It Felt Like a Heart Attack

75mph on the highway somewhere near Bowling Green, Kentucky yesterday, a sharp pain gripped my chest and would not let go. For nearly 5 minutes, I drove along in blinding pain unable to breathe in or breathe out. I pulled over to let Debra drive when my arms started to go numb and my head began to swim. I was sweating and nauseous.

“Oh God no. God, please no!” I kept thinking, panicked. “I can’t afford to go to the hospital.” Uninsured, out of state, and having every symptom of a heart attack. I could just see the bill sitting ominously in my mailbox and I debated just NOT going in. Surely it would pass... The bitter irony that I was more immediately concerned about money than the fact that I could drop dead any second was very stark in that moment. I struggled to understand this rock-in-the-gut feeling that millions of underinsured Americans feel every day: “Oh God, I can’t afford to be sick.” But the pain didn’t pass. My vision continued to blur and I nearly passed out. So to the hospital we went.

I’ve never seen Debra go 15mph over the limit on purpose. I smiled to myself sardonically as she whizzed past the traffic toward the hospital in Bowling Green while Annabel happily drew princesses on her "magnedoodle".

Staggering to the reception desk, I explained as calmly as possible, “I think I might be in the middle of a heart attack.” The nurse looked unimpressed. Clearly, I was still standing. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, looking bored.

After all the standard pokes and prods, a young sympathetic doctor came in and I politely begged for his discretion in ordering an expensive battery of tests. I could live with some ambiguity in my diagnosis. I just didn’t want to lose my house over this.

An x-ray revealed my diagnosis: chest wall pain. Awesome. Well I knew I was having chest pain, but at least now I know that it was chest wall pain. But I was grateful to know I wasn’t dying even though the results felt pretty flimsy. While the nurse pulled out the IV, she confided that her son had just experienced identical symptoms which hospital dismissed was chest wall pain. Her son continued to have residual dizziness—which the doctors blamed on stress—and was scheduled to see a specialist. The specialist said he had seen an outbreak of similar cases recently with no real explanation. Perhaps, I joked, we were among the first victims of the yet-undiscovered “Moose Flu epidemic of 2012.”

While I support socialized medicine now more than ever, I was profoundly grateful yesterday for a few things: First, that little sign on the hospital wall explaining that even I couldn’t pay, I had the right to be seen and stabilized. Second, the lady who helped me apply for charity assistance to cover part of the hospital bill. Third, a responsive medical system that saw and diagnosed me right away. Fourth, a gut instinct that while this is a major inconvenience, God’s care and provision are by no means on the line. I felt I was able to say in the midst of it, “Okay, this is one more way for God to show me that he loves me and isn’t going to abandon me.” Even if we’re chained to this thing for years, I feel God’s heart towards us is not in question. I wouldn’t have been able to say that 5 years ago. But at this point we’ve seen God take care of us over, and over, and over.

And over again. We’ve seen that he’s willing to let us get extremely uncomfortable but that He never abandons us.

Now to be fair, I’m waking up this morning and I feel hung-over from all the stress of yesterday: a long drive home from Chicago with screaming kids, the threat of financial strain (or ruin), the profound stress of a medical emergency, general sleeplessness, and a wife who spent at least an hour calculating the ramifications of being a single mom… we got home late last night and collapsed on the bed unable to move or to attend to Levi who toddled around our room happily after a long nap in the car.

So this morning, Georgia is gray and rainy and I feel kind of gray inside too. Not because I doubt God but just because I’m just tired all around.

(I’ve moved now to my screen porch and it has started pouring rain like a spring storm in Minnesota and I am grateful to live here. Nearly Christmas and it feels like spring.)

Today is Levi’s first birthday and I wish we could do more to celebrate him on this gray, exhausted day. He has brought a sweetness and insanity to our family perfectly characterized by those middle-of-the-night hours in which I’m so annoyed to be up with him and can’t fathom where all this joy and playfulness comes from at this ungodly hour and can’t believe he can keep it up for 4 straight hours when he doesn’t even stay awake for that long during the day; yet I’m so endeared by his big baby grin and crabapple cheeks and playful boyish giggle that I can hardly hold it against him. More stress. More dying-to-self. But so much more sweetness and fun and fullness. I sure do love that guy.

Happy birthday Levi. You were born into one crazy family walking a crazy tightrope adventure through life with God. I hope you feel seen and loved in the midst of it. The life of this family may always feel uncertain and not totally safe. But I hope that even if we can’t give you security, or nice things, or food bought from a real store, that you sense that this family trusts, and this family loves, and this family receives Love. And I hope you will also sense that YOU can trust and love and receive Love. I think we don’t feel guilty about the life we’ve chosen because at the end of the day, if you can do those things, then you’ll be doing pretty darn good in life.

Absolute Certainty: the Evangelical Myth

Epistomology: The Achilles Heel of my faith. That old question of ever-elusive certainty: sure you experienced something profound, but does that make it real? Or should we like Scrooge blame indigestion for our superstitions? (“There’s more gravy than grave about you!”)

Conservative Christians claim to have this slippery truth and to be honest I join my generation in their collective sigh of exasperation. I’ll tell you an evangelical secret: Christians don’t actually FEEL more certain of their dogmas than other people. But they are told that certainty will win people. They are told that presenting one’s argument as “absolute truth” will fill a deep hungry void left in the heart of every postmodern. I don’t buy it.

Honestly, I think the rallying cry of “absolute truth” in the church is a tired and obnoxious rhetoric which we oughta crumple into the trash can of religious brain farts.

It was the quest for this elusive certainty that just about sent me off the cliff of lonely agnosticism a few years ago. Who told me this junk about certainty? I was rescued from that cliff when I started suspecting that true things are certain by degrees and in comparison with other things. And that’s different than saying “That’s a cool truth for you bro, but I’ve got my own truth that works for me.” The question was no longer, "can I posit from scratch with certainty and conviction the existence of an omnipotent loving Creator who became a person to save the world from sin?" Rather, I started asking, "is this Christian story (in spite of all perceived hurdles) true enough, beautiful enough, and strong enough to to start living it... to jump off a cliff for it?" And my conclusion rather surprised me one morning after 6 months of hard searching: "I think it is!"

