My Final Journal Entry

An ancient fable relates the tale of a group of blind men upon their first encounter with an elephant. Having heard of an elephant before but not knowing anything about them, these men are given the opportunity to feel the creature in order to know what it is. In this story (which has been told by countless people groups on multiple continents for over a thousand years) a string of 3 to 6 blind men each approach the elephant one at a time, grabbing different parts of the animal.

One, having felt the side of the animal, claims with certainty that an elephant is some form of wall. Another adamantly disagrees with him claiming the elephant is some kind of tree, having wrapped his arms around the animal's leg. A third chimes in stating that it must be some form of farming equipment, like a plow. He, of course, had felt the tusk. Yet another still claims they are all fools stating this is nothing more than a kind of snake, all the while wrestling with the elephants trunk.

Term in Review: 5 biggest lessons learned

I needed this post.

I had a lot of fun choosing my 5 most entertaining posts for last week's Term in Review, but I needed to work through this week's post. It was medicine for my soul.

Recently, I mentioned my lack of excitement about returning to the States, and as that time has quickly approached, I have found myself running a gamut of emotions. Sometimes it is the dread of returning to the world from which I came and being disappointed with what I find. At other moments it is hurt at leaving a life created here, saying goodbye to friends and people who have now become family.

But sifting through this next portion of my Term in Review, I finally found a little perspective.

On Moralism

The following is a reaction to a post by Dr. Ray Van Neste on his blog, Oversight of Souls. Read that post first.

I came to Africa to share the gospel with moralists. In reality, I believe that term embodies the worldview of the people here.

These people are a very religious people. They believe in one, almighty God who is in control of everything. They believe in a holy book that tells them how to live. However, this holy book is merely a big list of morals. From cover to cover, it lays out long lists of sins and long lists of noble deeds.

These people live their life trying to do the good things in the book and avoid the bad things. That is the extent of their spiritual existence, following rules. To be moral, as defined by their holy book, is the ultimate aim of their religion.

However, it must be said that you do not have to cross an ocean to find someone with this worldview. As a matter of fact, they may be sitting on your pew next Sunday.

Is the battle finally over?

My generation’s children will study this day, and so will their children to follow.

Tucked away somewhere beside the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Vietnam War and the 2001 attack on New York, the death of Osama Bin Laden will make the history books. Perhaps that chapter in the book will be titled, “The fall of modern terrorism,” or perhaps not.

But today, streets are lined with celebrators, and the red, white and blue hangs proudly, punctuating the revelry. Thousands have supposedly gathered at Ground Zero to put a nail in the coffin of their suffering. People across America, across the world really, are cheering out, praising Justice for the blow it has delivered against Evil. Many Muslim countries and leagues have lauded the efforts of America in bringing down Bin Laden, and Saudi Arabia refused to repatriate his body. They had to bury him at sea, apparently because no one wanted him on their soil.

It is already being hailed as the end of an age. Alongside the recent rioting and political upsets occurring across the Middle East, people are saying there is a new age rising, an age that sees a brighter future for global relations. US-friendly democratic states in the Middle East may develop and now we have seen the death of the most wanted man in the world. Is the battle finally over?

Cow training - Part 1

I like Aha moments.

Aha moments are those little points in time when the proverbial light bulb goes off and some previously known factoid gains new, deeper meaning. What first existed merely as meaningless trivia sprouts and grows into a three dimensional reality. Needless to say, my two years in Africa have presented me with more than a couple of Aha moments. * Life is lived in such a way here that many points of contact still exist with the biblical culture.

I had one such incident this week.

What am I doing here? Part 2 - The People

It is amazing how easily the words “they” and “them” become “we” and “us.”

My journey to Africa started a couple of years before I ever stepped foot on the continent. We Baptists as a whole are a pretty missions minded group, so it was no surprise when our church adopted a tribe of people in Africa as a missions focus.

It is funny how that word “adopted” gets thrown around a lot when it comes to missions and evangelism. You hear about churches doing stuff like this all the time back in the States, but usually it really means no more than making sure said adopted group makes it on the weekly prayer bulletin and gets mentioned on occasion as a “focus.” Some churches go further and scrape up some money to send to a missions agency that is working with those people, and a select few will actually do the work necessary to put together a team to at least go and look at the people for which the church is praying. Now, before I offend, I readily assert that each of the aforementioned tasks are necessary to the work of God's kingdom, and I do not mean to belittle any of them. I thank God for churches that will do any of the above, as most simply do nothing at all.

