2017 Malawi Ramblings #12

“A remarkable moment.”  Such were the words that came to mind, shortly after returning to the quiet and comfort of my hosts’ home.  The words themselves were neither the result of nor do they now evoke great emotion; and yet they are suggestive, like the deep currents of a mighty river, like a welcome cabin light within an otherwise uninhabited valley.  For me they hint of “joy” and “peace.”

Yesterday morning, forgoing my efforts to establish any semblance of a routine, I was escorted to the home of Grant Mvumbwe, who had died the previous morning of cerebral malaria.  Many members of Kaning’a CCAP had already gathered – perhaps 150 in number – once again the women seated upon the front porch, steps and front yard, the men seated on chairs beneath two tents of white awning. The singing was subdued and reflective. 

Not long after we were seated, a service consisting of prayer and three eulogies commenced, during which another monetary collection was received for Grant’s family.  I marveled: he had not been dead 24 hours, and yet a service punctuated with great decorum and respect (indeed very African) was being held in his honor.

At the conclusion of this service, pall bearers, men from the church’s guild dressed in white coats and shirts, and black ties, pants and shoes, bore the casket down the front steps and along a way separating the men from the women.  The appearance of the casket beckoned us to the church. 

Entering the sanctuary, I sat behind the communion table; the benches were filling quickly and quietly; many members of the women’s guild were already seated, they too were dressed in white and black.  Soon, the still-growing congregation of 700-800 stood as the pall bearers guided the casket to a position before the communion table: women from the guild placed flowers upon the casket, and then some sat upon the floor around the casket.

After prayer and the singing of at least two hymns (including, “It Is Well With My Soul”), I stood, Amos, a very capable translator to my left.  I spoke from John 11, underscoring Jesus’ words to a grieving but faith-filled Martha: “I am the Resurrection and the Life,” fully consistent, I think, with His weeping soon thereafter.

A remarkable moment: I stood before hundreds, the only Caucasian/American present (perhaps for many blocks around), peacefully aware of our profound bond: our common mortality and faith in Christ Jesus.  Our differences, real and perceived, fled. 

Hopefully,

            Stan

2017 Malawi Ramblings #11

Life and Death … they mix so freely within Malawi, and perhaps they do throughout the world, except that bubble: the affluent West.  I do not mean to deprecate the great and rich tradition of which I am a beneficiary; but I know that I, even as a pastor, have not encountered death with any great frequency.  Oh to be sure, as I near the conclusion of my seventh decade of life, I am more aware of the deaths of slightly younger contemporaries; and yet, because my mother nears her ninety-eighth birthday, because my father died at ninety-six, and especially because I entertain many unrealized dreams, I view the portals of death as distant.  However, life in Malawi instructs otherwise.

Last night’s experience of teaching 120 elders and deacons was very positive, as many handshakes affirmed.  As one young, bright Malawian responded:             

            “It was very good tonight.”

            “That was our hope,” I said.

            “No,” he said, his eyes twinkling.  “I’m confirming what it was, not what you hoped.”

We had gathered in the sanctuary, and, in good, orderly fashion, the men sat to my left the women to my right, filling in from the front to the back – a courtesy for those who would come later.  For approximately 45 minutes I spoke (translated throughout) regarding methodological process; I then gave them time to read, study and answer questions on their own (a new experience within the sanctuary), followed by my encouraging them to form small groups.  For a moment they hesitated, but then they complied – and in moments the sanctuary was ringing with conversation and laughter, as they gave themselves to the Wedding Feast at Cana (John 2:1-12).  A hunger for life punctuated their interaction, with promise of further interaction this evening (Tuesday).

And then death entered.  An elder in the church, perhaps in his mid-forties, died this morning.  I know few details, but because of his death, a viewing will occur this evening in the sanctuary, followed by burial tomorrow – and so the need to cancel this evening’s return to the Wedding in Cana.   Whether or not this funeral will be that of last Sunday’s experience, I do not know: a different person, a different context, and a different set of relationships, but I cannot but see the ebb and flow so prevalent here.  Life expectancy remains at about 50 years.

For the Malawians I have encountered, Jesus’ words, “I AM the Resurrection and the Life,” are frequently before them, rich with life.

Faithfully,

            Stan

2017 Malawi Ramblings #10

Recently I shared with you my first experience of a Malawian funeral.  In many regards, it was very like most American (Caucasian?) services: singing and/or music, Scripture, meditation(s) and/or eulogies.  However, it was nearly three hours in length rather than one; it was outside, the women seated upon the ground, the men upon chairs; the singing was well over an hour, begun first by one here, then by another there; all five hundred of us filed by the open casket, laid upon the living room floor of the deceased; and an offering was taken for the grieving family.

(When previously I shared this experience, I had noted that I felt as though I had committed a cultural faux pas: when the offering for the family was received, I too contributed, but because I had not yet exchanged my US dollars for Malawian kwachas,[1] I simply gave what I had – little knowing that the total would be announced according to given currencies.  Thus, since apparently I was the only one contributing US dollars, what I gave became public knowledge.  I was immediately flooded with questions: Did I give too much?  Did I give too little?  What will they think?  In all probability, few if any associated the US dollars with me– but my cultural insecurities howled.)

