Sunday in England: Hope for a Lingua Franca in a Global Christian Community

Yesterday, I spent the whole day in church. The whooooole stinkin day. And yes, I’m still here. Now, I confess I strongly dislike church services. I’ll go for the people, but the services generally make me want to sleep, check the “free” section on craigslist, and write incendiary blog posts all at the same time. But today, I went to 3 very different churches here in the UK: a traditional Pentecostal Ghanaian church in Birmingham, a contemporary pan-African Pentecostal church in Nottingham (beautiful, but no sheriff as far as I could see), and a beskinnyjeaned (off)white pseudocostal church in Trent. For me, they represented three very unique cultures and approaches to ministry within broader British society (which necessarily includes a tremendous kaleidoscope of cultures.

Maybe some backstory is due? Okay, I hate backstory. But I bet you’ll love it...

Harvey is a someone I met in Minnesota while he was a student working on his PhD and I was a substitute teacher working on getting kids to please please quiet down and listen for just a sec guys. He was a blossoming African scholar that hadn’t been to Africa in years. I was a dumb American with lots of curiosity some recent experience in Africa. I suppose we were both cultural oddities and it just worked.

Last September I suggested he fly down from England to meet me at a big missions/discipleship summit in Ghana, which he did. We met at the alarmingly huge convention center of what may be Ghana’s most powerful single religious movement today: the Church of Pentecost. This conservative, strongly-regimented network of churches has high structure, incredible resources, and an ever-expanding reach through it many churches in exile throughout the West. Through that conference, Harvey developed a friendship with the Church of Pentecost in Birmingham where he was living. Harvey recently put on a conference called “Missio Africanus”, a network designed to missionalize the African church in the West... (did I mention I was one of the first members?) and by some miracle, he got the Church of Pentecost chairman (the top dog himself) to be a keynote speaker. The chairman, in turn, poached Harvey.

Feeling the growing pains of being a culturally-rooted Ghanaian church movement losing its young members in droves (most services aren’t even in English), the Church of Pentecost engaged Harvey and Missio Africanus to lead a cross-cultural missions conversation and help the churches adjust to their European context. They also bought the properties of Birmingham Christian College and are renovating it to become the training hub for all their European ministers. In case that doesn’t land heavily on you, then let’s just take a moment of silence together... An African church just bought a big chunk of a British University to be designated as a bible college for hundreds of students, including its sizeable contingent of ministers in Europe. And guess who they put in the missiological drivers seat of this thing?

So Harvey now has the unenviable task of integrating his Malawian-yet-not-quite-Malawian self into a staunchly Ghanaian movement, teaching at the school, and leading these Ghanaian congregations out of cultural self-isolation and into a missional relevance trying to revitalize Christianity in 21^st-century Europe (which happens to be the thrust of his excellent new book on reverse mission). Sounds exciting, but... hard.

Church #1 demonstrated that point well. It was everything I’ve come to expect from African Pentecostal churches with a special national (in this case, Ghanaian) flare. A small rented room draped in the green, gold, and black of the Ghanaian flag. The pastors and honored members sat on stage facing the congregation while the worship band sang (sometimes completely butchering) contemporary praise music from 30 years ago in typical African fashion: the worship leader starts singing and the keyboardist noodles around til he finds the right key. Then he has a short midstream conversation with the bassist after which he breaks out in loud 1,4,5 African polka (no matter how soft the song) which the drummer dutifully follows with something vaguely reggae until the song ends. An elder got up and had a quasi-theological discourse with the congregation about grace, creating some grace/works confusion along the way. Luckily, the pastor straightened out neatly. The pastor’s wife preached a lovely sermon on Esther (the main points of which I can’t recall at the moment). Then it was announcements and another small sermon or two. The people were gracious and welcoming enough. But any African not from Ghana (much less a westerner) would be hard-pressed to find a home there.

Church #2 was an interesting mix of Malawian, Zimbabweans, and South Africans meeting in a tiny old church in the heart of Nottingham. There can’t have been more than 30 people there, but I was immediately struck by the music: an incredibly talented band of all Africans playing Hillsong and other contemporary “western” worship with striking skill and passion. I was surprised by this but even more surprised when I noticed everyone young and old (myself included) connecting deeply with this expression of worship. I later sat down with the keyboard player (who gave me an impromptu lesson in jazz piano). He talked about that music as a “universal style” which differed from American rock worship. It was something he told me resonates deeply with Christians worldwide. As I thought about it, I realized there really are no comparable secular genres for that style of worship music in America: it is distinct and apparently becoming a lingua franca for globalized Christians around the world.

