2019: Malawi Musings #6

Dear one,

Signs: the angle of the sun; a cool morning breeze; the return of green grasses, and the fringe of gold and orange leaves—all these forecast if not shout the dawning season. However, for the Californian within me, I rue these signs and the coming of fall. Of course, I know that for some dear to me, these signs mean great, vibrant beauty amid crystal blue skies and puffy clouds—and relief from scorching winds. The signs are the same but read differently.

Likewise, as I alluded last week, although I have relatively few grey hairs, there are other signs: decreased energies, forgetfulness, stiffness, clumsiness, and, what I observed in my elders decades ago, the frequency with which friends and peers discuss their (our?) latest symptoms, sicknesses, and surgeries. Surely these are signs that, as I am drawing nigh to my eighth decade, I approach either a gate glorious or a precipice precarious.

Recently I shared with you my struggle: Should we or should we not proceed with our scheduled pastoral conferences in Malawi? There too we sought to discern the signs, but as you might recall, those signs were not altogether clear—or so they seemed. Or if they were clear, did I/we correctly read them? That is, what filter or lens did I/we apply?  Not unlike the signs of a coming fall, or of the coming of age, do they portend dread or delight?

The religious leaders of Jesus’ day faced a similar dilemma: they heard His words, witnessed popular responses, saw evidence of inexplicable phenomena, and read their scrolls—often with wonder, worry, and/or wrangling. Fully cognizant of their tendencies, Jesus offered:

“When it is evening, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red.’ And in the morning, ‘It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threatening.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times. An evil and adulterous generation asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah” (Matthew 16:2-4).

Ironically those leaders continued to demand a sign, when in fact the signs abounded. Thus they, like we, tend to ignore and/or to misinterpret the obvious. The reasons for their and our doing so might vary, but fundamentally seeking to maintain control or an unwillingness to relate openly to the one signing are paramount. 

I wonder and worry, but hopefully I will rightly read what He reveals.

            Stan

2019: Malawi Musings #5

Dear one,

In my last blog, you might recall this thought:

            As an American within the global village, I am one who has maneuvered the halls of power, and have a seat within them; and as a Christian, I recognize my nature: I’d rather be served than serve.

By this observation, I did not intend to be “provocative;” rather, I simply wanted to express what I thankfully perceive: by being an American, I have been gifted with many opportunities and resources, including those that are financial, whereas my neighbors, 5-6 billion of them, have not been gifted as I have.

However, I also understand that I have a responsibility to share what has been given to me over my lifetime: approximately 25 years of formal education; restful months along the ocean or in the mountains; decades of meaningful conversation and direction; months of conferences, retreats, and camps; months of preventative and necessary medical care—a lifetime of breathing a cultural air, which Ugandans, Malawians, or even Romanians do not have. 

Am I to feel guilty because of these gifts? No, not at all, just as I don’t feel guilt, because I am 6 feet tall, have a runner’s build, and have 5 or 6 grey hairs at nearly-age-70.

Ah, but I also recognize, not only because I am an heir of the Judeo-Christian tradition, that I am very much characterized by Paul’s lament:            

            “I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do” (Rom. 7:18-19).

Here then, as a believer, is my dilemma, irrespective feelings of guilt: I know what I have been given; I know the good I would do, but from my birth to the present, I know that my focus has been the holy trinity of me-myself-I—a focus that is regularly self-destructive. I know that I should care for my global neighbors, but my not-so-little ego clamors otherwise. In light of this dilemma, I have experienced hope in Paul’s affirmation:

            “Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! … [for there] is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” (Rom. 7:24-8:1).

Thus over the years, thankfully I have found, if only slowly and incrementally, that He has redircted my focus, so that the gifts given to me might benefit the many others of His village.

Hopefully,

            Stan

2019: Malawi Musings #4

Dear one,

Earlier this week, the London Times reported: during a recent trip to the UK, while Peter Mutharika, President of Malawi, received approximately $79.3million in governmental aid, his wife was spending nearly $107,360 upon personal items. Whether or not of interest to Americans, certainly the juxtaposition of aid received and monies expended caught the attention of many Malawians—which provides insight into their recent political upheaval. 

In many regards, and it’s not merely a Malawian story, the vast economic chasm between those who maneuver the halls and sit in the seats of power, and those who trudge dusty trails for water and sit on earthen floors is widening. However, those who trudge are increasingly aware of those who maneuver, and so the former are taking to the streets, looting and burning, in protest of the latter. If not justifiable, certainly understandable.

