It is a strange concept--continually leave a place and never knowing who you will find alive upon your return. Within a mere four months of my stepping away from Micah this past July, one of our Isaiah boys went back to the streets and was murdered by the gangs.
Though this is no new story for us, the same tragic question still has yet to be resolved: why leave us--an open-armed, feed-you-til-your-stuffed-on-food-and-love family--to return to the starving streets? What do those streets really offer?
I'll tell you what they offer: a lie.
A few years ago, I introduced our teenage boys' Bible class with a question: "Why do people want to be in gangs?"
My typically unresponsive group of gotta-luv-em punks quickly proved my hypothesis: they aren't mute after all. Answers flew back at me: family, belonging, protection, provision, purpose, love... All the things, ironically, that the gangs also threaten to take away if you 'make a wrong move.' Birds' eye view, we know that the 'family' of a gang is really no family at all. A gang feeds on fear--out for itself. I'll protect you so you'll protect me. You cross over onto the wrong side, you're out. No mercy. Leaving its members cowering under the promise of life--yet always fearing death, from those outside and even from your own. What life is that--always pleading for survival? What belonging is found there--trapped alone in a body bag? Again I ask, why do people want to be in gangs?
It would be easy to judge, wouldn't it? From this bird's eye view. But how often do we live this way--searching for our own group that is going to keep us safe from 'the others.' From those we don't understand. From those who are different than us. For those who are out to kill us--maybe not physically even, but our reputation, our culture, our way of life. Racism--gangs whose label is their coloring. Popularity--the jocks and the computer nerds. Class systems. Politics. Nationality. Whether its a gun in the hand, a bomb in the storehouse, or an insult in the mouth--gang violence infiltrates humanity.
Big scale or small, I tell you again what all these gangs offer: A LIE.
Yes, our hearts long to find an identity in something bigger than ourselves. Our hearts long for family, protection, purpose, glory, love. And we will do almost anything to get it... even kill.
Is this really what we want to become? Murderers? All so that we can 'survive'? Survive what--a few tragic, fear-filled days longer?! There has to be a way out!
There is.
I know of one gang that doesn't operate by fear but by love. A gang that isn't constantly worried about death, because it can never die and neither will its members. A gang that doesn't retaliate, but returns evil for good. A gang that when you 'slip up', instead of finding your death sentence, you find mercy. A gang who doesn't need to fight for territory, because its territory is secure forever. An inheritance that can't be stolen. I am in this gang. The gang of Jesus Christ.
No, the members of this gang don't always perfectly live out its mission. But those members are covered by their leader's name. Blood money is a pretty big deal in any gang--this one, too. But in this case, the blood spilled by the leader doesn't scream 'revenge!' This gang's true followers know that this blood means mercy. This blood means life. The members of this gang take Jesus' promise seriously: eternal life. Guess what that means? All those enemy gangs out there have no weapon that can scare us off. Our weapon--love. Because our mission is not to exterminate the people we see coming after us. Our mission is to love them into our gang. United as one, under the perfect life-giving leader: Jesus Christ. His mission will not fail. His family is forever. And the cost of entering his gang--our own cross-is worth every ounce of blood spilt. His reward? Life forever. With him. The God of Love. Praise be to Jesus!
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Because He Said So
In my last month in Honduras I found myself--per usual--in a van full of smelly teen boys packed Sardines-style on top of our Houston visitors. Throughout the week I had been reliving the "wow-God's-kingdom-is-so-evident-here" experience through the team members' fresh eyes. Knowing these would be some of my last Micah-moments, I was grateful for this renewed vision, and yet sharpened eyesight also meant greater awareness of the coming loss. So... why was I leaving Honduras again? Oh, right, the John thing...
Now, as I had been reviewing my John memorization in preparation for the coming call back to America, an unexpected story had begun to strike me. The wedding at Cana. When you spend a lot of time in a Scripture passage nuances begin surfacing that otherwise remain covered. In this case: the servants. Let me catch you up for those of you who aren't as immersed in this story. Jesus is at a wedding. The wine runs out. (Ultimate wedding faux pax. Shameful for the whole family... in a small town... where no one will ever forget it... Yikes!). Fast forward. Jesus tells the servants to fill a bunch of jars with water. Six of them. 20-30 gallons each. A lot of water filling... in bathing jars... while everyone else is freaking out about the wine. Fast forward. Jesus turns water into wine. Everybody parties.
Okay, so what is that nuance with the servants that I was telling you about? Think about it: the servants took all their time to put a bunch of water in jars while everyone else must have wanted them to be dealing with the whole no-wine situation. Imagine the looks they got! The comments! Seriously? Don't you realize the bride is balling her eyes out for the shame this will bring to the family and you are filling up water jugs?! What a waste of time! Why aren't you freaking out about this? And still they kept filling. And filling. And filling. Until Jesus told them to take some out. Wait a minute, you just had us fill the jars and now you want us to empty them!? Yes. Doesn't make sense? Maybe not to you, but it did to Jesus. He knew what he was doing.
And Jesus still knows what he is doing, even when we don't. So let's fast forward shall we? To over two thousand years later, to me, to this situation right now. Why was I leaving Honduras? And for America of all places?! From a social justice standpoint, it definitely didn't make much sense. All I had to do was peer for two minutes out that van window to see shack after shack, boney dogs and hungry people, abandoned teens, and banged up lives. Looking around at all the injustice and need, the most reasonable way I seemed to be "of service" to God's kingdom was right where I already was--dealing with "the issues" (which, in Honduras, is NOT a shortage of wine I may add). Taking time away from the hustle and bustle of daily life at our home of 20 in-need-of-attention teenagers in order to memorize chunks of a letter written by some fisherman 2000 years ago had already seemed crazy enough--now this? Really, now, what in the world was I doing?!?
Probably best to get out of my own head in these situations. Thank the Lord for the Houston team currently sitting amongst us--one of which being my own pastor, John Crantz. Taking advantage of his consistently treasured up wisdom, I let him into some of this processing. And he shared some of that treasure (I knew he would).
John: Why did the servants fill the jars?
Me: Uh.... Jesus speaks with authority?
John: Jesus told them to.
Me: Right. Yes--that.
John: Why are you doing "The Gospel of John"?
Me: Because... Jesus told me to.
John: *content* Ok! That's all you need.
I'm doing this because Jesus told me to... Okay. Okay, that's all I need.
Let's fast forward again. I'm here. In America. In rehearsals. Doing what Jesus told me to do... Meanwhile, the world is going nuts. And for good reason. But let's be honest, Jesus said this would happen. That there would always be poverty in this world. That nation would rise against nation. That we would hear of wars and rumors of wars. That people would even kill others thinking that they were offering service to God--all because they didn't actually know Him.
Meanwhile, when the wine seems to have run out in the world, here I am filling up jars. What am I really doing here, God? Following you, Jesus--wherever you ask me to go, doing whatever you ask me to do, no matter how crazy and irrelevant it may seem to everyone else. Why? I do what Jesus tells me to do because he knows what he is doing. He sees the big picture and he cares about people more than any of us. Jesus turns water into wine, and when he does I don't just want to be one of the guests at the party who gets a really good drink but doesn't know where it comes from--I want to be one of his servants that watched it all happen. Because the greatest joy doesn't come from the party itself; the greatest joy comes from knowing the One who is throwing it.
Serve him with me. Taste and see: the Lord is good.
Now, as I had been reviewing my John memorization in preparation for the coming call back to America, an unexpected story had begun to strike me. The wedding at Cana. When you spend a lot of time in a Scripture passage nuances begin surfacing that otherwise remain covered. In this case: the servants. Let me catch you up for those of you who aren't as immersed in this story. Jesus is at a wedding. The wine runs out. (Ultimate wedding faux pax. Shameful for the whole family... in a small town... where no one will ever forget it... Yikes!). Fast forward. Jesus tells the servants to fill a bunch of jars with water. Six of them. 20-30 gallons each. A lot of water filling... in bathing jars... while everyone else is freaking out about the wine. Fast forward. Jesus turns water into wine. Everybody parties.
Okay, so what is that nuance with the servants that I was telling you about? Think about it: the servants took all their time to put a bunch of water in jars while everyone else must have wanted them to be dealing with the whole no-wine situation. Imagine the looks they got! The comments! Seriously? Don't you realize the bride is balling her eyes out for the shame this will bring to the family and you are filling up water jugs?! What a waste of time! Why aren't you freaking out about this? And still they kept filling. And filling. And filling. Until Jesus told them to take some out. Wait a minute, you just had us fill the jars and now you want us to empty them!? Yes. Doesn't make sense? Maybe not to you, but it did to Jesus. He knew what he was doing.