Yet, I hesitate in referring to that as “adoption.” Just ask someone who has adopted a child. Adoption is a commitment of the deepest kind, and one that, in my opinion, is a picture of what God has done for us in our redemption. Adoption is a word that, in its very essence, is relationship based.

On this point, I can brag on my church, because I genuinely think it adopted this people. My being here and writing this is proof of such. God used my church's wholehearted embrace of this tribe to call me to live with them. An idea to adopt this people soon became a mission to reach them and share with them what God had shared with us, his precious son. Trip after trip, our church has come and watched as obedience turned into fruit. It changed the church, and it changed my heart.

I decided to come and began the process of applying with our sending agency. It was a year long process, and the longest application I think I have ever filled out (they actually asked me if I had ever had electro-shock therapy).

But through that whole process this tribe was simply a “they” to me.

As our church talked about our work, it was always with them. As a congregation, we learned about what they do here. We found out that:

• They were a small people group of just over a million people. 
• They were almost exclusively Muslim. 
• They were mostly illiterate. 
• They were primarily all villagers, who still cooked over a fire and lived in a hut. 
• They were farmers and fishermen. 
• They were some of the poorest people in the poorest region of the world. 

And in my mind, I was going to them.

As the application process finished, and I was trained to be a missionary, I was finally put on a plane and sent to the middle of nowhere. I was sent to them.

Honestly, my mindset was no different for the following weeks, and even months. I had met them, and I now lived here with them. And as I observed their culture and customs, I continually found myself baffled by the strange things they did. “Why do they do that?” became my refrain.

• Why do they never go in their houses? 
• Why do they use those little hand hoes instead of a long one to work in the fields? 
• Why do they have four wives? 
• Why do they have so many kids when they are so poor they cannot make ends meet? 

Even the small group of Christians were a “they.” What they called church was so different from anything I had every experienced. I wondered, “Why do they sit on mats?”

I did not notice when it all started to change. It was slow and subtle, but something began to happen. It started first out in the tiny village where I began my stay in this country. I was out there for language study. In that little farming village, I made my first real friendships. Day after day, I lived with these people, worked with these people, talked with these people as I tried to understand who they were. Without realizing it, everything around ceased to be strange. It became life. I learned many lessons about life in a different world. I learned from the old men and the little kids. I even learned lessons from the animals! So many of my questions were answered, and I discovered the reasons behind the “whys.”

Somewhere along the way, my words changed. I no longer speak of them; instead, I usually talk about us. It may be a small change in words, but it is a vast change in mindset. They are no longer some people I am going to work with, they have become friends. We laugh together and we cry together. And those who are part of God's family, are indeed my brothers and sisters. We share a bond that no force can sever.

Things have changed:

• They are no longer staying outside of their houses, but we are sitting outside enjoying the breeze. 
• They are no longer doing some strange service, but we are having church and worshipping our God through prayer. 
• They are no longer chanting strange words, but we are singing praises to God almighty. 

Now, I pray to God for our work here. God is doing many things, and we are busy trying to keep up with him. We are leading Bible studies in surrounding villages. We are working with students in town. We are all meeting together for discipleship training. God is using us, missionaries and the local believers, to build up his kingdom here.



Please pray for us.

Worlds Collide

This past Sunday, I braved the capital city of my little country. Fighting my way through crowds of maniacal taxi drivers and scores of motorcycle riders that would make Evel Knievel blush, I made my way to the airport. My mission was to pick up passengers for a stay here; however, this particular set of travelers was not our typical volunteer team. They were my parents.

The last time we saw each other was through watery eyes at the Nashville airport, as I passed through security on my way to Africa. Almost a year later, to the day, I was standing in a little airport parking lot waiting on their plane. It was not hard to miss, it was the only plane. Few people ever come here.

The gigantic Airbus flew overhead and took its long drive down the runway. Within five minutes or so, it had taxied back to the only “terminal.” When the plane, pulled up to the gate, it was actually taller than the airport itself, its big tail fin looming over the main building. Some little man in a semi-official uniform rolled a little set of stairs up to the door of the plane and people began to spew out onto the tarmac.