The preaching was (let us be frank) horrible. In the absence of their pastor (who was recovering from a stroke), the lay leadership limped along with half-baked gospel presentations full of “amen” and “hallelujah” fillers (which sounded better than “um”), and uncomfortably exuberant pontificating on the importance of giving. It was all pretty tasteless. So when Harvey and Nancy’s adorable 16-month daughter, Rochelle, got restless, I volunteered myself for nursery duty. I took Rochelle upstairs with all the second-generation immigrant African kids speaking in perfect British accents, possibly less African than I am! After the service, everybody was exceptionally warm and inviting in ways the Ghanaian church had not been. They told me how they were reaching out to the community with their food pantry and trying to be a blessing to Nottingham (imagine that). I felt that if the preaching was better and the church was a little bigger, I really could feel at home in a place like this. Even though I stuck out like a sore thumb, I felt comfortable, accepted.

Church #3 was the Trent Vineyard. This one just knocked me over. It was featured on the BBC as one of the few churches that is growing in the UK while most churches are folding. And boy is it growing. Walking into the huge pristine warehouse, I began to see why. A beautiful full-service coffee shop adjoined one side of the sanctuary while the church’s famed bar (yes, a fully licensed bar) opened to the other side of the room. The main hall was designed perfectly: industrial chic with calming grays punctuated by tasteful art pieces alluding to the spiritual nature of that community: a painting of a large crown of thorns, snippets of poetry, a bible verse. Perfect lighting, sound, couches in the back. The band played western rock worship (Tomlin along with several originals) that had the thousand-strong crowd of cool young Britons raising hands, jumping, crying, and closing their eyes in the private emotional cloister of their personal encounters with God.

I admit I was awed, then drawn in. And while I think both the band and most of the church was being genuine in their expression of worship, an eerie realization dawned on me: every element of this experience from the coffee shop, to the guitar-playing, to the color palette, is designed to appeal to my young, white, middle-class sensibilities. It’s a carefully crafted atmosphere made just for me; to cause me to exhale when I come to church and say, “ah.... now I feel better.” But it’s not just the atmosphere: the church offers dozens of small groups, special activities, even a pudding party (what even IS that?!) to connect otherwise isolated people to a strong community with a culture that offers a distinct and refreshing alternative to what’s available in the mainstream. The sermon, though boring, was also crafted for the timid white Christian professional: basically, “find natural ways to share Jesus with friends and colleagues without being rude, nosy, or obnoxious.”

Having been in Vineyard churches in America, I could taste, feel, almost smell that culture when I walked in the room. It’s a culture where I once found tremendous belonging and spiritual momentum. And while I applaud their incredible intentionality in reaching out to young white students and professionals in Britain, something told me I had moved on... that my own emerging Africanness was pushing me away from that culture and not into it. And certainly as I looked over at Harvey and Nancy I could tell they were underwhelmed, that they felt their differentness keenly. Interestingly, at one quiet moment during worship, Rochelle shouted “Daddy! Daddy!” which one woman later told the congregation was (she felt) a word from God.

Also, after getting a beer from the nice Christian fellas at the bar, I told Harvey that if I ever planted a church, half our revenue would come from liquor sales. He laughed and said, “nothing quite like harnessing your American capitalism for the sake of the kingdom.”

“Oh come on!” I ribbed. “We can make nice with capitalism for Jesus’ sake can’t we?”

“Of course,” he grinned. “I agree with that!”

I suppose as I reflect on my experiences yesterday, the main takeaways have become an argument for multiculturalism. I’ve never really understood the point of multicultural congregations. They’ve seemed forced, driven by idealism or guilt, and poised for conflict or a watering-down that never quite pleases anyone. But on another level, maybe I’ve never understood the need for multicultural communities because I’ve never understood the need to live deeply with other peoples’ stories, the stories of other communities. I was raised in a homogeneous church and though I never liked it, though I always knew something was missing, I never thought that one of those somethings might be a multiplicity of cultural voices. Like the dutiful rationalist I was, I figured our community could (in theory) reason through any problem or deficit it encountered within itself, even if it chose not to. But my growing conviction is the family of God is incomplete unless all the family members are present. And while I value deeply-contextualized attempts to reach a single culture, I believe we can, and should, find a common Christian language peppered with our own stories, our distinctiveness. Heck, if Coke can do it, why not the church? It’s a language bound together by scripture, an authentic encounter with God, and the humility and love to press into our differences.