In the midst of following Malawi’s upheaval, I have had pause to ponder following description of that radically historic moment, the French Revolution, and those who led it:

"[The] merely personal element was even more important in dividing and envenoming these [revolutionary] groups … [Thus from] August 10, 1792, there were two powers in the state, the Commune or government of Paris and the Convention or government of France, now directed by the Committee of Public Safety. These two had in the main cooperated … [but] now dissension raised its head and harmony was no more."1

This observation, although nothing new within the annals of human history, surely reflects that history: having once attained power, those in power seek to maintain power by building and perpetuating their position/crown/party/nation. Seemingly within us, individually and collectively, an ego-drive exists, which wants to assert: “I did it my way” (Frank Sinatra).

What occurred during the French Revolution; what is occurring in present-day Malawi is not new, but like so many human endeavors is counter Jesus’ Kingdom: 

            “Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many” (Mark 10:43-45).

Given these thoughts, a further observation, seeking neither to express nor rouse feelings of guilt: as an American within the global village, I am one who has maneuvered the halls and have a seat of power; and as a Christian, I recognize my nature: I’d rather be served than serve. 

More next week, 

            Stan

1Charles Downer Hazen.

2019: Malawi Musings #3

Dear one,

 When last I wrote, I shared with you my struggle: given the political unrest within the peaceful but impoverished nation of Malawi, should we proceed with the scheduled pastoral conferences? At that writing, I recognized my need to rely upon the insights and perspectives of other believers, and that need has in no way diminished.

 However, at this writing two moments within the Apostle Paul’s experience present themselves to me: Addressing Roman believers he’d never met, he conceded:

            “[Without] ceasing I mention you always in my prayers, asking that somehow by God's will I may now at last succeed in coming to you … I do not want you to be unaware, [brothers and sisters], that I have often intended to come to you, but thus far have been prevented”(Romans 1:9-13).

 Likewise, Luke recorded Paul’s endeavors:

             “And [Paul and company] went through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia. And when they had come up to Mysia, they attempted to go into Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them. So, passing by Mysia, they went down to Troas” (Acts 16:6-8).

 You might recall that this latter citation immediately precedes Paul’s “Macedonian visison,” whereby he was invited to bear the Gospel upon European soil—but prior to that vision, like a rickochetting pinball, he bouncd from Phrygia to Galatia, from Asia to Mysia, not certain his next step. In contrast, as he wrote to the church in Roman, his desire was certain: he wanted to visit them, in order that he and they “might be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith”; and yet his way to them remained blocked.

 Frequently in our living “the Christian life,” we often do not see what lies just before us—comparable to Robert Frost’s: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—” and I too did not see. When last I wrote, I believed I would fly to Malawi, as scheduled, on July 24. Well, I was wrong. Throughout several restless days and nights, I heard, “Not now,” which was confirmed by others, and so we decided to postpone my traveling to Malawi. When we will reschedule the two conferences, I do not yet know.

 I am saddened and disappointed by this turning, as is true for my Malawi counterparts, but as one of them characteristically noted: “God doesn’t make mistakes.”

 Trusting,

            Stan 

Ps. Unexpectedly, Ethiopian Airlines has refunded my ticket to Malawi in full …

2019: Malawi Musings #2

Dear one,

Nineteen dead?

 Such was the report we received three days ago, when once we learned that political unrest now characterizes peaceful Malawi. Elections were held on May 21, during which the ruling party retained its power; but those parties in opposition have since contested the results, claiming voter fraud. Thus rock throwing, burning and looting, and death—and the inept handling of the reelected, Mutharika government—have tainted results otherwise validated.

From what I have heard and observed—hardly am I an expert on Malawian politics— the country has suffered under the aegis of Peter Mutharika’s leadership: graft and corruption, cronyism and nepotism seem to reign, but he and his seem deaf to the cries of chronic shortages, including daily blackouts in Lilongwe, the nation’s capitol.

 As a consequence of what news we received, we then wrestled: Should I seek to postpone or even cancel my forthcoming trip to and pastoral retreats in Malawi—I am scheduled to fly from Indy to Lilongwe on 24 July? With this wrestling, I also sought the counsel of four Malawian pastors, typified by this composite response:

“Malawi is well and very safe. Recently political demonstrations have taken place across the country, but have generally been peaceful. The situation is calm. Ministers have responded positively and are eager. So no need to cancel the retreat. It will start and end in peace.”

