The Re-Unreached and Staying/Going

"I'm a Christian because missionary deaconesses left Germany to evangelize German immigrants (most of whom were already nominally Christian — including my grandparents) in the 'reached' city of Philadelphia in the 1930s."

The text from my friend punctuated a few weeks of mental gnawing about calling. I had been feeling a twinge of guilt that I was called to Spain, a so-called "reached" country. What about the unreached people groups? Does anyone care about them?

God does, of course. And I keep having to remind myself that he will call people to go to those unreached.
As for Spain, the same friend from the text previously told me, "don't feel guilty about being called to a reached country. Anywhere where there are people who haven't heard is unreached." Word. And in any case, Spain is becoming increasingly re-unreached, like most of Europe.

It's disheartening for me when people classify missionaries as "those [weird] people" who go overseas. If you truly believe the gospel, you can't help but share it very naturally through your life. "Leaking Jesus" was what my former campus minister called it. In many cases now, mere geography is the dividing line between missionary (if they're even permitted to be identified as such in their country) and regular old Christian.
What I'm not saying is that everyone should move across the world. Staying, praying, supporting, and reaching out in your own neighborhood is equally critical as moving overseas. The church needs both. But let's make sure we have both.

The Waiting Is The Hardest Part

I'll borrow this post's title from my favorite philosopher, Tom Petty.
I'm deep in year six of figuring out my path to Spain and paying off school debt. My perspective has changed a lot in that time, but the conviction hasn't. I can't explain the gut-twisting rush that I get when I'm faced with Spain. I've mentioned feeling like my heart's being pulled out. Some might describe it as a similar sensation to falling in love. But with that love comes anxiety about the future. How long of a stint should I do? What should it look like? Should I stay in the United States a bit longer to tie up some loose ends? I don't know. I have some time to figure that out.
Task lists and pros/cons charts pile up. Various dreams die hard. Sometimes they don't need to, and their mortification occurs because I've jumped too far ahead in my mind. I'm impatient and yet still nervous.
This past week, I had just nearly gotten over a cold when I got sidelined by the flu. I've been (mostly) resting at home for five days. By day two I wanted to return to work, even though I couldn't sit up. By day three, I was furious. Why couldn't I breathe?! I had so much I wanted to accomplish! Simply waiting for the virus to run its course has showed me how willful I am. Not in a good way.

So I keep being pulled back to today. I'm not good at this. Even when multiple people in a week tell me that I'm in the exact right place for this time.
But I'm learning slowly. This time is just as important. And in that realization there is joy.

Hang Gliding with Jesus

(Note: Artist friends, someone please draw Hang Gliding with Jesus. I would be forever grateful.)

I have a horrid fear of heights. I must constantly challenge it (hello, trying to walk the Ben Franklin Bridge footpath), but still it hangs on. So the idea of hang gliding is about as palatable as being locked in a roller disco with Barry Manilow and being forced to to sing "Copacabana" until I lose consciousness. No, just no.

Enter: the Christian life. The longer I'm in it, the more I desperately grab onto Jesus. Life is nuts. Dreams, work, relationships, calling, dying to self, plans for the future, Spain, logistics...I start to think too hard on any one sector and I get the sensation of falling. But I'm held fast. Jesus is not going to drop me — or you, if you're his. So I grab onto the bar and hold on. It's a scary, thrilling, awesome ride. He will complete his work in us.
So pray as I go on this adventure with God. Let's fly!

When Songs Change

Lil dude Oscar, my 3/4 size acoustic.

I wrote a song called Turmoil in 2002. My friend Benj composed the music for it. It's angsty, sure, but not in the typical teenager sense. At the time I was trying to figure out how to walk with a friend in their suffering. It fit the season, which was gut-wrenching.
I picked up my guitar for the first time in ages last night, tuned it up, and started strumming through old ditties. But when I began the chords for Turmoil, a strange thought hit me. The words and emotions in the song felt foreign. I even toyed with writing new verses because the old ones simply don't fit. There's more to say. Twelve years dramatically alters your grasp of wrestling with your own soul, to say the least.
This week I've been thinking about how God renews our minds. When necessary, he changes our songs. Sometimes he just changes the style. Other times, he completely rewrites a wailing ballad into a jumpy six-count swing.