And Jesus still knows what he is doing, even when we don't. So let's fast forward shall we? To over two thousand years later, to me, to this situation right now. Why was I leaving Honduras? And for America of all places?! From a social justice standpoint, it definitely didn't make much sense. All I had to do was peer for two minutes out that van window to see shack after shack, boney dogs and hungry people, abandoned teens, and banged up lives. Looking around at all the injustice and need, the most reasonable way I seemed to be "of service" to God's kingdom was right where I already was--dealing with "the issues" (which, in Honduras, is NOT a shortage of wine I may add). Taking time away from the hustle and bustle of daily life at our home of 20 in-need-of-attention teenagers in order to memorize chunks of a letter written by some fisherman 2000 years ago had already seemed crazy enough--now this? Really, now, what in the world was I doing?!?
Probably best to get out of my own head in these situations. Thank the Lord for the Houston team currently sitting amongst us--one of which being my own pastor, John Crantz. Taking advantage of his consistently treasured up wisdom, I let him into some of this processing. And he shared some of that treasure (I knew he would).
John: Why did the servants fill the jars?
Me: Uh.... Jesus speaks with authority?
John: Jesus told them to.
Me: Right. Yes--that.
John: Why are you doing "The Gospel of John"?
Me: Because... Jesus told me to.
John: *content* Ok! That's all you need.
I'm doing this because Jesus told me to... Okay. Okay, that's all I need.
Let's fast forward again. I'm here. In America. In rehearsals. Doing what Jesus told me to do... Meanwhile, the world is going nuts. And for good reason. But let's be honest, Jesus said this would happen. That there would always be poverty in this world. That nation would rise against nation. That we would hear of wars and rumors of wars. That people would even kill others thinking that they were offering service to God--all because they didn't actually know Him.
Meanwhile, when the wine seems to have run out in the world, here I am filling up jars. What am I really doing here, God? Following you, Jesus--wherever you ask me to go, doing whatever you ask me to do, no matter how crazy and irrelevant it may seem to everyone else. Why? I do what Jesus tells me to do because he knows what he is doing. He sees the big picture and he cares about people more than any of us. Jesus turns water into wine, and when he does I don't just want to be one of the guests at the party who gets a really good drink but doesn't know where it comes from--I want to be one of his servants that watched it all happen. Because the greatest joy doesn't come from the party itself; the greatest joy comes from knowing the One who is throwing it.
Serve him with me. Taste and see: the Lord is good.
Friday, July 7, 2017
Feeding Love-Starved Hearts
"What is the biggest thing you learned from your time at Micah?" This is the already-frequented question (as if the plane ride had given me enough time to process this). Sifting through my grief-stricken heart, a response finally surfaces: "Faith... and love."
When first called to Micah, I came knowing the Lord loved me and he called me. And if he called me, I would go--no questions asked. (Actually, questions were asked, they just weren't deal-breakers). I knew the Lord loved me, yes, but I had no idea how much until I saw how much he loved these boys... through how much love he gave me for them--no questions asked.
Case and point: Axel Josue. Our newest Micah boy. Fresh off the streets and as edgy as they come. A thirteen-year-old firecracker--you don't have to come within 100 feet to hear the slurs, threats, and cascade of curse-words. Short and scrawny, physical threats are laughable (but if you ask my scalp, the hair pulling is real). Listening skills? Yeah right! This kid has ruled his own life on the streets--why would our word make any impact?
Me: Put the knife away. Anna can cut the watermelon for you.
Axel: (Approaches me with said knife in a threatening manner.... testing me.)
Me: (Doesn't flinch) Give the knife to Anna.
Axel: (Puts down the knife but not his bravado) I am the shit. No one can tell me what to do!
Axel Josue. Define him by all his words and all his actions, and you may not find anything worth loving. But if you find nothing worth loving, it is because you have defined him wrong. I confess, I have. But in those moments, I was defining him by the wrong thing.
The turning point: Michael Miller, a veteran of ceaseless compassion.
The shift in my approach toward Axel came the morning I was his one-on-one companion of the day. As I followed him around the Micah property (often sneakily since he specialized in running out of my sight), Axel grabbed another boy's bicycle and rode shamelessly into the house. Chasing him down I attempted my patient yet stern mom-voice "No. No. No. No." I was determined to show him my love through discipline, so when he finally parked his faithful steed in his bedroom I gave him two options: "You can either bring the bike back outside or you can ask Michael permission to keep it in your room." Deep down kids crave boundaries, and so this is how I determined to love him. While this may be true, I missed an essential element: trust. I hadn't yet built that with Axel--so all the boundaries I was attempting to set for his benefit meant nothing to him. And so Axel kept the bike in his bedroom and stormed off--to again do whatever he wanted. Until what he wanted was to do something with me: play Uno. "When you take the bike outside or ask for permission I will play," I leveraged my newfound power with him. Axel went to get his bike.... but not to bring outside. To do circles. In the living room. Over and over again. So what did I do? Go get Michael. To back me up. Did he? No.
Me: Can you tell Axel to bring the bike outside? He isn't listening to me!
Michael: Actually, right now I'm not concerned about him having the bike inside.
Me: (Freaks out that Axel is stomping all over us and getting whatever he wants and how is he going to know we love him if we just let him be a monster blah blah blah).
After an I'm-not-proud-of-this pity party for not feeling respected/stood-up-for, I finally apologized to Michael for my initial resistance towards his leadership and heard him out. Michael graciously explained how he believes what Axel needs right now is our unconditional love. A love he wasn't shown by his parents or by the streets or by the shelters who'd abused him in more ways than I am able to share. He needs love from the bottom up. Maslow's hierarchy of needs--base level: air, water, food. Next up, safety. This kid needs us to feed him first. That's it. And next up--safety. He needs to know that no matter how unloving he can be towards us, we aren't leaving. With time, Michael said, we'll start adding the boundaries, little by little.
I'll admit, this approach was foreign to me. But that's because I don't remember having passed through those first steps. They were givens to me. I learned I would be fed as an infant. Safely coddled in my mother's arms. Axel had not. So, I set my mind on following Michael's advice--whether or not I fully bought into this approach--to love him as an infant (who just happens to be big and mouthy enough to make the temper tantrums a whole lot more volatile). Food and presence. Okay. Let's do this--all of us! As a team--together.
And it really has been a group effort--we have come at him from all sides. One of our summer interns, Axel's main companion, has taken the brunt of his fury. Axel once strut around showing off his perceived lacky by calling him "Mi perra!" (Translation: my bitch). The first day of our First Presbyterian group visit, Axel introduced himself by jumping on the mall's food court table and "dancing" (err, 'girating' may be a better word). "He's new," one of our missionaries smiled awkwardly at our shocked guests. At one point I even remember him slapping me. With a smile and sparkle in my eye, Jesus words' to "turn the other cheek" came to mind. So I did, literally. Axel's response? Sheer confusion. After a long perplexed stare, he walked away. We were beginning to love the hate out of him.
Little glimpse: One afternoon our missionary Jessica brought Axel and a few friends to the movies. Axel's determination to cause mayhem certainly caused a number of how-on-earth-are-you-letting-him-_____ stares. Surrendering her own reputation Jessica kept going, she kept loving him... and Axel noticed. After throwing his popcorn at her, he also threw her a few unexpected words: "You know we love you right?" I imagine Jess thinking to herself: "No I didn't actually." But then Jess noticed something: Axel was starting to listen without being told. In little ways like picking up trash or fastening his seatbelt. Once they finally pulled back up to the Micah property, Axel turned to the one who'd loved him and said with sincerity: "Thank you."
Axel Josue. Bravado, knives, fists, and pomp... all just a cover for his love-starved heart. When we love him, he often doesn't understand it. And because he doesn't understand it, he doesn't trust it. But trust takes time, and slowly he is beginning to. I've seen it. He is changing. Come to think of it, maybe it's not that he is changing into someone different, but rather that he is finally finding finding who he truly is. The person he was made to be--the person that is unveiled when he finds the safety of knowing he is loved no matter what. The kind of no-matter-what-ness that has turned a tough-edged knife fighting, you-can't-hurt-me troubled teen into a child who breaks down weeping over a scraped-knee. Why? He's starting to find that we are a safe place for all of those wounds to be opened. To be healed.
And so, what have I learned at Micah? Faith.... love. Faith that God loves us no-matter-what. That his love is relentless. That he would go to the cross and back to show us that there is no slur, no fist, no nail we could throw at him that would stop him from relentlessly loving the hate out of us. And as we take step by step in trusting that his love will never stop, we finally find who we really are. Jesus is the bread our love-starved hearts are craving. None of the givenness of the love we have received from anyone else will cut it. That love fails, it dies. Literally. We all know deep down that death is coming--if not metaphorically, physically. That's why we are so scared. But with Jesus we don't have to be. Not only will he love us to death, he loves us back to life. He showed his disciples his resurrected body and told them to spread the word so we would know that his love never ends. And once we fill up on Jesus' no-matter-what-forever love, then we finally have the love we need to feed others, too. And, don't worry, there is more than enough to go around.
When first called to Micah, I came knowing the Lord loved me and he called me. And if he called me, I would go--no questions asked. (Actually, questions were asked, they just weren't deal-breakers). I knew the Lord loved me, yes, but I had no idea how much until I saw how much he loved these boys... through how much love he gave me for them--no questions asked.
