A Wake-up Call

Staring through the dark, the motivation to move seemed overwhelming. The slightest move or shift might procure for me several hours of sleeplessness before sunrise. As consciousness grew, so did the realization that I might need a pit stop before finishing my journey. But, depending on the time, perhaps I could wait until morning. With these concessions, I finally made the effort to reach across to the cell phone lying on the end table. 3:45am.

Wait? What time is it? I opened my eyes to darkness wondering what time it really was. Grogginess consumed my mind, but the throb of a full bladder grew as I awoke more fully. But could I make it? What time is it? With these concessions, I finally made the effort to reach across to the cell phone lying on the end table. 1:30am.

But, no that can't be. Breathing deeply, I allowed my eyes to open and begin to adjust to the deep dark surrounding me. Is this real? I reached to my cell phone. 5:45am. And I waited. Could I still be dreaming? As my body acclimated to the waking world, I continued to ponder which reality was right. Perhaps I will wake one more time.

Infinite and finite. Fantasy and reality. Two parallel lines can go on for eternity without touching, yet be separated by a hair's width. While the two pieces of any paradox can seem infinitely separate, there is often an intrinsic connection which prevents each from being the true antithesis of the other. For instance the dream world and the real world seem to be mutually exclusive in their sensations and the laws that govern them. Yet, a line of connection, however thin it may be, runs through the two and intertwines them as a stitch on a quilt. The subconscious, dwelling in the infinite realm of fantasy, works together with the conscious, which dwells in the finite world of reality, to influence the whole self. These two influences profoundly affect one another both in the dreaming world and in the waking world.

As a high school football player, two weeks of football camp was exhausting. It was exhausting not only in reality, but my dream world also suffered under the extreme stress. My reality was three 2 1/2 hour practices every day in 100-degree heat. My subconscious endured a similar fate as I tossed and turned each night. Sweep left: pull, block the outside linebacker to the sideline or log up and block the inside linebacker to the post. Dive right: block the defensive back inside or, secondary objective, block the defensive back straight ahead. Waggle left: cup block to defend the quarterback. All night, every night. Hit after hit after hit. The sun beating down, sticky, wet pads rubbing against my skin, and tired, achy legs.

Recently, I had one of those experiences that left the lines blurred. A dream, but not. Fantasy became reality, or something close to it. The rules were suspended as the dream world so closely resembled the real world. Reality seemed to invade my subconscious. Each sensation, the gentle breeze rustling through my hair, warmth from the sun resting on my skin, and her touch, these seemed no substitute for the waking world. Not so much did these resemble, but seemed to take on reality. The one giveaway was she had no name, but she was there, she was close. She was more sure than anything. We walked together, laughing and talking about all the important and trivial things in the world. And as her hand reached for mine, I fell asleep, back into the waking world.

Am I still sleeping? Will I soon wake up to the normal 9-5 at the office? A wife? Kids? After all, dreams are more often than not of the fantastic sort. And the world in which I presently reside seems far more fantastic than the dream world I remember. As I sit waking, or dreaming, wherever I may be, I am a 20-something-year-old bachelor living in Africa spending most of my days speaking Arabic. I spend each week preparing to begin exploration of large sections of mountainous terrain to the south. Can this world be any more fantastic?

Kierkegaard suggests that the most important thing in life is to know oneself and to want to be oneself. In his book, The Sickness Unto Death, he writes that not knowing oneself is despair and the beginning of realizing one is in despair is to begin to know oneself. Unfortunately, most of us don't know that we are in despair, yet this itself is a form of despair.

"Such things cause little stir in the world; for in the world a self is what one least asks after... The biggest danger, that of losing oneself, can pass off in the world as quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc, is bound to be noticed."

So what does it mean to know oneself, to not live in despair?

"This then is the formula which describes the state of the self when despair is completely eradicated: in relating to oneself and in wanting to be itself, the self is grounded transparently in the power that established it."

Discovering one's true identity and joyfully taking hold of that identity is preceded by returning to proper relationship with the Creator. Consequently, with the acquisition and acceptance of this knowledge comes the joy to pursue one's identity to its fullness, and one has all eternity for this endeavor. Everything else in life must be balanced in relation to that relationship.

Furthermore, this "revelation" and "fulfillment" comes in light of a balance of various paradoxical concepts. Kierkegaard writes that man is a synthesis of the finite and the infinite, though most men do not acknowledge and live in regard to both of these. To dwell in one without the other is the essential definition of this despair that every man endures until he is awoken from "spiritlessness" by the Holy Spirit of the Creator.

The despair of the finite is to lack infinity, to "dare not to believe in himself, find being himself too risky, find it much easier and safer to be like the others, to become a copy, a number, along with the crowd." This is to lack possibility and hope, to live wholly in the material world. On the other hand, the despair of the infinite is to lack the finite, to be carried away "into the infinite in such a way that it only leads him away from himself and thus prevents him from coming back to himself." This is to live boundlessly in the fantastic, forgetting, or "losing", oneself.

So then, are those things of my subconscious dream world bad? Seminary. Marriage. Family. Of course not, but it isn't reality for me. It may be possibility. It may be my desire for the future. But to live in the fantastic at the cost of reality, to allow the infinite to run unconstrained by the finite, this only leads to despair. To "live life abundantly" will be to truly take hold of both necessity and possibility, finite and infinite, reality and hope.

According to the Westminster Shorter Catechism, "Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." This is only done when one is founded on the Creator, first and foremost. In Matthew 6:33, Jesus says, "But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you." This is the challenge of every man.

So what are the options? The life of despair. This results when one knows not himself (ignorance or not) nor his Creator. Despair in this life continues increasingly and unbearably throughout eternity. Or, the abundant life. To know oneself in light of the great and glorious Creator. Knowing Him leads to truly knowing oneself.

So you have to ask the question: "Who am I?" Do you know? Let's face it, we deceive ourselves all the time. This week, I was exposed. Indicted by the pure honesty of the subconscious, the imbalanced reality I had been living in was called to the carpet. Fantasy, future, and hope without limit, without constraint and grounding in the present circumstances and their Creator, leads only to despair. It's time to recenter, and that means going back to the Word of God.

I guess I can consider this a wake-up call.

The Lamb of God (or, Stories For the Village)

In recent weeks, I had the opportunity to accompany several friends to a remote village for the Islamic holiday, Eid l'Kubir (The Big Celebration). Here, I spent another week with my good friend Sa'id, a brother for about five years now. He is the lone Christian in his family, but more and more his wife and mother are beginning to develop strong interest in the stories we tell. This particular week two stories seemed particularly appropriate: Abraham's sacrifice and Jesus, the lamb of God.

For a moment, contemplate with me the typical holiday season in America. There are several major events that lead up to Christmas. Thanksgiving begins everything with copious amounts of turkey, mashed potatoes, and a healthy portion of pie. A more modern Thanksgiving tradition has been added in the form of several primetime football games. Immediately following Thanksgiving, the official Christmas music season begins. Perhaps that next week the tree goes up, the greens are hung, and lights are placed outside most homes. Finally, Christmas Eve often involves a trip to the local church, the opening of a few gifts, and setting out cookies and milk for the phantom gift giver. And then, what every child counts the days for, Christmas.

As a kid, I remember waking up early every Christmas, often long before my parents. For several hours I would anxiously meander around the house watching cartoons or counting pine needles. I would always attempt a facade of nonchalance when my parents slippered feet finally appeared atop the staircase. And with a sudden burst of excitement, the family was ushered in and presents were torn into. Lunch would ensue followed by hours of fiddling with various gizmos and gadgets and their endless manuals.

For the Muslim, the atmosphere is very similar. Forty days of Ramadan end with a night of power. All the mosques fill as this is the one night of the year the prayers go straight to God. Next is the three day celebration where we eat, eat, and then eat some more. The final celebration occurs a month and a half later. This is called the Big celebration and often lasts several days. The average family will have saved for several months for that $500-$1,000 sheep. The wealthier families will purchase several. In the days before the celebration, every city, town, and village fills with the cries of millions of sheep.

On the actual celebration day, everyone wakes up early in anticipation. For hours the family mulls around anxiously watching television or counting spots. Out of a facade of indifference erupts all the bottled up excitement as the father finally goes to get his knife. At 10am the throat is slit. The streets, sewers, and rivers fill with blood as the sheep are hung to drain. Throughout the rest of the day the celebration continues as the sheep are prepared for feasting. For the next three days, families eats together and make the various trips to the mosque for special prayers times.

As I have asked many Muslims about this specific festival, the universal understanding is that the meaning comes from God's provision for Abraham of a sacrifice on the mount. But this is as deep as the understanding often goes. Why we continue to slaughter sheep every year is simply a matter of tradition. Therefore, the first story we told in the village was the story about Abraham and his only son. This is a point of agreement between Christians and Muslims.

The second story, was given to me to tell. This is what I shared, and the interest was sincere on the part of our Muslim friends as the story was explained.

"About 900 years after David, came John. He came proclaiming and said, 'Repent from your sins, the kingdom of God is close!' People came to him confessing their sins and being baptized at his hands and he told them, 'Do works in keeping with repentance. Do not say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father!' I tell you, God can make these rocks the children of Abraham. The axe is laid at the root of the tree. And every tree that does not bear good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.'"