En Serio

Not many things rip my heart out quite like Spain. After all, I've been beating the topic to death for a little more than six years. But this hits hard.
While I was on vacation I got an email from Miss Ruth's pastor in Barcelona. He specifically asked for the brothers and sisters at Tenth to pray because he's been diagnosed with advanced mesothelioma. Pastor Cerni is the minister at the only reformed church in the city. As I posted previously, he heads a book ministry that equips vast portions of the Hispanic world. And he's been caring for Miss Ruth.
I wish I were more spiritually mature and could say that I totally see God's purpose to build the church in Spain. But I'm sad for my friend. Sad for his family and his flock. Sad, perhaps selfishly, that I'm not back there to help. Whatever that means.
So, pray for this dear man, his family, his congregation. Pray for his treatment. For other nationals to be raised up to support the church there. For Spain.

Entiendes lo que lees?

Newsworks file photo

He sat next to me on the subway, the Spanish tract (some variation on the four laws or the like) pinched between his fingers. He wasn't so much reading it as staring at the paper, as though expecting to burn a hole through it.
I don't like speaking to random strangers on public transit. I'm a big fan of personal safety, for one thing. But I kept feeling convicted to say something before I arrived at my stop.
So I asked him if he understood what he was reading.
His head, bowed toward the tract, now snapped up. "Yeah, I understand it," he responded in English. He twisted around in the seat and peered at me. "You know Spanish? Like, read and write it," he said, almost as a statement of fact. I nodded slightly.
Then the words came tumbling out. "I came to the United States from Puerto Rico when I was three. But when I was fourteen I got a Spanish bible and it (he paused)....it just made sense. All of it."
My stop was coming up fast and the train slowed. So I said the only thing I was thinking.
"I pray you find the truth."
He said he hoped he did too. The subway cars slid away from the station. I didn't get to share the entire gospel. But I don't think I was supposed to. Sometimes it's tiny moments that change everything. I'm praying that God spurs the next person who crosses paths with him to give him a kernel of truth. And so on.

God is Bigger

Rough seas. If I close my eyes and think about the last few months, I get the mental image of a boat on choppy waters. Church stuff. Work stress. Interpersonal things. The impact of a broken world crashing down and bringing more hurt and brokenness with it.
I sipped chai tonight with some friends who will soon move to South Asia. The husband talked about recalibrating his mindset in the face of so much transition and change: thinking of his concerns in the scale of God's magnitude. Since God isn't a spacial being, we're not encouraged to think of him in terms of physical size. But the fact that God is greater than anything I face is a huge reminder when I get overwhelmed by the junk in my life.
Sitting on that porch and hearing that snapped me back to reality. Yes, there is hurt and stress and weariness. God's not threatened by me acknowledging that. But there is hope and joy and purpose, too. And in the last few days I've been re-finding that. Big sigh of relief.
So walk with me for a bit. Pray for Spain, for Philly, for seeing the bigger picture.

On my inextricable connection with Madrid

Card from my boss. He knows me so well.

Today is my birthday. It's also the holiday "Fiesta de la Comunidad de Madrid," in remembrance of the uprising against Napoleonic troops in 1808. I always did like a little insurrection with my celebration.
The (spoiler alert!) ultimately unsuccessful uprising was ruthlessly crushed by French agents, and the country itself never really re-stabilized until at least 1850, but the Spaniards put up a good fight. In fact, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Madrid, Malasaña, is named after one of the heroes of the revolt.
I'm thankful for another year of life and all the blessings God has given me. But most of all I treasure the fact that this means I'm one year closer to Spain.

Running with Perseverence

Broad Street Run with Kelsey last year.

As mentioned in some previous post, I have a love/hate relationship with running. Unlike some runners, it's not relaxing. Mile by mile is a fierce battle with my mind, legs, and lungs thrashing to get at each other. I frequently complain to my roommate, Shannon, on my way out the door, "but I don't waaaaanna run."
And yet I go. Circling the local cemetery, out to the edges of the neighborhood, up a main street, down another, and occasionally tracing the rivers when I need the mileage. Aside from the Motown/classic rock/Christian noise embedded in my ears (and the pepper spray at the ready in my pocket, parents!), it's introvert time. I've outrun yappy dogs, jeering jerks, and treacherous sidewalks. Sometimes I've given up and groused at my tetchy ankles and finicky airway (hey there, exercise-induced asthma).
It's only after my running app robotically recites whatever mile I choose to end on and I slow my carcass down to a walk that I start feeling something approaching good and start enjoying my surroundings. By the time I get back to the house, the strife is over and the battle done. I ache. I'm whining and ready to devour whatever vittles are present. And yet, there's a grim satisfaction in every run's completion.
On Sunday I run my first half marathon with my friend Leah. I'm nervous. Races make me nervous in general. In this case, I've run a fair amount, but nowhere near enough to feel completely prepared. The Internet is filled with advice and warnings about how much I'm slacking on fueling/training/preparation. But Sunday comes regardless. I don't want to sound dramatic or full of pretentious-Christian-speak, but I'm really leaning on God's grace. I can only go so far (distance and otherwise) on my own strength. I need grace.
The last few weeks and months keep bringing this lesson back to me. Whether it's running a race, running a career race back to Spain, or running through life, grace is a soft blanket of comfort when the seasons of life are sharp and seemingly unmercifully harsh.
Pray for that race. And if you will, please pray for the one on Sunday.

