Where the Rust Sleeps

It had been a difficult past few weeks in Nairobi.

One friend had been diagnosed with full-blown AIDS. Two others had died of malaria. The recent bombings in the Congo had brought tragedy to many family members of our French interpreter at the church. A young friend was so distraught with his situation in the Kibera slums, that he was contemplating sneaking aboard a ship at the Mombasa sea-port and trying to steal away to America and I had to talk him out of it.

I was thinking to myself that even though we had been witness to Jesus' hand affecting some miraculous work in the lives of those around us, the pain involved with watching many of those close to us suffer, was overwhelming. I was wondering if it wasn’t time for me and my family to also steal away to America, and leave these hurts behind. It had grown hard to focus on the eternal, when the temporal was screaming so hard at me.

As I sat alone in the living area of our home, my head bowed in my hands, Jesus reminded me of Mary. Mary, with the coke-bottle lensed glasses and funny accent. I had met her as a youth pastor in Spokane, Washington. Her granddaughter introduced me to her one day when I had come to visit.

She was just a wisp of a woman; thin and gray-haired, but there was a quickness to her step and perkiness to her speech that was so attractive and inspiring...I had no idea.

“So Patty, this is your grandma Mary. It’s good to meet you ma’am. How are you?”

“I am fine. It is good to meet you too. I have seen you at the church,” she said somewhat shyly.              “Sorry for my accent. I don’t speak the English so well, you see I am Polish....”

“No problem, I understand you just fine. So how long ago did you leave Poland.”

“It was just after the war. I come and marry my husband. He was a U.S. soldier.”

“So you were in Europe during the war. When did you leave?”

“Not so long after I left Auschwitz.”

My mouth froze.  It took me a moment to regain speech and then timidly, I continued.

“Do you mind if I ask you a couple questions?”

“It’s okay,” she said.

And so we sat down on the couch together for a couple minutes to talk. I didn’t want to push too much, so it was a brief conversation, but she seemed very comfortable in talking about this terrible event of her past.

“Would you be willing to come and share at youth group on a Wednesday evening with some of our teenagers at church?”

She nodded and we scheduled a date. 

When the Wednesday arrived that Mary was going to share with the youth, I could barely handle the anticipation in my own heart. Really, I hadn’t asked for any details about the time she had spent in the camp. Patty had told me that her grandmother was a strong Christian, so I was confident that as long as the Lord bridged the generation gap it would be meaningful time for all of us. I prayed that He would help our group to be sensitive, and for Mary to be comfortable.

We had our usual time of fun, food and games beforehand and then I asked for the kids to circle the wagons for the devotional time. Mary had sat alone for the most part during the opening festivities. Occasionally she shook one of the kids’ hands that greeted her and smiled at their antics as we bounced around the room during the “ice-breakers”.

Now there were forty or so young people circled in chairs.

“Some of you here today probably recognize our guest speaker tonight, but I am going to ask Patty to stand and introduce her to us."
"This is my grandma...Mary Siple," she said with a quick smile and then sat down.

The kids all gave her a closer look for a moment. Some faces showed immediate smiles as they nodded that they had seen her on occasion at Sunday worship. Others couldn’t quite place her, as in a church the size of ours, it was easy to miss this meek, little woman during the hustle and bustle down the hallways at service times.

“Thank you Patty,” I continued, “Most of you probably don’t know some of the special things I discovered about her a while ago, and that’s why I invited her to share with you tonight. You see, in addition to being Patty’s grandma, Mary is special for some other reasons as well. She has lived through some pretty difficult situations in life. Situations that I hope none of you ever come close to, and I will now ask her to share some of that story with us.”

Everyone turned to Mary with kind of a quizzical expression not having a clue what would come next. She took a deep breath and lifted her face to meet ours. The solemn expression disappeared and her sweet smile returned.

“I am Polish,” she began, and for the next twenty minutes or so she outlined for all of us the story of a young girl growing up happily until the day war broke out in Europe and then moved on to how the Nazis had come into her city during World War II, rounding up all of her family and sending them off to various camps. She shared briefly about some of the brutal acts of the soldiers that she had seen or been a part of, but moved through that time very rapidly, and then on to how she had met her husband, married and settled in the United States. Then at the end of her sharing, her voice just trailed off, she pursed her lips and she looked down to the carpeted floor in silence.  
For 30 seconds not a word was spoken.  Then I looked to Mary and said, "I know that we didn't prepare for this, but would you be willing to answer some questions if they have some?"
"Yes."
There was another lengthy quiet.
Then one young lady raised her hand.  "Do you have anything, anything at all to help remind you of your family?"
Mary reached into her coat pocket and pulled out something small, holding it with both hands, like it was fragile, or might escape from her grasp. Her eyes were focused downward to her lap at the object she was holding, and all of us watched her hands in anticipation, still unable to see what she cradled there. Then she raised her hands and we could all see that the small item she began to unfold there was a photograph, tired and wrinkled.