                 

Once we find that language (which can only be accomplished in a global community), we can open our doors and our relational space to the strangers in our community, the cultural minorities (or majorities) in our midst. Not just because they need us but because we also need them. They’re not optional guests at a graduation party. They’re needed family members at the dinner table. We don’t do diversity for tolerance brownie points. We do it for wholeness. The Church of Pentecost can NOT continue to grow spiritually without the British. The Vineyard NEEDS Malawians and Indians and poor whites if it wants to grow deep as well as wide. The Anglicans need immigrant voices to revitalize their faith. We need those voices not only in our congregations but in our lives, our community, our group of friends. If we can welcome those voices, make friends with them, learn to trust them, we will find ourselves growing. Our faith will grow, our humility will our, our compassion will grow.

The African philosophy of Ubuntu teaches that you must welcome the stranger because you never know what the stranger might bring to you, what he might contribute to your life, your community. Similarly, we have not yet understood what the stranger in our midst has to offer. But I daresay it is much better than we have dreamed.

No Ghana fo' You. But England.... Just Might Do.

I was supposed to be in the air right now heading for Ghana. I was supposed to be sleeping out in the camps of the nomadic Fulani tribe, deepening a friendship with them. I was supposed to help gather 200 of them for a daylong meeting. I was supposed to be having discipleship conversations with some of the brightest young leaders at a 3-day leadership conference. But instead of packing mosquito nets, I’m packing sweaters. Instead of Fulani camps and leadership conferences, I’ll be in the homes and classrooms of the African diaspora in (of all places), England.

You guessed it: Ebola. Ghana is Ebola free for the time being, but in light global talks about grounding flights from West Africa, we decided over the weekend not to take the chance of getting stranded (or worse).

But there was another strategic part of this trip I hadn’t talked much about: a stopover in the UK to visit a good friend, African missiologist Harvey Kwiyani. Harvey is from Malawi, but he works with Ghanaian and Nigerian churches throughout the UK in discipleship and missions while teaching at the University of Birmingham. I was hoping to build my friendship with him and grow a possible ministry to Africans in the UK, something Harvey and I could work on together.

So I’ve decided to keep the UK portion and extend it to 9 days. I’ll be sharing some of my story in on Harvey’s classes, networking with the African leaders he’s teaching, and generally making myself available to whatever God wants to do. Harvey told me, “You’ll feel like you’re in Ghana the whole time!”

Crazy story: Harvey (under my left arm) flew from the UK to Ghana last year to join me and my friend Ash (from my church) for a conference on missions and discipleship. While there, we met Emanuvel (under my right arm) who lives in Chennai, India. Ash and I fell in love with his passion for Jesus and fatherly heart. SOOOO.... (spoiler alert!!) Ash and I are planning to visit Emanuvel in India this January. Naomi is the Ghanaian in the middle making Emanuvel laugh (an effect she seems to have on everyone). I love this picture because so many of my worlds are colliding. All my globetrotting comes together and makes more sense when you know the incredible people I'm traveling to see.

Then in a very recent surprising series of developments it was decided that some close friends from Chicago will be meeting coming to meet me in the UK for a few days of tromping around Whales, eating in pubs, touring castles, making my wife sick with envy, etc. I won’t lie: it’s going to be a lot of fun. But I also have to wonder what God is up to. These are friends I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in and I wonder what God might do in their discipleship journey (as well as mine) through our time together.

I’m really disappointed about missing out on my time with the Fulani in Ghana. I even had a dream the other night that I was speaking surprisingly good Pulaar with a Fulani lady at the market. But I’m also encouraged to know that the meeting will go on without me. It is being supported by many of my friends and donors, and hosted by local pastor Jonah Manyan, one of the humblest and most genuinely caring people I know. It’s very possible that it will go better without the distraction of grinning white faces... at least for now.

As for me, I’m off to the UK tonight (if the buddy-pass gods allow). I’m excited about what I know is going to happen. I’m especially excited about the people I know I get to spend tim with. But I’m just as excited about the things and people I DON’T know about yet. Adventures away!

Journeying Toward Humility

Last weekend, I “retreated” with 60 other guys from my church. And while the atmosphere was much deeper and more relational than previous years, I still felt the testosteronish discomfort in the room about opening up TOO much. But Gary, our fearless leader pressed in to the discomfort by asking the guys to walk around and give words of blessing and encouragement to each other. Suddenly everybody was like....