Case and point: Axel Josue. Our newest Micah boy. Fresh off the streets and as edgy as they come. A thirteen-year-old firecracker--you don't have to come within 100 feet to hear the slurs, threats, and cascade of curse-words. Short and scrawny, physical threats are laughable (but if you ask my scalp, the hair pulling is real). Listening skills? Yeah right! This kid has ruled his own life on the streets--why would our word make any impact?
Me: Put the knife away. Anna can cut the watermelon for you.
Axel: (Approaches me with said knife in a threatening manner.... testing me.)
Me: (Doesn't flinch) Give the knife to Anna.
Axel: (Puts down the knife but not his bravado) I am the shit. No one can tell me what to do!
Axel Josue. Define him by all his words and all his actions, and you may not find anything worth loving. But if you find nothing worth loving, it is because you have defined him wrong. I confess, I have. But in those moments, I was defining him by the wrong thing.
The turning point: Michael Miller, a veteran of ceaseless compassion.
The shift in my approach toward Axel came the morning I was his one-on-one companion of the day. As I followed him around the Micah property (often sneakily since he specialized in running out of my sight), Axel grabbed another boy's bicycle and rode shamelessly into the house. Chasing him down I attempted my patient yet stern mom-voice "No. No. No. No." I was determined to show him my love through discipline, so when he finally parked his faithful steed in his bedroom I gave him two options: "You can either bring the bike back outside or you can ask Michael permission to keep it in your room." Deep down kids crave boundaries, and so this is how I determined to love him. While this may be true, I missed an essential element: trust. I hadn't yet built that with Axel--so all the boundaries I was attempting to set for his benefit meant nothing to him. And so Axel kept the bike in his bedroom and stormed off--to again do whatever he wanted. Until what he wanted was to do something with me: play Uno. "When you take the bike outside or ask for permission I will play," I leveraged my newfound power with him. Axel went to get his bike.... but not to bring outside. To do circles. In the living room. Over and over again. So what did I do? Go get Michael. To back me up. Did he? No.
Me: Can you tell Axel to bring the bike outside? He isn't listening to me!
Michael: Actually, right now I'm not concerned about him having the bike inside.
Me: (Freaks out that Axel is stomping all over us and getting whatever he wants and how is he going to know we love him if we just let him be a monster blah blah blah).
After an I'm-not-proud-of-this pity party for not feeling respected/stood-up-for, I finally apologized to Michael for my initial resistance towards his leadership and heard him out. Michael graciously explained how he believes what Axel needs right now is our unconditional love. A love he wasn't shown by his parents or by the streets or by the shelters who'd abused him in more ways than I am able to share. He needs love from the bottom up. Maslow's hierarchy of needs--base level: air, water, food. Next up, safety. This kid needs us to feed him first. That's it. And next up--safety. He needs to know that no matter how unloving he can be towards us, we aren't leaving. With time, Michael said, we'll start adding the boundaries, little by little.
I'll admit, this approach was foreign to me. But that's because I don't remember having passed through those first steps. They were givens to me. I learned I would be fed as an infant. Safely coddled in my mother's arms. Axel had not. So, I set my mind on following Michael's advice--whether or not I fully bought into this approach--to love him as an infant (who just happens to be big and mouthy enough to make the temper tantrums a whole lot more volatile). Food and presence. Okay. Let's do this--all of us! As a team--together.
And it really has been a group effort--we have come at him from all sides. One of our summer interns, Axel's main companion, has taken the brunt of his fury. Axel once strut around showing off his perceived lacky by calling him "Mi perra!" (Translation: my bitch). The first day of our First Presbyterian group visit, Axel introduced himself by jumping on the mall's food court table and "dancing" (err, 'girating' may be a better word). "He's new," one of our missionaries smiled awkwardly at our shocked guests. At one point I even remember him slapping me. With a smile and sparkle in my eye, Jesus words' to "turn the other cheek" came to mind. So I did, literally. Axel's response? Sheer confusion. After a long perplexed stare, he walked away. We were beginning to love the hate out of him.
Little glimpse: One afternoon our missionary Jessica brought Axel and a few friends to the movies. Axel's determination to cause mayhem certainly caused a number of how-on-earth-are-you-letting-him-_____ stares. Surrendering her own reputation Jessica kept going, she kept loving him... and Axel noticed. After throwing his popcorn at her, he also threw her a few unexpected words: "You know we love you right?" I imagine Jess thinking to herself: "No I didn't actually." But then Jess noticed something: Axel was starting to listen without being told. In little ways like picking up trash or fastening his seatbelt. Once they finally pulled back up to the Micah property, Axel turned to the one who'd loved him and said with sincerity: "Thank you."
Axel Josue. Bravado, knives, fists, and pomp... all just a cover for his love-starved heart. When we love him, he often doesn't understand it. And because he doesn't understand it, he doesn't trust it. But trust takes time, and slowly he is beginning to. I've seen it. He is changing. Come to think of it, maybe it's not that he is changing into someone different, but rather that he is finally finding finding who he truly is. The person he was made to be--the person that is unveiled when he finds the safety of knowing he is loved no matter what. The kind of no-matter-what-ness that has turned a tough-edged knife fighting, you-can't-hurt-me troubled teen into a child who breaks down weeping over a scraped-knee. Why? He's starting to find that we are a safe place for all of those wounds to be opened. To be healed.
And so, what have I learned at Micah? Faith.... love. Faith that God loves us no-matter-what. That his love is relentless. That he would go to the cross and back to show us that there is no slur, no fist, no nail we could throw at him that would stop him from relentlessly loving the hate out of us. And as we take step by step in trusting that his love will never stop, we finally find who we really are. Jesus is the bread our love-starved hearts are craving. None of the givenness of the love we have received from anyone else will cut it. That love fails, it dies. Literally. We all know deep down that death is coming--if not metaphorically, physically. That's why we are so scared. But with Jesus we don't have to be. Not only will he love us to death, he loves us back to life. He showed his disciples his resurrected body and told them to spread the word so we would know that his love never ends. And once we fill up on Jesus' no-matter-what-forever love, then we finally have the love we need to feed others, too. And, don't worry, there is more than enough to go around.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Turning On The Lights!
I'd like to begin this entry with a classic "Would-You-Rather?":
Would you rather...
1.) Be in a dimly lit room (where you look awesome but can't see so well)?
OR
2.) Be in a well lit room (where you look awful but can see really well)?
Be honest with yourself...
Probably depends on who is with you right? I know a few guys I would choose number one for... Kidding ;) (Well, hopefully I'm kidding... I'm really good at self-deception, unfortunately).
Let's take the dimly lit scenario for a moment. Ever noticed the lighting for romantic dinner dates or parties? Low, low lighting. And not just because it's nighttime, let's be real--all the party host would need to do would be to get a higher power lightbulb. No, we like the dimmer lights because they make us look good.
Ever noticed the difference in dress once the lights go down? Heavier makeup, higher skirt lines, lower shirt lines. Glitzy, glammy, shiny... tacky.
Wait, did she just say "tacky"?
Yes, I did. Just turn on the lights and see for yourself. (No I'm not talking about a candle or a glowstick. Turn on the LEDs!)
How does all that caked on foundation, thick eyeliner, and fishnet stockings look now? Not so hot, huh?
I'm not here to harp on everyone's party-wear. Rather, I want to invite you to a better party. A well-lit one. But I have to warn you, the party-outfits we're used to wearing are going to look ridiculous at this one. Why? It's lit up by the sun.
I've been spending a lot of time in the Sermon on the Mount lately (read Matthew chapters 5-7), and the more I ponder these verses, the more it feels like Jesus took our heavily made-up lives and turned on the lights to our wilted hearts. He called out the religious leaders in his day who thought they looked pretty sexy in the low light of all their man-made rules and selective interpretations of the law.
"Don't commit adultery, don't steal, don't murder." Got that down--no prob! Throw in a few hand-outs to the needy (be sure to take a selfie with the hobo) and do a little fasting (another selfie--make a miserable face so people know how much we've suffered for God)! Oooo-weeeee we're lookin' HOT!
Then Jesus came along and turned on the lights. Rather, he dragged them out--party-wear and all--into the noonday sun. And not only did he expose their made-up faces, he exposed their hearts. Our hearts.
Don't murder or you'll be guilty? Well, guess what--all that anger in your heart towards your brother? You're guilty, too. You say don't commit adultery? Gotta break it to you--you even look at a woman with lustful intentions and you've already committed adultery with her in your heart. Love your friends? Great for you! What about your enemies? Love them, too.
I ask you again: Would you rather...
1.) Be in a dimly lit world (where you look awesome to everyone else but can't see so well)?
OR
2.) Be in a well lit world (where you may look awful to others but see really well)?
I am not saying I always do this well myself, and yet I want to advocate for number 2. Why? Spending time in Matthew 5-7 is wrecking me. The more I spend looking at how righteous Jesus is (Christiany word basically meaning when someone "is as he/she ought to be"), the more I discover how unrighteous I am.