From this funeral experience, however, I will most remember the expressed grief, both personal and collective of those mourning.  The deceased, a young man aged twenty-three, had drowned in a boating accident.  Not all of the details of his death were known or shared (so many US boating accidents involve alcohol), but it’s very likely that he neither knew how to swim nor had a life vest – a sudden turn, a wave, a crowed boat, his pitching overboard, a crack on the head …

Several speakers echoed a common refrain: Evans (the young man’s name) was soon to graduate; the great investments in his life, soon to bear fruit; a beleaguered nation soon to benefit from his certain giftedness.  But soon will never happen, and those gathered will be forever bereft of promises.  As I observed a young woman seated across from me, “why?” emanated from her every look and gesture.  As I now think of her, John Donne’s words come to mind:

            “Any man’s death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”

Faithfully,

            Stan

[1] The current rate of exchange is $1: K735.

2017 Malawi Ramblings #9

Yesterday, Friday, was one of those “lost” days, when I became aware of the clay pot (ὀστράκινος) that I am; but I will not subject you to further descriptions regarding my gastric sensitivities.  Instead, I simply desire to share with you written comments the various pastors shared with us concerning our in-service retreat:

“Appreciations to Rev. Dr. Stan Johnson for the training and all the resources.  Thanks to the American team that contributed toward the training.  Thanks to the Synod office for this time given to us.”  (In this honor-based culture, I allowed them to call me “Doctor,” although, as you know me, I simply encouraged: “Stan,” which to their ears sounds like “Sten.”)

“The facilitator was just very good, attentive and approachable and respectful.”

“We present here we need to continue with these lessons for the facilitator shows that he has a lot more for us, this class in particular.”

“The programme of in-service was wonderful and I have benefited a lot.  It has been an eye opener.  I thank God for brothers and sisters from USA for supporting this training.  I am not the same and I am also confident that the flock of God in my congregation will be fed a well-balanced spiritual food and live up to their calling.”

“The generator needs to be in a built house to avoid noise or buy a generator with strong silencer.”  (Most of the time we functioned without electricity.  The facility did have a portable generator.)

“The place is conducive for studies because the security is so good.  It is a very cool place with a very good sanitation.”  (“Cool” it was in the shade; in direct sunlight, it was Southern California in August.)

“Please call us again so that we can finish the book John and probably add some books like Acts and Pauline letters.”

“The passion and materials of our facilitator was excellent and so convicting that am sure would bring positive change in those who would apply.”

“I have enjoyed to be part of this retreat specifically because his methodology of presentation it really gave more room for discussion.”  (From my observations, most Malawian education remains recitation- and/or lecture-based.)

“Since we were very few, but I would rather suggest that the training like this one should involve many ministers so that we can all acquire the same knowledge.”

“Wish the facilitator all the best and the General Secretary so that they arrange another time with the same group to continue where we have stopped.  God bless you!!”

In truth, these pastors have richly blessed “Sten,” the clay pot.

Hopefully,

            San

2017 Malawi Ramblings #8

Given my last blog to you, I fear I might have left you in a slight lurch or quandary: “Is Stan okay?”   The answer at that writing, and to the present, is an unqualified “yes.”  However, my last blog did reflect my experience on Sunday: fatigue, jetlag, bodily aches, and culture-shock: the little things, the disorientation, that cause fundamental self-doubt.  For years I have marveled at those foreign among us, who seek to understand Americans, when we can and do describe others as “wet blankets,” “hot dogs,” “slime balls,” and “party-poopers.”  All cultures have their nuanced idiosyncrasies, and because of my present, I continue to ponder and appreciate the Apostle Paul’s seeking to navigate among the cultural rocks and shoals of the Graeco-Roman world.

I had hoped to send this present effort to you yesterday, but blackouts are an ongoing Malawian reality: yesterday, at our retreat site, the electricity went out about 9am and had not returned upon my leaving at 9pm.  To be sure, the site does have a back-up generator, but it was not in use until we were sitting in near-dark; and even then, at moments the generator faltered, lights dimmed and flickered.  Such a power outage was not critical to our retreat experience; but with little thought, it becomes clear how such outages reflect the downward spiral of an impoverished country: given the global village and its economy, advancement remains difficult, when electrical power fails.  (I believe the US would be in utter chaos, if we were without electricity for two weeks.) 

The picture that I have attached with this blog was taken this morning, at the conclusion of our in-service retreat.  From my perspective, from beginning to end and on all accounts, our experience was exceptionally positive.  Many prayers were answered, for which I am exceedingly thankful.  On the one hand, the twenty-five pastors were very receptive to my methodological approach to John’s Gospel (which for them included lively interaction within both small and large group settings); on the other hand, the site afforded pastors the opportunity to enjoy one another’s company, as well as time to share pastoral insights and problems – what Americans call “networking.”  Last night one pastor noted: “I’ve been hungering for this: you’ve helped us to wrestle with and interpret the Bible.  I hunger for more,” he said, touching his heart.

So much of our time was filled with laughter, song, and open hearts to one another and to God.