"One day John saw Jesus coming and said, 'Behold, the lamb of God come to bear the sin of the world!' Just as the son of Abraham needed someone to be sacrificed in his place in order to deliver him from death, so all men need a sacrifice to deliver them from death. When Adam ate from the forbidden tree, he died spiritually. The relationship between him and God was broken. All men sin."

"About 600 years before Jesus, the prophet Isaiah said, 'All of us like sheep have gone astray. We have wandered from the path. But God has put on him all our sins. Yet he did not open his mouth. Like a sheep led to the slaughter. Like a sheep silent before his shearers, he did not open his mouth.' Jesus fulfilled the prophecy that says, 'I am the lamb of God that bears the sin of the world!'"

From Nietzsche to Christ

Gospel proclamation will be foundational to any spiritually thriving group of worshippers. I am a firm believer of this. And while I would never force one particular method upon someone, I am a strong proponent of going from Creation to Christ. What a beautiful picture we have from the Father of creation, fall, redemption, and restoration, the perfect end to His perfect plan. This is a major goal of mine: to be able to present this story in Arabic. I want so badly for people to see the big picture of God's goodness, faithfulness, and eternal plan culminating in both, not either/or, mercy and justice.

So when I write that my greatest experience, to date, in North Africa was not built on the Creation to Cross story it might come as a surprise. At the very least, it shocked me like that electric fence I was in too much of a hurry to notice (true story). In lieu of using my usual story, I inadvertently stumbled into what I never considered an option: the Nietzsche to Christ model.

On a normal day, in a normal restaurant, under normal circumstances I sat waiting for my lunch. After sharing the usual small talk and joking around with friends, I had settled in at my small table on the second floor. And as was my custom, I began to read. And what book was I reading when my friend reappeared? None other than Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morality.

Now why is it that I still expect God to do the expected? For some reason I simply refuse to believe that God does big things without consulting me first. Here I am always wanting him to stay true to my plans and provisions when His have been made long before. I smugly wait for him to use all my confounding theological and philosophical arguments, thinking for some reason that they've never been thrown down in an argument before. I suppose, at the very least, I expect him to give me a heads up before he does something that rocks my whole world.

But, of course, God waited for His moment. And His moment wasn't as I read Tolstoy with his winsome development and portrayal of the human character marked by its sundry deficiencies. It wasn't while I read Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov with its vast and deep panorama of redemption. Nor in the midst of Newbigin's treatise on applying the gospel to postmodernism did God open the door. He waited for Nietzsche, the guy who claimed He was dead! The anti-God, anti-Christianity, anti-metaphysical, even, philosopher who inadvertently contributed to the rise of Nazism.

"Hey! You're food's ready. What is that you're reading?" He approached me, surprisingly curious.
"Oh, its just a book on philosophy," I said indicating the book he now held in his hands investigating, "I was just doing some studying."
"What does this man say?" he asked.

Attempting to dismiss the conversation, I briefly explained some of Nietzsche's major points on how to evaluate and assign meaning to morality. "He is just talking a lot about how we can decide what is good and bad," I concluded, hoping to move away from the technical language that philosophy would inevitably entail.

And then he asked the question that marked the conversational turning point: "Don't you know what is good and bad?"

Still not fully realizing the opportunity presented to me, I quickly scanned the room. Finding that my friend and I were alone, I answered hesitantly, "Well, I know what God says is right and wrong through the Kitab M'qudus (Holy Book), but its good to read those who don't believe like me so I can understand how the world thinks. But I believe and trust the Kitab M'qudus. And you have the Qu'ran to tell this as well, right?" I watched him hoping for further interest, but expecting yet another verbal lashing about how there is no one but Muhammad and the Bible is ridiculous and changed and wrong and full of lies, etc, etc, etc.

"The Kitab M'qudus?," he answered slowly, then more directly, "Well there is the Qu'ran, but I have the New Testament."

My eyes did the talking for me, "WHAT!?" Any remnant of passivity and nonchalance dripped from my face as I turned pale. As though I had drifted off, I attempted to refix my gaze and restore my mouth from its gaping state. Any attempt to suppress this immense upheaval of emotion was met with miserable failure. Awkwardly, I turned my wide, beaming eyes to the floor, diminished an aggressive grin to a sort of half-smirk, and brought my voice down a pitch or two, "Did you say New Testament???"

He could barely contain his own smile at my total lack of inhibition, but resting his index finger on his pursed lips gave me a long ssssshhhhhhh. In a whisper, I reiterated, "Wait, did you just say New Testament?," fully expecting him at any moment to burst out laughing and start off on another joke.

But this would not be the case, his solemn confirmation was cold, clean water bringing refreshment to my long, arduous journey through the desert, "Yes, my wife and I both read and study the New Testament."

"BROTHER!," I whisper-yelled as my face erupted with all the emotion I was working so hard to maintain. My face showed everything from the mile-long smile of joy all the way across the spectrum to tear-filled eyes that couldn't explain to me from which emotional well they had sprung. I was totally perplexed with a wave of various and conflicting emotions.

With a deep, humble smile, he responded with a genuine, but emphatic "Yes."

Losing Hope (Or, The Emergence of Grace Anew)

"Joy inexpressible and full of glory." What could renew joy, and with such vigor? What could spur the writer to glide over his page afresh as a newly inspired artist returns to the easel from a long hiatus? And yet, with words brimming over at the edge of release, what could render any attempt at clarity meaningless? What could indwell in me a true and beautiful, yea violent, desire to pursue prayer all the more fervently? To incline me to cry out for each individual with whom I cross paths? And reveal my complete unworthiness? My inadequacy? My own lack of faith? My own redemption, even?

Oh, amazing grace it is! Sweet to the taste. Never ending. All satisfying. Grace that is fresher and truer than simple words uttered at a dinner table. Wider and deeper and beyond any legitimate attempts at expression, the Father's wealth of goodness falls on a desperate people. Cold and clean and crisp, his river satisfies the entire man. Washes clean the entire man. Purifies and renews God's man. Grace for His people; grace which He has lavished upon us. And I, like the unworthy apostle John, can only express to you what I have seen and heard, what I myself have witnessed, experienced, even imbibed.

For 10 months I have lived in Africa, forced to a crawl under the weight of Islamic reign. With an iron fist, it rules the culture, the people, the speech, and, five times each day, the air. This darkness pervades and ruthlessly invades. A deep, cold darkness. Darkness that, at its peak, can impress upon its observer a quality of endlessness. Amidst night's stagnant climax, an impenetrable shadow smothers the land as a cloak, the faintest hint of light a seeming impossibility. A giant which bears over me, he gawks and mocks and laughs at my minuscule attempts to shine and uncover his face.

But the Light has come into the world. And the Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehends it not. Today I met a man who has stepped into this Light. No, I met him 10 months ago. For 10 months I have known this man. For 10 months I have talked with this man. Stopped by his work to see this man. Laughed and done business with this man. Fostered a friendship with this man. And yet this man, he was nothing more than another face to me.

One more small fish piddling in a sea of faces I had resigned myself to never seeing again after this life. People for whom I learned to have no hope. A people who taught me that God does not work. A people who have convinced me that darkness casts out the light as effortlessly as the police write up deportation papers. I was nearly convinced that darkness could effectively stomp out the light with the intimidation and torture tactics of the religious FBI.

The change has been slow and gradual, almost unnoticed by me. The enemy, he twists the truth. He hides from me the facts. He binds me, renders me useless. If only I could be set free! What can I do, I ask, to be set free? What can I change to be set free? What habits can I develop, patterns may I employ, what can I do, I ask? I seek to do, to change, to renew myself. But in one fell swoop, he has done it all. Apart from me, my plans, my strategies. He comes to me in grace. And with one utterly unexpected conversation, my world is once again turned on its head.

Finally I am not just talking about grace. For once, I am not limited to the cheap regurgitation of the phrases and teachings received from Sunday school, Theology 5100, or the latest John Piper sermon. This is not the grace that I have talked about. This grace has confronted me head-on. Grace that God reserves for the fiery trial. That bright and glorious fire that melts away everything displeasing. Grace He won't simply let me know about, no, grace I know, personally, in my own life, to a greater degree every day. It exudes from this smile I cannot wipe from my face, this joy I cannot contain, and these tears that I cannot explain. Tears that will not be held back. Tears that for 10 months were building to despair and hopelessness. But grace has come to me and my friend at just the right time. Grace is the air that I breathe. It is the sun that shines on me when I find myself lost again in the cold. It is the praise that comes to my lips when I am at my lowest low.

What has grace done for me? It has produced joy. Cultivated hope. Invigorated faith. Spurred love. Dealt with sin. Overcome the darkness. And come as the Overwhelming Conqueror.

No land is too dark, no people too hopeless for grace.

What Was Once Stolen

Here, there is no credit. No debt. A man can’t beg, borrow, or steal to get more. In this currency, there is no buying on margin. What he spends is gone, forever. And years later he might look back and regret the purchase, but it's always too late.