 With this counsel, and with further discussion, thought, and prayer, we have decided to continue as planned; and equally, with this counsel I realized that I must once again trust; and in this instance, I need to trust His people, through whom I might hear our Lord’s Voice.

 From the first, this was also true for the Apostle Paul, who depended upon other believers: they helped him escape from Damascus and later from Thessalonica (Acts 9:25ff.; 1710); they provided him refreshment, when he journeyed or as he suffered imprisonment (Philemon 22; Philippians 4:15f.); and when execution neared, he still depended upon their aid (2Timothy 4:13f.). Community and trust were fundamental to his ministry.

 Inter-dependence and believing other believers: this is not a new, Christian phenomena; rather, it is often wondrous in matters great and small. Theologically, relationally, physically, and financially—with time, talent, and treasure—we entrust ourselves to one another. Nonetheless, most surely do we entrust ourselves to one another with that most precious of gifts: the love of Christ—a love that compels us to “bear one another’s burdens” (Galatians 6:2).

 Thoughtfully,

Stan

2019: Malawi Musings #1

Dear one,

“Tension” … for many years I have understood this word positively—for me not unrelated to the word “balance” or “dialectic.” Perhaps more concretely, I have viewed “tension” as the means by which we experience bodily movement. Most assuredly I am not a physiologist, but it occurs to me that, for our arms and legs to move, one set of muscles relaxes while another set tenses. To move, to be active, to be alive in some sense requires tension, but of course that tension must be offset or counterbalanced, or otherwise irreparable, physical harm might result. 

As you well know, within our American culture the word “tension” often bears a negative connotation: thus we speak of  “a tension headache” or of “a room filled with tension,” and regularly associate it with “stress” and “anxiety.” In this regard it is often experienced as debilitating, a near-neighbor to fear and a far-distant-cousin to peace and harmony. 

Now I share these thoughts with you, because I have gratefully received several responses to my recent blogs. In those blogs perhaps I wrongly assumed or poorly expressed a living tension.

For instance, in my last blog to you, I questioned: “[Will] I trust that my few hours of time and travel [in Uganda] will make a difference—more than a drop in an ocean of need?” Given this question, I received several wonderful responses essentially encouraging: “Yes! Whatever you say and do our Lord can and will use.” To these affirmations I readily concurred: “Thank you. I believe you are right.” But then with thought but not as a negation, I recognized the tension I often feel, a tension Paul expressed when he wrote:

            “[Work] out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:12-13). 

By his words, Paul expressed that mysterious tension between my limited, temporal will and God’s sovereign, eternal will—both operative, neither canceling the other. If I so emphasize my actions, my obedience, my trust to the exclusion of His life-giving will, then I will become subject to doubt and despair; likewise, if I so emphasize His sovereign pleasure at the exclusion of my personal responsibilities and failings, then I am rendered a puppet, prone to view life through Pollyanna lenses. However, with balance arise freedom and joy.

 Tension: I am grateful for those, who help me maintain a faith-filled balance, particularly when I see the glass as less than half-full.

 Peacefully tense,

            Stan

2019: Uganda Days #8

Dear one,

            “Fantastic” … or gleaning a thought from John Eldredge, our world is a fantasy.

Earlier this afternoon, I was greeted with indifference by the warthog family. Father warthog seemed proud of his tusks; mother warthog grazed upon her front knees; and their children frisked about. As I ascended the stairs to my room, I stomped loudly, since one of my neighbors has startled me several times: regaling its fluorescent green body, he (or she) has slithered its serpentine length  beneath an aged door. Although fascinating to watch, I would that this neighbor might quit the neighborhood. And then last night I was suddenly stopped and warned: twenty feet away, his back gleaming in lamplight, a hippo lumbered its mass further inland. Oh, but of course the neighborhood is greatly enhanced by the giraffe families—to whom twins were recently born.

            To my American eyes, these near-neighbors are strangers indeed; and yet, I do not doubt that to Ugandan eyes, our neighbors of chipmunks, squirrels, and geese might appear as oddities—and of course, there are our far-distant neighbors: elk, eagle, and alligator, which we claim as our own, even if we see them but rarely. In its great variety and detail, our world is fantastic.