“This is picture of my mother,” she said, “It is only thing I was able to hide from the soldiers who take us that day. I hide it from them the whole time I was in the camp. There is nothing else left to remind me of family except my memory.”

She turned to her left and tenderly placed the picture in the hands of the teenager to that side, like she was handing them a treasured, glass sculpture. She sat silently for a moment, watching the kids who took the picture with equal care and passed it around the circle. There were audible sniffles and quiet tears that were rolling down the cheeks of several in the group, but no one spoke. Finally, another hand was raised in the silence.  It was a young man this time.  His question was simple, but his voice shook when he asked it.
"How...how did you do it?"

Since we had not rehearsed any of the meeting and I obviously had not told her what questions we would want her to answer, I had no idea how she was going to respond to this.

“When the soldiers come, they take everything, “ she said, “they take my mother and father that way, and they take my brother that way.” Her hands were pointing in opposite directions in the room. Her voice was shaky, as she was re-living the words that she heard on that day coming at this tiny young girl, from a dark-figured man with a gun, pushing people around like cattle. Harsh words that echoed in Mary’s ears all the way through the years to the room we were sitting in on this night.

Then the shakiness went away, she swallowed hard and when she spoke again, the words were strong and confident, “They can take away everything...But they can’t take my Jesus!”

I smiled at her, thankful for the conciseness of her words and the anointing of them by the Holy Spirit. There was something about the way she had said “my”, as in “my Jesus” that carried such a strength, commitment and perseverance that it washed away years of apathy for all who were there that night. I will long remember this simple woman of a simple faith who taught me about what is of true value in this life. Amidst pain unbelievable and ugliness unimaginable she held on to what mattered most, knowing that as long she had her God, she would make it, and when all else was taken, she continued to lay up treasures in heaven, where moth and rust will not destroy.

Now, years later, as I sat alone in the living room, I knew that whether it was in Poland, Nairobi or anywhere else; the truth that held Mary’s hope steady, was my truth as well.

Job's Friends

I can remember a message I listened to on the radio by Allistair Begg several years ago in which he said that the best thing that Job's friends did was to sit and cry with him.

I read this in The Chosen by Chaim Potok a few weeks back:  A word is worth one coin, silence is worth two.- The Talmud

There's something being said here about there being a productive type of input vs. input that only thickens the mire.  I fear that we have become a world full of analysts, consultants and theorists....and those are the nice words.  On the downside, we are just critics, pessimists, gossips and cynical consumers, even in the church; which is just so odd to me.

I am a pastor (which has also, always been odd to me).  I didn't grow up in the church; have no generational allegiance to it, and yet I am so completely in love with The Body of Christ, that I just can't bring myself to ever consider parting ways with it, even though I know it is filled with flaws....because, after all it is made up of people, and I are one.

I find my heart breaking as I see over and over new books arriving, and new articles in magazines that continue to speak negatively about the value or purpose of the church.  The worst part is that these condemnations come from folks who consider themselves as part of the church.  It seems to me that often the most revered representatives, at the forefront of this movement, are the ones who can point out the most faults. I wonder...Could it be more helpful if the voices calling out for change, did so, without tossing the existing church over the shoulder like it was a piece of wadded paper? 

I used to use the word, "relevant" a lot...back in the 80's and 90's.  It defined the heart of the choices we were making in ministry.  In these thirty years since, "relevancy" has remained at the center of our focus, but I don't like to use the word anymore because I think that it has become a tool in the hands of the people looking for ways to disengage from or speak negativity about those people I believe that Christ died for.

I have difficulty discrediting an institution that with all of its problems, at its heart has still tried to live out the the Great Commission; not just around the world, but in me.  Absolutely, I see that there are many issues.  I have stood against things in our denomination at times that seem outside that calling in Matthew 28:19-20, and it has cost me personally.  However, I have always attempted to do so as someone within the ranks; hoping that we can apply some critical thinking toward the future, rather than just being critical.  Too much of what I see/read comes from voices that have already relegated the church to a place of irrelevance (There's that word again) or more pointedly, death.  Of course, the church will always live, because the church is people and not buildings or leadership structures.  I know that the analysts understand this, because the works I have read come from the minds of very sharp people, but it is still worth saying out loud.  The Church will never die.