Let's compare shall we? The irritation that bubbled up in me when the neighbor girl kept running away from me when I told her it was time to leave Micah VS. the anger of the fourteen-year-old street kid who just threw a desk at a teacher. I'd say I win that one, right? Victory for me! Not so fast. Not only would it be wrong for me to try and judge our hearts (that's God's job), but let's throw another competitor into the mix: The Righteous One. What did he do when his enemies nailed him to a piece of wood and spit on his face? Asked his Father to forgive them. Oh... Maybe I don't want to play this game. My bad... (Besides, I may be less angry than I used to be, but let's not dig up past self).
Alright, so the Son is bright. Blinding even. But I am still here to advocate for number 2. Why? Seeing how brilliant he is is the very thing that lights up my world! I have found such joy and life in soaking up how beautiful he is rather than concerning myself with how beautiful I appear. He's so good, and the fact that he is so so so much more good than I can ever fathom makes the fact that he loves me ohhhhh so much more incredible. And here's the kicker: looking at him makes me look better to. Maybe not to you. But to him. (And that matters more to me.) His word soaking into my heart is giving me a beautiful bronze... little by little. And I wanted you to know that so you can get one, too. Get out in the Son, it's good for you.
Would you rather...
1.) Be in a dimly lit room (where you look awesome but can't see so well)?
OR
2.) Be in a well lit room (where you look awful but can see really well)?
Be honest with yourself...
Probably depends on who is with you right? I know a few guys I would choose number one for... Kidding ;) (Well, hopefully I'm kidding... I'm really good at self-deception, unfortunately).
Let's take the dimly lit scenario for a moment. Ever noticed the lighting for romantic dinner dates or parties? Low, low lighting. And not just because it's nighttime, let's be real--all the party host would need to do would be to get a higher power lightbulb. No, we like the dimmer lights because they make us look good.
Ever noticed the difference in dress once the lights go down? Heavier makeup, higher skirt lines, lower shirt lines. Glitzy, glammy, shiny... tacky.
Wait, did she just say "tacky"?
Yes, I did. Just turn on the lights and see for yourself. (No I'm not talking about a candle or a glowstick. Turn on the LEDs!)
How does all that caked on foundation, thick eyeliner, and fishnet stockings look now? Not so hot, huh?
I'm not here to harp on everyone's party-wear. Rather, I want to invite you to a better party. A well-lit one. But I have to warn you, the party-outfits we're used to wearing are going to look ridiculous at this one. Why? It's lit up by the sun.
I've been spending a lot of time in the Sermon on the Mount lately (read Matthew chapters 5-7), and the more I ponder these verses, the more it feels like Jesus took our heavily made-up lives and turned on the lights to our wilted hearts. He called out the religious leaders in his day who thought they looked pretty sexy in the low light of all their man-made rules and selective interpretations of the law.
"Don't commit adultery, don't steal, don't murder." Got that down--no prob! Throw in a few hand-outs to the needy (be sure to take a selfie with the hobo) and do a little fasting (another selfie--make a miserable face so people know how much we've suffered for God)! Oooo-weeeee we're lookin' HOT!
Then Jesus came along and turned on the lights. Rather, he dragged them out--party-wear and all--into the noonday sun. And not only did he expose their made-up faces, he exposed their hearts. Our hearts.
Don't murder or you'll be guilty? Well, guess what--all that anger in your heart towards your brother? You're guilty, too. You say don't commit adultery? Gotta break it to you--you even look at a woman with lustful intentions and you've already committed adultery with her in your heart. Love your friends? Great for you! What about your enemies? Love them, too.
I ask you again: Would you rather...
1.) Be in a dimly lit world (where you look awesome to everyone else but can't see so well)?
OR
2.) Be in a well lit world (where you may look awful to others but see really well)?
I am not saying I always do this well myself, and yet I want to advocate for number 2. Why? Spending time in Matthew 5-7 is wrecking me. The more I spend looking at how righteous Jesus is (Christiany word basically meaning when someone "is as he/she ought to be"), the more I discover how unrighteous I am.
Let's compare shall we? The irritation that bubbled up in me when the neighbor girl kept running away from me when I told her it was time to leave Micah VS. the anger of the fourteen-year-old street kid who just threw a desk at a teacher. I'd say I win that one, right? Victory for me! Not so fast. Not only would it be wrong for me to try and judge our hearts (that's God's job), but let's throw another competitor into the mix: The Righteous One. What did he do when his enemies nailed him to a piece of wood and spit on his face? Asked his Father to forgive them. Oh... Maybe I don't want to play this game. My bad... (Besides, I may be less angry than I used to be, but let's not dig up past self).
Alright, so the Son is bright. Blinding even. But I am still here to advocate for number 2. Why? Seeing how brilliant he is is the very thing that lights up my world! I have found such joy and life in soaking up how beautiful he is rather than concerning myself with how beautiful I appear. He's so good, and the fact that he is so so so much more good than I can ever fathom makes the fact that he loves me ohhhhh so much more incredible. And here's the kicker: looking at him makes me look better to. Maybe not to you. But to him. (And that matters more to me.) His word soaking into my heart is giving me a beautiful bronze... little by little. And I wanted you to know that so you can get one, too. Get out in the Son, it's good for you.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Choose Life
Cleaning up the tossed popcorn after our "Passion of the Christ" movie night, I spot fourteen year old Josue coming up beside me to wash his Coca-Cola mug. He looks pensive.
"Pretty amazing what God did for us, huh?" I knock on the door of his thoughts.
He opens, "Yeah... I was crying. It made me think--a lot." Josue shakes his head as if in disbelief then utters simply and sincerely, "After all we've done, he still loves us."
My heart warms--that's the Gospel.
A week and a half later, I am reminded of this moment. A moment of stored treasure before the plundering. A moment that I hope Josue has stored up, too. He needs it.
Last week Josue received news that one of his brothers was in the hospital--severely injured from a fight and in need of surgery. His long-lost mother came into town for the occasion. A mother who had abandoned her sons years ago to fend for themselves in a run down shack. A mother who Josue spent hours searching to find when we took a service day in his brother's pueblo to help fix up their home. A mother who--after everything she's done--Josue still dearly loves.
Upon receiving news of his brother, deeply-feeling Josue jumped the Micah wall in a flurry of emotion, but quickly returned after letting the weight of that rash decision sink in. Understanding his impulsive nature, we welcomed him back with open arms alongside the strict reminder to "seguir adelante" (keep going!).
As the days passed, the Lord provided me such sweet moments with my inwardly aching brother. For the past few weeks, I have been boxing-training with Josue and a few others to spend quality time in a way that targets their particular interests. I've had a blast, but I've often wanted to give up--it's hard! And yet, that's just what has kept me in it. Knowing how 'hard' Josue's battle with anxiety has been, I've stuck through the lessons to remind myself how my physical battle is just a small glimpse into his emotional and spiritual one--something I've talked to Josue about post-practice as I have encouraged him to battle his anxiety with various fighter verses. To battle his doubt with faith. This past week, on the bus ride to sports practice, Josue laid his head on my lap as I tousled his hair. Momma bear spirit rose up inside me as other kids teased and poked. I swatted away their hands like gnats and firmly commanded, "Let him rest." As Josue lay with eyes closed and heart heavy, my fingers kneaded and my prayers rose.
Later that same evening, I noticed Josue carefully wiping down his case-protected flute which he always keeps safely stored in his locker...
"May I?" I hold out my hand.
Reluctantly, Josue places his prized possession into my palm.
"What would happen if I gave this to Nico and Emmy [two of our onsite-toddlers]?" I ask, fingering his instrument.
His eyes widen "No! They'd destroy it!."
"Mmmhmm," I nod. "And why is that?"
He shrugs.
I fill in the blanks, "They don't know how much it's worth."
Placing the flute back into his hands I add, "Without knowing what an instrument is for, it's just a hunk of wood. But it is created for much more than that... You are a very valuable instrument Josue--put your life in the hands of the One who made you--with the One who knows how much you're worth."
Oh, Josue. Beautiful, compassionate, sweet Josue... Josue: the one who just ran away.
As the boys drove to church Sunday morning, Josue had already plotted his escape. Revenge on his mind, he lept out of the bus once they'd reached downtown in order to pick a fight with a few of the lingering street kids. Josue left, planning not to return....
Until he showed up at our door the next morning. Repentant, but distant. High from hard drugs he was unable to mask his sleeveless forearm, glistening with a newly added tattoo: his mother's name. A tattoo may not seem like much to you, but in Honduras a tattoo is wrought with meaning: gang life. Seeing my distant-eyed brother, I made him hug me and look me in the eye. "We love you," I said. Barely hearing or seeing, he shook his head... he doesn't believe me... Heart broken over our prodigal brother: what do we do?
Leadership met as my roommates and I prayed. O Lord give us wisdom!