            Not far from my warthog neighbors, live others. I listened to their stories: one had just recovered from a bout of malaria-induced hallucinations; another was concerned about a newborn not nursing; still another the excesses of alcohol and marijuana; and for everyone the crops are a concern. These latter neighbors, these Ugandans live in a very difficult world—clearly fantastic and yet fraught with the conditions poverty produces. (Apparently unemployment stands at nearly 87% in northern Uganda—even at 75%  the implications stagger.)

            Within this Ugandan fantasy, pastors provide hope, and yet they approach their calling with limited resources: income, education, and opportunity. Many of them have seven, eight, or as many as fifteen children, all of whom they seek to nurture, including the fees for their children’s education. Ah! but when they gather to sing, their sound is joyous—and I have been privileged to hear and share in their joy, which is neither simplistic nor naïve: it emanates from the conviction of God’s love, and that they have been called to share in the beauty and the brokenness about them. They have understood Jesus’ injunction: “The harvest is great, the laborers are few; pray the Lord of the harvest …” (Matthew 9:37-38).

Amid the broken and the beautiful.

            Stan

2019: Uganda Days #7

Dear one,

Often I quip: “Live and learn,” but in truth I must regularly ask: “What have I learned?”

Since last I wrote, my/our flights from Chicago to Entebbe were uneventful but long. After nearly 44 hours in transit, I landed in Lira, Uganda—the last 3 hours aboard a high-winged Cessna: from 10,000 feet I delighted in seeing the vast, lush green of Uganda, a land Winston Churchill described as “the pearl of Africa.”

I have made several trans-Atlantic flights to Africa, but have I learned to anticipate how such travel interrupts my physical wellbeing? I wonder.

The day following our arrival, I joined others from Zionsville Presbyterian in a medical outreach, hosted by a local, village church. As was true last year, many of those who came to the clinic had head, joint, and/or gastrointestinal complaints; but at day’s end a young mother brought her two-year-old son. Because he had been born with cerebral palsy, his mother (and he) had been divorced by his father, whose family refused to accept such a child within their clan. In my view, the prognosis for mother and child is not hopeful.

I have seen abject poverty in Bangladesh, deprivation in Malawi, but have I learned to anticipate such realities—both their causes and consequences, and my inability to address them? I wonder.

Three days after our arrival, twenty-two pastors and I gathered to focus upon John’s Gospel and his account of Jesus’ arrest, trial, death, and resurrection. The twenty-two were attentive, and yet my questions and their responses seemed dissonant: not only do we speak different languages, but their reticence and formality in speaking left me puzzled. I sensed a disconnect, although our lead pastor spoke so very positively, even joyously regarding our first day’s interaction.

Upon a number of occasions I have related to and taught African pastors, but have I learned to anticipate our cultural differences? I wonder. 

Now at the conclusion of the pastoral conference, without doubt it has gone very well—much better than I had anticipated, with the very real possibility that The Sent One will be translated into Luo, the language of northern Uganda.

How well I have anticipated these days, I question; nonetheless, I have known our Lord’s great faithfulness among pastors who have so little—and yet the rich harmonies of their voices in song are a treasure.

In these days I am learning afresh Jesus’ words: “[Father], just as you sent me into the world, I also sent them into the world” (John 17:18). 

Still learning,

    Stan

2019: Uganda Days #6

Dear One,

Sometimes my connections are untimely: as I am seated in O’Hare’s Terminal C, soon to board a flight to Brussels and then to Lira, Uganda, I thought I’d share with you the encouragement I received from Lidia, a newly married, bio-engineering student, who is actively involved in Betel Church, Giurgiu, Romania. (Doesn’t everyone en route to Uganda think in terms of Romania?)  At any rate, Lidia wrote:

“I was talking to Bogdan and we just wanted to thank you for what you did in Romania. We do not know if you meant to change lives but for sure you changed ours, or at least our perspectives on how to see the details in the Scriptures. May God bless you in everything you do!”

Of course Lidia’s words greatly encouraged me; however, as I thought of her encouragement, I knew immediately that whatever she and Bogdan gleaned through me was fully dependent upon the relational connections many others have made. If you will, I knew and know that I am simply one connector in a vast, intricate series of connections well beyond my comprehension. I am truly grateful that Lidia and Bogdan benefited from our shared moments.