Nevertheless, guys started mingling and after a number of kind words were exchanged, an older guy who I happen to have a lot of respect for approached me. Very sincerely he said to me, “You’re good at so many different things. God has gifted you in so many ways. It would be easy to start thinking too highly of yourself. But if you can stay humble, I think God is going to accomplish great things through you.”

I think he’s right... and it got me thinking about pride and humility, a familiar refrain in my story. One blogger said if you talk a lot about humility, you probably haven’t achieved it. I suppose for me, that’s true. I’ve walked a life-long journey with spiritual pride. I’ve seen its consequences and I hate it. I’ve also seen that the flipside of pride is self-loathing and judgment. I hate that too. But I doubt I’ve achieved humility.

I’m going to Ghana next week. I get to do some really cool things with some really cool people. I get to travel out into the Fulani villages, host a couple hundred Fulani for a 1-day conference, hang out with some of the brightest Christian leaders around. Part of me says, “this is awesome! If other people could do things my way, their ministries would be awesome too!” Of course it’s a silly thought. I had very little to do with the success of the Ghana ministry. In a sense I’m just along for the ride. God made it happen and Jonah is the guy on the ground busting his back making friends with the Fulani. I’m just the guy on the other crackly end of the telephone saying, “Yay!”

And in fact, I had this dream last weekend that I was in Ghana trying to communicate something about God’s love to the Fulani and they started arguing with me, scoffing at me. As things got increasing hostile, it became clear that I was failing in so many ways. I woke up wondering how I would feel if that actually happened, if I crashed and burned with the Fulani. Not good I suppose. But is that ultimately in my control? Am I ultimately a self-made man, bearing the full weight of both success and failure? I hope not! Because if that’s not the case, there’s room for both humility and joy. There’s room for conviction, even guilt, self-correction, celebration, momentum, and courage. But there’s no room for shame or pride. Because the ultimate glory and responsibility goes to God and I just get to say, “yay!”

For me, the real story with humility is a story of God’s kindness and love. Because the pendulum would keep swinging back and forth between self-loathing and pride (with loads of judgment for myself and others) unless something stepped in to knock the pendulum off its track. For me, it usually comes in the form of a humbling/humiliating experience right on the tail end of a major success.

Or, when I have my head screwed on straight, I can sometimes take a deep breath and back away from that self-congratulatory smugness. And sometimes when I pray I feel like God actually gives me the choice: Deflate that ego, or I’ll do it for you. And that’s really kind of Him because it says that God cares enough about me to not let me get away with pride (and all the shame and judgment that comes with it)... at least not for very long.

I’m trying to adjust my beliefs. I’m trying to begin to view success as a really good but really dangerous thing.... and failure as a potentially beautiful, redemptive thing; So that whatever happens, I grow, and Jesus grows inside me. For now, I’m humming the words of a song I wrote one night 10 years ago on a bridge in Ecuador (long story). It has become an anchoring prayer for me whenever I need some humbling. Here it is....

Joseph: Prophetic Conviction or Plain Stupidity?

As I read the story of Joseph’s dreams, I’m struck by a single thought: “What a twerp!” I don’t think I’d be affirming toward my little brother’s pronouncements of his imminent dominion over me either. Obviously, the kid had a gift. Obviously he heard God right. But the story doesn’t say God told Joseph to share the dream. Maybe Joseph was just a spoiled kid looking to rub his brothers’ noses in how special he was.

Joseph later reflects on it all to his brothers, saying “What you intended for evil, God intended for good.” But I also doubt that Joseph would recommend his course of action to anyone. The prudent way he later approaches his brothers seems to demonstrate a growing wisdom in how to use his gift.

It’s a tough lesson and a theme throughout Genesis: The young are portrayed as people of great conviction bordering on stupidity who are more concerned with being "right" than in seeing the big picture. The old are pictured as prudent, often to the point of compromise in the name of wisdom. Where’s the balance between wisdom and conviction? I suppose the short answer is “Jesus”: uncompromising conviction with wisdom, flexibility and a heart that listens to the Father.

I learn something from young Joseph. Just because I have a spiritual experience doesn’t mean I have to publish it. That’s another level of conversation with the Father: “What do you want me to DO with this?” And that can be hard to discern.