Not one single second can be returned. There are times I think of the past and can’t help but cringe. A memory I wish could be taken back. The word spoken in a room of people that, once released, is poison. It spreads throughout the room, a deadly wisp of smoke dispersing before the gaze of its dismayed observers. No amount of rewinding, editing, or revising can ever reverse what has been done. Precious moments, unchanged to the end of time. Thieves, they seem. But many businessmen appear thieves. These seconds, ticked off one by one, deal justly, by the book one might say. Cold to the touch and impersonal, Father Time gives no second chances.

I sit here quietly as my mind runs, reminiscing, remembering. A ship sailing briskly with the wind at its rudder, visiting ports and cities of ages past until, without warning, the ship runs aground on previously unseen bitterness. The trap set by my heart to bring yesterday’s foolishness back into today’s theater. I ponder my part. I ponder my words, my actions, my motives. And I regret, to no avail. I reopen a bill paid long ago. I nickel and dime myself for no reason, running up the bill more than I had ever anticipated.

Time is not the thief, but regret. What man can change any one thing he has already released to time? And would he even want to? Would any of us, removed as far from the past as today, change anything that has already run its course? Who would want to bear time past’s pain a second time?

Regret takes a man’s gaze away from the pain that has defined him and inappropriately places it on pain that now has freedom to haunt him. What is past, what time has sealed, defines each and every one of us. I refuse to be a man of sorrow. In time, I hope to become a man of grace. And when the father looks at my bill, he sees that very thing. Grace. He does not overlook my faults, my mistakes, or my pride. There is no need. For He no longer sees them. He sees a blank receipt. The bill that, in my mind, I continue to add to has been permanently transferred to a separate, off-shore account that the court will never see.

And if the court will never see it, why be bound by it? When my focus remains on the past, on my regret, and on my sin I will remain in bondage. But the truth, now that sets a man free.

Enough Is Enough

I hit full stride at the 50-yard line. With the goal square in front of me, nothing could get in my way. As though through a tunnel, I was focused only on the light at the end. I zeroed in and let loose. Amidst the ecstasy of flowing adrenaline, I awoke from my pleasure on top of the ball carrier. My first tackle. My first season. My first game. I looked up to the stands, hoping I did good by him. Hoping I did real good. But was it enough? I surveyed the stands, looking, looking. But he was nowhere to be found.

Even here in Africa, far from the high school football field, I make the tackle only to look up and wonder, is it enough? Sitting with my good friend, Joe, at a local coffee shop I talk about some weekly struggles. Everything from culture shock to frustrations with my team and roommate to let-downs in myself. I am tempted to think, is this enough? I respect Joe as a mentor and love him as a brother, one who cares enough about my walk with the Lord to meet every other week. Yet, my temptation is always to ask, OK, is this enough? I learned some great lessons this week, is this enough? Have I earned respect, praise, love?

There are so many influences in this world that teach me to ask this question of God. Is it enough? Have I studied enough this week? Did you count my prayers as I walked the city? Did I do enough to feed the kids on the street? J.D. Greer has this to say about my search of enough: “The simple truth is this: the Gospel eschews the word “enough” in any context, except in describing Christ’s work on our behalf. “Enough” will almost always become a form of compulsion…”

I know Joe wants me to see him not so much as a mentor, but as a brother, as a colleague. Life isn't about what is enough. What I have to offer is not enough. What Joe has to offer is not enough. Christ has already accomplished enough for both of us. The less I work to try to please Joe, my team, and my Savior, the freer I will be to live my life in loving obedience to the Savior who has already said, “It is finished”, or, perhaps, “It is enough.”

The Scenic Route

In college the late Dr. Jerry Fawell stressed to me the importance of getting married. Well I didn't and was disappointed. When I graduated and my friends began to marry, I thought maybe I was doing it wrong. I was given the same message in a different way upon my arrival to seminary. For the first time, I was the minority. A single 22-year-old guy in a sea of married, established seminary students. The pressure seemed somewhat overwhelming. Now the message was not just get married, but get married so you can do ministry.

Despite this pressure to find that one special someone who possessed the key to the rest of my life, I decided to leave. Maybe I was running. Maybe not. But I began the process of going to Africa. And along the way I disobediently thought that maybe my obedience would provoke God to change His mind about my singleness. As this process progressed, I became entrenched in my decision to go live in Africa. And find her there.

Three months ago I sat on a beach in Spain and gazed at the moonlight shimmering across rolling waves. On a clear, calm night the tranquil ebb and flow of seawater lulled me into peacefulness. I enjoyed nature's beauty until one single thought ruined it all. Would I always have to enjoy these moments alone? I feared I might.

As I have waited for the last month and a half, my life has changed. Adventures have marked my path with even more promised. Twice the Lord seemed to speak to me. The first time He spoke, my course was reset for Mexico. The second time He spoke was just for me.

But as I think about living in Mexico, I start to wonder why I must return to seminary. At least, why right away for the Spring 2o12 semester? There is so much the world has to offer someone like me. I still want to live in California, Washington, or Florida. I want to hike the Appalachian Trail, even if it is by myself. I want to meet people from other cultures. I want to learn their language, their culture, and their dreams. No, before I return home to North Carolina, I have every intention of finally exploiting my singleness. Exploit it and enjoy it for as long as I can. But above all else, I am going to exploit it to the glory of my Savior. I have worked hard in my hermeneutics to overlook this, but I think Paul once said something similar.

Nowhere To Run

Running from the border. Running out of time. And finally, running home. So just what was running through my mind as I fled the British-controlled border of Gibraltar? I can do this. On my own. And then I’ll tell everyone the story. So I ran and ran. And when I thought I was done, I ran some more. Running to pride. Running to my own glory.

We were two travelers, weary from the journey, who were ready to just sit for a few hours and watch a movie in our own language. Leaving the movie theater, we were both shocked to discover the time was 10:40. The last bus to Algeciras, Spain was scheduled to leave at 11:15, yet here we were on the other side of Gibraltar. So what did we do? We ran, of course. We ran through the downtown tourist area. We ran the length of Main Street. We ran across the airport. And we ran to the border.

Jogging across the border we flashed our passports and continued on to the bus station. We arrived at 11:07, but there was no bus. And everything was closed and locked. The sole occupant sat entrenched in the doorway with her belongings including some cigarettes, a pillow, and a coat. “Esta cerrado” she said. With this confirmation, my mind moved to our other options. Option #1: Sleep on the street. No thank you. Option #2: Find a hotel. At this hour of night? Option #3 struck me in a flash. “Cuantos kilos a Algeciras?” “25.” Algeciras was only 25 kilomters away. As I did the math I realized that was only 14 miles! Now the most I’ve ever run is 11 miles and that took a little more than 90-95 minutes. And here, I had all night! What a great challenge! Here was a real chance to show our mettle!

Luke was not so optimistic, but with some convincing he joined me and we soon found ourselves running down the interstate. Several kilometers later, as we jogged along the highway, Luke began to hold up the international hitchhiker sign. In the states this sign could be confused with a "good job," but we went with it.

Some kilometers later, Luke began to pray out loud. He asked God to provide a ride. But above all, he asked God to be glorified in us whether we got a ride or not. Around 12 kilometers from where we had begun in Gibraltar it finally struck me that my heart was wrong in all of this! While Luke had been far less optimistic than I about running home, my attitude had inwardly become haughty and prideful. While Luke was praying for God’s glory to come through provision, I was working hard to create my own adventure.

I jogged through the silence pondering my revelation. And it wasn’t even my revelation! It was God who had provided the conviction of sin. By the light of the moon and stars, God had illuminated my dark heart. My pride. My foolishness. “Lord, I did it again,” I repented, “be glorified in my attitude.” Immediately, the starlight that illuminated the ground we ran turned red. Brake lights came to a halt just ahead of me. Forgetting where I was, I greeted the driver in Arabic. Taken aback, he returned my greeting and continued to speak in Arabic.

For the final ten minutes of our journey I sat in the back seat and relaxed to the sweet sounds of Luke sharing the good news of Jesus in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Arabic. It is not for me to worry myself with what this man decides. But whatever he takes from the conversation, God was glorified through our attitudes. Attitudes of thanksgiving crediting every good and perfect gift to the Savior before our new friend, Hamid.

There is nowhere to run when I run for my glory. I can try to promote my own glory, but He always catches up with me. And as long as my strength, my will, and my endurance are sourced by my own pride I am doomed for a fall. With every step, humbling is just around the next bend. And repentance is the path to win the race, the marathon of His glory.

Fragile

Through my hand the rope slides little by little. In complete control, confidence pumps through my veins like adrenaline. The cliff edge now far out of reach, his words echo in my head, "don't mess up, no one can stop your fall." Throughout our training, I have made it my custom to always lead the way. I am the first to repel. The first to climb. The first to take a chance. I go first to take the pressure off my companions, some of whom have never climbed. Whatever the circumstance, at the very least I can fake the confidence necessary to get the job done. Like today. I alone am aware of this smokescreen of trumped up confidence blurring my view to the ground far below.

Other days my confidence is more real, but today, like a sprain, it is functional yet raw after the week's first incident. Returning to bat after striking out, this is my opportunity to re-establish myself. As I lower steadily, the thought remains. The harder I work to forget, the clearer the picture becomes. Upside down. Back against the wall. Feet to the sky. Arm painfully caught between the rock and a rope bearing all my weight. As I had been positioning myself to repel, my feet slipped unexpectedly. Alertly, I had held the rope tight preventing a longer fall. Crashing hard against the rock wall, I was completely disoriented. And still, even now my confidence remains disoriented.

