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.