 Likewise, as was true when we boarded our flight from Indy to Amsterdam and then to Bucharest, so too my present hope: using The Sent One as our entrée into John’s Gospel, may I/we be of great encouragement to 50-60 pastors in Uganda. But if such encouragement occurs, it will be the result of many previous, timely connections, of which Paul was fully cognizant when he wrote to the Corinthians:

 “What then is Apollos? What is Paul? Servants through whom you came to believe, as the Lord assigned to each. I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth.” (1Corinthians 3:5-8)

By his words, Paul sought to quell petty rivalries and jealousies within the Corinthian church. They had yet to understand that they, like Paul, were the recipients of grace: what they perceived to be “theirs” were really gifts given to them through a vast series of connections—and ultimately by God. Thus even for Paul and Apollos: From whence Paul’s seeds and Apollos’ water, if not gifts from God? Truly, we are gifted: all we have are givens.

 In my returning to Uganda, I am gifted: your encouragement encourages me to encourage Ugandan pastors. May I give freely and easily for their benefit.

 Hopefully,

    Stan

2019: Uganda Days #5

Dear one,

 Without question, my expectations were clear: I would mow the lawn; I would prepare two sermons for Uganda; I would vacuum; I would greet Mary and Reid at the airport; I would send several emails; and then Mary and I would have an evening of quiet 

Of course, as you might now rightly perceive, I gave too much credence to my ability to accomplish what I expected:

            Typically delighting in yard work, yesterday’s effort took twice as long as I had allotted, and by then I knew that Mary and Reid’s flight had been delayed. I did move forward with the sermons, the one requiring more than I had anticipated, even as I learned that Mary’s return flight had been re-routed and delayed … and delayed further. The quiet evening I had imagined became my driving to the airport, where, as I waited, I composed and sent several emails. By 11pm, after a flurry of texts, we knew: Mary and Reid would spend the night in Flushing, New York.

Africans have the expression: “Man plans and God laughs”,[1]which indicates much about African life—but clearly not unrelated to American life, where we routinely expect on-time departures and arrivals; and yet, life occurs, sometimes counter and often in between our expectations. We expect and life occursFor some years I have pondered and felt the grave concern of John the Baptist: as he sat in prison, a trophy in Herod’s collection, he knew that his death was imminent. This he expected, but what he did not expect were the reports he heard: as Messiah, Jesus was not fulfilling John’s expectations. Some asserted that He was demonically possessed; others smirked, labeling Him “[a] glutton and a wine-bibber, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Matthew 11:19). Fearing that he had been wrong, John sent a message to Jesus: “Are you the Coming One or might we expect another?” (Matthew 11:3). John had to know: Was he wrong? And yet, to his great credit, his expectation that God would send Someone had not dimmed. In John’s question, I think, we gain insight into the nature of faith: believing that God will fulfill His promise, although our expectations remain unfulfilled or even shattered.

A week today I expect to be heading to the airport: for the next 48 hours in transit to Lira, Uganda, in order to encourage 50-60 pastors. This I expect.

 Please pray with me,

            Stan

[1]In my experience, Africans typically laugh with God.

2019: Uganda Days #3

Dear one,

 “Life can be seen and experienced as the ebb-and-flow of waves upon the shore.” Last week a good friend shared this thought with me, and then he directed me to Ecclesiastes 3: “For everything there is a season.” Perhaps one of the ironies of my life, given the time, energies, and thought I have poured into the Scriptures, is the scant attention I have given to such a famous passage. However, last week that “season” came, when I discovered the richness in those words—it was as though I was hearing them for the first time.

 Rather than hearing a negative fatalism, pervasive throughout Ecclesiastes, last week I heard: there truly is a time … “a time to break down, and a time to build up … a time to weep and a time to laugh … a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together … a time to keep silence, and a time to speak”. That is, I heard that these moments exist, and that these ebbs-and-flows can be good and right in their own time. 

 In the context of my life, dawn broke: seasons exist, during which certain endeavors characterize that season, but my security and purpose is not to be found within that seasonal activity or orientation. It is not as though I am to construct a monument and thereby proclaim: “This is it; this is the culmination; this is permanent; this is the meaning of my life.” Rather, in the living of my life, only my Lord can have such preeminence and thereby such permanence. With new light, I glimpsed: if I am rightly directed to Him, He then gives me seasonal freedom. I can delight in building up, and equally, I can delight in breaking down.

