When I read Gordon MacDonald's article... using the spaghetti test... this stuck:

From my (Gordon MacDonald's) journal: Being a frequent flyer makes it possible for me to get a seat in the exit row on most airline flights. Great leg room. But with privilege comes responsibility.

The flight attendant comes up, kneels by my aisle seat and says, "Have you read the instruction card that tells you how to open the door in the case of emergency? I need a verbal answer."

I fudge the truth a bit and say yes when the truthful answer is no. I mean, does it take a rocket scientist to know that you simply swivel the handle and push the door out and to the side? So I tell her yes, I've read the card.

But she's smart. She says, "If an emergency happens, I'll be depending on you to open that door. Dozens of other people will also be relying on you, too. So are you sure you know what's on that card?"

Suddenly, she has my attention.

It occurs to me in that insightful moment that this is not unlike the way some people respond to sermons (mine anyway). You build a talk with the notion that people really need a particular idea. But are they listening (have they read the card)? Will they know how to "open the door" if something in life goes wrong? Too often it seems as if the church crowd nods their heads—"I've read the card"—but blow the test when crunch time comes. A relationship turns sour; health breaks; a job is lost; an ugly thing happens, and they panic, blame God, get mad, leave. And in the middle of the chaos, with people lined up behind them, they cry out, "How do you get this door open?"

In my reverie, I hear the flight attendant calling out, "Read the card, stupid!"

I really do read those cards now.