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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Shame and Beauty (Or, How Sexual Impurity Is No Better)

She walks streets which do not belong to her. She knows them well. Every contour. Every detail. She knows the stones, the pavement, cracked bricks and muddy sidewalk. To the market she goes with her head bowed. She walks quickly, her steps revealing urgency. An urgency not dictated by time. She is not at a loss for time.

Healed, tan shoes, sides streaked with dried mud. Blue jeans. Tan overcoat. Red blouse covering to the knees what the coat fails to conceal. Matching red covering wrapped to conceal her hair, forehead, and neck. Blue eyes. Eyes that stop me cold. Beautiful blue eyes that I, as a man, may only glimpse as they return to the ground in shame.

Shame.

It is with shame she walks the streets, quickly managing her outside tasks to get home. Shamed when she looks into the eyes of a man. Shamed at the catcalls, whistles, sexual remarks with which she is barraged on the street. Shamed at being seen in a man's world. Shamed at not being home where she belongs.

And there is me. 23 years old. Single. Male. In the same way that marriage fails to cure the age old struggle, neither does living overseas as a worker. Lust. Sexual immorality. Every man deals with this struggle whether or not he is ready to admit it. Every impure thought on which I dwell makes me no better than the men I observe daily. It is here, in the midst of an idolatrous, pagan culture, that I find myself most profoundly confronted with the depths of my very own depravity.

God loves the Arab woman. His heart is broken for her as she lives these lies every day.

"You are nothing more than an object. An object only useful to stay the man's desires. And when it's over, you'll be replaced with 72 virgins. You probably won't even see paradise, because you are less than a man. Maybe tomorrow he'll divorce you. Maybe he'll send you away."

This is the message they hear. Every day. From the men. From the culture. From me.

God's heart breaks. He sees the beauty of what was created that sixth day. He sees the beauty that I corrupt with my mind. He loves the beauty that I and every other man has objectified at one time or another.

No more.

"Be holy, for I am holy" - God

"...we are taking every thought captive to the obedience of Christ..." - Paul

Satan uses shame to propagate bondage. But "it was for freedom that Christ set us free." I have as my ambition to be holy as God is holy. To love justice. To love truth. To love beauty.

“Cara, Cara!,” Or, A Match Made in Africa

From every direction the chattering was directed at me. I found myself standing in the middle of a circle of seven very interested people. As I attempted to talk about Jesus, my primary conversationalist used her broken English to change the subject. I discovered that her name was Pat and she wanted to learn English. This was all well and good, but not what I was seeking.

With plenty of other options, I turned my attention to a young couple next to Pat. After a few experimental phrases, the language barrier proved too firm to move. My new friends could communicate nothing but blank stares. Pat found this to be her opportunity to re-initiate a language learning session. Giving her a brief smile, I looked to my next attempt. I greeted a young girl about my own age hoping to begin a meaningful conversation. Another wall. Through this particular wall passed one lone piece of information; her name was Meredith.

Turning to meet Pat’s incessant pulling on my elbow, I pulled the four of them together to attempt to make hand motions. Gathering my patience, I began climbing air to show that I had just come up their mountain. With smiles they joined this new and exciting game. As I walked in place pumping my hands back and forth to show difficulty, I realized that my partner, Cara, was right behind. “Cara, Cara, can you help me out?”

“Cara! Cara!” said Meredith as she briskly walked in place pumping her fists. The young couple quickly caught on, “Cara! Cara!” Excitedly nodding their heads up and down they joined the dance, legs kicking. Now all four were doing it, “Cara! Cara!” I tried to dissuade them, explaining that Cara was my friend who wanted to share Jesus with them, but my error proved fatal. This was the last brick placed on the already overwhelming wall separating our worlds. There was nothing now that could quench their excitement at learning their first English words. “Cara! Cara!”

Even in the midst of a two month training session to live and work overseas, the barrier of language sometimes seemed insurmountable. Learning language is a difficult task and I now have firsthand experience as confirmation. Pat is also discovering firsthand that learning languages is difficult as she studies a tribal language in Mexico. Meredith is discovering the same truth as she learns Spanish in Madrid. And that young couple has a large task ahead in India learning Hindi.

Luke and I have now completed four weeks of Arabic study. We continually progress, but the process is draining. Monday through Friday we study in class with a native speaker from 9am to 1pm. Each day we make a number of recordings that we are expected to listen to for 1-2 hours outside of class. In addition, there is the expectation that we spend 2-3 hours each day in community learning language and culture. All this together gives us a 40-hour workweek. This is, for sure, a busy schedule. But this is the best way to prepare to be useful to both the business and God’s kingdom.

I am quickly finding that the most rewarding benefit of language learning is the relationships built along the way. As I spend time in the community, I meet more and more people that are willing to patiently help me through my language struggles. What makes these friends smile biggest is to hear new Arabic and progression in my studies. When they get excited about my advancement, so do I.

The other day I returned to a bakery discovered a few weeks earlier. During the first visit, there were no words, just pointing and motioning. Shortly after, I returned knowing the words for bread and money. The next time I brought numbers. This past week I came in and asked politely for a baguette. I asked how much and thanked them. I realized I needed a bag and asked, “Can you have a bag, please?” My friend behind the counter, who is quickly realizing the permanence of my presence here, smiled and corrected me. He beamed even brighter at my second try, “Can I have a bag, please?”

Here, Friday is couscous day. Christians have their Sabbath on Sundays, but the Islamic holy day is Friday. Every Friday the mosques are packed by 11am as the prayer begins followed by a message. During the early afternoon the city comes back to life with thousands of starving Muslims; this Friday hunger is best satiated by the couscous found in any restaurant, baqqal, or street hanuit.