(BTW, I kinda doubt that the "it works for me" pragmatism is a good rubric for judging a worldview. Same for happiness and perceived profundity. Jesus said fruit (as in outcome) is a much better rubric and I tend to agree… and BTW, I don’t think our evangelical “unfruitfulness” comes from a deficient gospel as much as a deficient commitment to maturity.)

A buddy of mine wrote a paper in seminary suggesting that you can objectively argue that Fat Tire is better than Bud Light because of the ingredients and the brewing process. And if you prefer Bud Light, well, I won’t argue that point, but I might rightly argue you’ve got a faulty set of taste buds!

I like the way you put it, Jesse Dukes. Truth is relational and Truth is a person. If you get to know that person, you’re getting to know truth. It seems like Jesus proposed that he IS that person. That “I am the way, the truth, and the life” bit? I think it was pretty radical in his context just like it is in ours. He didn’t hold up the bible and say, “here it is folks! A manual of the universe. Absolute truth in a book!” He said, “Look, you’re right, there IS absolute truth and now you can sit down and have coffee with Him every morning. Isn’t that better anyway?”

I don’t think many postmoderns are out there seriously arguing that Absolute Truth doesn’t exist. Not many are denying the basic principles of arithmetic or physics. They’re just asking for a really compelling reason to believe that “Joe Christian” has somehow tapped into that Truth!

So far, we haven’t given them that reason. Not because our apologetics are crappy, but because our lifestyles are crappy. Even if you can convince me that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life, you’re going to have to go the extra step of proving that you KNOW him well enough and you TRUST him enough to be LIKE him: to act like him, think like him, and feel like him (credit to Bob Dukes for that one).

The point is, I think it’s time to talk less about knowing and more about trusting. That’s it.  If we really think truth is a person—not a book or an algorithm or a line of code—then we should stop sermonizing about what we know and start chatting about who we know. And within our churches, I think we ought to renew our commitment to maturity. We gotta start brewing people (instead of programs or doctrines) with better yeast, in smaller batches, for a good long time. Then when they come out they'll taste damn good and be so heady they make everybody else drunk on Jesus.  I mean… am I off my orthodox rocker here?

Sad news and the tug of war between bitterness and grief.

Today I lost a friend. His name is Steve Mwitwa Kwaywa. He was a student at Copperbelt University in Zambia with a bright future in business. He was MY friend. He looks pretty serious in this picture but he had an amazing sense of humor and was goofy most of the time.

The first time I went to Zambia, he was having dinner with me at the Chifunda home. He made me feel accepted and welcomed. He joked that I should try the fried caterpillars because "they taste just like prawns!" Then he laughed uncontrollably when I reported that they taste NOTHING like prawns!

When I visited again in August, he was not well. An apparent liver infection had hospitalized him. Chomba and I visited him and he was in considerable agony. But he managed a smile of recognition when he saw me. "Hi Nate! How are you doing?" He grinned.

Apparently there had been a cancerous growth on his liver that finally killed him. I'm not sure if it was ever diagnosed or treated. I do know that when he needed testing and surgery the first time, the hospital left him writhing in pain for days just because the diagnostics center had closed for the weekend. I know the Zambian medical system was slow to help him and probably couldn't (or wouldn't) have properly treated his cancer given his financial restrictions.

The bitter part for me is that several years ago, he turned down an opportunity to study in America. He wouldn't leave his family or his home in Zambia even though it would have meant greater opportunity. It also might have meant better medical treatment. It could have saved his life.

This is my first personal brush with the cold reality that poverty can kill. I personally have friends and family who are able to receive life-saving cancer treatments. Some can even travel to the Mayo Clinic for specialized treatment. Why? Simply because they live here and have insurance that will cover such things. Had Steve NOT been born Zambian, he might still be alive facing a bright future.

Forgive me for being political. But I have often commented on the barbarism of living in a system that forces millions of Americans to CHOOSE between sickness and financial ruin. I simply cannot believe we would oppose universal healthcare in favor of tax cuts and then call it a "platform of Christian values" as though health were a luxury commodity.

But Steve HAD no choice. He didn't get to choose between money and health. He had neither, and in the end I believe it killed him. Is that fair? Is it right?

It was once hard to believe anyone could be poorer than me. I would tell the vendors in Kenya that I was a student and was too poor to buy their trinkets. They would always give me a patronizing smile because of course that was a lie. Poverty isn't just the lack of cash. It's the lack of options. It boxes you in and often sends you careening down one of many tragic paths that you can see clearly but can't do a damned thing about. And more often than I'd like to admit, that lack of options can kill.

I started building more authentic friendships with these "optionless" people a couple years ago. And it has already started to ruin me. Would I recommend it? I think so... But today I feel tenuous. I'm glad I knew Steve. I would never trade that in. But poverty is a stigma among the middle class for a reason. It makes me uncomfortable and if I let it, it will make me profoundly sad.

But God has been teaching me about compassion this month. Like the Grinch, I feel my heart is growing a few sizes bigger each day. So I'm no longer protecting myself from sad or uncomfortable situations. I'm crying more, empathizing more, and for once, those feelings don't threaten to swallow me whole. I know that I can handle empathy and compassion (com-passion: to suffer alongside) while still having a firmly-rooted identity in Christ. My finances, my status, and my comfort may be threatened but my identity is not.

Today I'm "suffering alongside" Steve's family and friends. Truthfully, I am one of them.

You Feed Them

"You Feed Them"

by Nathan Harkness

The pastor of First Baptist Church sat in his study on a Tuesday morning pouring over a large desk cluttered with papers. The church’s bank statements, the budget, last week’s offering. He was feeling flushed and a bottle of aspirin sat at the ready on one corner of the desk. This is not going to work, he thought. This was a bad idea. Why do I have to be such an idealist? Why didn’t I listen to people?

Giving had been on a downward trend since he began his new sermon series on justice a year ago. One by one, his best tithing families had quietly found new church homes. He would always remember those pivotal moments of change, those moments of no return.