A full 15 feet from the cliff edge, the image burns into my mind. Fear begins to prevail. Is this my worst fear? Confidence, or sweat, perhaps both, empties out through my pores in a continuous flow. The rope slowly feeding, feeding, feeding. I look down. The hot African sun has beaten down all day, but almost in an instant my body begins to boil. As I pant for breath, the wall bears down, mocking my fear. At 80 feet to go, I stop. Blocking the rope off the Grigri with my right hand, I attempt to collect myself. This is nothing new. I am in full control. All my gear is in proper order and...

But it's not. This is my worst fear.

Hanging 80 feet in the air I discovered the fragility of life on this earth. "The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord," said Job upon losing everything from here to the edge of his own life. Job recognized that his Redeemer lives, but the redemption He gives is not from pain and trials in this life. Jesus conquered sin and death which transcends even equipment malfunctions.

Carefully pulling myself to the wall, I climbed onto a small ledge and breathed deeply. Breathed like I never would again. I held tight to the rock face and unhooked my gear from the rope. Properly tying into the rope again, I tenderly finished my decent.

On the rock I realized I am not promised one more breath on this earth. Though I perish, I am His. But until then, there is work to do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

White For The Harvest

From my sanctuary in the clouds, a sea of gold ebbed and flowed in the world far below. Leaning against my pack, I watched wave after wave rise and fall driven by the rushing wind. Each flowed the full length of the valley before crashing upon the far mountainside and returning in a thousand trickling streams to the main body.

From this opposing mountain I had made my way, pulled along by the current. All day I had drifted through an endless ocean of wheat fields. In the cool of the morning, countless others had waded into this same ocean. Using a single tool, these were bent over everywhere cutting at the outer edges of the fields. White heads marked the harvest season as they floated upon the golden stalks rustling in the wind.

Now, as darkness descended over the valley, thousands of tiny lights began to appear. Some stood alone, others banded together in small communities. Thousands of white lights caught in the deep current of the night. A multitude carried about with the wind and the waves. Like white heads in a sea of gold, they wait.

Long ago, Luke stood on these very rocks. He looked out over these very people. He saw the very same white heads ready for harvest. Back then, reality seemed bleak; there was not one light in the entire region. As I stand here four years later, the light is bright. A single light. Yet it shines brightly from this peak over all the valley. Even the parallel mountainside is caught up in its illumination. It has started with one man. And the fields are white for the harvest.

Reading Between The Lines

The quick rise of loud music provoked me to seek its source. Three teenage boys quickly passed through and entered the next car. As the door closed behind them and their large boom box, the various other noises returned to compete for dominance. Continually rising above the drone of normal conversation were the children. One seated somewhere behind cried loudly for attention. Another, head bobbing from side to side, curiously asked his mother about everything he was observing. While some cried and some talked endlessly, others bounced around darting through the aisle of the train car. Young men carrying large plastic bags stepped around these children as they passed through calling out their products: cookies, snacks, and tissues.

The cabin was almost entirely Africans. Darker skinned Africans likely from the Sahara. Lighter skinned Africans going south from the Mediterranean. And in the middle of the car, four white Americans. The commotion of the train car was steady and continuous, loud stereos, restless children, and a constant stream of venders. Everyone was busy with something or someone. But in the entire cabin I counted four books. Four Americans and four books. And where were the four Americans going? A conference on orality, of course.

I love to read. I read philosophy, theology, fiction, sermons, anything I can. And I read the Bible. The inerrant, inspired Word of God. But what is inerrant and inspired? The words or the meaning? Does inspiration flow through the pen of the apostle? Does inspiration flow as the words are read by each individual reader as Karl Barth would say? Or does inspiration flow through the meaning ordained by God from the foundation of the world? Is it enough to get the stories from the Bible into people's hearts and minds, or must we also get the actual words into their hands?

No decent scholar can claim the Bible is divinely perfect in every jot and tittle, but neither can any decent scholar deny that the Bible is the most accurate, well-documented ancient text we know. The book I carry right now has about a .5-1% difference from the original. Now none of this error changes meaning, but it is enough for the book I carry to not be 100% perfect, inerrant.

So is inspiration found in the actual written words or in the meaning? What is the meaning? A savior, Jesus Christ, was promised, lived a perfect life, laid it down, and picked it back up. What then is perfect and inerrant? Scripture tells us the Word of God. John tells us that is Jesus. He is the divine Word. He is the perfection, the fulfillment of the law. He is the very meaning behind the words which may only be as good, in the end, as faith and hope.

Faith leads to a point of trusting, loving, and obeying Christ. But it falls short of perfection as our imperfect takes on the perfect. Hope, in the same way, leads to a point of stability and surety giving the believer confidence as he expects the reward to come. As mortality is swallowed up in the immortal, faith and hope fall short and are no longer necessary. Being imperfect in themselves, faith and hope get us to the perfect where love and Jesus takes over. Perhaps the Holy Book to which we cling is the same. It takes us as far as perfection where it cedes to the actual presence, words, and love of Christ in perfection.

Is it possible that God, to protect us from even more idolatry (Calvin said the human heart is an idol factory), disallowed Christians to have a completely perfect, in the jots and tittles, Book? Jesus' words are immortal, but what we have left behind, like everything on earth, is corrupted. It groans and waits for the return when glory reigns. Yet between the lines is the message God wants the world to know. It is the message we must get to them by whatever means necessary. Through orality and literacy alike.

I Surrender

Dear agent,

I surrender. I am turning myself in. Perhaps you have discovered me. Perhaps you have discovered where I live. My identity. My purpose. My activities. I have broken no law, officer, but you can probably dig up enough dirt on me to make your accusation. I have not disturbed the peace of your country, sir, but I have seen that your constitution is not enough to provide me freedom of religion.

The following story is everything you need to indict me. I humbly request that you read on to understand my true purpose in your country. As you read, please know that I pray for you. I hope that you will treat me fairly, but I am not counting on it. Do your worst. I surrender.

The greatest story ever told.

A Tale of Two Sidis

Two thousand years ago a sidi, Arabic for "sir", named Paul traveled to the island of Cyprus. He traveled from town to town teaching in the houses of prayer. It was not long before a certain government official heard about the teaching of this sidi. Hoping to hear the message for himself, he summoned the sidi. With this government official, there was a powerful sorcerer named Elymas.

When the sidi arrived, the sorcerer opposed him having been spurred to jealousy. He would not allow the government official to be swayed from his own teaching.The sidi, staring fiercely at the sorcerer, said, "You who are full of all deceit and fraud, you son of the devil! Enemy of all righteousness, will you not cease to make crooked the straight ways of the Lord? Behold, the hand of the Lord is upon you. You will be blind and not see the sun for a time."

At that very moment, a mist and darkness fell on the sorcerer. A power greater than he had ever encountered rendered him blind. As the man stumbled about seeking someone to lead him, the government official stood in awe. Amazed, he believed, seeing that there was something to this Jesus known by the sidi.

Two weeks ago a sidi living in-country shared his story with a friend of mine. This year he began a brand new journey centered on following Jesus. This sidi, learning to love like Jesus, began to see his responsibilities to his girlfriend and newborn child in a new light. He wanted to marry her, but she just wasn't ready, not to mention the fact that he was now Christian.

Strangely enough, the Bible proved true and his new-found joy was mixed with trials. The girl, seeing that bad things were continually occurring in his life, began to worry about him. Her advice? Go to the city seer. Well, having placed his trust in Jesus, this was not an option. Continuing to pressure the man, she enlisted her mother in the argument. The mother was in full agreement with her daughter. Please, go to the city seer!

After some time, the two women realized that he had dug in and was not moving. Yet, these bad things had not diminished. Taking the onus upon themselves, the girl and her mother went to the city seer on his behalf. After waiting half the day for their turn, they entered the seer's tent. Gathering all the necessary information, the seer abruptly fell into a trance. The two women waited, somewhat unsettled at the seer's strange behavior. Clearly, they conjectured, this would be considered normal behavior for someone in this line of work. Exchanging a knowing glance, the two women relaxed and accepted this normality.

Without warning, the seer violently erupted from the trance. Immediately she commanded the two women to leave. This was not at all how they had envisioned their visit. Refusing to leave without an explanation, they crossed their arms and waited at the opening to the tent. This incited the seer to become all the more insistent that they not hold up the line any longer. An argument ensued. The seer had nothing to explain, they must leave. And leave now. The women disagreed, they had a right to know why she would not explain.

Finally the seer decided that she could not win the argument. Wanting to forget this entire experience she offered an explanation to the two women. "I can not do it," the seer said shakily, "there is a force protecting the man that is too powerful for me."

The girl returned to the sidi saying, "There must be something to this Jesus you know..."