Ultimately though, I think what I learn from Joseph is that God is gracious to us. He’s good at accomplishing His plan in our lives, even through the blunders and missteps. At the end of the day, the Joseph story isn’t about natural consequences for our shortsightedness. It’s about the resilience of God’s plan in our lives even when we blow it, even when we are full of ourselves, even when we suffer the consequences.

That’s why I want to take more risks with my faith. Because even if I sometimes misunderstand God or fail to use common sense in the process, I believe that he loves to use and knows how to redeem even misguided faith. I’d rather not repeat the same mistake twice, but the bigger story is cultivating a personal trust in the God who loves faith, redeems choices, grows us up inside, and is present even in those “natural consequences”. That’s the kind of God I want to fall back on.

The Beggar and the Pilgrim

I sat for 3 days in a huge Russian Orthodox Cathedral, watching and waiting to see what God might show me. I sat, prayed, and waited. God had told me to come to this strange monument to 19^th century Russian preeminence in the heart of St. Petersburg. It was an odd place to come. I dislike cities, avoid tourist destinations, and feel no particular draw to Russia. Yet there I was, waiting for an appointment with God-knows-what.

On the third day, I looked across the cavernous room where I was perched on a windowsill and I saw someone who piqued my curiosity. A young man with a man with a long beard and reddish blond hair sat muttering quietly to the ceiling. A Russian bible sat open in his lap. His bony frame fit awkwardly in a pinstripe suit. I admired him from a distance, obviously a young man of deep religious devotion. Like me, he was a pilgrim on a journey with his faith. I wondered quietly to myself if this was my appointment, to meet this young man. Soon he crossed himself, stood up, and filed into the long line, waiting his turn to kiss the icon of the Lady of Kazan. After a long time, I watched shuffle out of the church. I followed at a distance.

Outside the Cathedral, a disheveled man with sharp eyes and strong features held his hand out for spare change. I by him, looking at the ground, but something stopped me. I looked back and saw that his ankle looked badly disfigured and I noticed the cane he walked with. Something in me stirred. Maybe I should pray for this guy. I stood there uncertain for half an eternity while the old Sunday School song played repeatedly in my head: “He went WALKING and LEAPING and praaaising God...” Should I ask to pray for him? What if he got healed? What if he didn’t? What if he doesn’t speak English?

I quietly sidled up next to him, just waiting for him to stretch out his hand so I could respond in effect, “silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee!” But we just sat there in silence and he ignored me.

Then something curious happened. The skinny young pilgrim came walking around the corner and sauntered up within 20 feet, looking somberly up at the sky, at the vast columns and arches, praying under his breath. The beggar left my side and hobbled over to the pilgrim. In that moment I ALMOST joined them, but a voice inside me seemed to say, “Just watch. What you are about to see is just for you.” So I stood, obvious gawking at them.

The beggar walked up to the pilgrim and the young man held out a fist full of coins to the beggar. But the beggar pushed his hand away and looked sharply into the face of the younger man, who struggled to make eye contact. The beggar spoke firmly and deliberately like a father rebuking his son while the pilgrim gazed into the distance, obviously uncomfortable. Eventually, the pilgrim slid his hand into his pinstripe suit, quietly withdrew 3 cigarettes and handed them to the older man. The beggar turned toward me, but then turned back to say something to the pilgrim as though exhorting him to remember some important lesson.

I stood 10 feet away staring, watching this fascinating exchange. The beggar returned to my side and I asked if he spoke English. “Nyet,” he replied dismissively. Eventually the beggar gathered his things and slowly hobbled away. Unsure of what to do, I followed him at a distance. But before I knew it, he stepped around a car and seemed to disappear into thin air. I just stood awkwardly in the colonnade wondering what had just happened.

(At that moment, I found myself alone in the colonnade with an African man. He was from Ghana. We struck up a conversation and proceeded to spend the couple hours together, hanging out at his restaurant, talking about the Fulani, even praying together. But that’s another story.)

Part of me still wishes I’d had more courage with the beggar and had taken the risks I wanted to take... even if they were dead ends. But at the end of the day, I got something important out of what I saw. And I admit, I’m using a very imaginative interpretation here. But as I watched the two men interact, I felt the pilgrim was holding up a mirror for me. For me, the pilgrim became an object lesson in religious devotion.

Clearly, this guy was dedicated to his faith. It was deeply personal, not just ancient tradition. Yet something deep inside me told me that this guy was missing it in the worst way. He looked miserable. I imagined his relationship was not so much with God as with the idea of God.