One Sunday he had cancelled the service and organized a volunteer workday in the community instead. While most families enjoyed the service project, an email the next day read, “While I appreciate your heart to serve and bless our community, you have to understand that every Sunday, I come to church absolutely exhausted from the week. The last thing I want to do is come to church and do more work! I need a church where I can come and be fed, not where I’m constantly being expected to pour myself out for strangers. I have barely enough energy to care for my own family.”

Another Sunday, a controversial sermon on poverty had prompted concerns over the “increasingly political agenda coming from the pulpit” though the following week’s talk on racial reconciliation generated even more controversy. A mostly Caucasian church in an economically and ethnically changing suburb, the pastor no longer felt they could continue as a homogeneous church in a diversifying community. The church had become a tutoring center during the week, offered ESL classes, hosted a food bank every month and was involved in outreach at a local high school. Most of the congregation was happy about these programs until the beneficiaries of these ministries began showing up to the church’s other programs. The custodians began to find cigarette butts in the parking lots on Sunday. There was graffiti in the men’s restroom.

Worst of all, 3 African American kids from the high school showed up to youth group last month with alcohol on their breath. Several families left the church at that point since it was no longer a safe environment for their kids. “I love the idea of being a diverse church,” one of the deacons had told the pastor. “But you have to understand that with low-income families you’re invite a huge set of problems. New security risks, financial strain, a much needier population. You have to think about the people God has given you to shepherd. They’re not going to put up with a lot more.

One by one families had left. Over the last year, the staff had been cut in half and the remaining ones took a 20% pay cut. The elder board had temporarily disbanded since only two elders remained. New faces replaced the old ones, but they brought more needs than resources. Single mothers, high-school dropouts, immigrants, day laborers, even an occasional homeless person.

Now barely making it on half of last year’s operating budget, the pastor sat at his desk and gazed across the room with a bemused expression at the blueprints that hung on the adjacent wall. The blueprints were a dream, an idea for an expanded worship center, new offices, and a new children’s wing. The staff had once dreamed together of all the growth and new ministries that the addition could mean. More space would bring a bigger constituency, a bigger budget, new programs, and more volunteers along with a greater overall impact on the community. But today, he thought instead of a winter’s worth of new potholes in the parking lot, a new leak in the roof, a demoralized staff, and carpets that desperately needed cleaning.

His head dropped slowly into his hands. God I thought I was doing the right thing here. I wonder now if I was just being idealistic and naïve. I was so sure that you wanted to me to bring in the poor and hurting in our neighborhood. But I’ve alienated everybody, I don’t know how I’m going to pay salaries next month… this church has been going for over 50 years, our savings are gone, and we’ll have to close our doors soon if we keep…

“Pastor,” a secretary’s head appeared in the doorway. “Marie Tennet is up front. She says the transmission on he car blew up yesterday and she needs it to get to job interviews. She’s asking for help… and she’s crying.”

If Marie had a stable personality and marketable skills, he thought, she wouldn’t have to go to interviews. She could go to work… “Okay… anything else?”

“Joel Perez was here earlier asking if there were leftovers from Monday’s food outreach… I told him to come back next month.”

The pastor thought of Jesus feeding the 5,000 with a couple fish and a few loaves. If only it were that easy, he mused. I’ve got a responsibility to my staff and my family. I’m already way out on a limb here. I’ve got people lining up for help. Hungry people. Uninsured people. People who can’t get a job, people who.... Did we even pay our missionaries this quarter? I wonder if…

“Pastor?” The secretary’s voice came again. “Did you hear me?”

“You feed them,” he mused quietly looking out the window.

“Sorry?”

He glanced quietly to meet her puzzled stare. “Uh… Can you bring me the check book Janice?”

“What for?”

The pastor shrugged. “Let’s help Marie out. Let’s get Joel some food. Heck… let’s spend it all.”

“Spend what all?”

“Everything Janice. Everything we’ve got. Let’s give it all away.”

The secretary’s eyebrows furrowed only a little. She was also the church’s accountant and she was used to this pastor’s occasional whims.  But this was a new one. “Marcus…”

“I’m serious Janice. Bring me the checkbook... And close the door.”

For the next hour, pastor and secretary came up with every person they could think of who had a need: church members, neighbors, people in the community... and gave away every dime the church owned. Small notes were attached to each gift, stuffed into envelopes and dropped into the mailbox before either of them could change their mind. Both knew they had just given away their paycheck, their livelihood, and their future. But there was a strange lightness and humor in the room as they methodically gave away every last shred of the church’s stability and financial solvency to anybody and everybody who could make use of it. And when the last envelope was sent, the pastor stood, gathered the papers slowly from his cluttered and gingerly set them in the garbage can. “I’m going home Janice,” he smiled. “Lock up when you’re done?” She nodded mutely, not sure what had come over her.

As the pastor walked down the dark hallway toward the doors, he thought of how he would break the news to his staff, to his wife. He wondered whether they could sell the building before the bank got it. He doubted it was worth much. Clearly he’d cracked up. But inexplicably he felt light, invigorated. He actually laughed out loud. “Alright God!” he shouted wildly, his voice echoing down the hall. “That’s that!”

At that moment he spotted Marie Tennet sitting near the doors looking somewhat frightened by the shouting pastor. “Hi Marie! How are you today?” he shouted cheerfully and paused to take in her dumbstruck expression.

They stood there silently for a moment until the pastor finally sighed and made his decision. “Well Marie, it’s not much to look at…” he said. “But it’ll get you around town.” Pressing the key of his ’96 Honda Civic into her palm, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“It needs an oil change!” he called over his shoulder. “And don’t roll down the back windows. You’ll never get them up again!”

Mark Nyirenda on Discipleship

I took this video this August in the Congo. Missionary Mark Nyirenda does a fabulous job summing up the need for discipleship in the African church. Very well-put.

Relationship v. Institutionalitis

Both this picture and this video are from WDA’s work in Africa. Which impresses you more? Both of these things happen in our ministry, but which one is more encouraging, inspiring, motivating?

Jesus tried to escape the crowds to spend time with the 12. The only reason he chose to teach the 5,000 was because he loved them and saw they were like wandering sheep with anyone to shepherd them. It wasn’t because he “just couldn’t turn down such a great ministry opportunity.” He genuinely cared about people and relationships more than his teaching ministry.

