Almeida worked for Phil for a couple years when the house and driveway were in process. He learned a lot as a cement worker and had an affinity for it. So Phil helped him with a few tools and advice and showed him how to be a DIY guy so he could put cement floors in for his neighbors. He and Phil also dug a well in his yard and lined it with blocks he made, then covered it with cement. (A hand-dug well with cement walls and a good lid lasts many years longer than a quickly drilled well brought in by hi-tech, money-powered organizations.) Almeida has the knowledge to help many neighbors in the slums with his minimal expertise and should be able to feed his family.
But he can't. People don't save to put in a well or cement floor. So Almeida went to the marketplace to find work. He found it. He works 10 and 1/2 hours a day, seven days a week and makes less than 1/2 minimum wage. His take-home is about $1/day. He has four children and a wife who cannot keep an at-home business functioning.
Phil challenged him to tell his boss he needed Sunday mornings off for church. Not attending was affecting his family-life. So he told his boss who told him that he could stay home Sundays, and would be discounted $3 for every Sunday missed. (Do the math.)
There is a Ministry of Work. Someone somewhere is supposed to be making sure that workers are treated fairly and the laws are followed. If Almeida were working for a foreigner, in a few minutes he would have his rights defended, clarified, and the foreigner would have to pay massive fines for this mistreatment. But Almeida works for a Mozambican. If he complains to the powers that be, he will merely lose the job and the dollar a day that he does have.
This is the kind of thing that just needles inside my head. And the Almeidas of Mozambique will just sit quietly and lament the mistreatment by their own kind.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Africa is physical
As I regain my African acceptance of a slower pace with the high temperatures and crushing humidity, other little physical reminders creep in.
It will be three weeks tomorrow. Already I have fought a fungus on the top of my foot, squeezed 2 fly larvae out of my body (must have used a towel that wasn't ironed), tested negative for malaria, and am finishing a course of drugs for giardiasis (don't ask). It's all part of living here. It feels like breathing to me. Two decades is long enough to feel like you belong someplace.
But in some ways, I still don't. We are resident aliens and our color and our background set us apart. Thinking about what a huge thing color is brings home how amazing it is that we have so many friends who look past it. We aren't just Americans or missionaries, we're friends. One young Nigerian man calls me "Mom" since his own mother died several years ago.
Other reminders of the gap keep sneaking in. For the next few days I will post some of those reminders as they come, signposts to show that culture is a huge thing. For many of us it is integral to who we are. I find my reactions to these define me in some ways. Sometimes I'm disappointed by my reaction, but it is part of learning how I can be Christ to people who haven't seen Him in their culture or history.
It will be three weeks tomorrow. Already I have fought a fungus on the top of my foot, squeezed 2 fly larvae out of my body (must have used a towel that wasn't ironed), tested negative for malaria, and am finishing a course of drugs for giardiasis (don't ask). It's all part of living here. It feels like breathing to me. Two decades is long enough to feel like you belong someplace.
But in some ways, I still don't. We are resident aliens and our color and our background set us apart. Thinking about what a huge thing color is brings home how amazing it is that we have so many friends who look past it. We aren't just Americans or missionaries, we're friends. One young Nigerian man calls me "Mom" since his own mother died several years ago.
Other reminders of the gap keep sneaking in. For the next few days I will post some of those reminders as they come, signposts to show that culture is a huge thing. For many of us it is integral to who we are. I find my reactions to these define me in some ways. Sometimes I'm disappointed by my reaction, but it is part of learning how I can be Christ to people who haven't seen Him in their culture or history.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
there are certainties somewhere
"Whatever may or may not be the truth about mysterious and inscrutable things, there are certainties somewhere; experience has placed some tangible facts within our grasp; let us, then, cling to these, and they will prevent our being carried away by those hurricanes of infidelity. . ." (Charles Spurgeon)
A timely note from a godly friend reminded me of Spurgeon's brilliant confidence that there are certainties somewhere. What a blessing, especially from a man battered by depression. Having come through a year of many uncertainties and some insecurity, I needed a reminder: there are certainties somewhere. Certainties that my heavenly Father knows all about, being the Author of them.
We returned to Africa a week ago. We're remembering so many things: the familiar humid heat, the drums at night, the crying babies, terrifying traffic, chasms in the road called "potholes" in which many, many pots could fit. Those first vivid impressions that tourists get, we resume as normal. But we are also regaining the friendships and territory we slowly acquired over years.