Thankfully,

            Stan

2017 Malawi Ramblings #7

My present experience in Malawi has encouraged me to ponder Paul’s life as one sent into the Gentile world.  Perhaps from a Graeco-Roman worldview – a view molded by efficiency and power, accustomed to eloquent orations, and tantalized by precise, philosophical nuances – Paul might have appeared and sounded as one who crawled out from a desert catacomb: short in stature; quick, daring eyes; a scraggly beard; his voice: high- pitched and lulling; and his hands: those of a craftsman.  Of course this is a caricature, but I frame him in this manner, because Paul willingly crossed from one cultural setting to another, conscious that he was strange and foreign – for he had grown up Hebrew in a very Hellenized city: Tarsus.

At one moment in his Gentile sojourn, Paul described himself in this manner: “But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.  We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed”.[1]  Perhaps these general allusions he later specified as: [On] frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked.”[2]

Because of my experience yesterday, Paul’s “clay jar” image (ostraca: ὀστράκινος) has captured me, for I have felt very much like a clay pot, albeit one that’s cracked.  Paul didn’t describe himself as “cracked,” and certainly few and only tenuous parallels exist between his experience and mine, but yesterday as I stood among hundreds of mourners, at the culmination of a 3hour, open-air funeral service; feeling as though I had made a cultural faux pas, I nonetheless followed willy-nilly behind a white Toyota pickup, its cargo a white coffin.  Having preached at a 7am worship service (by 8:20, when I stood to preach, approximately 700 had gathered), by 5pm,  still enduring jet fatigue, my left kidney periodically emitting discomfort, the funeral procession hymning all about, in my weariness, I wondered:  “Stan, where are you?  Just what are you doing?”  I felt like a clay pot cracking -- even so, those about me honored me with their smiles and nods of respect.

Still more later,

            Stan

[1] 2Corinthians 4:7-8.

[2] 2Corinthians 11:26-27.

2017 Malawi Ramblings #6

Presently I am seated in the breezeway of my host-home – truly lovely and comfortable, my Malawi home away from home.  The breezes are warm; the skies are clear and blue, hazy with a few puffy clouds at the horizon; and the jacaranda, bougainvillea and roses promising and fresh: it is spring in Malawi.  The birds are chirping, the chicks in the yard are attending clucking hens – and the gardener beams his youthful smile. 

My flights yesterday from Indianapolis to D.C., from D.C. to Addis Ababa, and from Addis to Lilongwe were all uneventful and easy – and those who greeted me upon my arrival, in response to my taking delight in the midday warmth, said, “Ah, no.  It is too hot!”  Malawians, “the warm heart of Africa”, enjoy neither heat nor cold, for they are unaccustomed to either.  That is, from an American perspective, they know not the heat of Arizona, Texas, and Florida in August, nor the cold of North Dakota, Upper Michigan, and Maine in January.  Comparatively, the seasons here are those of San Diego – little variation.

Again, my twenty-five hours en route were easy – hardly a moment of turbulence – whereby I uttered this morning, “I am truly a blessed man.”  And I am, although with my utterance I was reminded of that Jewish experience: to be blessed has meant suffering, thus prompting many a Jewish mama to quip: “Enough with the blessings all ready!” 

            However, most likely informing my remembrance is my experience of last year, when I left this present home with the unrelenting pain of a kidney stone stuck.  Even so, because of that stone, I knew the loving kindness (חֶ֫סֶד) of God through the leadership of Kaning’a CCAP, who provided for me, wisely curtailing my visit, sending me home to the care of “my people.”

This morning, as I remembered their provisions, I thought of the many of you, who, when informed of my returning here, promptly sent emails of encouragement.  One such email read:  “Praying.  Praying.  Praying.”  As if caught in a sudden, springtime downpour, I know that I am showered with prayer, which will sustain me, whatever the next eighteen days brings.  Thus I am reminded of Paul’s words to his beloved Philippians: “I know that through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ this will turn out for my deliverance (σωτηρία)”[1], and so it will for me and for those about me.

More soon,

            Stan

[1] Cf. Philippians 1:19.

2017 Malawi Ramblings #5

At the moment I’m seated in the gate area for my flight to Addis Ababa from Dulles.  The morning is a cool 37degrees, the sky a fresh, pale blue, following upon a flaming sunrise – but in truth, my mind and heart are not focused upon these.  Instead, my thoughts center upon the last forty-eight hours.

For instance, I am abundantly aware of the great plenty that is ours as Americans. On Tuesday, after talking via Skype with the former stated clerk of the Kaning’a church, I easily promised to provide yet another 100 folders/binders for the training of elders and deacons.  Each of these folders contains 25 pages of printed material, double-sided.  And so I made a quick trip to Office Max, and equally quickly purchased the needed folders, having no doubt that I’d find what I wanted.  I then drove to the office of a dear friend, who had already begun printing the material on his office photocopier – a copier that collates, prints double-sided, and punches the necessary three holes.

            My description here, whether hackneyed or not, is nonetheless commonplace for us – but not for Malawians.  In comparison to the US, paper is a rare commodity even in the capitol city of Lilongwe.  And although my friend gulped (graciously), when he learned that I had doubled the quantity of desired folders, he complied,: once again my thoughts turned to the plenty that we view as normative – and the adage: to whom much has been given, much will be required.