I’m talking with 2 other guys about starting a WDA school of ministry here in Fayetteville, GA next year for the times when I’m NOT in Africa. Oh it would be awesome! We’d meet like outlaws in WDA’s grungy, cluttered basement, training small groups of Jesus follower to become radical disciple-builders. They’d go out with a mature zeal that would catch like a wildfire around the globe.

I think God must have a sense of humor because He laughs at me all the time.

I keep asking Him about this thing and he keeps putting it back on me.  He’s saying things like, “Don’t focus on what I might do in the future, but on what I’m doing right now. Right now, this is about you 3 growing together and becoming more like me. It’s about me training you in faith and love, showing you to say “no” to ungodliness. I’d rather have your heart than your talents.” He seems to be telling me to focus on building relationships more than on building ministries.

So I’m standing in the shower saying, “let me get this straight God. So you’re saying this project is about the relationships and you want me to focus my energy on the individuals as much as on the project?” And He replies, “Child, some day you’ll understand that everything you do is about the relationships you build and NOT about the structures or institutions you can create.”

So if we do this school of ministry… or if I just keep focusing on seminars in Africa… you might catch me trying to impress you from time to time with pictures of big gatherings and huge “successes”. But catch me at an honest moment and I’ll tell that all that stuff is really just a cover for the real important stuff: long afternoons drinking tea, prayers on the phone for old friends, deep rapport built with one individual at a time. It really is “all about the relationship.” Thankfully I work with people who share that value—we even have an acronym for it—though of course, we all seem prone to “institutionalitis” and lose our perspective pretty easily.

Who’s a sinner? Who’s blind?

Here’s an interesting theme I see running through ALL of John 9 where Jesus heals a man born blind. Throughout the chapter, a contrast is drawn between the followers of dead religion and the children of the Father.

Here’s the stuff the disciples and the Pharisees say:

“Who sinned so that this man was born blind? Him or his parents?”

“Give glory to God! We know [Jesus] is a sinner.”

“You were steeped in sin at birth! How dare you lecture us!”

Here’s what Jesus and the blind man said”

“This happened so the work of God might be displayed in his life.”

“As long as it is day, we must do the work of him who sent me.”

“Whether he is a sinner or not, I do not know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see.”

See a difference? The disciples (who still didn’t get it) and the Pharisees were just interested in finding out who sinned and who is to blame. Jesus and the blind man understood that despite who may be guilty of what, the important thing right now is the work of the Father. What then is the father’s business? Reversal and redemption. As Jesus said to the blind man: “For judgment I have come into this world, so that the blind will see and those who see will become blind.”

How interesting that the one person in the story qualified to judge people rejects the “who sinned?” question and defers judgment on everybody except for those who falsely claim the right to judge. He seems to say to the blind man, “Don’t worry about the Pharisees with their clever theological theories and brow-beating accusations. You know that you’ve seen the Father at work. And truthfully, you’ve discerned more than them. That’s why I’m here. To make simple folks “get” the truth of God and the clever religious folks be totally confused.

Seems to me Jesus is still in the business of doing that. That’s why I try not to be overly enamored of “professional Christians” like myself. As often as not, we lose the forest for the trees and it takes a begging blind man to knock us off our feet.

I think one big disservice we do ourselves and our Father is to think that certain types of folks understand spiritual truths more clearly because “he’s the pastor” or “she’s been a Christian a really long time” or “they’re missionaries in Africa.” We give people credibility based on their resume rather than the evidence of the Father’s work in and through their lives. Jesus never said, “Hey, I’m a Rabbi! I’ve been to seminary. I work for a ministry. You should believe in me.” He let the Father’s work give him credibility and authority:

“Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?”

“Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor.”

A house church nearly hits the mark

Our search for a church continues. As I sat with my coworker last week describing my ideal church, I realized just how, well... idealistic I sounded. My critique of established church was unusually cynical even for me. I wonder if part of this polarization is a culture whiplash from being in the south (where you can talk to the bank teller about what the Holy Spirit is telling you and she'll nod empathetically and "the Lord" makes frequent appearances in the most casual of conversations).

So we visited a house church yesterday. Potluck followed by informal worship and teaching "as the Spirit leads". The "house" was more of a multi-million dollar mansion but even the enormous vaulted living room struggled to accomodate the crowd approaching a hundred. There was a real sound system and a legit worship band that most smallish churches would drool over. The "offering" that night went entirely to 2 church members in need, since the church has no salaries and no overhead.

It embodied many of my ideals: relational, missional, spirit-led. But somehow it was slightly depressing to see my ideals lived out. Somehow it looked even sexier in my head.

We both really liked it... in spite of the sense that the whole community was comforting each other's sorrowing spirits since we now (apparently) live in a nation that has clearly rejected "Christian values"...

The main bummer is that they don't kick off until our kids' bed time and finding a way to put them to bed at the house feels like a lot of work. We'll keep checking out the scene.

Looking for the Loping Tortoise

I'm ordering my day differently today. I'm starting with the most important things and then moving toward the urgent stuff rather than the other way around. So this morning, I read the bible, journaled, had breakfast with my daughter and then went to the office. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat spent the next 45 minutes studying French (something I always mean to do since I travel in French-speaking countries but never get around to because some urgent thing needs my attention.) Then I spent a quiet half hour reading a good book. Now I'm blogging. Later I'll respond to the emails that really need my attention.

I figure, my best energy is in the morning so I should use it on those tasks that require my longest attention span. That frantic stuff can be done on little or no attention span because it's mostly piddly stuff.

It was strange to spend the morning in quiet activity though. Usually, I am frantic, trying to get to most bang for buck out of my day. But like a sprinter, I inevitably spiral frantically down into inconsequential time suckers. But like many people, I intrinsically believe that something's wrong if my life doesn't feel frantic. Something in me believes life should be made up of breathless spurts of chaotic productivity punctuated by "vacations" of inactivity. 