Sunday we attended a service in a huge green and blue tent. The sun beat through and a breeze blew. The Scriptures were read in 5 languages and the sermon rambled as babies competed with the preacher then the interpreter. Africa. There were at least four special music presentations (SS, young people, young women, older women) and many choruses sung in multiple languages and the keyboardist punctuating with frequent "Amen?"s. After three hours we came out quite warm and dripping, but knowing that we'd connected again.
Being back in a culture we've come to understand and love came close to being a certainty somewhere. They grieved that we are leaving Mozambique, but encouraged us that we had not left the mission over the move. They are determined to pray us back to Mozambique. That is some faith!
Meanwhile, we are heading straight into some more uncertainties. But we are sure that God is leading the way and as He goes before us, our faith will grow. The more mysterious and inscrutable the path, the more amazing our God.
A timely note from a godly friend reminded me of Spurgeon's brilliant confidence that there are certainties somewhere. What a blessing, especially from a man battered by depression. Having come through a year of many uncertainties and some insecurity, I needed a reminder: there are certainties somewhere. Certainties that my heavenly Father knows all about, being the Author of them.
We returned to Africa a week ago. We're remembering so many things: the familiar humid heat, the drums at night, the crying babies, terrifying traffic, chasms in the road called "potholes" in which many, many pots could fit. Those first vivid impressions that tourists get, we resume as normal. But we are also regaining the friendships and territory we slowly acquired over years.
Sunday we attended a service in a huge green and blue tent. The sun beat through and a breeze blew. The Scriptures were read in 5 languages and the sermon rambled as babies competed with the preacher then the interpreter. Africa. There were at least four special music presentations (SS, young people, young women, older women) and many choruses sung in multiple languages and the keyboardist punctuating with frequent "Amen?"s. After three hours we came out quite warm and dripping, but knowing that we'd connected again.
Being back in a culture we've come to understand and love came close to being a certainty somewhere. They grieved that we are leaving Mozambique, but encouraged us that we had not left the mission over the move. They are determined to pray us back to Mozambique. That is some faith!
Meanwhile, we are heading straight into some more uncertainties. But we are sure that God is leading the way and as He goes before us, our faith will grow. The more mysterious and inscrutable the path, the more amazing our God.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Icarus
Icarus in free fall. I sense a random eddy of air lift momentarily.
But without feathers I cannot remain in flight.
Descending, speed mounts. Air pockets cannot hold me now.
Wax congeals on my arms, leaving imprints of feather shafts.
Waves beneath me are very distinct.
Little white caps grow quickly.
Won't be long now.
No matter--
to soar so close to Helios--
'twas worth it.
I'll not regret the flight for the plummet.
The vantage of the eagle is hardly imaginable
to one confined to earth.
I am Icarus.
I have no regrets.
But without feathers I cannot remain in flight.
Descending, speed mounts. Air pockets cannot hold me now.
Wax congeals on my arms, leaving imprints of feather shafts.
Waves beneath me are very distinct.
Little white caps grow quickly.
Won't be long now.
No matter--
to soar so close to Helios--
'twas worth it.
I'll not regret the flight for the plummet.
The vantage of the eagle is hardly imaginable
to one confined to earth.
I am Icarus.
I have no regrets.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
spiritual deployability
At the most painful meeting of my adult life I first heard of a person being spiritually undeployable. Myself. I sat numbly as my defects were enumerated and the conclusion reached. What followed was three months of tumult, listening to the opinions and evaluations of others and listening to God. My thoughts on this issue stem from much meditation and thought on the concept of spiritual deployment.
What is spiritual deployability? Who qualifies? Obviously many leaders in Christendom consider themselves qualified to make this judgment. Church and mission leaders, parachurch organizational leaders, anyone with a vestige of spiritual authority has the insight to divine another’s value in a spiritual ministry context. It looks right and it sounds right. There is a grain of sand in the shoe, but one is able to ignore it for a while, thinking, “well, it’s only my own fallen nature.” As long as we don’t find ourselves undeployable, we accept it as a valid concept.
But is it? What is it? And who is qualified?
The army uses “deployable” to describe the state of fitness for a soldier to be useful in whatever capacity he serves to wherever he needs to be sent. Deployment is moving troops into action. Being undeployable involves some disqualification, physically, mentally, or emotionally, which prevents a soldier from being worthy or capable of serving.