After spending time with my own recently-reached-out prodigal bible study teen and her 3 month old baby, I walked into the Micah house as the leaders were informing the boys of what had just happened with Josue. They announced that they'd made the decision to send Josue to a 3-month rehabilitation center for his addictions before he can re-enter Micah. A wise decision but one that is wrought with pain--so many of our brothers have dropped out of rehab and returned to their life on the streets. Our Honduran father-like figure Roger reminded the boys that these decisions are a matter of life and death. We need to support our brother. We need to pray. So we did. Josue cried, we hugged, we encouraged, we loved.
And then, we packed. I sat in his room as he folded up his clothes. Gifting him with a Bible, paper, and my colored pencils, I offered him the only thing that has ever kept me fighting: the Word of God. And then, he left....
But not from our thoughts and prayers. Last night Lucy and I realized that a few of our missing belongings--her cell phone and $200 from my tin can--were most likely in his hands. Someone having broken into our cabin on Sunday--we figured out that our items were probably his pre-meditated fuel for the tattoo and drug purchase. Rather than mourn the fleeting things of this world, we mourned our forever brother. If it was him, he never confessed that he'd stolen from us, because 'how could we love him after all he'd done to us'? Oh, brother, please believe us... We do. How? We love because he first loved us.
Remember, Josue: "After all we've done, he still loves us."
That's the Gospel.
***Pray for Josue... This is a matter of life and death. Pray that he chooses life. That he lets himself be loved.
"Pretty amazing what God did for us, huh?" I knock on the door of his thoughts.
He opens, "Yeah... I was crying. It made me think--a lot." Josue shakes his head as if in disbelief then utters simply and sincerely, "After all we've done, he still loves us."
My heart warms--that's the Gospel.
A week and a half later, I am reminded of this moment. A moment of stored treasure before the plundering. A moment that I hope Josue has stored up, too. He needs it.
Last week Josue received news that one of his brothers was in the hospital--severely injured from a fight and in need of surgery. His long-lost mother came into town for the occasion. A mother who had abandoned her sons years ago to fend for themselves in a run down shack. A mother who Josue spent hours searching to find when we took a service day in his brother's pueblo to help fix up their home. A mother who--after everything she's done--Josue still dearly loves.
Upon receiving news of his brother, deeply-feeling Josue jumped the Micah wall in a flurry of emotion, but quickly returned after letting the weight of that rash decision sink in. Understanding his impulsive nature, we welcomed him back with open arms alongside the strict reminder to "seguir adelante" (keep going!).
As the days passed, the Lord provided me such sweet moments with my inwardly aching brother. For the past few weeks, I have been boxing-training with Josue and a few others to spend quality time in a way that targets their particular interests. I've had a blast, but I've often wanted to give up--it's hard! And yet, that's just what has kept me in it. Knowing how 'hard' Josue's battle with anxiety has been, I've stuck through the lessons to remind myself how my physical battle is just a small glimpse into his emotional and spiritual one--something I've talked to Josue about post-practice as I have encouraged him to battle his anxiety with various fighter verses. To battle his doubt with faith. This past week, on the bus ride to sports practice, Josue laid his head on my lap as I tousled his hair. Momma bear spirit rose up inside me as other kids teased and poked. I swatted away their hands like gnats and firmly commanded, "Let him rest." As Josue lay with eyes closed and heart heavy, my fingers kneaded and my prayers rose.
Later that same evening, I noticed Josue carefully wiping down his case-protected flute which he always keeps safely stored in his locker...
"May I?" I hold out my hand.
Reluctantly, Josue places his prized possession into my palm.
"What would happen if I gave this to Nico and Emmy [two of our onsite-toddlers]?" I ask, fingering his instrument.
His eyes widen "No! They'd destroy it!."
"Mmmhmm," I nod. "And why is that?"
He shrugs.
I fill in the blanks, "They don't know how much it's worth."
Placing the flute back into his hands I add, "Without knowing what an instrument is for, it's just a hunk of wood. But it is created for much more than that... You are a very valuable instrument Josue--put your life in the hands of the One who made you--with the One who knows how much you're worth."
Oh, Josue. Beautiful, compassionate, sweet Josue... Josue: the one who just ran away.
As the boys drove to church Sunday morning, Josue had already plotted his escape. Revenge on his mind, he lept out of the bus once they'd reached downtown in order to pick a fight with a few of the lingering street kids. Josue left, planning not to return....
Until he showed up at our door the next morning. Repentant, but distant. High from hard drugs he was unable to mask his sleeveless forearm, glistening with a newly added tattoo: his mother's name. A tattoo may not seem like much to you, but in Honduras a tattoo is wrought with meaning: gang life. Seeing my distant-eyed brother, I made him hug me and look me in the eye. "We love you," I said. Barely hearing or seeing, he shook his head... he doesn't believe me... Heart broken over our prodigal brother: what do we do?
Leadership met as my roommates and I prayed. O Lord give us wisdom!
After spending time with my own recently-reached-out prodigal bible study teen and her 3 month old baby, I walked into the Micah house as the leaders were informing the boys of what had just happened with Josue. They announced that they'd made the decision to send Josue to a 3-month rehabilitation center for his addictions before he can re-enter Micah. A wise decision but one that is wrought with pain--so many of our brothers have dropped out of rehab and returned to their life on the streets. Our Honduran father-like figure Roger reminded the boys that these decisions are a matter of life and death. We need to support our brother. We need to pray. So we did. Josue cried, we hugged, we encouraged, we loved.
And then, we packed. I sat in his room as he folded up his clothes. Gifting him with a Bible, paper, and my colored pencils, I offered him the only thing that has ever kept me fighting: the Word of God. And then, he left....
But not from our thoughts and prayers. Last night Lucy and I realized that a few of our missing belongings--her cell phone and $200 from my tin can--were most likely in his hands. Someone having broken into our cabin on Sunday--we figured out that our items were probably his pre-meditated fuel for the tattoo and drug purchase. Rather than mourn the fleeting things of this world, we mourned our forever brother. If it was him, he never confessed that he'd stolen from us, because 'how could we love him after all he'd done to us'? Oh, brother, please believe us... We do. How? We love because he first loved us.
Remember, Josue: "After all we've done, he still loves us."
That's the Gospel.
***Pray for Josue... This is a matter of life and death. Pray that he chooses life. That he lets himself be loved.
Saturday, April 22, 2017
Nit-Picking
"Dónde está Lucy?" asks one of our youngest Micah boys, in search of his typical homework-helper.
"She's at our neighbor's house," I respond.
Lucy, our newest Micah missionary, has taken a special interest in the kids across the street. A house infested with need--abuse, neglect, delinquincy--you name it. Sweet, compassionate Lucy has been investing time weekly reading the often-alone kids her bilingual Storybook Bible, playing with their gone-unnoticed special needs brother, and speaking kind words to the all-too-frequently called-a-"demon" and shoved-aside-by-the-community little girl.
Smiling at the thought of my tender-hearted sister's reason for missing homework hour, I follow her example in service and add, "But I can help you."
My Micah brother accepts my offer and pulls out his Social Studies notebook. As I lean over him to see the assignment, I suddenly find myself looking at the boy from a different angle. Straight down at his spiky-styled locks and right into the too-small-to see-but-I-know-they-are-there eyes of the little white specs known as... lice.
Now, this is not my first experience as a nit-picker. Having worked at a camp and now with street children, I've become accustomed to finding the little buggers. Still, just thinking about them makes my own head itch.
"Hey, Nity," I address him by his nickname (Honduran slang basically meaning spotless or pristine--like when you clean the house and bam it's sparklin'--that's 'nity'... although I can't help but notice the irony here...) "I'm going to go get some special shampoo and we'll get those right out, okay?"
He nods unconcerned and keeps working on his homework assignment. Meanwhile, I search for our lice treatment kit, and as I do I run into a few more boys. I can't help myself, I check them, too. (Or try to, anyway--not all of them let me).
"Ugh no! No tengo!" one of the teens who has lived with us four years now insists he doesn't have any and refuses to let me look. The past street boy who was once crawling with the little creepers is unable to even associate himself with the possibility of re-infestation.
"A mÃ! A mÃ!" one of our younger, still street-edged kids eagerly asks me to check him. I look, and sure enough he is infected, too.
"Sorry, bud, it looks like you've got lice," I say, "I'll help you after Nity."
"Espulgáme!" that same boy commands me to 'delice him' and turns his head towards me. I've seen the street boys do this for each other before. They pull a few out of each other's hair, then get bored and move on--letting the infestation remain while feeling better that they've at least "done something."
"There are too many, bud," I tell him, "We have to do the full treatment."
He doesn't like this--too time-consuming. If it can't be done right here and now--not worth it. He spends the rest of the day avoiding me. "Voy a cortar mi pelo!" he says he'll just get a haircut and runs off.
I return to the first victim and pull him into the bathroom to smother him with the lice-killing shampoo. Nity already doesn't like the few minutes of waiting required pre-rinse. I foresee a battle coming over getting him to sit still for the nit-picking. Sure enough:
"Ya ya! [Enough already]!" he squirms after two quick comb throughs.