But I don't like that. When I come to Sabbath out of breath, I'm barely able to catch it before the work starts again. I prefer the idea of life as a peaceful surging forward of focused effort followed by a gentle throttling-back of rest. That model promises less "success", less renown, less ego-stroking. But I think humility dictates I take that path. Today before work, God told me, "focus less on growing a big ministry and more on being obedient." So I'm trying to be obedient to the priorities he's pressed on me rather than the stuff that is easy or enticing to do and feel good about but bears less real fruit in the long run. I'm looking for the marathoner's pace. And I suspect that if I can find that easy, determined lope, I'll be much more productive in the long run. 

Go tortoise go!

Not Happy with Nice

Yesterday we visited a new church. The people were nice, the sermon was nice, the music was nice. Everything was… nice. And I’ll probably never go back.

I am chronically dissatisfied with church. I’ve been itching at the reason for years. What am I looking for in a church that I am so frequently disappointed? And I realized yesterday that what I’m looking for above worship styles, and programs, and preaching talent is… God. Does God HAVE to come to this church on Sunday or will things go on nicely without Him if he just stays home in His pajamas?

Put another way, if I visit your church and sit in your pews for an hour on Sunday I want to see just one single thing; one puzzling detail that would be hard to explain apart from the existence of God and a vibrant hope in eternity. I’m no sociologist, but it would be easy for me to explain to you why ABC Baptist Church exists regardless of God’s existence. The pastors get a pretty sweet deal if you ask me: a chance to do what they enjoy, influence, respect in the community, endless accolades (“great job pastor! That really touched me.”) Not to mention a decent wage with benefits. The volunteers get a sense of fulfillment from doing “God’s work” and a feeling of community. The people get entertainment, inspiration, and moral guidance to live better lives.

Let’s face it. The church in America (especially here in the bible belt) is a totally sensible proposition. And that’s what bugs me.

Go ahead. Talk my ear off about living a life reliant on God’s care and provision. But it’s in one ear, out the other. They say things like, “Are you radically trusting God with your finances? Then give us your money!”

I can’t remember the last time I thought in a church, “Holy smokes! Are you for real?? Do you actually think all this God stuff has power?” No wait. I can remember. It was the night I felt the Holy Spirit going gangbusters in my body. And I thought, “huh. This isn’t supposed to happen in church!”

http://nathanharkness.blogspot.com/2010/11/holy-spirit-encounter-funny-things-are.html

Anyway, 9 times out of 10, being a church is an attractive idea for everyone involved. No need for God himself to muddy the pond. But then again, 9 times out of 10 (depending on who you are and where you live) being a Christian is an attractive idea. And if churches our made up of Christians, then our communities are just a reflection of us!

So bring it back home, Nate.

If you sit down with me in my nice house in Fayetteville, GA and we chat for an hour in front of my fireplace and I tell you about my life… will you see something… anything that would be difficult to explain without the existence of God and a vibrant hope in eternity? Am I the kind of Jesus-follower who when the rubber (faith) meets the road (life) says, “ah hell. Let’s go for it!” When nobody gets me or likes me or wants to join my nutty adventures, can I say, “well… there’s always heaven.” Or just, “God said it so I’ll do it.” I sure hope so.

Dating gurus will say, “don’t focus on finding the person of your dreams. Focus on being the kind of person that the person of your dreams deserves.” So maybe I should focus on being the kind of Christian that the church of my dreams deserves. Or at least, when I become that person, maybe my dream church will become easier to recognize. Or maybe it will just matter less.

In the mean time, I’ll keep visiting churches. But to be honest, the search has not gone well so far. Because I’ll probably never be happy with a “nice” church.

In transit to Georgia!

In the last couple days, we’ve fought colds and exhaustion to get our little Uhaul trailer packed and on the road. Yesterday morning we hit the road with almost every square inch of both trailer and minivan occupied. We stopped just short of utilizing the space on the dashboard! A nice tailwind kept our 4-cylinder van in 5^th gear all the way to Chicago.

Immediately, Debra declared an indefinite “Thriftober” and we began adjusting to the idea of PB&J instead of hamburgers and pinching pennies wherever possible. But instead of feeling oppressive, we enjoyed the freedom of independence of total responsibility. As much as we tried to keep separate lives and responsibilities living with my in-laws, there’s will always be a sense of being a child in your parents’ home. While we will always be indebted to them for their hospitality and support of us while we raised our finances, it’s a great feeling to be out on our own again after 14 months!

Tonight, I have the unique opportunity to be the musician at a wedding of a friend who requested a song from The Muppets for her bridal processional. I'm looking forward to a hilarious evening! Sunday morning, we’ll drive 13+ hours to get home to Georgia. Can’t wait to hit the garage sales and start dreaming of creative ways to furnish our house. 

Yesterday, we decided to build a king-sized bed platform out of used pallets and suspend it from chains in the master bedroom for our bed. I know. But wait til you see it. It’ll be glorious.

Feasting on Daily Bread (and a word on our house)

When I was a kid, our pastor was a passionate older gentleman with thick white hair and an arsenal of  (sometimes exaggerated) stories and sermon illustrations. Once he told of his younger days when money was so scarce that simple things were difficult to afford. One night, he and his wife prayed for a little butter to go with the bread they were eating. Lo and behold, a knock on the door later that day revealed a bewildered-looking friend holding a block of butter! As a 10-year-old, my heart swelled. Wouldn't it be so cool to live that way, I thought to myself. To be so dependent on God and to see Him provide for me so specifically!

Well, I'm getting my wish!

In the last 24 hours I've felt His presence and believed His provision in a new way. I've seen the ways that he has not only cared for us in the broad strokes of our life but also in the specifics. Someone walked up yesterday and dropped 200 dollars in our hands: exactly what we need to buy gas to get to Georgia!

Sunday, a small herd of supportive friends gathered at the front of church after the service to pray for us and send us out. I was blown away by the show of support and affection they gave us.

Then last night we had a "little" going away party at Debra's parents' house. Though it was last minute, we had an overwhelming show of support from every corner of our lives. Family, friends, neighbors, folks from church, college acquaintances, even my 94-year-old great great aunts! Everyone was there to wish us well and show their love for us as we pack up to leave in 2 days. I was deeply touched by them and I woke up today still feeling incredibly cared-for.