My thoughts also pondered anew the nature of “honor,” for I am now beginning to appreciate that Malawian culture is much more an honor-based culture, than is our egalitarian, rights-based culture.  Yesterday a wise friend helped me recognize that last year, when kidney stones curtailed my efforts in Malawi, when I became fully dependent upon the care and wisdom of the Kaning’a church leadership, I had not become a “liability”; but rather, inadvertently I afforded them the opportunity to honor me with their care.  For some years I’ve recognized that some times we serve best by allowing others to serve us – which is difficult for those of who actively seek control.  But I had never thought of such service in terms of“honor.”  I’m uncertain the direction my “honor thinking” might lead, but I am more mindful that as I seek to honor Malawians I might do so by allowing them to honor me – hopefully apart from friendly stones.

Faithfully,

            Stan

2017 Malawi Ramblings #4

            As I anticipate this fourth trip to Malawi (which of course makes me neither an expert traveler nor an aficionado of Malawian customs and culture), I am well aware of those thoughts and feelings coursing through me.

            For instance, my mind turns to those listings of clothes, medicines and books with the appropriate check marks; and yet, the attending questions almost always remain: Have I/we thought of everything?  Even if all the items upon the lists are checked, might I/we have overlooked an essential “something,” not found upon the list?  What might happen if I arrive in Malawi without...?  Indeed, what might happen – apart from hearing that consistent African refrain: “God is good, and God is good all the time.” 

            Of course, details and planning are important, but so too is Sovereignty.  Thus I remind myself of last year’s venture, when I needed to cut-short my visit to Malawi, because my little, kidney stone friends became vociferous.  Upon that occasion I heard, and have heard subsequently, “You need to go home, so that your people can take care of you.”  So home I flew, greatly aided and abated by the wisdom of the Kaning’a CCAP church leadership.  Those little oxalate crystals strengthened a bond between the Kaning’a church and me.

            In these moments of preparation, I am reminded of the cultural faux pas (or two or three or four) I have made, no doubt up to and including the recent present.  As I hope to bring comfort and encouragement to those whose cultural orientation might be that of shame and honor, I will do well to quell some of my anti-authoritarian, US-freedom-and-rights tendencies.  Instead, as I’m beginning to better understand, I will do well to recognize that I am very near the eighth decade of life; that I have received/earned certain degrees; and that I have gained some modicum of wisdom simply by the living of life.  These I should not deprecate in the hearing of those who esteem age and certificates and wisdom, thus provoking unnecessary confusion and disappointment. 

            As I have thought of lists and cultural blunders, and as I anticipate Thursday’s 6am flight from Indianapolis to D.C., eventually landing me in Lilongwe at 12noon on Friday, my thoughts turn to “rest.”  I need to rest prior to leaving on Thursday; I need to rest en route to Addis Ababa and then Lilongwe; but most essentially, I need live the words: “Be still and know that I am God.”

Faithfully,

            Stan

2017 Malawi Ramblings #3

Today I have been very aware that my efforts to insure a relatively easy departure to Malawi next Thursday, October 19, will not be realized.  That is, it had been my hope to have the rewrite and editing of The Sent One fully complete, in order that next Thursday I might bear 100 copies of the book with me.  However, the editing process has taken much longer than I’d anticipated (even given the burning of late-night oil); and so today, when it became certain that at least one edit was necessary, and that the publisher could not ship the books by the time of my departure, for a moment I slackened my pace.

As I have considered my push to have the books ready for shipping by next week, two thoughts have surfaced:  First, my expectations, even if unrealistic, were nonetheless the expectations of an American.  No Malawian, and probably many millions throughout the world, would expect to accomplish what I sought to do; but given our American culture, and given the speed with which the Internet allows us to function, my expectations were not horribly vain.  One of the signs of our affluence is our “reasonable” expectation to accomplish in two weeks what others might reasonably expect to achieve in eight.

My second thought was a mixed assurance: “Be still and know that I am God.”  On the one hand, as I’ve pushed to finalize preparations, now knowing that Plan A won’t work, I nonetheless can rest in our Lord’s sovereignty, recognizing that Plan B exists: transporting 100 binders with the necessary materials (which of course is another sign of the resources so readily available to us).  Plan B is very workable, and not a defeat.  God is God.           

However, with that reminder from Psalm 46: “Be still,” I was also reminded that those were the very words, which allowed me to endure my bout with kidney stones last August, 2016.  You might recall that, upon that occasion, I unsuccessfully sought to pass at least one kidney stone – and yet, through that experience I knew of our Lord’s gracious sovereignty.  His people, through the leadership of Kaning’a CCAP (Church of Central Africa: Presbyterian), cared for me wonderfully.   

In some regards, I do well to heed the words of Soren Kierkegaard:  “Teach me, O God, not to torture myself, not to make a martyr out of myself through stifling reflection [and hyper-activity], but rather teach me to breathe deeply in faith.” 