To be deployable, therefore, is the deep, unspoken desire of everyone in God’s hands and family. We want to be used. We long to be useful--part of the solution, not the problem. Being undeployable makes us the problem. Rich Mullins sang, “We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are.” He had an awareness of his own undeployability and tried to sing to us that we are not as deployable as we think we are.
“His winnowing fork is in His hand, to clear His threshing floor and to gather the wheat into His barn, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.” Luke 3:17.
When Luke describes Jesus as the fast and furious thresher with his winnowing fork in hand, our focus is on the wheat and chaff: the saved and not, the chosen and not, the good and not. He thrusts His fork under the beaten stalks, the wind blows away the fluffy non-grain. The wheat falls down to be kept, ground into flour and made into bread.
We are the stalks, we are wheat and chaff. In our entirety, we are not ready, acceptable, useful to be ground into flour and turned into bread. We have chaff in our lives. Stuff that our culture cries out is so very important to us: our identity, our dreams, our images of ourselves, our habits, our possessions, and much, much more.
Some of it we know is not profitable. We have habits we want to break, other habits we’d like to develop that will make us more profitable. We have so much to offer, so much we want to bring to show our gratitude.
It’s chaff. All of it. Who I am. What I dream. Where I serve. What I have and what I give. Everything. Even my deployability. Just chaff. Empty fluff. No seed, no food, no bread coming from that. Piles and piles of non-wheat. The Thresher has to come and thresh the stalks to separate the wheat and chaff, the edible from inedible.
As I have wrestled, I’ve discovered that spiritual deployability is an illusion: the concept that we bring value and credit to what we do; that what we do makes us worthy, or how we are makes us profitable. It sounds good, but it is a subtle lie that points us to the ladder of works.
The pure in heart shall see God. Not the deployable, the impressive, the ones with a great track record or piles of quantifiable “fruit.” The pure in heart.
Paul says in Philippians, “Let your gentleness be known . . .”
These are not items to be ticked off in a “spiritual deployment” viability list.
Look at our larger-than-life but tremendously flawed Bible heros from Abraham through David and beyond: take an honest look, and take heart. It isn’t about us, after all. God is working in us, as undeployable and as poor risks as we are. When God is at work, the least deployable may end up most useful.
“If I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will pull me through.
And if I can’t, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You.” (Rich Mullins)
What is spiritual deployability? Who qualifies? Obviously many leaders in Christendom consider themselves qualified to make this judgment. Church and mission leaders, parachurch organizational leaders, anyone with a vestige of spiritual authority has the insight to divine another’s value in a spiritual ministry context. It looks right and it sounds right. There is a grain of sand in the shoe, but one is able to ignore it for a while, thinking, “well, it’s only my own fallen nature.” As long as we don’t find ourselves undeployable, we accept it as a valid concept.
But is it? What is it? And who is qualified?
The army uses “deployable” to describe the state of fitness for a soldier to be useful in whatever capacity he serves to wherever he needs to be sent. Deployment is moving troops into action. Being undeployable involves some disqualification, physically, mentally, or emotionally, which prevents a soldier from being worthy or capable of serving.
To be deployable, therefore, is the deep, unspoken desire of everyone in God’s hands and family. We want to be used. We long to be useful--part of the solution, not the problem. Being undeployable makes us the problem. Rich Mullins sang, “We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are.” He had an awareness of his own undeployability and tried to sing to us that we are not as deployable as we think we are.
“His winnowing fork is in His hand, to clear His threshing floor and to gather the wheat into His barn, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.” Luke 3:17.
When Luke describes Jesus as the fast and furious thresher with his winnowing fork in hand, our focus is on the wheat and chaff: the saved and not, the chosen and not, the good and not. He thrusts His fork under the beaten stalks, the wind blows away the fluffy non-grain. The wheat falls down to be kept, ground into flour and made into bread.
We are the stalks, we are wheat and chaff. In our entirety, we are not ready, acceptable, useful to be ground into flour and turned into bread. We have chaff in our lives. Stuff that our culture cries out is so very important to us: our identity, our dreams, our images of ourselves, our habits, our possessions, and much, much more.
Some of it we know is not profitable. We have habits we want to break, other habits we’d like to develop that will make us more profitable. We have so much to offer, so much we want to bring to show our gratitude.
It’s chaff. All of it. Who I am. What I dream. Where I serve. What I have and what I give. Everything. Even my deployability. Just chaff. Empty fluff. No seed, no food, no bread coming from that. Piles and piles of non-wheat. The Thresher has to come and thresh the stalks to separate the wheat and chaff, the edible from inedible.