For Adolphus

From his biography, A Life For Africa.

This morning I had to research the first Presbyterian missionary to Cameroon during the latter part of the 19th century. Stick with me.

From his biography:
"...with his eyes shut he could see the uplands broadly plaided with alternating fields of winter wheat and plowed land, could point to the dip in the rounded hills where Pine Creek runs, or where the Little Mahoning marks a gap between forest trees..."

I got to this point and fairly shouted at my boss, "HE WAS FROM NORTHERN INDIANA COUNTY!" This is where my parents live. Rural. Not flashy.
His name was Adolphus C. Good. He was licensed by the Kittanning presbytery in 1881. He not only established the church in Cameroon (then a German possession), but opened a school for boys. Adolphus died at 38.
The effect of this life was enormous, though it appears he never got any accolades during his lifetime. The only biography I could find was the one published in 1897. He was even overlooked in the Foreign Missionary publication when he left for Africa, though he fulfilled the denomination's measly quota of one new worker each year! In fact, there's no mention of him in any publication for the first four years of his service. Ouch.
So enormous was his impact, though, that we got a call this morning from a pastor in Cameroon wanting to know the history of the Presbyterian churches in his country. He figured a random Philadelphia church would know the missionary because of the way it affected his entire country.

If you think your life is small, think of Adolphus.

"Carl, You're Going To Hit It!"

Cue The Good, The Bad And The Ugly theme.

In the summer of 1964, the legend goes, my father, his brother John, and his cousin Glenn were groggily slumped in the backseat of my grandparents' '58 Buick station wagon, headed into Carlsbad to see my great-Aunt Anna and Uncle Al. My grandpa was driving and my grandmother was asleep in the front seat. All were looking forward to the end of a long journey across the desert.
Did I mention that it was 1:45 a.m. and pitch-dark except for the car's headlights? It was the sixties, when men were men and drove beastly station wagons at odd hours out west.
My Uncle John picked up the story here and said that they were approaching a small bridge with a red reflector on each side. Suddenly out of the quiet darkness came two deep gasps for air and the unforgettable shriek, "CARL! CARL! You're going to hit it!"

I've always loved this story, not only for the comedic value (and my father's chortling while telling it) but for the glimpse into how fear affects us.

Fear. Fear because of incorrect perceptions or being caught unawares. Sometimes it's justified fear. Uncle John said that to be fair to Grandma, you had to look at the events from earlier that day. In the scorch of the late-evening twilight as they left Vegas and headed out across the desert, Grandpa passed a tractor trailer on a steep up-grade, causing all passengers to become instant believers in the possibility that this trip might never end in Carlsbad, but out on a lonely two-lane road in the middle of nowhere.

This past week I've been thinking a lot about how to move forward in spite of fear. Let's be clear: I'm not advocating a '90s No Fear bumper sticker mentality. The fear of the Lord (Psalm 111:10) seems to be a good thing, to say the least. My prayer is that I never let fear get in the way of serving God.

(Many thanks to Uncle John for his keen memory of the story's details.)

A Coffee Pipeline

Forget the Alaska pipeline. Decent coffee for all!

It's cold and rainy today in Philadelphia. I made my way to the El in the tinkling, freezing rain at 6:30 this morning and picked my way down the slippery, still-quiet streets to work. Days like this make me miss Spain even more and strengthen my resolve to get back. Lord, give me the strength to live out Philippians 4:13!
Since we're hosting a preaching conference this morning, I made a gallon of (horrendous) coffee for the arriving pastors. I mentioned to a friend that we needed to build a coffee pipeline from Spain to the United States, if only to ensure a steady supply of acceptable java. I think a number of the staff would endorse this idea.

A Big Adventure

A marker on the Way of St. James.

Yesterday it was made public that the executive minister is leaving our church in the next couple of months. He is beloved and supremely gifted in his work. He's leaving on an adventure. Going south, more specifically.

Although it's sad to let him go, the events of the last few days have strengthened my own faith. Marion isn't a 20-something with no obligations. In many ways, he's picking up and going along on a hobbit's adventure.

As I keep clawing my way toward Spain (sometimes it feels like I'm hanging on by my fingernails!) it's neat to get a glimpse of the similar yet diverse journeys God is leading people on. Onward!