I also want to share a few more general thoughts in response to some of the points being made by the writers I have read:

1.  I agree with the criticism that says: If the Body of Christ becomes less impactful in the world as an organized institution, it will be because we forgot how to maintain connection between those in the body and those who are not.  However, this is not about the ability of the organization or its leadership, but about how we achieve these things as individuals, as people, and with people.

2.  I do not believe it's the fault of the church if I don't see others coming to Jesus.  That is as much about me as it is about anything else.  In me, and through me, are people detecting a hope in something beyond what the world has to give?  Nearly every day I have ever lived as a pastor, I have been drawn to two questions, and in this order:  1) How can I effectively share my faith with people around me? and... 2) How can I inspire others, who are part of my church family, to also, through their own lives, share their faith with others around them?

3.  It is our collective investment into this process as a family, no matter the generation or culture, that truly builds the kingdom and makes for churches to remain vital.  If we can just set aside enough time in our schedules to not only talk and pray (although both are good) but also, to get about being the people of God rather than lamenting the organization's shortcomings, there would be much less need for consultants, analysts etc.

4.  If we aren't a contributor rather than a detractor to this effort, maybe we should just sit down on the side of the road somewhere with Job's friends and cry.  It could be the most helpful thing we do.  I know this sounds like a harsh place to conclude this commentary, but of all the things that we understand to be wrong with the church today, I am wondering if this is the most hurtful.  We cannot expect those outside the body to applaud us for our efforts to build the kingdom, but it is those from within, throwing stones instead of building bridges that troubles me most.

Today, as never before, I feel challenged to re-think the effectiveness of our crucial connections; between us and God, the church family and our community.  Yet, lately, the greatest battle my friends and family in the church face, may not be in finding their own way to share hope in Christ with their neighbor, but in finding a way to escape the defeatist statements they hear from the consultants who are assessing the church from removed places and telling them why bother, the church is a losing enterprise anyway.

When I first became acquainted with Jesus, as a college freshman, it was a wholly new experience, that took place in a wholly new environment.  Since then, I have never lost the weight of concern for keeping my new family of faith (the church) within arm's reach of those I know to have not yet found faith.  This I believe is a sort of necessary tension that is part of the journey for all of us.  Sometimes that tension has felt overwhelming.  When my concerns were heaviest during my first years as a Christ follower, I remember hearing preachers say something like this: "The future is as bright as the promises of God!"   There was a great sense of truth, joy and inspiration mixed into that sentiment.   I knew in my heart, that God's promises were strong; that His character was impervious to change.  Therefore, despite any challenge at hand, all-sufficient grace was still in place and tomorrow was a hopeful proposition. Somehow it seems that the analysts have slighted us in recent days regarding that statement.

It is as if we are being told that God's promises have suffered because of inflation and are no longer as bright as they used to be.  

I guess that what I'm saying in all of this is...I'm just not willing to allow for that word, to be the last word in my life and am praying the same for the Body of Christ.  :)

Grace and peace,

Ev

Broken Appointments

       He was wearing a denim coat with the white, fluffy stuff lining the inside.  It looked warm.  He had a baseball cap with the logo of a trucking company on the front.
      "You have classes or something on Wednesday nights?" he asked when he came into the office.
      "Yes we do.  Actually, we start with a small meal at 5:30 if you want dinner too," I offered.
      "Hmmmm," he said, "I will check with my wife and see what she wants to do.   We are here to meet our daughter.  She said that this was the church that she attends and we could meet her here tonight."
      Then he told me her name.  

      I didn't recognize it.  

      He described her for me, but still I couldn't place her.
      "Well,"  I said, "Why don't you just come at dinner time and watch for her."
      "We'll do that, " he said.

      At 5:30 I was in the fellowship hall as people began to pour in.  We had spaghetti and salad and garlic bread.  The man I had met earlier arrived with his wife about 5:45 and walked around the room looking for their daughter.  They found a seat at the far end of the room and continued to watch the entry doors.
     Around 6:15 he came over to where I sat and paced back and forth between me and the serving counter gazing toward the glass doors at the main entrance to the South end of the church.
     "Most of the time, people who are coming have arrived by now," I said softly.
     "Mmmmhhhm," he responded with a nodding head, as he bit his lip.
     Then he continued, "We came over from Poulsbo today."
     "Are you sure it was our church?"
     "Yep.  This was the name she gave us," big pause, "But the police may have kicked them out.  Her and her boyfriend were living in a tent she told us...probably in that patch of forest across the street.  You see..." another big pause, "She is bi-polar.  We rarely know where she is living.  Been on the streets for a while now.  Struggles with drugs.  But she said she would meet us here."
     "I'm sorry," I said, "Why don't you get some dinner, it's pretty good stuff."
     He reached into his pockets, "What is the cost?"
     "Don't worry about it."
     "No, it's okay, we brought some money we were planning to give to her."
     "Next time," I said, and he put the money back into his pocket.
     He picked up two plates of spaghetti and walked back to the table where his wife was sitting.
 