 Presently I am experiencing a season of international travel, and with this season come the energies to write and to edit for the sake of struggling pastors. And yet, reasonably I know: “Mary and I are truly pushing the envelope: four international trips in five months, Uganda in three weeks—that’s a little crazy.” Irrespective, that’s what we’re doing, and it is good and right for now, knowing that this season might end quickly: my kidney stones, or some other millimeter phenomenon might abruptly usher me into another season. With this thought, I am not seeking to be realistic; no, I seek to delight in the One, who controls the seasons.

 Given this season, I am pleased to share my meanderings with you.

Ebbing and flowing,

            Stan

Ps. If helpful, please share my musings with others …

2019: Uganda Days #2

Dear one,

“Blossom where you’re planted”: for some years my eyes stumbled across these words, as I routinely hurried from one moment to the next; but in recent days, as I continue to ponder the desert I beheld, or the desert that beheld me during my visit to Israel, they have captured my attention. No doubt reflecting an underlying Biblical theme from Genesis to Revelation, as those created “in the image of God,” we are “planted” in time and space, very much defined by a personal and cultural matrix.[1]

For instance, in many regards 20thcentury-Californian-American-male-Protestant-grandfather-pastor-intuitive introvert can define me. Admittedly, most often I resist such labels; instead I claim: “I am who I am,” perhaps failing to recognize that such a claim fully substantiates those characteristics of a 20thcentury male, who has lived most of his life in California, Massachusetts, and Indiana.

Now I share this with you, because I routinely I note the plight of those, who live in impoverished settings. I have seen, but have not lived, the poverty of those in Bangladesh, Malawi, and Uganda. And so, as I remind you of these circumstances, I remind myself, fully aware that my lifestyle in comparison is that of opulent luxury: my complaints regarding the internet, frigid air conditioning, or potholes become petty at best.

I am an American, who, for a season, has been given the privileged opportunity to care for a few, who live in dire circumstances; and yet, because I am rooted in a place called “Noblesville,” I live in a tension. I desire to care for some at a distance, who live with much less than I do, but my daily life involves those who live in or near my “ville.”  Thus, I dare not let my neighbors’ wealth disguise his or her carefully camouflaged suffering and inner poverty. I am called to care for my neighbors far and near: “both/and” not “either/or.” 

 When their hurt and horror become bare and raw, it is well for you and me to blossom, as in a desert oasis, encouraging the Gardener’s nurturing touch. In those moments, for their benefit and ours, may we affirm Paul’s admonition: “Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers” (Romans 12:12-13).

Living in the tension of here and there,

            Stan

 [1]I just discovered: “matrix” is derived from “mother” and “womb.” Perhaps this you k

2019: Uganda Days #1

Dear one,
 
In one sense, I know that I’ve returned: a freshly brewed cup of blueberry crumble coffee in hand, the wait staff in black, and cinnamon, sourdough toast on order—ah, but as I awaited two others to join me, I soon realized that they weren't coming. I was a week early. So either I hadn't really returned from Romania and Israel, or in factI had returned to a rhythm and routine of muddling my calendar.
 
At any rate, this morning’s meeting was to finalize details for Uganda: five weeks today (Wednesday) we fly from Chicago to Brussels, and from Brussels to Entebbe, arriving at 11pm (Thursday). Upon arrival, hopefully I’ll then have passage on a Missionary Aviation Fellowship shuttle from Kajjansi (adjacent to Entebbe) to Lira and the Otino Waa Orphanage.
 
Although thoughts, feelings, and images from Romania and Israel remain vivid, last night I couldn’t help but think of those, who have survived the ravages of terror and war in northern Uganda. Recently, in one of my several Skype conversations, I had occasion to ponder the Book of Revelation. Initially I was drawn to this book, because Rev. Dickens, founding and lead pastor in Lira, asked me to guide Ugandan pastors into John’s Apocalypse. As I’ve given serious thought to his request, I’ve realized that this book/letter/apocalypse is truly germane to Africa, where fear and power are dominant, cultural currents: many Africans strive for financial, political, military, and/or spiritual power, equally fearing those who have such power.
 
Thus, last night I read these words from one of the many imagistic scenes penned by John:
            “When he opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slain for the word of God and for the testimony they had given; they cried out with a loud voice, ‘Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long …?’"(Revelation 6:10).
 
Of course these words had a specific context for John’s audience: first century believers suffered grievously, not unlike those of northern Uganda. Without question, many Ugandans wonder: How long, O’ Lord, how long? And how do we feed our children … and how do we spare them outbreaks like Ebola … and how do we direct them to you?
 