Bedtime Stories

Barbie returns the stare as my gaze rests upon the dollhouse in the corner of the room. The whole family can be found relaxing on pink furniture inside the pink house with a pink convertible parked in the backyard. Child-sized clothes are scattered along the wall from the corner to the dresser by the door. Toys line the top of the dresser, some I have never seen, but can only assume find their origin in Portugal, the family's last home. In front of the dresser sits an intricately-woven basket overstuffed with children's stories. This basket and the one across the room, next to the bed where I sit, appear to have come from the same weaver.

"I found it!" comes the cry from inside the basket next to me. From this basket, boasting a much smaller stash of children's books, climbs Megan with her prize. She hops onto the bed and curls up next to me. As we lean against the headrest together, her head buried in my shoulder, my 4-year-old friend looks like a little princess. The flowing mosquito net that encloses the bed only adds to the effect.

As she opens the book, I catch the disney logo on the front. Maybe we'll read about the adventures of Timon and Pumba tonight! Or perhaps, we'll follow Baloo deep into the jungle with Mogly. Or maybe we'll read about my favorite character, Winnie the Pooh. Megan finds her favorite story, a prinecess story! A fitting story! Why shouldn't an aspiring princess read about a real (as far as she knows) princess?

The story has no title, just the small picture of a princess on the cover page. As I take in the title page and our main character, I realize that I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Megan isn't always sweet, but tonight she is. I suppose my kids will be the same; some days good, some days not so good. By God's grace I will be a dad much like hers. Caring. Compassionate. Slow to anger. Yet willing to discipline because he loves her so much. Much like my own heavenly Father.

Yes, one day I will be a dad too...

I turn to the first page and begin to read. My efforts are quickly halted, "Megan, I can't read this."
"Why not?"
"It's written in Portuguese!"
Nonchalantly, she replies, "Just read it in English like daddy does."

Yes, one day I will be a dad too...

Whatever It Takes

Today, the heat was turned back up.

News came this afternoon that workers across five separate cities were informed that they must leave the country immediately. A new wave of persecution has hit this nation with the announcement of a second "list". The first list resulted in the expulsion of over 40 foreign brothers. The first list resulted in the traumatic closing of a local orphanage. The first list caused many national brothers to be jailed, tortured, and closely watched.

This week I have had the opportunity to come together with a group of believers to practice crafting Bible stories under the leadership of a skilled trainer. As our group has storied through the book of Acts, we have seen the amazing results of persecution in the early church. Persecution results in Spirit-filled worship and the spread of the good news of Jesus!

" 'And now, Lord, take note of their threats, and grant that Your bond-servants may speak Your word with all confidence'... And when they had prayed, the place where they had gathered together was shaken, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak the word of God with boldness." - Acts 4:29, 31
"They flogged them and ordered them not to speak in the name of Jesus, and then released them. So they went on their way from the presence of the Council, rejoicing that they had been considered worthy to suffer shame for His name." - Acts 5:40-41
"And on that day a great persecution began against the church in Jerusalem, and they were scattered... those who had been scattered went about preaching the word." - Acts 8:1a, 4

Yet despite this knowledge, news of more persecution ties my insides up in knots. I swallow the rotten fruit of uncertainty that travels to my stomach and spreads through my entire body in an ache of distrust. I want justice. I want retribution. I want fair treatment. But God does not work for my glory, only His own. God is jealous for His glory and I am but His bond-servant.

He awoke, but to a dream. As one transcending physical boundaries to wander outside himself, he searched the room expecting to find his own sleeping body. Instead, he discovered an angel. It was a vision! Just like the rooftop weeks ago, his hairs stood as a cold sweat wrapped his body in shivers. His consciousness dulled from sleep, he did not at first understand the indistinct words spoken to him. "Get up!" repeated the angel kicking his side.

He knew nothing but to obey. He knew not where he was. He knew not why or when or how. He simply knew that an angel had spoken and he had no cause to contradict. As he stood, chains crashed to the floor alerting him to two men standing on either side of him. Large men, soldiers heavily armed. His sudden fright was stifled almost immediately as not a muscle even twitched on any one of the soldiers. Chains loud enough to wake the dead had no effect on these dormant combatants.

By the light of the angel, he dressed himself and followed. Passing through the door into a brightly lit stone hallway, he glanced back to see a small, dark cell guarded by a squad of sleeping soldiers inside and a squad outside. As he followed closely, the angel entered a courtyard passing two more squads of unconscious guards. At the head of the courtyard was a large iron gate opening toward them. Entering the city, day turned to night as he stumbled falling painfully to the city road. The light borne by the angel had disappeared!

The angel himself was nowhere in sight, yet the dream did not end. But had it been a dream? Consciousness was now fully functioning as he understood the truth. It was all real! The jail. The angel. The escape. Yes, the escape. He was free from not only jail, but the trial to be held in the morning. Surely he was to be sentenced to death in the very same way his good friend James had been. It was a day of rejoicing amongst the religious leaders when James received the sword. And here he was, free. Unbound in the middle of the night on the city road.

Days earlier word had reached him that brothers all over the city were gathering day and night to pray fervently. He quickly picked himself up and made for the house of the mother of John Mark. Sure enough, the lights were still on even at this late hour. He knocked on the door to the welcome of John Mark's servant girl. "Peter? Is it really you!" Before he could respond she ran off calling frantically throughout the house, "Peter is here! He is here at the door!!" Within minutes, he had told the group everything. This story spread throughout the city amongst believers and unbelievers alike. Praise for God and sharing of the good news abounded.

And as a result, "the word of the Lord continued to grow and to be multiplied."

Last week I had the privilege of meeting a brother who has suffered under this present persecution. After an initial questioning he was blindfolded and taken far from his home. This Spirit-filled brother was stripped naked and blasted with water from a fire hose. After questioning him, the authorities beat him and left him in a small cell to rethink his answers. The process was repeated for three days. In the two months since then, he has traveled throughout the country praising God to be counted worthy to suffer shame for His name.

I fear for other brothers who may endure such treatment. Two of my close friends and brothers have serious medical issues, yet they patiently persevere under the watchful eye of the religious FBI. I fear for their lives, yet just what is the cost of national spiritual awakening? What must my brothers suffer to see this people know Spirit-filled worship and the spread of the good news of Jesus? And how in the midst of it all must I pray?

I can not pray for persecution, I love my brothers too much to want to see them suffer. But knowing it is here, I can pray for God to use it to His glory for the building of His church. The believers in the early church did not pray for persecution, but when it came they scattered bearing the good news of Jesus Christ. Wherever they were, they came together with one heart and mind to worship God. And so this pattern has been followed throughout history, most recently amongst our Chinese brothers who now number 30-50 million. We do not pray for persecution, we pray that God will teach His people to take advantage of it.

For the past three years I have prayed for this nation. I have often sensed the Spirit telling me that a time is coming when the church will grow in an amazing outpouring of grace. Perhaps we are on the brink. A seesaw teetering, waiting for that catalystic ounce of weight that will turn the entire apparatus on an unalterable course. Perhaps it will be this persecution that, like Rome, Northern Europe, and America, tips the scales to a Great Awakening.

By whatever means necessary the number one priority should be Spirit-filled worship and spreading the good news of Jesus. After all, that is His number one priority. What is at stake is the glory of the one true God. What is not at stake is the health, happiness, or prosperity of any one believer or group. May God use whatever means necessary to spread His fame. And may we pray appropriately, taking advantage of these times to seek His glory.

Whatever it takes, Lord. Whatever it takes.

Gloom and Doom

Many a good sailor had perished on these waters. Those who weathered far off seas and survived to tell the tale. But there was something different about this sea that made men quiver with fear. The unknown. Without warning, a perfect day could become a seaman's last. This sea, the only predictable thing about her is that she will always be unpredictable. Peter smiled at the thought, not a bad bit of irony for a fisherman. Yet an undercurrent of dread remained as he watched the small pocket of clouds build on the horizon.

Studying the distant clouds, he decided they were all better safe than sorry. Following the wooden rail that overlooked a calm, peaceful sea, he made his way to the hull of the ship and crossed starboard to descend into the belly. As he expected, everyone was asleep.

"James, John, rise, I need you." James was up in an instant and quickly threw on his tunic. John, on the other hand, was known to have a bit of a temper when roused from sleep. He was awake, but lay there staring angrily at Peter, groggy from his interrupted sleep. There was no need for Peter to explain himself. He simply moved to the stairs and returned to deck. They would follow, both were good sailors.

The darkness of the cabin seemed to follow him. Studying the night sky, everything had disappeared. The big cup. The little cup. The bear and even what the Greeks had called Orion. A flash illuminated the doorway and his two companions. It had begun. What he had most feared.

Running to and fro, the three worked to continually adjust the sails and rudder to compensate for the ship's vacillating bearing. Through the roaring wind, communication from one side to the other was impossible. Never had Peter heard anything equal. The flashes had become constant and the ensuing clasps shook him with nearly the same force as the thirty- to forty-foot swells that threatened to tear every plank from the small boat. Hope was nearly lost now just twenty minutes after the first cloud had been discovered.

In complete and utter panic, Peter stumbled back to the hull and down into the cabin. By this time, Jesus was the last sleeping body on the boat. He ran to the bed, seized the man's shoulders, and violently pulled him awake to a sitting position, "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing!"

At that moment, the storm prevailed and the ship was flung down on the raging sea.