It was almost an hour before my parents emerged from the airport, two of only a few white faces in a sea of Africans. Needless to say, they were not hard to find. Sweaty and obviously overwhelmed, they followed our airport contact across the parking lot. Dodging crowds of people awaiting family members and NGO workers picking up new recruits, my bewildered parents made eye contact with me.

So far, their trip has made for an interesting experiment. To say my parents have not travelled much is an understatement. We rarely took vacations and this was my mother's first time to step foot on a plane. Nevertheless, they are in Africa. While I write this, my mother is attempting a nap with a fan, both of us using the electricity from our generator while we have it. Lunch this afternoon will be rice with African leaf sauce, fish bones and all.

For my parents, the last five days have been full of new sights, sounds and smells. My parents have entered a world so foreign it cannot be explained in words. They have slept in a tiny African village in the middle of the jungle and watched rice harvested by hand. They have seen the free ranged livestock and the free ranged kids. For the first time in their life, they have tried to communicate in a world where absolutely no one speaks their language. Their stay is not over and I am curious to see how this whole experience influences them.

For me, this is an opportunity for my worlds to collide. Already, I struggle with the coming reality of explaining this life-changing experience to friends, family, or anyone who will listen back at home. Yet, there are simply no words. I will never be able to communicate my time in this little corner of the world and how it has affected me. My hope is, during their visit, however short it may be, my parents will grasp some aspect of what this place is like.

There is no way they will fully understand. Any real understanding does not come from simply seeing a place. To truly know, someone would have to live here. Someone would have to be immersed in a way that does not happen when merely passing through. However, they will see what pictures cannot show and perhaps it will help.

In the meantime, it is entertaining to watch their awkward responses to people's greetings in a foreign language. It has been a pleasure to see them butcher the language the way I did when I first got here. Deeper still, is the joy I have received from watching them meet eyes with the people who have captured my heart this last year. To see the elders in my little village sitting with my father, finally getting to meet this strange man from America with only one child, to see the smile on the little old lady's face as she holds my mother's hand, these are blessings I cannot convey.

Perhaps, when it is all said and done, I will have some stories to share, or at least some funny moments.

On talking to God

In the last year, I have been invited to a whole lot of events. Perhaps in Africa it is good luck to have the goofy looking, white guy at your celebration, or maybe I am unwittingly part of the entertainment. Think of it like having a chimpanzee at your little kid's birthday party. Let us just say, I stick out. Nevertheless, I have been to house raising ceremonies and parties, baby naming celebrations and funerals, and all kind of events in between.

One thing I have noticed at all of these events has stuck with me. There is a whole lot of talking about God but very little talking to God.

The people where I live are a very religious people. They are almost all practicing Muslims and consider their faith of the utmost importance and inseparable from their identity. (A lesson we in the States could stand to learn from them.) Their days are constantly interrupted by momentary pauses to pull out their prayer mats and their vocabulary is filled with spiritual lingo. Rarely a proposition is made without the predicate, “Xa Ala tin,” or “If God accepts.”

Yet, in the midst of all of this religiosity, I see a people who desperately lack life's greatest joy. Their religion has produced an understanding of God that is so transcendent, he is unreachable. Stuck between the frightening reality of a world they cannot control and a God with whom they have no real connection, these people live in the throws of fatalism. The product is a life lived apart from its real purpose, deep communion with our creator.

They are a people living in abject poverty, sickness, and instability; yet, they are a people with no means of crying out to the only one who has authority over all. They are a people with hurts and pains and no voice. Ultimately, they are a people with no real hope.

This is a truth betrayed in their own prayers. As I sit in the corner, a fly on the wall, at countless ceremonies, I hear the ritualism take place. What ensues is a long string of prayers that really are not prayers at all. They all begin with the words, “Ala xa...” or “May God...”

“May God grant you peace,” “May God give you health,” “May God protect you,” they will say. But they will never talk to God. They do not plead with God himself on the behalf of others. They do not cry out to God asking him directly for his help. They simply pray about God.

My heart is broken for these people who have never tasted of life's deepest joy, a relationship with the one, true and living God. In their darkest moments of despair, they have no rock on which to cling. But we have a firm foundation. He is real, and while it was his words that spoke all into existence, he is closer than our next breath. He is our God, and what is more, he is our Father.