"Not yet," I remind him. "There are still more."
Nity doesn't seem to find the benefits of no-itch and insect-absence worth sacrificing his precious technology time. Throughout the whining, his impatience rubs off onto me, and I become less picky. After a quick scan for any remaining white spots, I decide to let him go.
I search for the I'll-just-get-a-haircut boy. He's on the soccer field. "I'll do it later," I tell myself. "Besides, I've already told our coordinator," I add a second justification for letting him avoid me. "It'll get done."
Time passes. I "forget" about the lice. Actually, I haven't really forgotten, I've just shoved the thought out of my mind and told myself "It'll be fine" when the promptings to deal with the problem resurface.
More time passes. I hang out with the boys, I play with the boys, I sit with the boys, I hug the boys--I love these boys.
This morning, I return to thinking about the lice. All of a sudden my head starts to feel itchy (my typical mental response). I think about having my roommate Lucy check me "just in case." I dismiss the thought, "Nah, my mind's just playing tricks on me--I'm good," And yet... that little doubt creeps in. "But what if I'm not?" At first, I find myself responding like the repulsed teen from before, "Not me! I couldn't possibly!" And yet, if I "couldn't possibly" then why am I so afraid of having someone check?
Lucy looks...
Sure enough, I have lice.
The truth hurts, but it is better than the fear that had been keeping me in denial. Better to know and deal than ignore and have a swarm of hatched eggs later. My resolve to destroy the nits overpowers my revulsion. Even so, I hate the lice. I want them out--all of them. Now.
I wash my hair, I wait through the treatment, I go to Lucy. She is "happy to help." I sit, she picks. I wait, she combs. I rest, she works. I think, "she is serving me right now." But why? Why would she be willing to get so close to lice-infested me? Her compassion. She has had lice before, she tells me, she knows how it feels. And even more importantly, I know she loves me. She sees me, not the lice. Well, yes, she sees the lice, but she doesn't see the lice as me. She takes them off of me. And obviously I let her. I know this is an inconvenience in her day, but I want them gone, so I accept her sacrifice.
Hours later, I am lice-free (supposedly... here's to hoping). Granted, there is still more to be done. My clothes and bedding are in the wash. I need to re-check my hair in a week (probably more considering my environment). And then there's everyone else. Lice-free me doesn't mean lice-free everyone. I've got some nit-picking to do. This time around, I hope to show a whole lot more compassion and patience--because, well, I've been there. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that.
Speaking of, I have another confession. Of somewhere else I've been--somewhere way more disgusting than in a head full of lice. I've been in the pit of sin. I was born into it, and there have been many hatched nits of it along the way. Now, I'll admit, there are times when I react to my sin like the street boys to their lice--"Who cares if I have it? So does everyone else! Let me go play..." Other times when I respond like my pridefully pampered self-- "No, no! The dirty people have that stuff not me! I'm just here to help all of them." I've even been the in-the-Micah-house-4-years boy, low on compassion because I've forgotten what God has done for me. That's not how I want to respond to my sin.
Sin is gross--shameful. But I am not ashamed to tell you that I am infected, because I am not ashamed of who has saved me from it: Jesus--the totally compassionate, loving, gracious sin-picker. The only uninfected one, and yet the one who began and will complete the good work to clean us up so that we can be with him. You see, Jesus doesn't have sin, and neither does his House. Rather than kick us out to the streets to live like the lice that live on us, He comes out to where we are. He gets in the dirt and nastiness of our lives, and he "nit-picks". Not because he is a nag, but because he is perfect Savior. He is gentle and patient and kind and loving and utterly holy--sin-free. And being sin-free, he is incredibly concerned with our holiness, too. He doesn't turn a blind eye to our licey lives; rather, he helps us clean house so we can be a part of His. This is a far more loving act than if he were to just shrug his shoulders, look at our rotten sin-infested hearts and say, "Whatever, everyone has them." Instead, he gives new, clean hearts. And he takes time with us--to help us throw off the sin that so easily entangles. He serves us--washing our feet and going to the cross to die for us. He helps us on the road to holiness--convicting us through his Spirit and guiding us to truth, to freedom. Jesus. Gently plucking. Always loving. Washing our clothes. Bringing us home.
And in this process of de-licing our hearts, he also gives us greater compassion to see those around us who are in need just as we are. The way Jesus loves us is the way we are called to love others. After all "those who have been forgiven much, love much" right?. Speaking of... I've got some of my own nit-picking to go do. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only lice-infestee of the day, and I don't want to be the last lice-free*, either. (Don't worry, as I go back out I recognize I'm still susceptible to re-infestion. That won't stop me from going out into this sin-filled lice world, but after a day in the dirt and grime, it's always a good idea to give a good comb through before putting my head on the pillow).
*Lice-free though I may be, sin free I am not. By the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ he has paid for all of my sins once and for all, but I am still "in the picking process" so to speak. But I trust in my Lord Jesus that he will bring to completion the good work he started in me (Philippians 1:6) so that I can be with him, sin-free through his free gift of grace, forever.
"She's at our neighbor's house," I respond.
Lucy, our newest Micah missionary, has taken a special interest in the kids across the street. A house infested with need--abuse, neglect, delinquincy--you name it. Sweet, compassionate Lucy has been investing time weekly reading the often-alone kids her bilingual Storybook Bible, playing with their gone-unnoticed special needs brother, and speaking kind words to the all-too-frequently called-a-"demon" and shoved-aside-by-the-community little girl.
Smiling at the thought of my tender-hearted sister's reason for missing homework hour, I follow her example in service and add, "But I can help you."
My Micah brother accepts my offer and pulls out his Social Studies notebook. As I lean over him to see the assignment, I suddenly find myself looking at the boy from a different angle. Straight down at his spiky-styled locks and right into the too-small-to see-but-I-know-they-are-there eyes of the little white specs known as... lice.
Now, this is not my first experience as a nit-picker. Having worked at a camp and now with street children, I've become accustomed to finding the little buggers. Still, just thinking about them makes my own head itch.
"Hey, Nity," I address him by his nickname (Honduran slang basically meaning spotless or pristine--like when you clean the house and bam it's sparklin'--that's 'nity'... although I can't help but notice the irony here...) "I'm going to go get some special shampoo and we'll get those right out, okay?"
He nods unconcerned and keeps working on his homework assignment. Meanwhile, I search for our lice treatment kit, and as I do I run into a few more boys. I can't help myself, I check them, too. (Or try to, anyway--not all of them let me).
"Ugh no! No tengo!" one of the teens who has lived with us four years now insists he doesn't have any and refuses to let me look. The past street boy who was once crawling with the little creepers is unable to even associate himself with the possibility of re-infestation.
"A mÃ! A mÃ!" one of our younger, still street-edged kids eagerly asks me to check him. I look, and sure enough he is infected, too.
"Sorry, bud, it looks like you've got lice," I say, "I'll help you after Nity."
"Espulgáme!" that same boy commands me to 'delice him' and turns his head towards me. I've seen the street boys do this for each other before. They pull a few out of each other's hair, then get bored and move on--letting the infestation remain while feeling better that they've at least "done something."
"There are too many, bud," I tell him, "We have to do the full treatment."
He doesn't like this--too time-consuming. If it can't be done right here and now--not worth it. He spends the rest of the day avoiding me. "Voy a cortar mi pelo!" he says he'll just get a haircut and runs off.
I return to the first victim and pull him into the bathroom to smother him with the lice-killing shampoo. Nity already doesn't like the few minutes of waiting required pre-rinse. I foresee a battle coming over getting him to sit still for the nit-picking. Sure enough:
"Ya ya! [Enough already]!" he squirms after two quick comb throughs.
"Not yet," I remind him. "There are still more."
Nity doesn't seem to find the benefits of no-itch and insect-absence worth sacrificing his precious technology time. Throughout the whining, his impatience rubs off onto me, and I become less picky. After a quick scan for any remaining white spots, I decide to let him go.
I search for the I'll-just-get-a-haircut boy. He's on the soccer field. "I'll do it later," I tell myself. "Besides, I've already told our coordinator," I add a second justification for letting him avoid me. "It'll get done."
Time passes. I "forget" about the lice. Actually, I haven't really forgotten, I've just shoved the thought out of my mind and told myself "It'll be fine" when the promptings to deal with the problem resurface.
More time passes. I hang out with the boys, I play with the boys, I sit with the boys, I hug the boys--I love these boys.
This morning, I return to thinking about the lice. All of a sudden my head starts to feel itchy (my typical mental response). I think about having my roommate Lucy check me "just in case." I dismiss the thought, "Nah, my mind's just playing tricks on me--I'm good," And yet... that little doubt creeps in. "But what if I'm not?" At first, I find myself responding like the repulsed teen from before, "Not me! I couldn't possibly!" And yet, if I "couldn't possibly" then why am I so afraid of having someone check?
Lucy looks...