Swimming to the surface, Jesus emerged from the water with a shout, "Hush, be still!" The wind and waves stopped immediately. Stars appeared and the moon re-lit the night. Lifting Himself up to stand on the calm water, He found Himself surrounded by the rubble and debris of what had once been His transportation to the other shore. His time had not yet come. "Why were they afraid," He said to Himself, "how is it that they had no faith?"

It happens when everything is right in the world. The hero, a mere security guard, saves the day from the imminent danger that has descended upon the stadium. An entire family finds themselves safely locked in the basement far from all extraterrestrial threat. A love story begins when our two protagonists discover their desire for one another as the scene fades out on an empty rocking chair. Back and forth, the chair rocks, foreshadowing the end of this new found joy. Now comes the twist. The surprise plot. The unexpected. This is the calling card of M. Night Shyamalan. Just when everything is right in the world, it happens.

This year I have taken risks. Risks like leaving North Carolina and reconnecting with my parents. All the while I ponder the outcomes of such risks, I am plagued by this gloom and doom mentality. I envision all the worst case scenarios and expect the unexpected plot twist.

I all too often think gloom and doom, but God is the one who determines the outcome. In this story, the unexpected plot twist occurs when Jesus wakes and calms the storm. He then rebukes the disciples for their lack of faith. But my question remains. Had gloom and doom prevailed, would God still be faithful? Had the boat capsized, killing His disciples, would Jesus not still have cause to rebuke them for their lack of faith?

When gloom and doom seems to prevail in my life, why can I not accept my failed expectations to simply be His fulfilled expectations? As He leads me, not every step I take will seem a successful one. Not every piece to this puzzle will fit together at my appointed time. The truth is that what I may often consider gloom and doom is His sanctifying hand. I am often not ready for the gifts He has waiting.

Jesus showed these men who He was. For three years they observed His love, mercy, and justice. They saw that He is God. Jesus calmed the storm in this story, but does not promise He will calm every successive storm. We are not promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. He has conquered the greatest storm, sin and death, but many of these smaller storms we must weather because He is making us more like Himself.

This all fits succinctly into His plan. He loves to give me good and perfect gifts, but often the exponential increase in His pleasure and mine are contingent upon the time involved. Time is what I need. Time to weather the storm.

His answer is rarely no, simply not yet.

To Be a Tree

Beneath a thin carpet, the concrete floor had no give as my face crashed against it once again. Rolling over quickly to meet his attack, I managed to bring my knee into the space between us as his massive body covered mine. This maneuver bought me all of two seconds as he simply readjusted, wrapped up my flailing arms, and violently shoved my face back into the carpet. Now, fully at his mercy, my arms and legs were contorted into a position I never predicted possible as a sharp wave of pain shocked my entire body.

Uncle.

Not once. Not twice. Not even after three or four times had I enough sense to submit. Five times I went back for more. And five times my small, untrained body served as but a rag doll for this 300-pound marine. My pride throbbed with the swelling pain of defeat. Pain stronger than any rug burn or bruise my body had endured. Pride had driven me to do what no one else in the room had dared. Pride not only had driven me to do the impossible, but the plain stupid. Pride made me go back for more.

There are days when I long for North Carolina. I long to walk campus again under low, arching branches of trees far more experienced in this world than I. Trees that have weathered the strongest of storms and the most perfect spring day. Trees, strong and firm, that have provided for generations of inhabitants. They give shelter, nourishment, and cover from the hot, summer sun. Yet, without the provision of another source, these trees would not be the strong, dependable giants they are today.

For tonight, I love Africa. Walking home from a birthday party with dear friends, we discovered a small shop just outside the medina. While they scoured the store for tablecloths, I was quickly drawn into conversation with the shopkeeper. A rare moment of putting myself aside, I took interest in who he was. Within five minutes, I sat on my friend’s chair, behind his cash register, drinking the tea he had prepared for himself. We talked about his life and family as I enjoyed a moment of victory.

Not every day here is good. But not every day is bad. I just have to keep going back for more. But it’s different now. The prideful ambition that embarrassed me years ago is becoming less of the driving force. Perhaps, God is leading me to discover a new kind of ambition. An ambition fueled by love for others. A holy ambition.

Through the storms and spring days alike, I am learning every day that I must put myself aside. I long to soak up all the living water I can to stand through the ages. I long to be strong and firmly rooted. I long to provide for those in need. I suppose I long to be a tree.

I Walk the City Streets Alone

Some days I walk the city streets alone. Step by step I learn to release my insecurity and need for companionship. Enjoying the fresh air, I take my solitude in stride. And on days like this, it is a shorter stride. For once, I can relax. There is no one to see and nothing pressing that requires my attention.

I think about where I am. The very place I never thought I would reach. Vibrant and new, the sights, people, and customs. A world that I understand about as well as I understood the television that at one time provided all these sights straight to my home. With my shallow understanding, I could press the power button, turn up the volume, and enjoy. A simple scratch on the surface, these pictures and sounds gave insight into a whole other world. Never before was there a need to understand the inner workings of how the flashes of light and soundbites all worked together to bring me entertainment. From the safety of my armchair, there was never a need to understand how or why the people here do things the way they do, it was enough to know that they were different.

In college, my car broke down one February. I read and read about what to do and how to do it. Within a week I had gathered all the necessary tools and new parts. I spent an entire day taking apart the section of my engine that housed the alternator. After carefully setting the new alternator and returning all the belts to their proper places, I happily drove my car around town. If I had been given a brand new mustang like the rich kid in the next dorm over, my satisfaction could not have compared. I didn't want a new car. I only wanted to drive my little white '97 hundai elantra with the large dent above the rear passenger side tire and damaged front bumper with the remaining paint smear from a blue pickup truck. Despite the limited miles that remained, it ran now because I had used my own hands to fix it.

I used to think that if I read a book, or a couple books, I could figure anything out. If I could just google something, I would be the expert. As I walk the city streets alone, I realize that not everything is that simple. If I had, for one moment, opened my eyes, I could have deduced that I really didn't understand how the electrical current flowed into the television to create light that was ordered in such a way as to carry information to the neurons in my brain.

It is easy to make rash judgments about surface level understanding, but real, objective knowledge is elusive. Knowledge requires time. The feeling of accomplishment I enjoyed driving around town lasted all but a week before I discovered my error by means of another broken alternator. They tell me there is a breaking point coming. This is the rock bottom of culture shock. Yet what if brokenness comes, but knowledge and understanding don't?

And why am I continually handed the excuse of culture shock? There is other knowledge in this world that seems equally elusive to me. Similar to cultural understanding, love has evaded me as well. Sometimes I can't help but wonder what I'm doing with my life. Did I miss a step somewhere along the way? Did I miss the memo senior year when my friends moved off campus to acclimate to real life while I dove deeper into the freshman bubble of Dorm 26? When my friends started getting married, was it wisdom or stubborness that caused me to ignore the fact that there was an alternate gender out there somewhere?

I am here now, so there must be some purpose. Perhaps, I am on the verge. Walking the main boulevard, I envision the next street corner being that proverbial breakthrough. To my right stands a cafe. At the height of the afternoon ciesta, every table is empty. That is, except one. Facing the street sits a tall, olive-skinned man. His arms rest on the table as he leans forward. Eyes waiting expectantly, in like fashion to the beggar I just passed. Eyes that eagerly pine for even a small portion of what could potentially be offered. He gazes into the face hidden to me by a veil.

I don't understand. I have no reference point for the love of which I have only heard. No feelings that tug at me when I see this man's joy. No true concept of what he experiences when he gazes deeply into eyes reserved only for him. For me, to love a woman is equal to culture shock. Perhaps, in time, I will understand love. Perhaps, in time, I will understand this city and these people. Perhaps, this understanding is just around the proverbial corner.

Passing the cafe, I arrive at the street corner for which I had hoped. Standing there, observing what had before been hidden by the cafe, I realize this next street looks no different than the last. I suppose life is the same. From each corner, every street looks the same. Unless I walk the street, I will never know what surprises await. New cafes. New alleys. New friends. Perhaps, something on this street will lead to my breakthrough. Until then, I walk the city streets alone.

Aslan's Pleasure (Revised)

Stripped. Naked. Exposed, all of me, to a staring world. As though born for the purpose of humiliation, I sit in my glass house, shamed. A spectacle disrobed before a race of those heavily clad. These clothe themselves in many layers, concealing parts given to greater honor, effectively hiding shame that befalls all without exception. It is with a perception of freedom that they build, brick upon brick, the wall that ensures independence and solitude.

As war ravages an entire land, so it comes to me. Once free, peaceful, and full, now bearing the quality of emptiness. Void of people, crops, homes and laughter. Void of laughter. Laughter that may never return. All stolen. Hauled off under cover of the night shadows. A land that lies in darkness, empty as the starless night that now consumes it. A land that longs for the peaceful ignorance it once knew.

Denuded and ravaged. This work done by the hand a man cannot know by means of his own devices. A deeper work. More exacting. Aimed at completion. With inhuman precision, the claws dig deep. My chest opens wide, seared not by intense heat, but with an icy cold. The cold spreads through my body like leaven as the last warmth flows from the wound into a puddle around my feet.