For the next 2 days, we'll be sorting, packing, and moving. We'll be in Chicago for a friends wedding and then get to our house next Sunday or Monday. We're so excited. Like the nerdy new homeowners that we are, we've been running around the last couple days Macauly Culkin style shouting, "Eeeek! We have walk-in closets! Eeek! We have a garden tub! Eeeeeeeeeek! We have hosting space!"

I just don't know what my life will look like next week. But today, I'm content not to know.

____________________________________________

A word on the house saga:

After 12 musty, moldy, outdated, and foreclosed houses in one day, our realtor took us to 159 Allenwood Rd. A well-maintained 2200 square-foot 3-bed / 3-bath ranch, we first fell in love with the open concept kitchen/dining/living area with vaulted ceilings and loads of natural light. In a sense, we "just knew" but held our breath until we saw the rest of the spacious layout, the big closets, to jetted tub, the screen-porch,  the detached workshop, the wraparound deck. Besides, it just felt like OUR home. So we made an offer on the spot and it was accepted.

I changed my ticket home from Africa so I could attend closing on August 28. But an hour before closing, our lender pulled the rug out from under us. They had a problem with the fact that as missionaries, our income varies from paycheck to paycheck. They could not approve the loan. We were upset. The seller was furious and demanded $1,200 for 1-month's rent in order to delay the closing date long enough for our lender to figure out the financing. Our real estate agent (who has consistently gone to bat for us) called the lender and angrily demanded they take responsibility for this blunder (since they should have addressed the problems weeks earlier) and they sheepishly agreed to pay the rent while they started a new file on our loan.

For the new file, I worked with WDA to make sure they had 3 consecutive paychecks with the same amount of gross pay to assuage their concerns that we "work on commission." We expected to close on the 21st, but again, they stalled until the last possible business day according to our contract: September 28.

At 4:30pm on September 27, they called panicked that a form they sent me to sign was the wrong form. Could I please get this new form notarized and overnighted in the next 30 minutes? It was almost comic. I ran to the bank with a friend as a witnessed and walked in AT 5:00pm just as they were closing. Document notarized, it was still too late to overnight it. Initially they threatened to cancel closing but then changed their tune. If I could just scan and email it tonight, they were willing to close on the house.

So the next morning, we held our breath while our friend in Atlanta signed on our behalf and our real estate agent kept us up to speed via text. "Just tell me when you are walking away with the keys," I texted, thoroughly expecting something to blow up in our face at the last second. But finally, she wrote, "You are closed. I'm leaving with the keys."

Jumping up and down, we whooped and hollered and danced around the room. We own a home!

Suddenly, we were in high gear, sorting, packing, organizing a goodbye party, writing a final support letter, etc. 6 from closing to moving. Today, it's sorting and packing. Here we go!!

Rebellious Trust.

There are 2 kinds of Christian leaders. The ones meant to inspire us and the ones meant to guide us. The inspiring ones are the missionaries, the urban ministers, the guy who sold all his stuff to go build orphanages in Russia. The quiet assumption seems to be that these guys serve a concrete purpose when we publish their stories or put them in our pulpits: inspire people… but not too much! Most pastors don’t want their people quitting their jobs and hitch-hiking to Mexico to bless the poor. Keep your job. Serve at our food pantry instead.

The leaders meant to guide us can be church growth consultants, that latest book on leadership, the church council with more common sense than Spirit sensitivity. (After all, who wants a bunch of intuiting, emotional holy rollers making important decisions for a whole group of people?)

Now I love those people: the Dave Ramseys of the world that don’t mince words or hyper-spiritualize every decision. They challenge the dreamers and thrill-seekers in a healthy way. But there’s a double standard here. Let the radicals inspire you and increase your “buy in”. But let the middle-of-the-roaders guide your daily decision-making. The maxim here seems to be “God blesses those who act sensibly.” That’s in the bible right?

But I feel in my heart and in the heartbeat of my generation a quiet rebellion against these moderating norms. In the church today, a growing movement of restless hearts of all ages is calling the bluff of the Evangelical middle class. We are taking their faith heroes. And we are making them our day-to-day heroes. We are opting for purpose over glitz. We have seen the evil of too much. We are the Occupy Generation.

We are angsty, immature, and rebellious. And we won’t listen to timid pastors or the clerical bourgeoisie. We are looking for humble radicals with settled hearts and fearless belief to BOTH inspire AND guide us. We seek courageous souls who simplify their faith and take Jesus at his word. Rich or poor. Young or old. It doesn’t matter. Our souls are parched and yearning for authenticity, integrity, and hilarious trust. Who will lead us? Only those with the courage to practice what they preach.

Bill Ringold will lead us. Over 85 years old, he invited Debra and I to coffee to seek our input on how our church can become radically missional. He said, “I don’t have many years left on this earth to serve the Lord and make an impact. So I can’t waste my time.” Yesterday he had a cornea transplant but said, “if you want to meet up next week, I won’t let a little thing like surgery stop me. I’ll just come looking like a pirate!”

Steve Nicholson will lead us. I stood there sharing a painful experience with him in the lobby one Sunday morning while dozens of people vied for his attention. I kept apologizing for taking his time. He smiled and said, “are you kidding me? This is why I’m here!” He took me to Houston and encouraged me listen to the Holy Spirit and prophesy over a room full of people. But he went first. He taught people how to pray for the sick. But many Sundays, there HE was, praying for the sick.

Mike Lotzer will lead us. He got convicted by his own sermon series on social justice. So he sold his house and downsized.

Ben Swanson will lead us. He said, “The first year I pastored here, we just gave tons of money away just because we felt like it. We figured, “the church will probably die anyway. We might as well go out with a bang. Then the church started to grow and I woke up one morning and thought, ‘gosh. I hope I don’t wreck this thing…’ and I realized I’d become way too attached to the ministry. It was like, ‘my precioussss!”

I could go on and on. These men are radically flawed. But there is an otherworldly quality about them. That’s what I’m after: people who do stuff that makes no sense unless there is life beyond this one, and hope that can trump self-interest. These are the courageous hearts than can shepherd our generation.