     About ten minutes later, I went over to their table.
     "I have to go now.  I have a bible study group I lead in just a few minutes.  You are welcome to stay as long as you like."  They nodded.  I could see tears in the woman's eyes.
     "Can I pray for you?"
     "Please," she said.
     The man reached up, removed the ball cap and placed it over his chest.  Their faces bent over the table as I prayed for peace of mind and heart in regards to someone I knew was dearly loved, but I had never met.

     A day later I was thinking on this meeting with the Mom and Dad.  I remembered the nervous anticipation I saw in the Father.  I remembered the somber discouragement that shown on their faces when their daughter did not show up.  I have the sense that this scenario had played out before; perhaps several times.
     In those moments, I think that I saw the heart of God.  I think that He prepares for meetings with us over and over again that we never show up for.  He waits for us in the quiet of the morning before we look at our messages on facebook, email or phone.  He calls to us at the end of the day when our head hits the pillow, wanting for a moment between us and him that will allow for peace to cover our hearts before we close our eyes.  And for those who have left him alone for years, He still waits for us patiently, each and every time we set an appointment and then break it.
     His faithfulness is fortunately never dependent upon ours.  His heart swallows up all of our inconsistencies with certain, unwavering love that will not stop reaching out to us in all of our wilderness wanderings.

     Grace and peace,
     Ev

Adventures in Moving

     My Senior Pastor was out of the office.  I can’t recall where he had gone, but when Sharon showed up on the front steps of the church with her one box full of life’s possessions, I was the only one to greet her. Even the secretary was gone.

     She was very quiet. She said she had left her boyfriend because he was abusive. The black ring around her left eye and the bruises and scratches on her arms attested to her story. All she asked for was a ride to her friend’s mobile home a mile or two from the church. Me, Sharon and her box got into the church van and headed down the road.

     Her jacket was torn, and her hair was as limp and thin as she was. It hung straight to her shoulders. Her skin was empty of color and her face devoid of expression. Her words came almost in a whisper, her eyes never met mine. She softly instructed me toward the unit her friend lived in and in a single motion grabbed her box, was out the van door and striding toward the mobile home. The cool, fall breeze pushed into the van and I shivered as she walked away from me, then turned the vehicle around and started back to the church.

     Sunday morning was crisp and clear but the fall wind still blew cold and biting. I walked into the rear of the sanctuary and began to greet the congregation. There was Sharon sitting quiet and alone in the far right corner of the room. She was wearing a thin summer dress. I couldn’t imagine her walking from the mobile park to the church in such attire. Her dark blue, winter jacket lay across her lap. She spoke to no one but stared straight ahead, hands folded atop her jacket.

     “Hi Sharon,” her eyes looked up to mine and a smile came to her face, “It’s great to have you in church today!” She nodded.

     When the service was over, people quickly exited, we shared the building with a Southern Baptist congregation which had their worship service immediately following ours so the folks had learned to save their conversation for the fellowship time downstairs.

   Sharon didn’t leave though. She was kneeling alone at her pew, her back to the front platform. Quietly, I interrupted.

      “Sharon, is there anything I can pray with you about?”

      “I have to go back to the house.”

      “How come?”

     “I left some important stuff there. I could only carry one box, if someone could take me back, I could get the other. It’s sitting in the living room, all of my things are inside it.”

      “Are you sure it’s important, maybe you just want to leave it there.”

    “It has all of my pictures in it. From when I was a little girl. All of my bathroom things too; my blowdryer and curling iron. I really need those things...especially the pictures.”

      Her eyes were pleading.

     “No problem,” I said, “Let’s just run over there this week and pick it up. Meet me here at the church in the morning and we’ll take the van over get your things.”

      “Thank you Pastor,” she said and rose to her feet. I noticed that there was a slight Southern accent in her voice.

     Mid-morning on Wednesday, Sharon walked into the church office. The secretary hollered back to the rear of the sanctuary where my office was. I grabbed my coat and keys and headed out to meet Sharon.  We climbed into the van .

     “I hope he’s gone when we get there,” she said. “He’s supposed to be out of town this week.”