We are unworthy of the love our God has for us. Left to our own devices, we are detestable, but we have a redeemer who stands in our place and a God who loves us as his own. When we are hurt, he knows and he cares. When we need him, he is always there. We can have hope everlasting and joy unspeakable, for we are carried by his strong arms. And when life closes in all around us, we can rest in our power to cry out, “Our Father in heaven,” and know that he will be there.

Oh God, help us to not take this for granted.

       Muxu Baba naxan na ariyanna, 

       duniɲa birin xa i xili sεniyεnxi kolon. 

       I xa mangεya xa fa. I sago xa raba duniɲa ma, 

       alᴐ a rabama ariyanna ki naxε. 

       Baloe fi muxu ma to lᴐxᴐε, muxu hayi na naxan ma. 

       Diɲε muxu xa yunubi ma, 

       alᴐ muxu fan diɲεxi mixie haakε ma ki naxε, 

       naxee bara fe kobi niya muxu ra. 

       I naxa muxu ti maratantanyi kira xᴐn, 

       i xa muxu ratanga Sentanε ma. 

       I tan nan gbe na mangεya, sεnbε, 

       nun binyε, ra abadan. Amina. 

       (Matthew 6:9-13, The Lord's Prayer)

You can not judge a church by its pulpit

Worship at church this past Sunday found me in a bit of a crisis. I do not know why it took this long for it to hit me, but it did.

Countless times since I set foot on the dark continent, I have had those moments that stretch me, where life seems to no longer fit into its nice little boxes. This past Sunday it happened again.

Here is why:

It is a widely known fact that a church's style can be identified by simply looking at its pulpit. The entire summation of the evangelical movement as it sprang out of the Reformation has been distilled, with very few exceptions, into five distinct pulpit types.

They are as follows: 

The ginormous wooden pulpit 

Being Baptist, this is the one with which I am, admittedly, most familiar. This monstrous structure crowns the furthest outreaches of the stage, almost in enemy territory. However, it provides the pastor with an excellent vantage point from which to deliver his sermon. Able to withstand an ample beating, a fact proven by the preacher's insistence on pounding it with his fist, this pulpit provides sufficient protection.

Deluxe models are outfitted with wings on both sides which effectively triple the holding capacity and allow the pastor to lean forward with arms on either side for sermon impact. These are often accompanied by organ pipes that resemble some form of artillery.

Tag-team, offset pulpits

With the rise of the neo-liturgical movement, this pulpit configuration has found a new life. Simply put, this church is older than yours. And while these pulpits may not be as big as the Baptist bulwark mentioned above, they make up for it in number. These two pulpits stand amongst the rainbow tints of stained glass as silent sentinels, reminding us that “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” Elegantly carved from floor to ceiling, yet not iconoclastic mind you, these churches may say, “sola scriptura, sola fide, sola gratia, solus Christus, and soli Deo gloria.” But never, “sola unus pulpit.”

If you do actually go to one of these churches, chances are, its founder shook John Calvin's hand at some point. And you may want to consider adding an “s” to TULIP for “stylish.”

The one-handed, movable pulpit

This is the same church where the pastor does not wear a tie. As the worship band is tearing down after their power praise, this podium floats out to the center in the hands of the pastor. Band equipment and overgrown floral arrangements are no match for this man. In one fluid motion, he has managed to carry his podium, flip on his wireless mic, and begin to roll up his sleeves. He is ready for business.

Chosen to be inconspicuous, this pulpit does not distract from the themed stage scenery or this week's video clip for the ongoing sermon series. (Podcasts available on the website.)

A glass podium

I have a hard time calling this one a pulpit. In my mind, this thing belongs on a stage at the convention center, not in a church. Then again, I grew up in a church with the mega-pulpit. But I digress.

In theory, this one is similar to the micro pulpit mentioned above, but it has a certain pizzaz that its predecessor lacks. These come in all shapes and sizes and the temptation to engrave them with some frosted Christian emblem (such as a cross, dove, or the Church's new logo) is too much for many. Subtle and see-through, these pulpits say classy, but they do it in a whisper.

The only thing on stage that is prettier than the podium is the man behind it. And he has to be... he has nowhere to hide. This pastor is Mr. Confident and his pulpit says, “Don't look at me... look at him.”

No pulpit at all

Rather avant-garde, many churches have chosen to go sans pulpit. Imagine with me if you will. As the Hands for Jesus drama group finishes their rendition of “I Can Only Imagine,” the stage lighting is brought low. After the brief dramatic pause, this pastor appears from backstage at a half walk/jog to denote his enthusiasm and excitement for the proclamation of God's Word. Let us hope he has his Bible memorized, because he certainly has no place to set it.

