets was less noticeable than their clear lack of laundry detergent. The sheets were long overdue to be washed.

Her regular spot on the bed was clearly marked by a now permanent indention in the "needing-to-be-replaced" mattress. Her left leg was covered in what appeared to be a brace. I found out that she had fallen a couple of weeks before and broken her leg. Due to her age, it meant that she would never walk again. She hadn't walked in years before that for a reason of which I am still unaware. Her world was as small as the room she now inhabited.

There were a few other people that lived in the place that I was now standing, but apparently none of them felt compelled to help her to the bathroom (if they even had one). It was apparent at this point that at least some of the smell that had sought to overwhelm me when I first arrived at the home was coming from the bed she was in. She probably had not participated in any personal hygiene or use of a formal bathroom since leaving the hospital. She looked up at me as the little TV shared a heated discussion of two people on the local news segment that was playing.

Her body lie in the bed as one lies on their death bed. Her limbs, neck, and face betrayed her lack of a healthy diet. She would have no home cooked meal tonight; just something out of a can... warmed up if she was lucky.

Behind her on the wall roaches made their way in all directions. My entrance had caught them off guard and they now scurried here and there, but never seemed to find a hiding place. A quick glance around the room revealed that all the walls were occupied not by pictures of family, certificates of degrees, or decor. Just roaches and smudges of discoloration that could have origins in many different places.

She smiled from her bed revealing a dental nightmare. The teeth she still had were only on the bottom and were few in number. They too were discolored by time and cavities.

She raised her hand toward me. A quick vision of hand sanitizer passed through my mind. I didn't have any on my person this particular day. Her nails were long enough to hide a brown layer of dirt that could be seen through the nail. Her skin was loose around the boney fingers that called for my clean hand. I was reminded of the smell and the origin of much of it and where her hands might have been recently.

"How are you doing today?" my voice spoke. It wasn't even out all the way before I realized the absurdity of the question. She mumbled something about no one in her family caring for her that was almost unintelligible.

It was then that I noticed that the sheet of her bed had let go of the corner of the mattress closest to the door by the head board thus revealing occupants underneath. Bed bugs were unashamedly roaming the seem of the mattress. I recoiled.

We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, the current news, her family, her condition, what the doctors said about her leg, and other filler topics. I was ready to go. The uncomfortable feeling was not diminishing but growing as I stood in the small space between the bed, the dresser, what appeared to be an old, dilapidated couch covered with sheets & clothes, and the door I had entered the room through.

"Is it okay if I pray for you?" I always ask that question (and have never been turned down yet) before I leave someone's home.

"Pastor" she said extending her hand again "Please pray for me." I remembered that I had other visits that day. I may go into someone's home that would not appreciate their pastor smelling like the room I was now in. The longer I remained in the room, the more direct contact I had with its occupants the more I would smell like this place. The roaches and bed bugs leered at me as well. It would be unfair to risk taking some parasites with me to someone's clean home. You don't have to touch someone to pray for them do you?

She had trouble extending her hand, but she obviously wanted mine. I looked into her eyes; one slightly swollen. Her picture would never make our website homepage. She would never serve on the local board of leadership. Her family has no teachers or doctors or lawyers or nurses or professionals of any kind. She would never fill the roll of a Sunday School teacher or musician. She would never be featured on the evening news as a model citizen. She was by all accounts, it seemed, the least in Lexington, KY.

My hesitation gave way. I took her hand that was so thin and fragile in mine. My knee took its place among the grime and filth of the floor next to her bed with my nice new pants. My mind sought to block the stench that was stronger closer down to her and I put my other arm around a body that was diseased and broken from years of abuse (some of which may have been self-inflicted).

I prayed. Not the normal pastor prayer. I just prayed. And I held her.

God came. For a few moments the concerns about paying the electric bill slipped away, the smell was forgotten, the dirt, roaches, and bed bugs disappeared, the sorry-excuse-for-a-house melted away, and even the television noise dissipated as Jesus stepped down into that room.

The glory of God filled that place. I cannot explain it. I cannot orchestrate it. I cannot hardly believe it. But I experienced it. As I said 'Amen' I looked down at her. She smiled and almost laughed. We had both been in the presence of our King.

I write this considering what some of the current church culture is proclaiming. "Your best life now!" Unfortunately, she doesn't have any extra monthly income to purchase that book. Others are involved in a drive to "End Poverty." They haven't reached her yet. And something tells me the world will never have enough to reach everyone like her.

My goal is not to be critical of either viewpoint. I believe that on some level those who espouse each viewpoint have a sincere desire to serve Christ. My point is just that I think we might have lost sight of what's to come. We want to promise people their best life now or work to end suffering of any kind in this world... both noble goals at some level. But the real hope we have is yet to come. When Christ returns all suffering will cease! All sin will end! All trials will be over. Temptation will come to an end. The Enemy will concede his defeat.

An old song, by Ester Kerr Rusthoi, that I sang growing up came to my mind:

"Sometimes the sky looks dark with not a ray of light,
We're tossed and driven on, no human help in sight;
But there is one in Heaven who knows our deepest care,
Let Jesus solve your problem- just go to Him in prayer.

It will be worth it all when we see Jesus,
Life's trials will seem so small when we see Christ;
One glimpse of His dear face all sorrow will erase,
So bravely run the race, till we see Christ."

What do I do as a pastor? I go into places marked by the Fall of humanity and the marring of sin and share hope in Christ. It doesn't matter where it is. It could be in Buckingham Palace or it could be in a little run down shack in Lexington, KY. While it isn't "theologically correct" I think it's a little more glorious when it happens in little shacks like the one I visited that day. Thank you Jesus.