"While living in a world of change, let us seek the abiding city."
In a month we will move to Harare, Zimbabwe. We will study Shona and learn to clap our hands when saying thank you. We will meet new people with an entirely new set of problems, mostly defined by hiv/aids.
We did not seek this. But it has come to us clearly from God's hand. One by one, He closed the other doors. This one is held open by eager hands. For the most part I was overwhelmed by inadequacy and reluctance. But His grace is sufficient, He keeps saying. So grace lurks behind that door when I step through.
Now suddenly, at this late hour, are we asked to reconsider and work elsewhere. Such sudden out-of-the-blue requests disorient me. But the Lord's Hand is in everything that comes. I don't know why the request. All I do know is that the decision to go to Zimbabwe came with prayer, thought, meditation, and fasting.
Oh yes, there is an urgent need elsewhere. More than once at Columbia Professor Kingsmore in his Scots lilt reminded us: "the need doesn't constitute the call." I'm glad he said that. It sounded harsh at the time, but it is bedrock.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways." Lord, keep me single-minded. Secure me by Your Grace as I sail across a stormy sea. Keep me mindful of what You told us in the Light.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
limping forward
This morning in our reading at the breakfast table, this brilliant sentence ended the meditation:
"Let us rise and go forward from where we are to the next place of freedom, limping forward in the therapy of grace."
John Piper.
What a great image. Limping forward/ therapy of grace. I love it. I am definitely a limper. Never have been athletic. I identify with this halting progress. How appropriate for my spiritual life. I am blind in my progress because I cannot see the spiritual. So my steps are tentative and uncertain. And I am wounded one way or another, whether aware of it or not. Because I am not a creature of grace by nature.
In this life we are neither perfect nor graceful. Limping along. And our culture, so therapy-crazed, hasn't even recognized that the truest therapy of all is Grace.
Grace is my word for this year. Lurking grace, because it catches us unaware. Jeremiah died last week. And grace has snuck in. His friend Mike, subject of prayers and witnessing for weeks before, found Jesus after the memorial service. Grace seeps into another limping soul.
Where are we going in our halting gait? Why, to the next place of freedom. Every once in a while I forget we're born slaves. The trappings of slavery are slowly divested. But as we limp along we find freedom. Ever more freedom. Freedom to lay down our lives.
"Let us rise and go forward from where we are to the next place of freedom, limping forward in the therapy of grace."
John Piper.
What a great image. Limping forward/ therapy of grace. I love it. I am definitely a limper. Never have been athletic. I identify with this halting progress. How appropriate for my spiritual life. I am blind in my progress because I cannot see the spiritual. So my steps are tentative and uncertain. And I am wounded one way or another, whether aware of it or not. Because I am not a creature of grace by nature.
In this life we are neither perfect nor graceful. Limping along. And our culture, so therapy-crazed, hasn't even recognized that the truest therapy of all is Grace.
Grace is my word for this year. Lurking grace, because it catches us unaware. Jeremiah died last week. And grace has snuck in. His friend Mike, subject of prayers and witnessing for weeks before, found Jesus after the memorial service. Grace seeps into another limping soul.
Where are we going in our halting gait? Why, to the next place of freedom. Every once in a while I forget we're born slaves. The trappings of slavery are slowly divested. But as we limp along we find freedom. Ever more freedom. Freedom to lay down our lives.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Africa hurts
I have an indelible mental photograph. Our friend John Dina sitting in the back of a pickup gazing into the distance. His hand protectively stretches over the tarp-covered box which holds the casket in which Jeremiah's body rests.
It is a peaceful photo. It follows a sad and painful procession of people-packed pickups and cars wending their ways through the rain-filled potholes to the airport some 4 km outside of Quelimane. The rain stopped soon after the service which was under an awning right next to the Casa Mortuaria at the Central Hospital. The service was heart-breaking. More than 150 Mozambicans and our few foreign faces (like a little salt mixed in with the pepper) quietly stood as the lead-lined casket was carried in to sit on a carved table. The singing and the faces were subdued. Jeremiah was only 21.
Jeremiah Johnson had come to Mozambique in 2009 to work with the Baptist missionaries in our province; he returned this year for five months. He was supposed to go home next month. But as Cleber, the Brazilian giving the message observed, Jeremiah didn't only come to serve, he gave his life. We were all challenged by his vitality and commitment to the Lord. We are reminded of our own mortality and that of our children.