Sure enough, I have lice.
The truth hurts, but it is better than the fear that had been keeping me in denial. Better to know and deal than ignore and have a swarm of hatched eggs later. My resolve to destroy the nits overpowers my revulsion. Even so, I hate the lice. I want them out--all of them. Now.
I wash my hair, I wait through the treatment, I go to Lucy. She is "happy to help." I sit, she picks. I wait, she combs. I rest, she works. I think, "she is serving me right now." But why? Why would she be willing to get so close to lice-infested me? Her compassion. She has had lice before, she tells me, she knows how it feels. And even more importantly, I know she loves me. She sees me, not the lice. Well, yes, she sees the lice, but she doesn't see the lice as me. She takes them off of me. And obviously I let her. I know this is an inconvenience in her day, but I want them gone, so I accept her sacrifice.
Hours later, I am lice-free (supposedly... here's to hoping). Granted, there is still more to be done. My clothes and bedding are in the wash. I need to re-check my hair in a week (probably more considering my environment). And then there's everyone else. Lice-free me doesn't mean lice-free everyone. I've got some nit-picking to do. This time around, I hope to show a whole lot more compassion and patience--because, well, I've been there. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that.
Speaking of, I have another confession. Of somewhere else I've been--somewhere way more disgusting than in a head full of lice. I've been in the pit of sin. I was born into it, and there have been many hatched nits of it along the way. Now, I'll admit, there are times when I react to my sin like the street boys to their lice--"Who cares if I have it? So does everyone else! Let me go play..." Other times when I respond like my pridefully pampered self-- "No, no! The dirty people have that stuff not me! I'm just here to help all of them." I've even been the in-the-Micah-house-4-years boy, low on compassion because I've forgotten what God has done for me. That's not how I want to respond to my sin.
Sin is gross--shameful. But I am not ashamed to tell you that I am infected, because I am not ashamed of who has saved me from it: Jesus--the totally compassionate, loving, gracious sin-picker. The only uninfected one, and yet the one who began and will complete the good work to clean us up so that we can be with him. You see, Jesus doesn't have sin, and neither does his House. Rather than kick us out to the streets to live like the lice that live on us, He comes out to where we are. He gets in the dirt and nastiness of our lives, and he "nit-picks". Not because he is a nag, but because he is perfect Savior. He is gentle and patient and kind and loving and utterly holy--sin-free. And being sin-free, he is incredibly concerned with our holiness, too. He doesn't turn a blind eye to our licey lives; rather, he helps us clean house so we can be a part of His. This is a far more loving act than if he were to just shrug his shoulders, look at our rotten sin-infested hearts and say, "Whatever, everyone has them." Instead, he gives new, clean hearts. And he takes time with us--to help us throw off the sin that so easily entangles. He serves us--washing our feet and going to the cross to die for us. He helps us on the road to holiness--convicting us through his Spirit and guiding us to truth, to freedom. Jesus. Gently plucking. Always loving. Washing our clothes. Bringing us home.
And in this process of de-licing our hearts, he also gives us greater compassion to see those around us who are in need just as we are. The way Jesus loves us is the way we are called to love others. After all "those who have been forgiven much, love much" right?. Speaking of... I've got some of my own nit-picking to go do. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only lice-infestee of the day, and I don't want to be the last lice-free*, either. (Don't worry, as I go back out I recognize I'm still susceptible to re-infestion. That won't stop me from going out into this sin-filled lice world, but after a day in the dirt and grime, it's always a good idea to give a good comb through before putting my head on the pillow).
*Lice-free though I may be, sin free I am not. By the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ he has paid for all of my sins once and for all, but I am still "in the picking process" so to speak. But I trust in my Lord Jesus that he will bring to completion the good work he started in me (Philippians 1:6) so that I can be with him, sin-free through his free gift of grace, forever.
Friday, April 14, 2017
Torn Bread, Spilled Wine
Come gather around the table and give thanks! For what? Take a look at the food on your plate. A slice of ham, a scoop of potatoes, a helping of green beans, a slice of pie sprinkled with roasted pecans. Where did all that food come from? Well, not only did a loving relative sacrifice precious time to fix up your tasty meal, but somewhere along the line some sort of farmer or harvester worked to gather the raw ingredients mixed into the now-cooked delicacies. But let's not stop there, what about the ingredients themselves? In order to have the food sitting in front of you something had to die. A pig perhaps? A lamb, a cow? Even the potato uprooted from the ground the beans pulled from the plant were once alive when they were still attached to the vine, were they not? What a cruel act, isn't it? Killing? But wait! This is not killing for the sake of sport--some sort of purposeless murder with death as the end of it all. Rather, food is the art of sacrifice--death for the sake of life.
In the kingdom of God, death resurrects to life. This is what we celebrate this weekend. A death--a sacrifice--for the sake of giving us life. No wonder Jesus calls himself "true food" and "true drink"! His body--the body of the lamb of God--has been given for us as the perfect sacrifice to cancel our sins and his blood has been shed that we may have life--true life, eternal life. Jesus was in no way promoting cannibalism when he proclaimed "my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink." Rather, Jesus helped us to understand the true meaning of food: himself. For as our teeth tear a piece of bread before ingesting it and experiencing its life-giving effects, even moreso we have torn the Son of God. Flogging, spitting, mocking, beating, piercing, killing... the cross. The horrid act of crucifixion, however, was not our own invented idea. God planned this, even before the foundation of the world. Why? He knew that we, humanity, would reject him which would ultimately lead to our death. Jesus willingly gave himself up so that we may live--with him, forever. Jesus is our true food--dying so that we may have life.
And so when we gather around the dinner table--may we cherish the grand time of fellowship, nourishment, joy, community, satisfaction, and, ultimately, love. A love we are able to share only because of the life he gave so that we may live: the life of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. This is a love that we are only able to experience in part on this side of things, for one day we will experience the true feast when we finally come into his kingdom and see the one who gave up everything for us that we may dine with him face-to-face--alive--forever.
In the kingdom of God, death resurrects to life. This is what we celebrate this weekend. A death--a sacrifice--for the sake of giving us life. No wonder Jesus calls himself "true food" and "true drink"! His body--the body of the lamb of God--has been given for us as the perfect sacrifice to cancel our sins and his blood has been shed that we may have life--true life, eternal life. Jesus was in no way promoting cannibalism when he proclaimed "my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink." Rather, Jesus helped us to understand the true meaning of food: himself. For as our teeth tear a piece of bread before ingesting it and experiencing its life-giving effects, even moreso we have torn the Son of God. Flogging, spitting, mocking, beating, piercing, killing... the cross. The horrid act of crucifixion, however, was not our own invented idea. God planned this, even before the foundation of the world. Why? He knew that we, humanity, would reject him which would ultimately lead to our death. Jesus willingly gave himself up so that we may live--with him, forever. Jesus is our true food--dying so that we may have life.
And so when we gather around the dinner table--may we cherish the grand time of fellowship, nourishment, joy, community, satisfaction, and, ultimately, love. A love we are able to share only because of the life he gave so that we may live: the life of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. This is a love that we are only able to experience in part on this side of things, for one day we will experience the true feast when we finally come into his kingdom and see the one who gave up everything for us that we may dine with him face-to-face--alive--forever.
Monday, February 27, 2017
Unveiling Beauty
The noonday sun shines too brightly for the waking eye. The breaking of dawn provides time for our gaze to adjust to the brilliance before us. Beauty is meant to be unveiled... with time. With trust.
Veils... Our clothing serves a purpose--for what? We all know there are parts meant to be covered. Those same parts, in the context of love and commitment, are also meant to be explored. Beauty is discovered in relationship. And true relationship is grounded in trust. As a couple begins to trust in the other's love, deeper levels of intimacy are reached and greater beauty is unveiled. Layer by layer. For just as a plant requires time, proper soil, and nourishment for a flower to bud... and then to bloom, so do we.
Forgive me for being so explicit, but I have a purpose here. Daily I am surrounded by a world that exploits sexuality. Whether by music, images, or conversation--the very things that offer the eye's satisfaction instead bring momentary pleasure and lasting shame. Seeking love in all the wrong ways, some flaunt treasure hoping someone else will deem it valuable. Others seek goods for themselves, and strip others bare. Insatiable appetite--illusionary filling and left only wanting. Instead of love protected through covenant, we have rape, divorce, lust. Ugliness... isn't this just beauty with a twist--a sick one?
I love beauty. I want to see beauty and to share beauty with others. I don't want this world to convince me to flaunt for personal glory, nor do I want this world to lead me to take what is not mine. I don't want to trade true beauty for an ugly lie.
I love beauty, because I love its source: the very essence of Love itself who knows the meaning of beauty. He has unveiled him--the Beautiful One is Jesus Christ. As King David penned thousands of years ago "One thing have I asked the Lord, that will I seek after:...to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord" (Psalm 27:4). His prayer is my prayer. And if what I said before is true, true beauty is meant to be unveiled. With trust... with time.