    I nodded as we sped away down through town and under the freeway overpass toward her home. I was only half paying attention at this point, still thinking about the work back on my desk in the office. It was about the time we began circling the East side of Lake Sammamish that I started to pay attention. Most precisely it was right after she said:

     “Well, maybe he got arrested and is in prison. He’s wanted in seven states...”

Those words trickled out of her mouth like she wasn’t even talking to me. They came out as innocently as dinner conversation. Like, “My, but this is a wonderful casserole, and the rolls just melt in your mouth...did I tell you my boyfriend is wanted in seven states?”

     “Wanted for what?” I said.

     “Oh,” she said, seeming surprised that I was asking.

     “He’s wanted in Montana for car theft, Wyoming for assault, Nevada for drug-dealing....”

     She went on from there. In some states he was wanted for numerous crimes.  Now, I must say at this point that I never have seen myself as a macho-man.  I would rather negotiate than go to battle, and I am no hero. In any case, there was a sense in the pit of my stomach that I should have turned around right then, but something about Sharon’s pitiful state kept me driving that old silver van down the road. As we continued toward our destination, I kept telling myself, “Don’t worry, someone else is in control of this whole endeavor.”

     We went up a long hill and through a heavily forested area, past a gas-mart and a wrecking yard.

     “Why would you get involved with someone like that?” I asked.

    “Well...He used to love me...I think. Things were different back when we first got together. We’ve been together for 12 years. It’s just gotten to be too hard now. He scares me sometimes. When he hits me, he’s so angry...it really scares me.”

     Her words were so soft and quiet, emotionless. Her hands were folded and in her lap, palms up, like she was holding a book and reading from it. She toyed with a ring on her finger.

    “The last time I told him I was going to leave him was after he beat me up pretty good...he went back to the closet and got out his rifle and cleaned it real slow, all night long. Turn right here.”

    And there we were. Pulling up and into the driveway of a wanted criminal who for all I knew was still cleaning his rifle, or perhaps now that it was cleaned, it could fire that much more readily upon unsuspecting youth pastors just trying to help someone and truly not wanting to cause anyone any trouble.

     Sharon hopped out of the van.

   “I should be just a minute,” she said, and she was gone. I wondered if I should keep the motor running for a quick get-away.

    She walked up to the front door. It was locked. She disappeared around the back of the house. I sat uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, trying to convince myself that the end of this story was going to be mundane.

    Suddenly the once-locked front door burst open and Sharon came running through it with a box in her hands,

    “Start the car! Start the car!” she shouted.

     I did as I was told.

    A few seconds later, about twenty yards behind, a criminal burst through the door behind her. Sharon climbed into the van spilling the contents of the box onto the floor between her seat and mine. We both locked our doors. She didn’t need to tell me it was time to go. I looked behind me down the drive to the street to see if the road was clear.

     Then I faced the front again and put the car in reverse. Seeing that he could not catch Sharon the man headed straight for the van. He carried some kind of metal bar in his hand. It could have been a crescent wrench or pry bar of some kind. As we were backing down the hill, he took flight and landed on the hood of the van, his face staring straight into mine through the front windshield. He had long blonde hair, with darker side burns and a moustache. There was a scar on his forehead, his eyes were blue and his teeth were yellow. I think he had fillings in all of his back teeth. He was screaming something which I cannot recall at this time. I turned away from him as we rapidly backed down the drive and swung the back end of the van to my left. The momentum from the turn flung the man from the hood of the van and onto the road. I threw the gear-shift into drive and we were gone.

     My heart was pounding! We zipped down the road and when I saw that wrecking yard we had passed on the way to the house, I pulled in behind the office, making sure the van was parked out of sight. Sharon and I went inside and she called the police, who came and arrested her ex-boyfriend. The rest of this account can be read in True Detective Stories magazine volume IX, 1985...Actually that is not true. The rest of the story is not so wild. Sharon stayed on with us at the church for some time. Her boyfriend was sent off to prison and we had the privilege of helping her get into an apartment and start her life over again. It was a true blessing to be a part.

     Now, in hindsight I cannot draw any particular spiritual analogy from this story. All of my efforts to be used by the Lord have not been quite so dramatic, in fact most would have very little chance of being told on CNN. Yet, one thing I can say truthfully is this, my journey in Christ has seldom been boring. You see, Christianity was not meant to be a spectator sport. I think that when Christ promised us that in him we would have life and that life in Him would be “life more abundant,” (John 10:10) he wasn’t kidding around.