Faithfully,

            Stan

"Restless"

This morning a line from a prayer of John Baillie arrested my attention:

            “Thou made me restless for the rest that is in Thee.”[1]

That my attention was arrested is a telling observation: either because it suggests that I am restless or in need of rest; or that I was made for rest.  The latter of these two thoughts is not particularly new to me, although it is not one to which I regularly turn.  Nonetheless, in the Book of Hebrews we read:

            “Therefore, while the promise of entering His rest is still open, let us take care that none   of you should seem to have failed to reach it…  So then, a sabbath rest still remains for   the people of God; for those who enter God's rest also cease from their labors as God did             from His.”[2]

In context, the author of Hebrews is arguing that Christ is greater than Moses, and that His rest is greater than that of either Moses or Joshua.  Moreover our author makes a direct connection between rest and the rest of Yahweh Elohim, our Creator, who rested upon the Seventh Day. 

Again, as important as this thought and its connection are, neither are new to me (although I am inclined to be forgetful): Do we not regularly conceive of Heaven, Paradise, and/or Eden as containing or offering delights, peace, and yes, rest?  Does not the spiritual promise rest: “Gonna lay down my burdens,” as we cross “the river” to the other side?  From these allusions, surely rest and relating to God are tightly bound.

Thus, if I desire rest, then it is to be found or experienced in rightly relating to God.  However, John Baillie’s prayer indicates that I was made restless, in order that I might find rest in God.  Typically I attribute my restlessness to two causes: either I lack sleep and leisure (i.e. Latin: “to be allowed”), or my having drunk deeply from our secular (i.e. Latin: “an indefinitely long time”) culture and its reverence for calendars, schedules, and deadlines.  Thus I’m restless because I’m always “watching the clock,” always aware that life is temporal: time moves inexorably forward, waiting for no one.  I push, forgoing rest, because at some moment, I will be able to push no more.

In prayer, however, John Baillie indicated that I was made restless: I wonder.

Faithfully,

            Stan  

[1] John Baillie, A Diary of Private Prayer (New York: Scribner, 1977), p. 21.

[2]  Hebrews 4:1, 9-10.

Weary of praying ...

At moments I have found my heart and mind returning to Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s poem: Who Am I?Upon these occasions, as I consider my actions or relational patterns, in rough paraphrase I reiterate his sentiment:

            “[Is] something within me still like a beaten army

fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?”[1]

With Bonhoeffer I have wondered: Why am I down, O’ my soul, when a quick rehearsal can enumerate the many blessing that are mine?  Of course, the differences between my circumstances and those of Bonhoeffer are great, like a yawning chasm: he had been imprisoned by the Gestapo, charged as a traitorous conspirator; whereas I might simply be frustrated, because my computer is misbehaving.

On other occasions, I have echoed his lament:

            “[Am] I only what I know of myself …

            weary and empty at praying, at thinking …?”[2]

And yet, here too I have recognized the great existential distance between us: alone in his cell, facing death, a German winter seeping through the crevices of his confinement; whereas I might sense that my moments of prayer are hurried, less than fulfilling, my heart and mind distracted, but certainly not the dehumanizing grind of prison fare.

For causes not Bonhoeffer’s, I nonetheless have observed that my sense of defeat and empty at praying are interconnected; and because of this connection, I have given thought to Jesus’ prayer life.  As I have done so, I have been reminded that in Mark’s Gospel only three times do we read that Jesus prayed: Mark 1:35, 6:46, and 14:32.  Each of these three alludes to His wrestling with His identity and/or specifically the Cross before Him; otherwise, we do not see or hear Him pray.

Does that mean that Jesus was fundamentally an activist, a loving and caring activist, but nonetheless an activist – too busy to pray?  I think not (and here I’m not seeking to erect a “straw-man”); rather, when I feel defeated and weary at praying, I need to remember that “prayer” is not an activity or a ritual.  No, I need to remember that prayer is relational, that it is an ongoing conversation with the Person, to whom I can confess: “I feel defeated; I feel empty and weary.  Lord, just who am I?”  But of course, if such I confide, I need to listen for a reply; for if prayer is anything, it is a two-way conversation.

Faithfully,

            Stan

[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers from Prison (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1968), p. 189.

[2] Ibid.

2017 Malawi Ramblings: #2

For several weeks now, central Indiana has had beautifully clear skies and warm temperatures, but relatively little rain – whether the rainfall has been unseasonably low, I do not know.   This, however, I do know: the Californian within me has delighted in these temperatures and conditions, and has had little difficulty watering our yard, for this was normative throughout my childhood and youth.  Salinas, where I grew up, typically had 10-12 inches of rain per year, and yet was known as “the salad bowl of the world.”  This was so, because the climate was temperate year-round, and because the Salinas Valley funnels into Monterey Bay.  Many, if not most evenings, bound by the coastal mountains, fog journeys from along the coast thirty to forty miles inland, only to recede mid-to-late morning the next day.  These conditions in combination with the Valleys’ rich, black soil result in the harvesting of two or three crops per year: celery, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, radishes, strawberries, carrots, artichokes, spinach (and in more recent decades, wine grapes).