Dressed to the nines, this guy is the only decoration the stage needs. The next 23 minutes are full of catchy lines (feel free to twitter them) and great smiles.



Now, my crisis came when I realized our church was nowhere near any of these categories. Instead of a stage, we have a tiny concrete building, and instead of a pulpit, we have a prayer mat. The only instruments in our church are our hands, and the service is as much about the prayers of the congregation as it is the sermon provided by the speaker. Yet, every Sunday, we meet with God in that little building, sitting on our mats. God is worshipped by the clapping of our hands and the songs from our hearts, despite the lack of a sound system. God's Word is proclaimed and His name is exalted.

I guess you simply can not judge a church by its pulpit...

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees...

In my neck of the woods, people have recently finished celebrating the biggest holiday of the year, Ramadan. The entire area is transformed by the observance of this holiday. Market hours change, work times shift, and at the end, people are all dressed up for big parties and feasts. Think of it like Christmas in the States, except with rice and sauce instead of a turkey and dressing.

For Islam, Ramadan is the holiest month. It is said Muhammad received the first words of the Qur'an during this month and it is a time of spiritual reflection. The entire month, Muslims spend their daylight hours in fast, breaking it each evening as night falls. This action is supposed to be spiritually purifying as the act of self-denial releases one from the material and allows them to focus on Allah. The aim appears to be renewed piety and zeal for the faith.

In reality, my observations of the event have left me a little jaded. During the day, people mope around with long faces, spitting periodically so that anyone in eyesight knows they are not even swallowing their saliva. Furthermore, the attitude towards those who do not participate is obviously condescending. While it is possible to see the truly devout using this time for reflection, it appears many are more concerned with making a spectacle out of their piety. Needless to say, this has had me thinking.

In one of his discourses, Jesus addresses his disciples about this exact issue. Jesus begins with the following words:

Then Jesus said to the crowds and to his disciples, “The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses' seat, so practice and observe whatever they tell you—but not what they do. For they preach, but do not practice. They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people's shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to move them with their finger. They do all their deeds to be seen by others. For they make their phylacteries broad and their fringes long, and they love the place of honor at feasts and the best seats in the synagogues and greetings in the marketplaces and being called rabbi by others. But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brothers. And call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven. Neither be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Christ. The greatest among you shall be your servant. Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.        (Matthew 23:1-12) 

Jesus uses the actions of the Pharisees as a classic example of what not to do. He points out the sharp contrast between their actions and the true condition of their heart, and in the verses following this passage, he gives very specific examples of their hypocrisy. Read the chapter; his words are pretty heavy.

But be careful how you view this passage. It would be easy to hear these words of indictment and direct them towards anyone but yourself. Indeed, it was that initial reaction that reminded me of this passage during Ramadan. The natural tendency is to point the finger and pick out the sins of our neighbors. Yet, Jesus is really doing something different here. He is not shaming the actions of some foreign religion, but providing a warning for his own people. He is pointing the finger inward.

“Practice and observe whatever they tell you—but not what they do,” is the admonition Jesus leaves his disciples and the crowds of listeners. Remember, all of the people in the crowd were Jews, and Jesus is talking about the religious leadership of the day. He is discussing flaws in their own religion not the religion of others, a lesson we could learn from today.

In the midst of this special month, my temptation has been to criticize the actions of those around me. Instead, this passage has reminded me to check my own hypocrisy at the door. How often do I tie up heavy burdens and lay them on people's shoulders? How often do I do my deeds to be seen by others? How often am I looking for a pat on the back, instead of humbling myself to be the servant?

Jesus tells his followers to get their house in order. He tells them to clean the inside of their cup first, so that the outside may be clean also. (Matthew 23:25-26) Why do we spin our wheels and waste our time pointing out how wrong everyone else is, when the commands of scripture are directed towards those who abide by its words? We must expect those who are not believers to act like unbelievers. Why be shocked by their actions? Why spend effort criticizing the way they live, when the Bible is quite clear that it is normal for lost people to act like lost people. (Romans 1)

Instead, let us critique our own actions. Let us make sure we are living authentic lives. Let us make sure the inside of our cups are clean. Then, instead of fussing about how wrong their religion is, we might actually be able to share ours.