     I heard Tony Campolo once say, “You will know you are a Christian when your heart is broken by the things that break the heart of God...” That is what I want. I desire to be so in-tune with what the Lord is feeling when he walks through life in my shoes that I will see, hear, feel and touch and love in the manner he would. I must confess that I am a long way off from that goal.

     Every once in awhile I hit in right on the nose though, and that’s when the adventure begins. That’s when I know that I have tapped into, “the life more abundant.” I think that most of us would be amazed at how we could be used if we would just get up off our faith sometimes and allow God to get us involved with what He’s doing right under our noses.

     BTW - For future reference, keep the van running...

The Teacher Teaches When The Student Arrives

The teacher arrived outside the church entry on December 19.  His name was Will.  He was a young man; African-American.  He quietly asked if I had some way to help with costs for prescription medication and he showed me the paperwork.

In the parking lot, our conversation drifted toward his past.  
Basketball.  High School.  College.  Struggle.

He had a friend who seemed to have found a truth that evaded his own journey.  The friend had been absent from his life for a while now, but in the teacher's mind there was still a hand extended in invitation.  

"He's done a complete turnaround," Will said.  
His eyes were looking outside the passenger window of my car, but they were focused on an image beyond the visible.
"I should go back home and see him again.  That's what I should do.  It's been a long time."

He asked if I would pray with him, and I did. 

It didn't work out to get the prescription filled because of some insurance problems.  So, we got cheeseburgers instead and then headed to Kent Station so Will could catch a bus home.  Home to family.  Home to a friend that may lend him more than money.

In the past hour, the conversation and prayer mixed with subtle pause and reflection had taken us to a place deeper than just acquaintance.  He bit his lip when the car pulled to the curb and I asked him, "How should I continue to pray for you?"

He looked back at me for a brief second, making truthful eye-contact and then my teacher answered, "From the moment the door closes behind me," and he was gone. 

My teacher......He had given me instruction on how to pray.  My question had been focused on gaining a list of particulars that I might approach God with, on his behalf, like pins to knock down with a bowling ball.  His response redirected my thinking.

My first thoughts were that people like Will lived in such a sad state; a place of shifting sand, with only fleeting moments of solid footing.  And for the following few days I thought often of he and others like him sympathetically.

Then, perhaps three days later, I came to a truth about myself.  My teacher had told of his own story, but it carried with it the lesson for me. 

Jesus said,  “Are you tired? Worn out?...Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life..." (Matt. 11:28, MSG) 
These words remind me that there is a place of security and peace, but I will never find it on a map...
Truth #1 - It isn't the passenger seat of my VW.  Will knew that.  What he was saying was that in those few shared moments together, he had encountered Jesus, and he wasn't sure when that would next happen.  
Truth #2 - It isn't a place at all.  It is only in the company of Jesus that I find real security and peace...and He can be found at the whisper of his name; anywhere.
Truth #3 - My sympathy for, "Will and others like him," is not terrible.  However, in some ways it can take me away from the understanding that I need that security and peace as much as anyone.  No matter how long I live, no matter how much I know, or how much that I think I know...without the consistency of His grace, I am...well, we all are, knocking on the door outside the church hoping to get our prescription filled, hoping that we might get through the struggles of life.

Grace and peace,
Ev

What If He Didn't Need Our Little Gifts

     We first met Jasmina during one of the many trips to IKEA made to outfit three coffee shop churches across Poland.  She was trying to enroll customers in their credit card program.  When we responded to her introduction inquiry in English instead of Polish, she quickly turned her head and asked, "Are you American or British?"  With that, we began a relationship that continues (via facebook) up to the present.

     Her father was an Art Professor in a university in Egypt where she had grown up.  Her boyfriend an Art major in Poland.  Together, the two of them had put together a year long exhibition located in an old, cold, crumbling, red-brick building that had not been in use for several decades.  

     They were incredibly smart, perceptive young people; viewing life, the world and faith from an adventurously optimistic, post-Christian perspective.  Listening to their thoughts, responding to their honest and probing questions was terrific input as we developed our approach to missions in Poland.

     During one of our meals together,  at a pause in the conversation she leaned in and said, "I have been looking at some video on the internet of the American, Evangelical church."

     Rhonda and I glanced warily across the table at each other.

     She continued, "It is very interesting to me to view the American church.  But, I have to ask you a question.  If the point is to introduce people to God as you have mentioned...Why do you offer all of the little gifts?"
     "What do you mean by little gifts?" Rhonda asked.
     I thought back to a newspaper story I remembered reading while pastoring a church in Texas.  It told of one of the churches in Corpus Christi giving away a BMW as a prize for one lucky attender at Easter.  This wasn't quite what Jasmina was getting at.
     "People are invited to come and meet God, but it looks and feels more like a show with the lights dimmed and other special effects enticing people along the way... and so many promises that God will give people things; make them healthy, prosperous……you know, little gifts.    It seems like if people really want to meet God, that they wouldn't need anything else in order to come. Shouldn't He be enough?"
   