My thoughts have turned to the natural richness of the Salinas Valley – and certainly Indiana has its own riches: acres and acres of corn, soybeans, wheat, hay and tomatoes – because in three week’s time I will be in Malawi.  Upon my landing at Lilongwe’s Kamazu International Airport, I will step into that country’s dry and warm season: dusty orange swirls will arise from the hard-packed, dirt roads; the leaves of trees and flowers will have a thin, rust-like film; and the hillsides and mountains will have dry, stunted grass, not unlike California.  One of the differences between the two locales, however, is that the Malawian countryside is mostly deforested, and farmers there (80% of the population) do not have the marvelous network of irrigation systems and canals.  I grew up in a land of rich, natural resources; if I had been born and raised in Malawi, my view of water and trees and grass would be markedly different.

As I think of Malawi, in contrast to our yard of green grass, healthy, shade trees, and happy flowers, I am very thankful for those, like the Marion Medical Mission, who at this season of the year, seek to drill 2500, sustainable wells within the central region of Malawi.  These wells encourage health and life for the people and land of Malawi, and reduce many, foul-water diseases.

The water of life …

In my next rambling, I will give further thought to water.

Faithfully,

            Stan

Comfort

Although not a particularly new thought for me, its realization I almost always find refreshing and new:

In 2 Corinthians Chapter 1, the Apostle Paul wrote of “comfort”/ “consolation”/ “encouragement”/ “exhortation” using the one Greek word, παράκλησις, rightly translated by those four English words.  This Greek word, as a verb, literally means: “to call beside,” which is very near its classical Greek definition: “a calling to one’s aid” or “an appeal.”[1]  In its New Testament usage, it much more strongly conveys the nuanced understanding of “comfort” and “encouragement,” and is the very word Jesus used, when speaking of the One who would come after Him: the Paraclete.[2]

At any rate, in 2 Corinthians 1:3-7, within five verses ten times Paul employed the word, παράκλησις.  From these verses, essentially his thought is that of verse 4:

            [The God of comfort] comforts us in our every tribulation, in order that we may be able    to comfort those in every tribulation with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”

Of course for Paul, this gleaned thought always has in view the suffering and tribulations of Christ Jesus, not only those upon the Cross, but His sufferings for the world – Paul’s and ours.

Paul recognized a profound inter-connection: Given that the Cross of Christ means comfort/ consolation for the follower of Christ; and given that the believer, like Paul, can experience the comfort of Christ during moments of stress and strain, trial and tribulation, then such comfort, like a wellspring, can comfort others experiencing similar traumas.

In the past few days, I have received great encouragement from two separated from me by great distances: the one in Massachusetts, the other in Malawi.  Because of their wise comfort and encouragement, I have been encouraged, whereby I have been able to encourage one close at hand, as well as ones in Romania and the Philippines.  To be comforted/ encouraged provides the basis for comforting and encouraging others – which does not mean that we are then able to pontificate, telling others what to do amid their moments of dejection and/or crisis.  Rather, it means that we have the heart-experience to listen, and, if necessary, to suffer and cry with them, knowing that much suffering is inexplicable – like the havoc wrought by hurricanes.

My point: if we have known the comfort and love of God, may we share these with those in need.

Hopefully,

            Stan

[1] Liddell and Scott, A Greek-English Lexicon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), p.1313.

[2] Cf. John 14:16, 26.

Hope

This morning my day began relatively normally: I awoke before the alarm jarred; stretched briefly before rolling out of bed; showered, greeted Behr, our golden retriever, before sitting at my desk.  As I gave thought to the scheduled day before me, I noted an email confirmation: the changes in my rewrite of The Sent One had been approved.  This meant that I could now order a second, hardcopy proof.  If that proof is acceptable, then we can proceed to publishing and shipping the rewritten, reedited work to Malawi, for the benefit of elders and deacons within the Kaning’a CCAP church:

            On November 1-4, I am to lead them into John’s Gospel via The Sent One.  Hopefully, prayerfully the books will arrive in time.  The email confirmation was a sign to me that our Lord is faithful, particularly as deadlines have loomed before me.

In the light of the email confirmation, and anticipating a later conversation, I found my heart and mind directed to Lamentations 3, wherein I knew I would read:

            “But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:

             The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end;

             they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

             ‘The LORD is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’”

I knew that I would read of the LORD’s steadfast love; I knew that I would read of His faithfulness as evident in His mercies new every morning – but I had forgotten the repetition of the word “hope.” 

At daybreak, Jeremiah (or our author) hoped in the renewal of his LORD’s mercies; and yet, although verses 21 to 24 underscore the LORD’s faithfulness, these verses are like an oasis in the midst of a desert waste.  In verse 13 we read: “He shot into my vitals”; in verse 16 we read: “He has made my teeth grind on gravel”; and in verse 19 we read: “The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall!”  Clearly, even though Jeremiah knew a bitter anguish I have never tasted, even though he could write: “[It is good] to put one’s mouth to the dust (there may yet be hope)”, he affirmed: “I will hope in [the LORD].”

This morning, as I think about a confirmation email or North Korea or the incivility of national leaders, both left and right, I am reminded: Great is Thy faithfulness and in Thee is my/our hope.