It is yet one more reminder that my time is better spent following Jesus than teaching others to follow Jesus. It’s better for me to look at my heart than to look at my strategy. Yes. Even in the day-to-day.

We bought a house yesterday. God told us to move there next week and He's clearly arranged the timing with hilarious perfection. But excitement quickly gave way to anxiety as I crunched the numbers and realized that I don't have enough notches on my belt to tighten it that far! I literally have no clue how this is going to work. But we're committed to moving and I'm committed to WDA. Not because it makes sense but because I have 0% doubt that God spoke 3 years ago and has been speaking ever since about it. 

Debra turned to me with a twinkle in her eye yesterday and said, "It's going to be an adventure. And I'm excited to have this adventure with you." So here we go! 42% funding and a small trailer of furniture moving to an somewhat unappealing southern town for a life we know very little about. It's so silly in fact that it makes me laugh. 

But I'm dead serious. It's time to practice the trust I preach with the zany confidence that God will come through. Even if it's not the way we thought, we both feel certain that God will come through.

2:27AM

2:27AM. My heart is pounding. My stomach is churning. I can barely keep my eyes open but I can’t get back to sleep either. Might be the 4pm cup of coffee, or it could be anxiety. Certainly a lot of anxiety. Sitting in the dark on the floor “crying out” to God. Are you going to come through for us? Are you going to help us? I look at the future and come up with a blank. That’s what the future is from my view after all… a blank. I don’t know what He’ll do in the future. I really don’t know. All I know is what He’s done in the past. And in the past He’s taken care of us.

But it has sometimes come with insane amounts of unsettledness, hard choices, general discomfort. And right now, I’m not sure I have it in me to be waking up at 2:37AM several times a year to crunch numbers, contemplate the near future and ask myself yet again if I’ve completely lost my mind. I’m a train racing down an unfinished track. Do I trust the builders to finish the tracks before I go careening into some ravine somewhere?

When Annabel wants something badly and I’m not able or willing to deliver immediately, she tends to ask and ask with increasing distress. I might say, “honey, I’ll take care of you. You need to relax and be patient. I’ll help you soon. Do you trust me?” Clearly she doesn’t because she becomes more upset and asks louder and becomes hysterical as though her world was caving in. We reach the point where I become firm and say, “I love you. I’ll care for you. But this conversation needs to be over right now because it’s just making you more upset. If you keep bringing it up there will be consequences.” She hates it when I say that. But eventually, the screams turn to whimpers as she desperately tries to get a hold of herself… last week, it was a painful lesson in saying “thank you.” I had to forcefully cut off the conversation when she became hysterical. In the moment she said something painfully cute like “I’m trying SO hard to stop the tears but they just keep coming!” But the next day, she woke up and said, “Daddy, I decided it’s not so scary to say ‘thank you’ after all,” and she’s been saying it religiously ever since.

I kind of get how she feels. And in a sense, I’ve been sensing God say this week, “kid, I love you. But right now, this conversation is not healthy for you. You’ve become hysterical and we need to stop talking about it. I’ve given you my answer. I’ll come through for you. But it may not be when or how you expected. I guarantee, it WILL feel painful and unsettled at times. But I WILL deliver on my promises. So right now, you need to be quiet.”

Screams to whimpers. Whimpers to silence. Silence to contemplation. Not sure if this lesson is ever going to stick. But maybe 2:58AM isn’t the best time to make that assessment. I can only hope that one of these mornings I can wake up and say, “Daddy, I decided it’s not so scary to trust you after all,” and a new habit will be born.

35 Africans in a Musty Minnesota Basement

Today, I picked up my Malawian buddy and we went together to a conference in St. Paul. His friend pastors a multicultural church in St Paul which had (for reasons yet unknown to me) decided to fly several dozen Congolese pastors to Minnesota for a weeklong leadership conference. I know. It’s weird. But really, not much weirder (when you think about it) than sending a whole youth group overseas to paint an orphanage.

Speaking of weird, I just got BACK from Congo. So to be sitting in a musty Minnesota church basement with a bunch of Congolese pastors wearing ill-fitting suits, singing Swahili in 3 part harmony, clapping in syncopation, and all praying loudly and simultaneously… well it was very “out of context” for me.

The teachings were good and I met some good folks. In fact, an older man (incidentally a Ugandan) began inquiring about my work overseas. I told him some of the topics we cover: small groups, mentoring, inductive bible study, pastoral counseling, etc. “Oh we need you guys to come,” he said. “What would be required to get you to Uganda?” I told him a pastor with good connections with multiple churches would be helpful. “Well…” he mused. “I’m in charge of 65 churches!” As if to say, “does that count?” Haha.

But being around these men (who I’m sure are godly, wonderful guys) dredged up some strong emotion that I had during my Congo trip: deep personal grief over the state of Christian ministry there. Let me explain…

A young preacher in alligator-skin boots welcomes my colleague Dave to the pulpit after an hour of running around the stage, yelling into the microphone between songs. Dave stands up from his chair on the stage where they put all the “important people”. He gets down on the congregation’s level where he stands right before the front row of all elders and deacons (slightly “less important” people). In his characteristically quiet, unassuming voice, he preaches a fabulous little sermon on humility. Personally, I am deeply convicted. Then, young Alligator Boots gets back up. He surveys his congregation with soul-piercing eyes as though the most profound nugget of truth was tucked away just behind his tongue. Clearly, he is about to drop a doozy on them. “Who in this room is prideful?” he begins slowly with almost comedic gravity. “Who is not humble? Raise your hand! We’re going to REBUKE THAT PRIDE TODAY!!!” He reaches a fevered pitch. Strutting around the stage (in an unmistakably avian fashion) and wielding a torrent of zealous, spiritual-sounding words, he draws pride out of their souls like venom from their unsuspecting hearts. He seems quite satisfied that he has so quickly and efficiently changed their lives. I nearly puke.