These are not easily answered questions—either in Uganda or Malawi, with the recent cyclones—but pastors in these settings can provide significant, practical help, as well as true hope. I am thankful, if my efforts encourage such pastors.
 
Faithfully,
            Stan
 
 

2019: Romania Ramblings #7

Dear one,

Thank you. Before I share further with you, please know that I am so very grateful for your continued interest, prayer, and/or finances on my behalf. You have greatly encouraged my traveling to Romania, Uganda, and Malawi—with Israel a gift through the kindness of Zionsville Presbyterian Church and its people.

Regarding Israel, I would now share with you three, first sightings and impressions: first, the Temple Mount, but most clearly its eastern border, the Kidron Valley; second, the Sea of Galilee, as seen by night from the Golan Heights, with Mount Herman to the north; and third, En Gedi, that rugged, desert cleavage with its fresh water spring flowing to the Dead Sea.

For years I have reflected with others: Jesus and His disciples crossed the Kidron Valley to Gethsemane, knowing that nearby hundreds of Passover lambs had just been sacrificed—and now that valley lay before me! Likewise, for years I have taught: Jesus healed many from the Galilean villages of Capernaum, Chorazin, and Bethsaida—and now by night I beheld their lights. And often I have pondered Jesus’ wilderness temptations—and now I glimpsed that desolate terrain He knew well. That is, I sensed what most any visitor to present-day Israel might experience: this is the land in which Jesus walked, talked, laughed, listened, slept, and suffered.

As I knew they must, these sightings confronted me with Jesus’ humanity: admittedly, living two millennia after His life, death, and resurrection, it’s easy for me to romanticize and thereby dehumanize His nature—but to see where He lived underscored for me that declaration of John’s Gospel:

“And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth” (John 1:14).

As you might well know, the verb translated “to live” among us can equally mean: “to dwell,” “to tabernacle,” or even “to camp”—and surely Jesus did that. He “camped” among those of first century Jerusalem, Capernaum, and En Gedi, but wonder of wonders, as John recorded, this One was God incarnate. To be sure, some of his contemporaries, as Nathaniel at first did, asked: “Can anything good [or noble] come from Nazareth?” (John 1:46). Humanly Nathaniel knew of what he spoke: Nazareth was a first century Podunk. However, with others he soon realized that great good could and did come from Nazareth—a Good yet to be fully comprehend; a Good Thomas later declared as: “My Lord and my God!”

Sincerely,

Stan

Ps. My focus now shifts to Uganda, June 5-21.

2019: Romania Ramblings: #6

Dear one,

As I gazed about me, I heard within me these words: “Be thou my vision, O’ Lord of my heart, not be all else to me save that thou art …” Before me stood the gold-plated Dome of the Rock; near me the ancient walls; and above me, amid a blue sky, darkening clouds to the west. Early we had awakened and by 7:30am we were on the Temple Mount: draped in brown and black, a lone woman sat in the northeast corner, reading; relaxed, gun-bearing soldiers congregated near an olive tree; workmen fitted pipes together, to which prayer awnings would be attached; and black-garbed and -bearded men strode with intent. Wherever I looked, quiet prevailed, even though the wind chilled, and the walls, stone pavement, and intricate mosaic of the Dome proclaimed centuries of conflict, collapse, conquest, and consolation. As I stood against a small, stone edifice, seeking the warmth of sunlight, I knew that the moment before me escaped my comprehension—and still I hummed: “Be thou my vision …”

As I watched, I wondered: Centuries ago, perhaps very near where I stood, what did Jesus observe? Did He note that persistent, human striving for the One who is our Creator? Did He sense a desire to appease the One who granted us life? Did He recognize a longing to know purpose and meaning—but especially love—often thwarted by callous religious leaders? Or when He watched, did He feel the pain of those, who had submitted to a grim resignation: “We are caught within a cyclical vortex beyond our control and comprehension”?

Of course, my questions are speculative; and yet, as I walked about the Temple Mount, I could deny neither Jesus’ humanity nor His egocentricity: “All of you who are weary and burdened, come unto me and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). That is, if this declaration and promise are true, which I believe they are, then they are fully consistent with the hope He provided a paralytic: “Child, your sins are forgiven” (Mark 2:5), and equally consistent with His word to a woman demeaned: “Does no one condemn you, then neither do I; go and sin no more” (John 8:11).