As I have wrestled, I’ve discovered that spiritual deployability is an illusion: the concept that we bring value and credit to what we do; that what we do makes us worthy, or how we are makes us profitable. It sounds good, but it is a subtle lie that points us to the ladder of works.
The pure in heart shall see God. Not the deployable, the impressive, the ones with a great track record or piles of quantifiable “fruit.” The pure in heart.
Paul says in Philippians, “Let your gentleness be known . . .”
These are not items to be ticked off in a “spiritual deployment” viability list.
Look at our larger-than-life but tremendously flawed Bible heros from Abraham through David and beyond: take an honest look, and take heart. It isn’t about us, after all. God is working in us, as undeployable and as poor risks as we are. When God is at work, the least deployable may end up most useful.
“If I stand, let me stand on the promise that You will pull me through.
And if I can’t, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to You.” (Rich Mullins)
Monday, October 19, 2009
the two sons
Taking time to stop and meditate on who I am, what I am about and where my values lie is a precious experience for me. Usually I am busy with lots of "to do" kinds of things and don't prioritize. (I need an hour to be quiet and think.)
Just finished a book, The Cross & the Prodigal. (Yes, the "and" sign is written like that, I don't take liberties with titles.) It's about the parable of the prodigal son. Only Kenneth Bailey makes the point that it is really about both sons. In our western perspective, the prodigal gets the limelight and the elder brother is kind of off stage. We skew the entire point of the story when we concentrate on the bad boy who realizes he's bad and comes home and is reconciled. It is very neat and tidy. It suits our ideas of mercy and grace. Of course, the part tacked on the end about the elder brother is disquieting. But we can ignore that part if we want to. After all, he's not the main point of the story. And his end is inconclusive. Does he go in to the party or does he stay outside and pout? We will never know.
Our society likes to tie the ends. Our entertainers only leave loose ends when there is going to be a sequel. But there isn't a sequel to "The Prodigal Son." There isn't a "The Elder Brother" to wrap it up.
In thinking on this, I suspect Jesus didn't "finish" the story because for many of us, it is about ourselves. In some ways, we are the elder brother. What Jesus was trying to tell us, and we miss the point because our point of view gets in the way, is that both brothers have broken their relationship with their Father. One by breaking the law and the other by keeping the law. The younger broke the law by willfully implementing his own agenda. The elder kept the law as an idol in the place of his relationship with his Father. By technically following all the requests and rules, he could live for himself, and pride himself in his own goodness.
Obviously we see where this is going. The pharisees were a bunch of older brothers. But I have fallen into that trap from time to time. What a scary thing.
We can never mend our own relationship with our Father: He does all the mending. But we have to be willing to be mended, know that we are broken. It is probably easier for prodigals to remember that. They have the "years of vanity and pride" to be remorseful about. But vanity and pride sneak in everywhere.
Just finished a book, The Cross & the Prodigal. (Yes, the "and" sign is written like that, I don't take liberties with titles.) It's about the parable of the prodigal son. Only Kenneth Bailey makes the point that it is really about both sons. In our western perspective, the prodigal gets the limelight and the elder brother is kind of off stage. We skew the entire point of the story when we concentrate on the bad boy who realizes he's bad and comes home and is reconciled. It is very neat and tidy. It suits our ideas of mercy and grace. Of course, the part tacked on the end about the elder brother is disquieting. But we can ignore that part if we want to. After all, he's not the main point of the story. And his end is inconclusive. Does he go in to the party or does he stay outside and pout? We will never know.
Our society likes to tie the ends. Our entertainers only leave loose ends when there is going to be a sequel. But there isn't a sequel to "The Prodigal Son." There isn't a "The Elder Brother" to wrap it up.
In thinking on this, I suspect Jesus didn't "finish" the story because for many of us, it is about ourselves. In some ways, we are the elder brother. What Jesus was trying to tell us, and we miss the point because our point of view gets in the way, is that both brothers have broken their relationship with their Father. One by breaking the law and the other by keeping the law. The younger broke the law by willfully implementing his own agenda. The elder kept the law as an idol in the place of his relationship with his Father. By technically following all the requests and rules, he could live for himself, and pride himself in his own goodness.
Obviously we see where this is going. The pharisees were a bunch of older brothers. But I have fallen into that trap from time to time. What a scary thing.
We can never mend our own relationship with our Father: He does all the mending. But we have to be willing to be mended, know that we are broken. It is probably easier for prodigals to remember that. They have the "years of vanity and pride" to be remorseful about. But vanity and pride sneak in everywhere.