Next story… In the Congo, a man builds a church with his own hands on his own personal plot of land. Then he is the chief, the absolute monarch of the church. Presumably he has access to all the funds and controls the church’s assets. If the pastor dies, the church disbands. After all, it’s his land, his building, his church. Discipleship is a dicey topic because some have tried to raise up young leaders who in turn divide the church and steal members (and thus tithes) for their own ministries. If all goes well however, discipleship can be seen as a franchise opportunity, as it is appropriate for a pastor to expect his disciples to share their profits with their mentor so that he too can be prosperous.

In Congo, no cross-country bus ride is complete without a rogue preacher standing up to give an evangelistic message. Even if he is subtle enough NOT to elicit cash from the innocent travelers after his oratory, the expectation is clear: here is a man of God. Let’s give him something. So money is passed peacefully to the front and the preacher receives it with a benign smile.

Greed. Pride. Self-centeredness. Ministry with an ambitious capitalistic twist. Is it any wonder that I’m skeptical when I hear of Congolese denominations that want to “double our number of churches in Congo by such and such a date”? How many of these men would preach to a bus full of Muslims? How many would refuse payment for the sake of the gospel? How many would suffer and die for it?

Part of what’s so disgusting to me about these people is they hold a mirror up for me to see (in very unsubtle ways) what I often look like inside. I can talk about humility with the best of ‘em. But if you look at my demeanor, the way I carry myself, you may doubt that I have an ounce of the stuff! I can strut around sounding pretty wise (and congratulating myself the whole time) but does my life display that same wisdom when my mouth is shut and I’m going about my business? Well, lets just say I regularly have moments where I’m glad nobody is watching me.

Confession: I really dislike pastors. When a pastor starts talking, my first reaction is suspicion and cynicism. And the only thing that melts my cynicism is the moment that the pastor first demonstrates his humility. I’m not impressed by the title because I know the trap of pride and hypocrisy is real one, even for seasoned ministers. Even for me. And THAT’S where all the emotion comes from. They are a mirror of what I sometimes am… of what I could so easily become.

Today I’m happy that I don’t have a nifty title, a big ministry, and a whole lot of bragging rights. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think I could handle it. Not yet. I have too much vision, too much zeal, and JUST enough charisma to fool myself into thinking I can do something really special all by myself. If I ever have any hope of handling that sort of pressure, it’ll only be because God disciplined me now and I let Him. It’ll be a lot of this guts-inside-out kind of feeling. So I’m cozying up to that feeling today and letting it challenge my whole demeanor. Even if it means poverty or suffering or whatever, I just can’t stomach the idea of quietly compromising to hypocrisy. I would just kinda disgust mysef like, all the time.

Okay, so… Book recommendation for you and me:  http://www.pharisectomy.com/

Apparently, God Didn’t Major in PR.

I read Habakkuk today. Crazy book. Prime example of God’s unique strain of attractive, untamable wildness. I think 2:20 sums it up: “The Lord is in his holy temple; let all the earth be silent.” Here’s my unscholarly paraphrase of the book:

Habakkuk: God, are you seeing this? The bad guys are winning! How can you just sit there and watch while evil prevails? Aren’t you going to do something?

God: It’s worse than you think. I’m personally raising up those evil people to punish Israel.

Habakkuk: How can you do that?! Why would you tolerate these people? You know they’ll only worship their own strength at the end of the day. Answer me!

God: The judgment is coming and the wicked will pay for their crimes. I will have justice. But you must wait. “Though it linger, it will certainly come and will not delay” (2:3).

Pause…

Habakkuk: …I can see that in your timing, you will come with horrible anger, sifting the hearts of people; rescuing the righteous and destroying the wicked. “I heard and my heart pounded, my lips quivered at the sound; decay crept into my bones, and my legs trembled. Yet I will wait patiently for the day of calamity to come on the nation invading us. Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines… yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my savior. The sovereign LORD is my strength” (3:16-18).

God doesn’t pander to people. He doesn’t scramble to salvage His reputation. He is obstinately, unapologetically Himself. I find He is very honest with us when we hit rock bottom and cry out to him. “Yes. Your fears are justified. You are going to lose your house, your job, your loved one… Now what? What will be your response? Will you find strength in me or pursue your own strength?”

When I’m in a season of depression, doubt, and questioning, He usually doesn’t “answer” my complaints in the way I want. Clearly, His motto is not, “The customer is always right.” He doesn’t wring His hands or bustle around pulling together inspirational maxims to placate us. (Sometimes Christians get really self-helpy on each other.) Rather, he speaks the truth and watches to see our response.

If our hearts can accept his sovereignty and wildness, then his brutal honesty will refresh us and give us a painful but sure way out of our spiritual paralysis. Put another way, “The truth will set you free.” (I think the same is true with emotional healing...

But if our hearts will not accept His sovereignty and wildness… if we prefer a tame God who will be our savior but not our Lord, who must answer for all his actions and explain himself to us… Then our hearts will harden and our depression will deepen and perhaps we will find some happiness and strength in ourselves or our other relationships for a time. Maybe we’ll learn to follow our hearts or stand up on our own two feet.

But in the end I think it’s a doomed path; one that gets narrower and narrower for all eternity until our choices are all made for us in the worst way. I think it’s a less-honest path and ultimately a less liberating one, even if it feels liberating now.

And truth be told, I’d rather “risk it” with God than risk it on myself. The God-follower says, “even if my life is dry, and stark, and painful, I have cast my lot with the Lord. I have no other Strength besides Him. Even if all the promises seem to crumble and I am led weeping to the altar to surrender Isaac, the son of promise, I can do nothing else… I will do nothing else but trust the power and promises and character of God.”

“Lord, to whom will we go? You have the words of life.”

I believe it’s a blessed path; a narrow and non-intuitive one that gets wider and wider for all eternity and a more liberating one in the end.

I told a friend the other day, “I’m terrified that this one area of my life will be really difficult and painful for the next several years.” To which my friend replied, “Yes. That area of your life will very likely be painful and difficult for the next several years….” After which I felt a strange relief. “Oh,” I thought. “Well okay.” And in a sense, it felt good to have someone say, “Your fears may be justified. But that doesn’t mean you have to live in fear.” I can’t totally explain it, but somehow it’s liberating and it helps me move beyond the paralyzing dread to a humbler place of relying on God.

I think God just built us that way.