I always wondered why the Lord "blinded their eyes and hardened their hearts, lest they see with their eyes and understand with their hearts, and turn and I would heal them" (John 12:40). Could it be that he knew that his beauty was not ready to be unveiled, because they did not yet trust him? They did not have faith that he truly loved them, otherwise why would they reject someone so good? Thankfully, that same Lord whom so many refused to trust, proved that we could trust him. How? Well, how does someone prove their trust? By keeping their word. No wonder God kept promising a Savior for thousands of years. A promise pregnant with anticipation offers either great joy in its fulfilment or great disappointment in its breaking. And God's promises always lead to joy for us who believe them, because he always keeps his word. He wanted to prove that to us, and he did. Through Jesus, through whom the veil has been torn that we may come before him with unveiled faces!
Now, even though Jesus can be trusted, we can't. So how does that work for a two-way relationship? Through the very keeping of his promise, he made the way for us to be in relationship forever. We didn't keep our end of the relationship, and so he kept it for us. That is true love. And as he opens our eyes to that love, we begin to trust him, and we bud... then bloom.
I glimpse his beauty, and he beckons. Will he prove trustworthy? I take a little step. Yes! I see more of his beauty. Will he prove trustworthy again? I take another step. Yes! I behold even more of his beauty. And so it goes, diving further and further into this holy beauty-gazing. Faith step by faith step. Can I trust him? Yes! Always yes! And so I discover his beauty, layer by layer, surrounded by his love. And as I walk closer, I too am transformed, until that glorious day, when I can be trusted back--because his love has made me so.
(Oh and, by the way, we are going to need an eternity to exhaust our discovery of how beautiful the Lord is. He's that good.)
Veils... Our clothing serves a purpose--for what? We all know there are parts meant to be covered. Those same parts, in the context of love and commitment, are also meant to be explored. Beauty is discovered in relationship. And true relationship is grounded in trust. As a couple begins to trust in the other's love, deeper levels of intimacy are reached and greater beauty is unveiled. Layer by layer. For just as a plant requires time, proper soil, and nourishment for a flower to bud... and then to bloom, so do we.
Forgive me for being so explicit, but I have a purpose here. Daily I am surrounded by a world that exploits sexuality. Whether by music, images, or conversation--the very things that offer the eye's satisfaction instead bring momentary pleasure and lasting shame. Seeking love in all the wrong ways, some flaunt treasure hoping someone else will deem it valuable. Others seek goods for themselves, and strip others bare. Insatiable appetite--illusionary filling and left only wanting. Instead of love protected through covenant, we have rape, divorce, lust. Ugliness... isn't this just beauty with a twist--a sick one?
I love beauty. I want to see beauty and to share beauty with others. I don't want this world to convince me to flaunt for personal glory, nor do I want this world to lead me to take what is not mine. I don't want to trade true beauty for an ugly lie.
I love beauty, because I love its source: the very essence of Love itself who knows the meaning of beauty. He has unveiled him--the Beautiful One is Jesus Christ. As King David penned thousands of years ago "One thing have I asked the Lord, that will I seek after:...to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord" (Psalm 27:4). His prayer is my prayer. And if what I said before is true, true beauty is meant to be unveiled. With trust... with time.
I always wondered why the Lord "blinded their eyes and hardened their hearts, lest they see with their eyes and understand with their hearts, and turn and I would heal them" (John 12:40). Could it be that he knew that his beauty was not ready to be unveiled, because they did not yet trust him? They did not have faith that he truly loved them, otherwise why would they reject someone so good? Thankfully, that same Lord whom so many refused to trust, proved that we could trust him. How? Well, how does someone prove their trust? By keeping their word. No wonder God kept promising a Savior for thousands of years. A promise pregnant with anticipation offers either great joy in its fulfilment or great disappointment in its breaking. And God's promises always lead to joy for us who believe them, because he always keeps his word. He wanted to prove that to us, and he did. Through Jesus, through whom the veil has been torn that we may come before him with unveiled faces!
Now, even though Jesus can be trusted, we can't. So how does that work for a two-way relationship? Through the very keeping of his promise, he made the way for us to be in relationship forever. We didn't keep our end of the relationship, and so he kept it for us. That is true love. And as he opens our eyes to that love, we begin to trust him, and we bud... then bloom.
I glimpse his beauty, and he beckons. Will he prove trustworthy? I take a little step. Yes! I see more of his beauty. Will he prove trustworthy again? I take another step. Yes! I behold even more of his beauty. And so it goes, diving further and further into this holy beauty-gazing. Faith step by faith step. Can I trust him? Yes! Always yes! And so I discover his beauty, layer by layer, surrounded by his love. And as I walk closer, I too am transformed, until that glorious day, when I can be trusted back--because his love has made me so.
(Oh and, by the way, we are going to need an eternity to exhaust our discovery of how beautiful the Lord is. He's that good.)
Thursday, January 12, 2017
In The Beating May Our Hearts Clap
Finishing a fast-paced stretch of my morning run, my pace slows to a brisk walk--recovering. I find my hand drawn to my chest. To the rhythm of my beating heart, I slap my hand against my chest. Thud... Thud... Thud...
And then I hear it--clapping. My heart beats in applause.
As my pace slows, so does the clapping. Slower... Softer... clap...... clap...... clap......
Then as I pick up pace, through the strain of the run, my heart claps Louder! Quicker! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
Running: challenging, strenuous, difficult... Louder, quicker clapping.
Walking: steady, recuperating, peaceful... Softer, slower clapping.
This is my rhythm, and my heart keeps pace.
Life is like this. Walking and Running. Mountains and valleys. Peace and strife. All the while, creation is clapping.
I am reminded of a treasured verse--one that speaks as an undercurrent in the walk and as the crashing waves in the run:
And then I hear it--clapping. My heart beats in applause.
As my pace slows, so does the clapping. Slower... Softer... clap...... clap...... clap......
Then as I pick up pace, through the strain of the run, my heart claps Louder! Quicker! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!
Running: challenging, strenuous, difficult... Louder, quicker clapping.
Walking: steady, recuperating, peaceful... Softer, slower clapping.
This is my rhythm, and my heart keeps pace.
Life is like this. Walking and Running. Mountains and valleys. Peace and strife. All the while, creation is clapping.
I am reminded of a treasured verse--one that speaks as an undercurrent in the walk and as the crashing waves in the run:
Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ's sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.
1 Peter 4:12-13
1 Peter 4:12-13
Running puts stress on the heart, trials put stress on the soul. And how are we to survive such seasons? With hearts that clap in praise. The challenges come, and believe me, I have had my share. But through it all, I know that God is faithful. CLAP! He sees. CLAP! He hears. CLAP! He loves. CLAP! He makes all things new. CLAP!
Healthy hearts don't stop in the run. Healthy hearts beat stronger, louder, faster. When the struggle comes, when the pain hits, when the suffering endures: CLAP! Lounder, stronger, faster! Oh, may the trial increase our praise! He is good, brothers and sisters. The run isn't forever. He gives strength to endure... and then, when we need it, he gives rest.
Then, after the run, the rest is even better than before. For a good workout strengthens the heart. The strain pushes the heart to open up new capillaries and veins, as you know. Giving more heart highways to bring nourishment to the body as a whole. Increase your heartbeat in strenuous activity, and pretty soon your resting heart rate will go down... Greater strain, greater rest. We run, and we walk, and all the while we clap in praise.
He is good. Through it all he is good. He makes us new. He brings us life. He is with us in the work, he is with us in the rest. Trust in him with all your heart--he is the one who made it, after all, he knows just what it needs. Praise.
(By the way, ever heard the phrase "20% Exercise, 80% Diet"? If you want a healthy heart, the most important thing is what you feed it. Jesus is the Bread of Life. Jesus is The Word. If you want a healthy heart, go to his word, and your heart will pump life to your soul.)
Healthy hearts don't stop in the run. Healthy hearts beat stronger, louder, faster. When the struggle comes, when the pain hits, when the suffering endures: CLAP! Lounder, stronger, faster! Oh, may the trial increase our praise! He is good, brothers and sisters. The run isn't forever. He gives strength to endure... and then, when we need it, he gives rest.
Then, after the run, the rest is even better than before. For a good workout strengthens the heart. The strain pushes the heart to open up new capillaries and veins, as you know. Giving more heart highways to bring nourishment to the body as a whole. Increase your heartbeat in strenuous activity, and pretty soon your resting heart rate will go down... Greater strain, greater rest. We run, and we walk, and all the while we clap in praise.
He is good. Through it all he is good. He makes us new. He brings us life. He is with us in the work, he is with us in the rest. Trust in him with all your heart--he is the one who made it, after all, he knows just what it needs. Praise.
(By the way, ever heard the phrase "20% Exercise, 80% Diet"? If you want a healthy heart, the most important thing is what you feed it. Jesus is the Bread of Life. Jesus is The Word. If you want a healthy heart, go to his word, and your heart will pump life to your soul.)
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A Cup of Water
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