Monday, September 21, 2009
being safe and secure
Jesus, Savior, pilot me over life's tempestuous sea.
I remember singing that on furloughs when I was young. I loved the strong imagery and the music. Just the idea of being out at sea with tons of blue-wet music bashing the hull, thunder and lightening adding to the danger, caught my imagination. I wanted to risk everything for Jesus. I wanted to cross onto the wild side and pay the ultimate price.
Elisabeth Elliot's missionary remark makes me laugh, but inside I'm nodding: "Missionaries don't go, they go forth. Missionaries don't walk, they tread the burning sands. Missionaries don't die, they lay down their lives." That's right, I think: I want to go forth and tread those sands and lay down my life. Many of my heroes did that. I want to be like them.
But missions are changing, and it makes me sad. Missions are worried about the cost of service on the servants. They want to look out for the health and welfare of the missionaries: keep them safe. Why? Isn't their Heavenly Father capable?
It's called member care. It sounds very good. It sounds reasonable. Sensible. Safe. Our society is definitely into security. You find it in airports all the way to how complicated it is to open an aspirin bottle or packaged food item. We have safety belts and safety nets for everyone. We have vaccines and pills for almost any eventuality. I cannot drive anywhere without being reminded that flu shots are available now, 24 hours. Fear seems to be the overriding factor. Fear for safety.
I didn't grow up thinking like that and it feels strange. When my mission changes policy and protocol "to provide better member care" I wonder if that isn't what the Body is supposed to be doing. As I feel the bombardment of precautionary measures in every area: food, health, traffic, education, even recreation, I feel alien.
My safety has been catapulted way out of proportion to my call. We have brothers and sisters imprisoned, tortured, dying of starvation, infected by appalling conditions . . . how can I listen to my society's mantra of security? What makes me think it is more important than serving my spiritual family who happen to live on another continent?
After looking, I don't find any promises for security from the Lord. The closest one to "secure" is "Lo, I am with you always." That one does it for me. But there is nothing about health, education, housing, food, no guarantees. In fact, I find promises that sound more like: "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart. I have overcome the world."
Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rock and treacherous shoal . . .
Now I struggle with trying to extricate myself from the security net so I can hear His voice and follow Him.
I remember singing that on furloughs when I was young. I loved the strong imagery and the music. Just the idea of being out at sea with tons of blue-wet music bashing the hull, thunder and lightening adding to the danger, caught my imagination. I wanted to risk everything for Jesus. I wanted to cross onto the wild side and pay the ultimate price.
Elisabeth Elliot's missionary remark makes me laugh, but inside I'm nodding: "Missionaries don't go, they go forth. Missionaries don't walk, they tread the burning sands. Missionaries don't die, they lay down their lives." That's right, I think: I want to go forth and tread those sands and lay down my life. Many of my heroes did that. I want to be like them.
But missions are changing, and it makes me sad. Missions are worried about the cost of service on the servants. They want to look out for the health and welfare of the missionaries: keep them safe. Why? Isn't their Heavenly Father capable?
It's called member care. It sounds very good. It sounds reasonable. Sensible. Safe. Our society is definitely into security. You find it in airports all the way to how complicated it is to open an aspirin bottle or packaged food item. We have safety belts and safety nets for everyone. We have vaccines and pills for almost any eventuality. I cannot drive anywhere without being reminded that flu shots are available now, 24 hours. Fear seems to be the overriding factor. Fear for safety.
I didn't grow up thinking like that and it feels strange. When my mission changes policy and protocol "to provide better member care" I wonder if that isn't what the Body is supposed to be doing. As I feel the bombardment of precautionary measures in every area: food, health, traffic, education, even recreation, I feel alien.
My safety has been catapulted way out of proportion to my call. We have brothers and sisters imprisoned, tortured, dying of starvation, infected by appalling conditions . . . how can I listen to my society's mantra of security? What makes me think it is more important than serving my spiritual family who happen to live on another continent?
After looking, I don't find any promises for security from the Lord. The closest one to "secure" is "Lo, I am with you always." That one does it for me. But there is nothing about health, education, housing, food, no guarantees. In fact, I find promises that sound more like: "In this world you will have trouble, but take heart. I have overcome the world."
Unknown waves before me roll, hiding rock and treacherous shoal . . .
Now I struggle with trying to extricate myself from the security net so I can hear His voice and follow Him.
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