     Wow….Shouldn't meeting God be enough?

     It's easy for me to distance myself from the decision to use a free BMW as an enticement to come to church, but does the question go deeper than that?  I think so.  Had the question come from a nasty debate, or condescending attitude in my friend, I would have probably responded with greater defensiveness, but the question and the questioner arrived from a place of innocence.  It made me ask myself this: "What kind of 'little gifts' do we offer in the gatherings that I have led, that actually might distract people from a true encounter with God rather than draw them toward Him?"  And maybe a second question: "How did we arrive at this place?"  
     I believe that the answers to both of these questions come together in this next story…

    Our transition back to the US from Eastern Europe was challenging.  Leading a church of people in the Pacific Northwest is vastly different than starting coffee houses.   We were just getting our feet on the ground, when I received an anonymous letter in the mail.  The basics of the note said this, "I began attending church here to support my husband…But as you have shared your messages week after week, I am beginning to feel like coming to church has been at least as much for me as it has been for him.  I was prepared to be bored and uninterested, but instead I have been encouraged and inspired.  Furthermore, the Jesus that you are speaking about is making more sense to me all the time and I feel him speaking to me.  I have not yet asked him into my heart, but I think that will come soon."  

     A few weeks later, at the conclusion of the service a man and woman were standing near the front of the platform waiting to speak to me.  The woman introduced herself as Dee and told me that she was the one who had written the letter I just mentioned.  Her husband stood next to her.  He later told me that he had gone through significant struggles in his life; spiritually and physically, but that he felt God had spoken to him while on what could have been his "deathbed" in the hospital and called him back to faith.  Several months later, I had the privilege to pray with both of them in my office, and Dee took the final step in entering into a relationship with her new friend and savior, Jesus.  In the following year, God drew ever closer to both of them.  Then some very difficult news came.  Dee was diagnosed with cancer.  Her physical strength began to drain out of her, even as her spiritual strength was growing.  About a month and a half ago, she left this earthly existence and went to meet the Jesus she had just come to know.  During her last weeks with us, she more and more earnestly prayed for her children and their spiritual lives.  I had met two of them earlier, but during preparation for Dee's funeral I had the chance to connect again.  Those two were in attendance the Sunday afterward.  They were in attendance the Sunday after that, and again the Sunday after that.  In fact, they haven't missed a Sunday since the day Dee went home to heaven.
     About three weeks ago someone said to them, "It is so nice that you have honored Dee by coming  to church."
     They responded by saying, "At first, that is why we came….but now we are coming for ourselves."
     Two weeks ago, during a moment in the service that would have to be described as an old school invitation, Adam and Ashley walked to an altar and committed their lives to Christ, in almost an identical way as Dee did.  There were no little gifts involved.

     When I piece these two stories together, here is what I come to...  Just like any other church leader, I want to do whatever I can to draw others toward hearing the voice of God speak to them.  I want to make it as palatable and understandable as possible. The Holy Spirit has been called many things, The Gentle Persuader, The Hound of Heaven etc.  I get where those terms come from, but I guess my favorite term is the one used from the original Greek definition for Paraclete (the oft-used New Testament term for the Holy Spirit)….He is the One who comes alongside.  When the Holy Spirit truly comes alongside someone, we don't need to offer any little gifts.  They….will….hear…Him.  Dee heard Him, and she was a Grandma.  Adam and Ashley heard Him and they are a young married couple.  His voice crosses over age and culture.  It can be heard with the lights up or the lights dimmed.  He doesn't need our assistance. He just wants us in the church to faithfully make room in our services for him to be lifted up, in music, in spoken word or any other form, and He will take care of the rest.  God is not dead….He isn't even sick.
      Now here is the second half of the question that Jasmina voiced….How did we get here?  Remember the story in 2 Samuel 6:6 where the fellow named Uzzah reached out to steady the ark and made an early exit to heaven because of it?  We have built our systems of church management and worship presentations as though the Holy Spirit needed our talents to make His voice more relevant.  We fine-tuned, edited, and marketed our vision into air-tight, seamless video-worthy productions that barely needed the divine to be successful.  We propped up God like he needed our help...We steadied the ark....but lost something in the process.