What did Jesus observe—I can only speculate? Even so, my few days in Israel have led me to believe that He saw neither Jew nor Gentile—or in our day, neither Muslim, Catholic, nor Orthodox—but those beloved by His Father, even if lost.

Returning home,

Stan

2019: Romania Ramblings #5

Dear one,

We are now at a crossroads, that is, we are at the Galilee, an ancient crossroad between East and West. We are staying at a lovely kibbutz on the Golan Heights: fifty feet from our cabin porch, the escarpment drops a thousand feet to the Sea of Galilee below. For the last three evenings, as the sun set, I have delighted in looking across the lake, noting Magdala and Capernaum to the northwest and Bethsaida to the north, recalling that these place names reflect a rich variety of ethnic influences and peoples, very like those Jesus knew and among whom He daily walked.

Clearly this is an ancient land in which walking was the fundamental mode of transport. Without doubt, various conveyances existed, but two millennia ago those forms existed for the elite 1%, not for the vast, overwhelmingly impoverished majority. For Jesus’ contemporaries of 28AD, how one “walked” was of great importance: wisdom and heat dictated when, where, how quickly, with what articles, and with whom one traveled. An error in judgment in any one of these courted disaster. Thus in Jewish tradition, “halakha,” the Hebrew verb for “walking,” easily translated into how one lived: life is a journey and to finish well meant rightly stepping. In many regards, Jesus’s words of Matthew 5-7, the so-called “Sermon on the Mount,” are halakha: “You have heard it said, but I say …”

And yet, as I have thought of this land and its formidable difficulties—its rocks, deep-cleft wadis, and foreign footprints—and as I pondered afresh Jesus’ words and their stringency, I have sensed something else: this is not a great land in terms of size or beauty, and these people are not the only ones, who have been subject to the vicissitudes of warring cultures and climes; rather this land and its peoples very much reflect the Scriptures: the God of creation chooses “the least of these,” in order to demonstrate His greatness. In my mind, how else does one explain the existence of these people and their presence on the world stage, both past and present? Of course, it’s not that they have always if ever really walked righteously; instead, through them we have observed the long-suffering mercy and grace of God, most clearly seen in Jesus, who walked this land proclaiming, in word and deed: “I am the Way.”

Walking in Him,

Stan

Ps. My romantic sensibilities tell me that I could live happily in this land.

2019: Romania Ramblings #2

Dear one,

As so often happens in our lives, we plan, we anticipate, and then the moment long planned and anticipated passes quickly. Such is true regarding my present visit to Giurgiu: I arrived 1pm Thursday; spent eight meaningful hours with the leadership of a small vibrant church on Friday and Saturday; spoke at their Sunday morning worship and then at an outreach evening for their neighbors, and now it’s time to repack.

In my experience, the eight hours of study and interactive dialogue were truly unique: we were a group of twenty-two ranging in age from late-adolescence to late-seventies, and yet we shared an eagerness to learn from and with one another. Like an effervescent spring, our thoughts, feelings, laughter, and insights flooded the room. Although we had moments of intensity (my contribution), we nonetheless remained fully engaged. As younger a woman commented, “How many times have I read of Jesus’ trial, and yet, it was as though I was reading it for the first time?”

Ours was truly a multigenerational experience, as our hearts and minds sought to imagine an evening in Gethsemane, which became a prelude to a rapid sequence of events, thus altering the course of human history. From my perspective, it is difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend Western culture and its impact upon our world apart from a garden, a kiss of death, a botched trial, and a manipulated crowd all leading to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection.

Elsewhere: In my last blog to you, I recounted a brief conversation I had regarding Romanian Easter: during the communist era, even though the government sought to quash any Easter observances, still mothers and grandmothers encouraged the coloring of eggs, the buying and wearing of new clothes, the baking of special breads and cookies, and the repeated refrain: “He is risen indeed!” Although they tried, governmental authority could not suppress the power of tradition. Admittedly, the underlying significance of that tradition might have been lost, and yet, like a parable, the tradition still invited questions: Why do we color eggs? Why do we wear new clothes? Why do we eat special bread—does anyone know?

Yesterday, as I spoke from the pulpit, I was more keenly aware of the interconnection between Scripture, experience, and tradition. That is, like a three-legged stool, if we remove one or another of these from our faith, then that faith is greatly weakened or “functionally impaired.” This triangulation I must ponder more deeply.

Thank you for sharing in this venture with me,

Stan