Hopefully,

            Stan

2017 Ramblings #1

Four weeks to day I trust that I will once again have landed safely at Kamuzu International Airport, Lilongwe, Malawi.  Having left Indianapolis at 6am, October 19, I am scheduled to land in Malawi at 12:50pm the following day, October 20.  Hopefully throughout that flight – in fact, throughout my entire stay in Malawi – my little kidney stones will remain quiet.  They haven’t voiced any complaint since last October, 2016.

As in the past, my hope is to encourage pastors and church leaders, all the while seeking to strengthen and deepen relationships: certainly my relating to them, but more importantly, their relating to one another and to our Lord.  This will happen in a structured manner, as I teach and lead twenty-to-thirty pastors at a retreat site, where we will gather Monday evening, October 23, only to part Thursday afternoon, October 26.  Hopefully within this four-day span, the Living Word will have refreshed us, as we share together in John’s Gospel, using the resource I’ve written, The Sent One. 

This strengthening will also occur, as I meet with church elders and deacons the following week, October 30 to November 4.  The intent and resource for these leaders will be the same as for their pastors, but we will study and learn together upon successive evenings, 6-8pm, with extended time on Saturday morning.  We estimate that approximately one hundred elders and deacons will gather for these moments of teaching, sharing and learning.

With great anticipation and thanksgiving, I look forward to this my fourth visit to Malawi; and yet, I know that I will always be their guest.  Clearly, I am not Malawian, and I remain foreign to much of their culture; but what I have been given, I gladly share, trusting that they will use what they glean from me, reinterpreting it for the advancement of the Kingdom of God in their midst.  Thus, as I no doubt will seek to remind them, I will be present with them not unlike the Apostle Paul’s approach to the believers in Rome:

            “For I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you--that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith, both yours and mine… For I am not ashamed of the Gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes”.  (Romans 1:11-12, 16)

Through “2017 Ramblings” I hope to share my experience with you.

Faithfully,

            Stan

"Self-help"

This morning I was aided by a thought gleaned from Charles Spurgeon.  In his, Morning by Morning, he wrote of the Christian faith as a “life of faith” and a “walk of faith.”  For him, and I think he’s right, these two are one, even as the foundation and the superstructure of an edifice are one.  This analogy, which he employed, views the “life of faith” as foundational: believing that God is gracious, like the Prodigal Father, awaiting the profligate, second son’s return.  God’s gracious love and forgiveness are foundational, upon which the “walk” is built.  According to Spurgeon, however, “[of] what service is the mere foundation of a building to [one] in the day of tempest?”[1]  Such a person desires warmth and security, when the onslaught comes.

Essentially, Spurgeon’s analogy is comparable to the classical distinction between “justification” and “sanctification,” which nears the heart of my last blog regarding “Contentment.” 

In that blog you might recall that I posed the question: How did Paul learn to be content, whatever the circumstance?  In the context of Philippians 4, I think his answer is: by thankful prayer and a thought-life centered upon whatever is true, honorable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent and worthy of praise.[2]  With regard to Spurgeon, Paul’s encouragement is Spurgeon’s superstructure, or, in the older language, it is sanctification.

Now this superstructure is of interest to me, because Paul’s word for contentment (i.e. “I learned to be content in whatever circumstances”[3]) is the word, αὐτάρκης, which consists of two words: the word for “self” and the word for “help.”  Thus, Paul learned “self-help” or to be “self-sufficient”; and yet, this “self-help” came as he learned that he could do all things through Him who strengthened him.[4]

My point in these ramblings is this: the Christian faith and life are difficult, because they consist of a tension, whereby faith and life are to be one.  The line between justification and sanctification melds together, so that they are distinct but inseparable – whereas Spurgeon’s analogy (like all analogies?) breaks down: we clearly recognize the difference between the foundation of a home and the house itself.

If you are as I am, I need to learn to be content: to be self-sufficient by a thankful, praying heart and by a mind focused upon whatever is true, honorable, etc., both exhibiting God’s grace.

Hopefully,

            Stan

[1] Charles H. Spurgeon, Morning by Morning ( Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1998), p.263.

[2] Philippians 4:8.

[3] Philippians 4:11.

[4] Philippians 4:13.

"Contentment"

This morning I awoke pondering Paul’s words written to his beloved Philippian church:

            “[For] I learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am.” (Philippians 4:11)

What spurred my imaginative pondering, I cannot unravel here; but whatever that provocation, once again I faced the questions:  What did Paul learn?  What was the secret of his contentment?  How could he be content in plenty or in want?  – and this last question I found haunting; for I know that I/we live in a land of plenty. 

Oh, I know that American poverty exists; but it is “American” poverty.  It is not Bengali or Malawian poverty (these I’ve seen).  It is not the poverty that ekes out life on $2/day: the poverty of the millions, who share the global village with us.  I know that American poverty exists, but I am haunted by the fact that we Americans seem often discontent.  We are the wealthy of the world, whether we know it or not, and yet we live in a land that encourages us to be discontent: we must have the latest … the newest … the most … the best … until we find that we must then rent a storage unit, in order to contain our less-than-new possessions.

In the immediate context of Philippians 4:11, Paul wrote of his contentment as derived from his relationship to the One who strengthened him (4:13), no doubt Christ Jesus.  However, with this acknowledgement, my question still lingers: How did his relationship with Christ provide contentment?  Of what did his relationship consist that my relationship often does not?