In a place where sun beats relentlessly, the drizzly rain was a relief as we huddled under the rustic roof. Whether we knew Jeremiah well or had merely met him a few times; whether he'd lived or eaten in our houses or not, he was telling each of us something. He is our brother in the larger family of God and he had gone home ahead of us.
He was killed in a motorcycle accident on Monday afternoon and despite a bureaucratic labyrinth, he was on his way to his parents Wednesday. Now it is Friday and I have heard that his final flight to Arizona has been confirmed.
Each year the Lord gives me a word to meditate on and learn from. Last year's word was "sovereignty." I am picking it up again and find it as curiously heavy and opaque as then. It is a word that feels deep and serious. It tends to be the answer to questions that don't really have answers. Which means that I still don't grasp it, I just stroke it and know that it is power. Stealth power--because it doesn't show off. It doesn't protect young people on motorcycles from random motorists. It doesn't intervene and save every child from malaria or abuse. But it is surely there or we would not be able to survive this world.
So why do I entitle this post "Africa hurts"? These things happen on other continents. Mothers bury their strapping sons. Irresponsible people get behind the wheel. Police turn a blind eye to the victim in a crisis--after all, the victim is dead. But Africa doesn't sanitize its pains. It feels sometimes like Africans walk into the pain with open arms. They attend funerals and wakes. They walk slowly alongside a coffin-bearing truck, chanting the same words over and over. They honor death more than life. It is a more tangible thread in the fabric of their life than we have with elegant hearses and padded coffins with pillows.
Death is definitely in one's face and consciousness here. It is pervasive and frequent conversation fodder. But only rarely is there a ray of the hope that we heard at Jeremiah's service. Death is the absence of hope for many here.
It gives me pause and reminds me what a privilege it is for me to live my life where I may be able to share my hope with someone who desperately needs it and may not otherwise hear.
It is a peaceful photo. It follows a sad and painful procession of people-packed pickups and cars wending their ways through the rain-filled potholes to the airport some 4 km outside of Quelimane. The rain stopped soon after the service which was under an awning right next to the Casa Mortuaria at the Central Hospital. The service was heart-breaking. More than 150 Mozambicans and our few foreign faces (like a little salt mixed in with the pepper) quietly stood as the lead-lined casket was carried in to sit on a carved table. The singing and the faces were subdued. Jeremiah was only 21.
Jeremiah Johnson had come to Mozambique in 2009 to work with the Baptist missionaries in our province; he returned this year for five months. He was supposed to go home next month. But as Cleber, the Brazilian giving the message observed, Jeremiah didn't only come to serve, he gave his life. We were all challenged by his vitality and commitment to the Lord. We are reminded of our own mortality and that of our children.
In a place where sun beats relentlessly, the drizzly rain was a relief as we huddled under the rustic roof. Whether we knew Jeremiah well or had merely met him a few times; whether he'd lived or eaten in our houses or not, he was telling each of us something. He is our brother in the larger family of God and he had gone home ahead of us.
He was killed in a motorcycle accident on Monday afternoon and despite a bureaucratic labyrinth, he was on his way to his parents Wednesday. Now it is Friday and I have heard that his final flight to Arizona has been confirmed.
Each year the Lord gives me a word to meditate on and learn from. Last year's word was "sovereignty." I am picking it up again and find it as curiously heavy and opaque as then. It is a word that feels deep and serious. It tends to be the answer to questions that don't really have answers. Which means that I still don't grasp it, I just stroke it and know that it is power. Stealth power--because it doesn't show off. It doesn't protect young people on motorcycles from random motorists. It doesn't intervene and save every child from malaria or abuse. But it is surely there or we would not be able to survive this world.
So why do I entitle this post "Africa hurts"? These things happen on other continents. Mothers bury their strapping sons. Irresponsible people get behind the wheel. Police turn a blind eye to the victim in a crisis--after all, the victim is dead. But Africa doesn't sanitize its pains. It feels sometimes like Africans walk into the pain with open arms. They attend funerals and wakes. They walk slowly alongside a coffin-bearing truck, chanting the same words over and over. They honor death more than life. It is a more tangible thread in the fabric of their life than we have with elegant hearses and padded coffins with pillows.
Death is definitely in one's face and consciousness here. It is pervasive and frequent conversation fodder. But only rarely is there a ray of the hope that we heard at Jeremiah's service. Death is the absence of hope for many here.
It gives me pause and reminds me what a privilege it is for me to live my life where I may be able to share my hope with someone who desperately needs it and may not otherwise hear.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Africa is not fair
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.
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.
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.
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