With one last breath, a glimmering hope causes me to stare into wild eyes before me. Endless eyes. Eyes that reveal a torrential sea, vast and violent. Lightning flashes. Thrown to and fro, the dreadful power of the storm pushes and pulls at my body threatening to devour me. A brief window of composure permits the sight of approaching land. Land grows larger, more defined, until, at last, I enter a river.

Moving upstream, my body is hurled from rock to rock. The water’s force beats down, pounding me into submission. Onward and upward, a strange force draws me into the unknown. Curiously, I discover my complete lack of pain. I feel nothing despite the brute indifference of the storm. By way of the river, I am taken into what appears to be a garden.

It is here that I first see the sun in this new world. The storm, the rain, the thunder and lightning, and howling wind are gone. Not that they ceased, for something must exist in order to cease. They are no more, as though they never were. As though I simply awoke from a childhood nightmare full of those things I could not consciously conjure in my imagination nor recall upon waking.

Confusion, fear, and panic all subside as a peace unlike any other consumes my body. I bask in the sunshine that illuminates a cloudless sky. The river flows on and on surrounded by rolling hills and trees as far as the eye can see. Fruit trees of some kind I have not yet known. Trees scattered in a way wholly unlike the order a man would set an orchard, but ordered still. An order imposed by nature itself or, perhaps, a force greater than nature.

From the water I rise, carried by unseen hands into the center of a small grove of trees. I stand now before a man. Naked and unashamed, his eyes tell me that he has nothing to hide. He seems not to notice the invasion of the garden he tends. Through observation, I find that he is much like me, yet bears a strange, otherworldly quality. I wonder if I am still on earth or, perhaps, in a distant world yet to be tamed.

He is perfect. And complete. There is a glow that exudes from him, not unlike the glory one might envision of Moses coming down from the mountain. Joy. Peace. His eyes turns to a woman entering the small grove. Both naked, their gazes meet in perfect compassion, love, grace, and desire even, if necessary, to fully sacrifice for the other. Their gazes lack the gloss that comes over the eyes of people in my world as they suppress or, worse, conceal lust, greed, and selfishness.

Consciousness streams back. The lion remains, standing before me. New life flows through my veins. Yet the pain continues without mitigation. Slashing. Cutting. I turn and flee in miserable anguish only to find a trail of bloody scales marking the path from which I came. He cuts again. This deeper than the last, revealing, through the layers, a first sight of human flesh.

With the realization that the only true humanness in me has been deeply concealed comes the equally important understanding that I have not yet fully understood humanness. Standing in stark contrast to the man in the garden, my eyes are opened to the horror of what I really am. The dragon that always was. The lion pounces, tearing away more scales with his teeth to reveal a white stomach hidden since the garden. A rehabilitated criminal released from life in an 8x10 cell, I am freed into a new world that I cannot yet comprehend.

Taking my first steps from the cave, I am blinded by the great light hanging in the sky. I stare in wonder at its glory, while vainly grasping for more and more. Enraptured by this beautiful orb, fear invades. Fear that it may not be there tomorrow. I gasp deep breaths of air knowing that just as it is given so it can be taken away. Contrasting the stale, dead air of the cave, this is the air of freedom. Freedom from the shadows they think are reality in the depths of the cave I once called home. The cave I once called truth and beauty and reality. This new experience of true reality informs my soul. Never again will I trust the shadows of the cave.

I stand now before the lion, ready. Ready to learn to endure the pain. Yet, strangely, his eyes betray a smile. Another layer of truth penetrates my understanding as I recognize the deep warmth and love that greet me from the lion's eyes. Perhaps, on this side of eternity, I will never understand, or even experience, the full depths of the way he looks at me. But it is here, in his loving gaze, that I may share his joy. Not the smirk of an enemy pleasuring in my pain. But the smile of a wise father as his teary-eyed son, knees bloodied, falls into his arms. A knowing smile, he is well aware that the pain will make me a man.

He has more work to do. Tomorrow may yet be more painful than today. There are many scales that still remain. Lust of the eyes. Lust of the flesh. Pride of life. Weak and unworthy pleasures that bear empty promises of escape from the pain. Pleasures I formerly loved. Their power utterly confounded at the lion's bidding.

His pleasure is devastating. He is not safe, but he is good.

Wandering Souls

My own sitting room. The perimeter lined with plush, African style couches, or frosh. The centerpiece, a cheaply made wooden table. Not much to look at, it provides enough space to entertain dinner guests. Dinner guests that often inquire about the pieces of decorations hanging from the ceiling. The last remnants of a child's one year birthday. The child of the previous tenants; the same child that now screams for attention in the once-empty apartment above.

Directly adjacent to the sitting room is the kitchen. Not just a kitchen, but my kitchen. This small space affords ample room for Luke and I to share cooking and cleaning duties. The small cupboards overflowing with everything we need to host up to eight friends any given night. I find myself fully content with a working stove, semi-working oven, and enough counter space to roll out egg noodles for two whole lasagna dishes.

Between the three of us we share two bedrooms. Space is tight, but none of us own much more than we need. The small bathroom contains a toilet, small shower, and sink.

It is here, finally, that I am home.

Home is an elusive concept. After four years of college, I was ready to move on. As much as I loved the freshman dorm that I served as a senior, this was no longer my place. Two years later, I find myself making my last of 13 moves spanning six different cities.

This lengthy transitional period began with a short-term marketing job by which I passed the time prior to the start of seminary. At 21 and single, I quickly discovered that I simply did not fit in with married, late-twenty-somethings in my new home. Too old for college. Too young for seminary. For two semesters I struggled to adapt. I struggled to make friends.

But I did not struggle to say goodbye again. It was at this time that a small church plant in Kansas offered me a home. My first official internship, and with a bonafide southern baptist church. This exciting new stage of life lasted two months, just long enough for them to decide that I did not belong there either. Shamed and now unemployed, I was told by the pastor to leave not only the church, but the city as well.

And go where?

Peter addresses his first letter to "those who reside as aliens, scattered throughout [the Roman world]." This was me. I was an alien in this world. This is how I identified myself. A theme throughout the Scriptures, God's people are continually moving toward the land, but not yet arriving. Even when Israel secured their earthly promised land, this land is but a picture of the greater for which it is relegated to the service of a mere symbol. Separate. Estranged. A novel concept. But one too easily romanticized.

For me, these had become convenient words to take the edge off the pain. But what was the truth?

A damaged wall, I putty countless holes and paint over the scars with a fresh coat. To the naked eye, I stand strong. A fresh and new look, my outer coat will last for some time. But, on the inside, the structural integrity is weak. The wall less functional to perform its duties of carrying the heavy weights and burdens placed upon it. With time and continued patch jobs, the wall will crumble.

What is the truth concerning Peter's scattered aliens?

Peter continues. They are scattered "according to the foreknowledge of God." They are scattered "by the sanctifying work of the Spirit." And they are scattered "in order to obey Jesus Christ, being sprinkled with His blood." What is in view here are not my insecurities, my instability, my scars, nor my seeming inability to maintain relationships. Rather, God scatters me with the intent that I will agree with Jesus when He says, "Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Obedience is in view.

My task is to be obedient, He has done the rest. He gives everything necessary to serve His kingdom by means of "His great mercy [that] has caused us to be born again to a living hope." He has provided rest that awaits the obedient soul; "an inheritance which is imperishable and undefiled and will not fade away, reserved in heaven for you." And He has provided all the protection necessary to perform the task, protection "by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time."

The truth is that I am a stranger, set apart to obedience. It is not that I do not fit in or I do not belong. Sometimes I feel that way. Sometimes life is difficult. The temptation is to walk away. To move on. To be the wrong kind of wanderer.

Peter continues, calling brothers to rejoice, "even though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials." Trials prove faith, he says, faith "being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ." To escape the pain is also to escape the blessings that gush from the open wound as it painfully heals.

C.S. Lewis, after the passing of his wife, wrote many notes in his journal later compiled under the name "A Grief Observed". He writes that God is like "a surgeon whose intentions are wholly good. The kinder and more conscientious he is, the more he will go on cutting. If he yielded to your entreaties, if he stopped before the operation was complete, all the pain up to that point would have been useless."

Today I am home. For now, at least, I feel like I belong. A day will come again when my emotions deceive me. Perhaps tomorrow the cares of the world will choke out the truth. But truth is truth even when I don't think, or even feel like, it is. And the truth is that there is a higher calling beyond me, one to obedience. He is greater than my insecurities and struggles and His blood has secured undeserved redemption.

"If you address as Father the One who impartially judges according to each one's work, conduct yourselves in fear during the time of your stay on earth; knowing that you were not redeemed with perishable things like silver or gold from your futile way of life inherited from your forefathers, but with precious blood, as of a lamb unblemished and spotless, the blood of Christ."

I Peter 1:17-19

My stay on earth is short. The easy option would be to plant roots, get comfortable, and gather all I can before the clock ticks down. It is the obedient life that seeks to discover the Father's will. That will foreknown before the foundations of the world this soul now wanders. The obedient life scatters to the holy place of separation wrought by the work of the Spirit. This obedient life follows Jesus closely wherever He may lead.

I am NOT a Poet, But...