As I confronted this last question, my mind turned not to verse 13, but to the previous verses, where he encouraged the Philippians not to be anxious but rather to pray with thanksgiving, and thereby experience “the peace of God” (verses 6-7).  Thanksgiving was/is the entrée to the peace of God.  Moreover, he next encouraged the Philippians to focus upon whatever is true, honorable, right, pure, and lovely.  Focus upon these, with thanksgiving, he enthused, and “the God of peace will be with you” (verse 9).

That, I believe, was/is Paul’s secret to contentment: to focus upon what is true, honorable, etc., realizing that these find their source in the One who is true, honorable, just, pure, and lovely.  This is not Orphan Annie sunshine; rather, this focus invites a multi-faceted view, leading to the One who is the Truth.

I’ll share more of this in my next blog.

Faithfully,

            Stan

Prayer

Yesterday, and still today, I find my heart and mind turning to Eugene Peterson’s observation regarding prayer:

            “We get more interested in ourselves than in God …  We get bewildered by the huge         discrepancies between our feelings and our intentions; we get unsettled by moralistic      accusations that call into question our worthiness to even engage in prayer”.[1]

Upon reading and rereading these words, I sigh: “Amen.”  I do not know whether you recognize in Peterson’s words your own experience, but I recognize my experience.  Too often I realize that my prayer life is far too narrow; too often I pray regarding those issues, those relationships central to my life – with me at the center.  This centering then opens the door, ever so slightly, to a rehearsal of those grievances I seem to clutch, or those failures, which render me immobilized.  Thus this form of prayer becomes an exercise in reawakening anxieties, or of raking the coals of anger; but I doubt that this form of prayer is the experience our Lord advocated.  In fact, it’s probably not prayer at all, even though it might culminate in these words: “Lord, help me with my fear and anger …”

Now I do not doubt that He will help me with these emotional responses to scenes now past – and I’m fully aware of the irony of my critiquing my own prayers and once again centering upon me – but surely He would rather I focus upon those devastated by Hurricanes Harvey and Irma; surely drought in Africa or sex-trafficking in Southeast Asia or the impoverishment of North Koreans, in order to fuel Kim Yong-un’s ambitions, are more central to our Lord’s concern, than my internal wrangling.  Surely.

In Matthew 6:8 Jesus first encouraged His disciples to recognize: “[Your] Father knows what you need before you ask Him”, and therefore, I might add, He knows your/ my emotional state and those past moments of pain and/or failure.  He knows, because He was present – and with such a recognition on my/ our part, it is then apropos to begin in prayer:  “Our Father in Heaven, let your Name be holy; let your Kingdom come; let your will be as in Heaven also upon the earth.” (My translation.)

If you are as I am, may we center upon the majesty of His character, the ultimate establishment of His Kingdom, and the goodness of His will.

Faithfully,

            Stan

[1] Foreword to P.T. Forsyth, The Soul of Prayer (Vancouver, B.C.: A Regent College Reprint, 1995), pp.3-5.

Peace ...

For some time, I’ve understood “peace” in terms of the Hebrew word “shalom” (שָׁלוֹם), which can also be translated as “being whole,” “success” or “well-being.”  With these possible definitions, I have further understood Biblical “peace” as one’s rightly relating to the whole of creation and creation’s Creator.  Thus from a personal and individual perspective, it is both objective and subjective.

As a subjective phenomenon, culturally we are “at peace,” when the sum of our experience is tranquil, healthy and promising; and as an objective phenomenon, we are “at peace,” when no conflict exists – especially wars between nations.  That is, subjectively we are “at peace,” when we feel good emotionally; objectively we are “at peace,” when our nation is not engaged in a military conflict.  However, typically we concede that peace is relative: I am “peaceful,” because I am mostly calm and content, and the US is “peaceful,” because it is not at war, apart from our “war on terror.”

These thoughts are not particularly new to me (and most likely not to you either), but they took a decided turn this morning as I read Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s thoughts regarding peace:   

            “When we wish to speak about the conditions for peace, … [the] relationships between     two nations bear close analogy to relationships between two individuals.   The conditions that are opposed to peace are in the one as in the other relationship: lust for power, pride, inordinate desire for glory and honor, arrogance, feelings of inferiority, and strife over more living space and over one’s ‘bread’ or life.  What is sin for an individual is never virtue for an entire people or nation.”[1]

The turn for me came in that last sentence: I have known that many discount Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount as inappropriate for international relations – as a personal ethic, it might be suitable but not as an ethic for nations.  And yet Bonhoeffer’s words gave me pause for thought.  On the anniversary of 911, I wonder: what might happen if we American Christians truly knew ourselves as blessed to be a blessing – to build up others, and other nations, with our great abundance, rather than seeking to secure safe pleasures?  I wonder what might happen, if we were truly at peace within and among ourselves.  Oh, I know: our world continues to produce the Saddam Husseins, the Kim Yong-uns … but I still wonder. 

Faithfully,

            Stan

[1]  Dietrich Bonhoeffer, A Testament to Freedom, Geffrey B. Kelly and F. Burton Nelson, eds. (New York: Harper Collins Publishers, 1995), p. 95.