     There is one name I left out of Dee's story of coming to Jesus.  Her husband's name is Stanley.  Stanley was faithful in following the voice of God in his life.  Dee saw the change in him and came to church where the Holy Spirit met her.  Adam and Ashley witnessed how Dee and Stanley were being changed and came to church for the same reason.  The Holy Spirit met them there as well.  It was that simple.  What I believe has happened in the church in the last couple decades or so, is that we moved away from seeing the power of an individual's changed life as being the natural way for the Holy Spirit to speak to others about the reality of Jesus.  Instead we looked to our church programming capabilities as the emphasis for drawing people into worship.  The effect has been the explosion of the mega-church, but the lack of new people meeting Jesus.  Though many churches have grown in size in recent years, the actual number of Christ followers in most areas has stayed roughly the same.
      Ouch.  Please don't tell anyone, but I fret about this sometimes.  At the church I lead, we try to do our best to present a quality message and quality music in a quality worship environment each Sunday.  We work to have quality programming for children, youth and adults.  I tell myself that I believe this to be important because of the biblical assertion to "do everything as if you are doing it unto the Lord."  And, I believe this to be a true and fair statement as applied to church leadership. But the other reality is this….I am also challenged by the constant concern about those who may leave and go to another church because their view is that our definition of quality is not up to the standards as another churches definition of quality and that other church is only another 10 minutes down the road so…. 
      So, where does all this lead?  I don't know the answer to that for everyone.  But as for me,  :) ….I want to call us home.  I want for the church that I have been entrusted with leading to take back the calling to be personal sharers of faith.  By saying that, I am NOT going to be passing out tracts, and begin anew the  emphasis on pre-programmed, step-driven evangelism.  I think it is more simple than that.  A few weeks ago, I asked for each person to listen for God to give them one word; one word that they could pass on to someone who didn't know Him that was their descriptive word of His faithfulness in their life.  My belief is that when we become people who wear that one word in such a way that Jesus is seen through it,  it can become attractive to people around us.  I don't know what Stanley's word was during the last two years, but  God used it to speak to Dee.  I don't know if it was the same word Dee and Stanley shared, but whatever it was, it spoke to Adam and Ashley.  When we, each of us live in the word of our testimony of His faithfulness, the church doesn't need to hold the ark steady or offer any little gifts.
His presence will be real.
His presence will be alive.
It will span cultures.
It will span generations.
It will draw others unto Him.

Grace and peace,
Ev
                

   
     

     

Kicking At Doors

    It was something that happened several years ago now; back when we lived in Poland.  However, when the weather turns cold, my mind often runs back to that evening. It must have been in late October or early November. Sometime after 11pm. Roosevelta street in Poznan, was mostly an empty road at that hour. 

     It was cold. Nothing like it is in mid-winter, but it was cold. 

   We were in the car, stopped at a street light, when suddenly an old man began half running, half shuffling across the street. He was wrapped in a bedspread and wearing slippers. He sort of checked to make sure there were no trams coming and sort of made sure there were no cars, but mostly he was focused on the other side of the road and mostly he was oblivious to everything else. Rhonda noticed him first and felt we should do something to help him. So, Ania (a co-worker who we were taking home at the time) and I got out and walked over to the old man.

    By now he was a block or so ahead of us. We watched him go from one doorway to the next, speaking into the apartment intercom systems, kicking at the doors, occasionally rapping on the storefront windows with a magnifying glass and peering intently inside.

     When we caught up to him, I put my arm around him and steered back around in the direction from whence he had come. When Ania was finally able to get his attention and talk with him, he said that he lived in one of these buildings and that he was just trying to find which one. He said he was 83 years old. One end of the bedspread was tied to a wrist, the other to an ankle. Underwear and slippers completed the ensemble.

    Cut to the chase…Through a series of guesses, deductions and near miraculous coincidences, Rhonda and Ania returned our friend to where he was living…about 3 blocks in the opposite direction from where he had been headed. When he found his house…where he lived alone…he was irked that no one let him in when he buzzed his room from the stoop outside. He shouted at the intercom that was calling his apartment, where of course nobody answered. I shook my head. We all felt badly for him, and for his situation.

     His neighbor explained that our friend had been showing signs of Alzheimer’s for the past several months. So, obviously there was a rationale for his behavior. It was such an odd thing to digest; his image still clear in my mind as I think of it. And the capper; what made him the angriest, was that there was nobody home to fix the mess that he got himself into when he left the house. The idea that came to me was this: I wonder how often I have kicked at the door and grumbled at the night for shutting me out in the cold, when the decision to wander off into the darkness had been all mine.

      “The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.” John 1:5