Last Friday I went with my Arabic-proficient friend, Nick, to find couscous at a nice restaurant by the beach. As we sat down, a young woman came to wait our table. Her usual waitress-smile was transformed into a genuine smile as I exchanged the usual greetings with her and politely ordered couscous with a coke. I told her that would be all and motioned to Nick. He completed his order and she made her move back to the counter turning to flash me a big grin en route.

My very friendly waitress was just one more encouragement to continue pressing forward. She came back and I was able to explain to her that I had recently begun learning Arabic. From here Nick took over and my speaking role in this drama ended. Nick had spared me from breaching the border of my Arabic knowledge and afforded me the opportunity to brighten that nice waitresses’ day. I suppose I will never know if she was more into my Arabic mastery or my studly aura.

While language learning will be a long, arduous process, the future is bright for me in North Africa. I am here to learn language and culture. I am here to bolster our mountain climbing and trekking business. But above all else, I am learning language so I can live out my life as the Bible teaches; boldly sharing my faith with people I meet in my daily activities. This is nothing new to my life, but doing it in Arabic presents a slight twist to my daily routine.

Job Number One

As I find myself at the end of a time of training to live overseas, my mind is swirling in a flurry of emotion, theology, practical insights, and relationships for which I now long. At present, I see the whole two months through a lens tainted gray by the many goodbyes that followed. The impact these friends had on my life remains, but they are all dispersed throughout the continental U.S. preparing for a new frontier. These past few days have been difficult as I process through my time at "the farm". But rather than focus on the grief of breaking away and planting a whole new set of roots (knowing, of course, that they too will be pulled up in two weeks), I choose, rather, to focus on Elbert.

"Whooooaaa!" Let's talk about Elbert. One of the most influential believers to this point in my life, my goal is to give you a glimpse into how God used him to change my life. Furthermore, through this series, I can shore up in my own heart these teachings so as to not lose sight of what is most important over the next few years.

"And He appointed twelve, so that they would be with Him and that He could send them out to preach." -Mark 3:14

I have a very important job to accomplish over the next two years. As an apostle, it is so easy to become sidetracked and to forget or neglect this all-important primary task. Let's begin by defining what job number one is not:

1. Language learning... learning the heart language of the "Jeb" people is pivotal in my attempts to present hope and new life. But to move straight to language learning would be to take job number one for granted. Job number one is so important that it cannot be simply relegated to the status of presupposition.
   
2. Evangelism is essential if people are going to hear the name of Christ, but not my first responsibility.
   
3. Prayer touches on it, but is not all-encompassing of what job number one is.
   
4. Church planting remains the end goal, but is not the focal point of my life.

If I do nothing else the next two years, job number one is to be with Jesus. And the irony of this statement is that I will do more over the next two years simply being with Jesus than by filling my schedule with ministry.

Job number one is to be with Jesus. Another way Biblical writers say this is to use the verb "abide". Recently I have been pondering what it truly means to abide. Jesus says, "Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself unless it abides in the vine, so neither can you unless you abide in Me." (John 15:4)

John gives some more insights into this life of abiding in Christ in his letter, I John.

"If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth; but if we walk in the Light as He Himself is in the Light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin."
-I John 1:6-7

To abide in Jesus is to walk in the Light. And why? Because He is in the Light, therefore that is where we too belong. This sums up most of John's abiding talk throughout the rest of the book. Walking in the light is equivalent to pleasing Him and keeping His commandments. (I John 3:22,24) Walking in the light is the fruit of being filled with the Spirit. (I John 4:13) Walking in the Light produces fellowship with God and men. This is intentionally reminiscent of the greatest two commands Jesus gave. He told us we are to love God with everything we have and to love others.

"The one who loves his brother abides in the Light and there is no cause for stumbling in him." -I John 2:10

Speaking of love for our brothers, John tells us that this also is part of abiding in Jesus. We know that love surpasses all else, including faith and hope. Because love comes from God (I John 4:7), to love is to take part in who He is, therefore causing one to abide in Him.

"As for you, let that abide in you which you heard from the beginning. If what you heard from the beginning abides in you, you also will abide in the Son and in the Father."
-I John 2:24

We abide in Jesus when His word abides in us. We abide in Jesus when His gospel abides in us. Job number one is to be with Jesus. Job number one is to abide in Jesus. Every day. All day. Forever. Walk in the light, love passionately, and delve into the deep waters of God and His word.

Recently, I wrote the following in my journal:

"Father, teach me to abide. I don't understand this. I want so badly to swim in the open sea of the mystery of You. But, yet, I have not learned to take that last step from the shallow end. I read a little, pray a little, and forget only to repeat it again tomorrow all the while hoping that I can pull together three or four straight days of this pseudo-abiding in You.

"Set my heart on You. Always. I need to abide. I don't want to get by just wading around in the three-foot pool of the American church. I want the mystery. I want the depths. I need You to drop me into the middle of the ocean where I'll swim forever and not become dry. No longer can I be only half wet. No more of this half-abiding in You. Soak me. All of me. All the day long. So wet I'll never be dry again. To truly live, I need to abide in the great deep of who You are."

To not abide in Jesus is to abide in anything else. It is to abide in a negative attitude. It is to abide in judgment of my brothers. It is to abide in anger, malice, and idle talk. John would sum up these other objects of my abiding as "the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life." (I John 2:16)

Job number one is to be with Jesus and no one else.

John closes his letter of I John with a sentence that seems to be out of place. Upon further reflection it is entirely appropriate. It further clarifies the answer to the question "what does it mean to abide?"

"Little children, guard yourselves from idols." - I John 5:21