I am the servant running to Elisha,
"Alas my master! What shall we do?"
Fear invades when I have forgotten
that there is nothing under the sun new.

From Aram come legions of troops
poised to take my life and liberty,
"O Lord," prays the master, Elisha,
"open his eyes that he may see."

Chariots of fire arrest my gaze
consuming the mountainside,
A great and glorious army
ready to uphold the will of Adonai.

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

"The Lord loves justice and
forsakes not His godly ones."
Each day they are stolen away,
husbands from wives, fathers from sons.

A battle against flesh and blood
we do not fight,
but whispers of the enemy
that deceive in the night

On the battlefield in Eden,
his first victory won,
but for the prize of the upward goal
we continually press on

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

Anger rises at the thought
of good men waiting in jail,
fear at others deported
from which there is no bail.

Intimidation, the beast that
prevents our friends from gathering,
The neck of Christianity
the authorities seek to wring.

Even now it is for Jesus,
to be like him I yet fight,
to have compassion, grace, love
and to eternally shine my light,

The battle rages, a battle I cannot see,
yet I know the greatest battle is raged in me.

Clean

A crowd had formed. Over the years, he could recall only a handful of times people had gathered this close to his home. When people came outside the city en masse the result was often unpleasant. Still groggy, he jumped to his feet nearly losing balance at the wave of pain that swept over his body. Grabbing an extra tunic, his staff, and sandals, he moved to the small opening of his makeshift tent to spy the coming mob.

Led by a man whom he had never seen, the mob was moving to the large hill beyond the slums where he had made his home. At the sight of this man his anxiety was slightly mitigated, enough, at least, that he could put aside his provisions for escape. He knew well that not long into his escape even this small weight would have proven too much. Since that day, his strength was ever decreasing. The pain of waking every morning was, at times, unbearable. He thought of suicide. Most days this was a passing thought. Others, more. But he could never follow through. There was always this precarious hope that he could not quite place.

The leader ascended the hill. Young and strong, this man moved swiftly. Atop the hill, the man sat, legs crossed, to survey the crowd closing in around him. Eased by the calm of the leader, he left the entrance of the tent making his way for the hill.

Walking gingerly toward the crowd, his pain reminded him, yet again, of the constant inner struggle. What of this hope? As far as he was concerned, hope was nothing more than a burden to bear. Hope remained the only barrier preventing him from ending his pain. Yet, somehow deep within him, he knew there was purpose. Not only general purpose in life, but specific purpose for him. No one else would believe it, and he dare not tell a soul, but he sensed purpose in the midst of this bleak existence. Purpose which he railed against. It was this ambiguous purpose for which he yet stumbled through what was left of his miserable life.

By the time he reached the hill, the majority of the crowd had already been seated. Looking for a soft place to sit, his legs buckled sending him to the ground with a painful thud. Pain fired through every bone and joint of his body forcing tears to his eyes. The pain was too much. Attempting to move himself enough to sit, he labored to first lift his head, unaware of the spectacle he had made. He was met with looks of anger and disgust. Their disdainful eyes penetrated to the very depths of his heart, a pain more excruciating than the white sores that covered his body.

They reminded him of her. He could never put away the bittersweet memories of his youth. She had been his dayspring. There, in the marketplace where he first looked upon her, the first beams of sunlight had wakened his world. Beams pregnant with the full day's brilliance that, with time, would lift the shadows to reveal all the beauty and wonder that life could be. He had wasted no time in speaking with her parents and beginning the wonderful journey of engagement. Nothing in life had been more invigorating, more inspiring than the love they shared. A love that nothing, he thought, could ever separate. She was the first. And many more followed with the pronouncement of unclean. In the blink of an eye, the entire world had turned against him.

And now, he crawled under the weight of their stares. They knew he did not belong here. But so did he. Their attention was soon captured by the man now standing at the crest of the hill. Adjusting himself, he was caught with surprise at the eloquence and force of the man's words. Something about the man's speech seemed to tug at the concealed hope inside him. The man spoke with authority, unlike the scribes and pharisees who had beaten him in the streets. What this man said ran counter-intuitive to everything they taught.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
"Blessed are you when people insult you and persecute you."
"Do not think that I came to abolish the Law and the Prophets; I did not come to abolish but to fulfill."

He was no fool. For years he had been afforded many hours to himself for his own personal study. He learned long ago the cruelty of the righteous, and instead sought to find productivity in his solace. He knew the holy writings well, especially Leviticus. After all, Leviticus spoke directly to him. For years he had slowly become convinced that the scribes and pharisees were wrong. The segregation was wrong. The excommunication that he undeservedly suffered must have been an abomination to a just God. Perhaps he was a heretic, but the holy writings seemed to major on the doctrine of justice. Leviticus was not written for the purpose of which it was now used.

"For I say to you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven."
"You have heard the ancients were told, 'You shall not commit murder.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the courts."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery'; but I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you."

"Ask, and it will be given to you."

The man spoke to the crowd for hours. The sensation was small at first, but by the end of the sermon, his heart burned within him. His whole life seemed to find its culmination in this one moment. Everything had brought him here. The pain of being a spectacle for everyone who saw him. The physical anguish he had endured for years. The fear. The sorrow. The precarious hope that whispered to him of purpose. This hope that prevented him from killing himself.

Unaware until this point, he lay, face down in the grass, sobbing. He could not be sure how long he had been in this position, yet he remained. He believed every word. This man, this rabbi, understood the Law. This man understood the Prophets. This man understood him. A hush fell among the crowd around him. He looked to find the man standing before him. Gazing up into the teacher's eyes, he found everything he could ever need. Then, weakly, "Lord, if You are willing, You can make me clean."

The man smiled. Love permeated the man's entire being. This love, more real than any he had ever experienced. In this man's eyes was the hope for which he had long waited. Precarious. He now understood why this hope had always transcended his understanding. This hope did not find its source in him. It was not his. This hope could only be found in the Creator of everything. The One that now stood before him.

This Man, his Lord, now did the unthinkable. Before he could understand, the Man reached out to hold his face in His hand. A touch. Only one touch. He had longed for the warm touch of another human. A touch of love. A touch of friendship. A touch of camaraderie. The touch was all this and more. Jesus looked into his eyes and spoke words of power, "I am willing, be cleansed."

And it was so.

In this African culture, ritual washing is essential. The people are required to go five times each day to pray. If the man is unclean, he must wash his head, hands, arms, and private areas three times before prayer. If a man relieves himself, he is unclean. If a man consumes anything forbidden, he is unclean. If a man touches someone unclean, he is unclean. For this reason, it is important to avoid becoming unclean.

This can often be used as an excuse to treat people cruelly or to avoid them altogether. The other day, a beggar walked into a small shop where I sat eating a sandwich. Immediately a customer jumped from his seat, grabbed the beggar, and threw him out of the shop. People will give the required alms to the sick and poor on the street, but will not stop to touch or talk to these. The law serves them as functional savior. And the easiest and least costly path toward fulfillment of the law serves as the new righteousness. This is the new pharisaism.

In Matthew 8, Jesus stopped. He loved the leper. He touched the leper.

Do you love those in need enough to get your hands unclean?
Jesus did.

The End of Innocence (Or, Face-to-Face with Persecution)

The room was silent. Veteran friends. New friends. Families. Singles. All left speechless. The air heavy, tears came to my eyes. Pain for him. Pain for my friends who knew him. Pain at knowing I would not.

I had been safe. For two months I had learned the city, the culture, the people. My love was growing despite a rocky start. This city had become my home. These people were my people. My friends in the marketplace had come to expect me. The street guard always there waiting to talk when I come home. The hungry boys on the street knew my name and where I would be on a Saturday night. I had begun to belong. There was safety here. Nothing could harm me.

Until that moment. Now it is different. As a young child who witnesses violent crime, my world had been changed in an instant. Innocence stolen. In the world in which I now live, I am one ambush away from an all-expense-paid trip to Europe. Permanently. This is the new reality.

In the past week, there have been many friends exiled from this country. The most notable, for me, came Sunday morning with the news that our friend, Blair, had been sent home. The end of 20 years of living, serving, and loving our beautiful country. There were few friends in the north who had not been affected or known someone affected by the work of our dear friend, Blair. I saw him once, when he preached, in flawless Arabic, at the wedding of two national believers. And though I did not meet him then, I felt like I knew him from the many stories my friends have told.

We are not promised comfort.
We are not promised ease.
We are not promised tomorrow.

Augustine says it well in his book City of God. In book 18, he writes:

"The devil, the prince of the impious city, when he stirs up his own vessels against the city of God that sojourns in this world, is permitted to do her no harm. For without doubt the divine Providence procures for her both consolation through prosperity (that she may not be broken by adversity) and trial through adversity (that she may not be corrupted by [said] prosperity); and thus each (consolation through prosperity and trial through adversity) is tempered by the other, as we recognize in the Psalms that voice which arises from no other cause, 'According to the multitude of my griefs in my heart, Thy consolations have delighted my soul.' Hence also is that saying of the apostle, 'rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation.'"

Silence reigned in that meeting for some time. Finally, one by one, we all came to agreement. "We will praise God in all things."

Pray with us for Africa.