And this hits a little too close to home. Because I’m like that too: naturally spiritual, deeply sincere, self-flagellatingly faith-filled, muttering prayers to the sky, yet completely missing out on a real relationship with God. At my worst, I dismissively placate those who interrupt my religiosity with fists full of relational pocket change while avoiding their gaze. And though my spiritual sport-coat is full of cigarettes, I don’t care to loudly admit that yes, I’m exactly like everyone else.

Unexpectedly, my hero in the story was the beggar: that dirty, craggy-faced beggar who saw through the ethereal façade of the younger man. In my imagination, the beggar looked into the face of the young man and said, “Look friend. I don’t want your petty cash. Look here in my face. What are you searching for? Did you think you would find God in this cathedral? In the clouds? In your sincerity? You won’t find him there. You’re looking in the wrong place. Don’t you know that you’re just like me? Give me one of those cigarettes you’re hiding. Don’t you know that there is more of Jesus in me than in all these stone columns or even in your spiritual pilgrimage?”

I’m tired of being that emaciated young man, carrying nothing on my pilgrimage except my perennial spiritual arrogance. I’m tired of looking for God in all the wrong places.

The other day, I walked down a long dark road in the middle of the Zambian countryside. It was pitch black and the stars were incredible. I’d just come back to the dorms from the conference I was attending and I needed some time alone. I walked out onto the road, gazed up at the stars and started to cry, eyes wide open. Something was stirring in me. An inexplicable hunger for something I couldn’t put a finger on. All the fear, confusion, joy, friendship, inspiration, and wonder of my time in Russia and Zambia seemed to converge into this shapeless savage yearning. I suppose it was a yearning for God Himself.

So I fell on my knees, looked up at the sky and prayed, “God I want more of you. Speak to me. Just speak to me!” And in that moment, an inaudible but clear voice came back: “Why are you staring at the stars as though you are going to find me there? You won’t find me there. Am I not inside you?”

I suddenly remembered the interaction I witnessed between the beggar and the pilgrim and something clicked in my heart. But I found it a painful lesson to accept. “God I know you said I would be your vessel, but I don’t always like this vessel. It’s filthy and I don’t think it suits you.”

“Nevertheless,” the voice replied. “I live inside you. Not because you’re perfect but because I love you.”

I suppose I’ve begun to understand that I’m not good at really seeing the places that Jesus chooses to hang out. It’s not because He’s too mysterious. It’s because I’m too religious. He spelled it out pretty clearly I think: “Look for me in beggars, prisoners, and prostitutes. Don’t look for me at church because I’m out at the bar. Don’t seek me at conferences because I’m joking around with my friends back at the dorms. Don’t go on pilgrimage to find me because I’m already inside you.”

So for me, my pilgrimage has started to take a turn: I no longer want to just float off to heaven... because somehow, I have not yet found the earth. I haven’t figured out where to put my feet, and how to find Christ in the ordinary and unexpected. When I figure THAT out, I suspect a few things will happen: People will no longer be symbols or projects. I will love more readily. I will accept love from others more quickly. I will be more comfortable with the idea that God loves me and lives inside me. And I will see Jesus simply delighting to sit in the dirt with his creation. He’s been inviting me to come sit there with him. I want to take him up on the offer.

Loving Africa... but only with Africans

I’m laying in a long row of Zambian men. I’m sharing a blanket with my best Zambian friend, Chomba. On the other side of me is Mark and a stranger who didn’t bring bedding and begged Mark to share his twin-sized mattress. We all squished our foam mattresses together on the concrete floor of a converted shop under construction along the highway. This is what they call “the dorm”. When I arrived here in Kabwe, there was a crowd of white and African faces mixing at the giant Operation Mobilization conference center here in Zambia. Here at OM, 700 missionary types from Africa and the rest of the world converge for a 4-day hoopla they’re calling “Love Africa.” Our team was invited here to teach a series of 6 workshops on discipleship.

So I went to the reception and the woman there asked me if I wanted a guesthouse or the dorm. Since I had our Zambian team with me and the dorms were literally 1/5 the cost of the guesthouse, the choice seemed obvious. “So what will the cost be for an American?” I asked.

The woman looked at her price list and looked confused. “I don’t know,” she said. “Honestly we don’t have a price for that. Americans usually want to stay in the guest houses.” So after thinking it over for a moment she gave me the Zambian price: $30 for 3 days of room, board, and conference fees. No complaints there! So tonight as I left the main session, I walked past a nice coach bus filled with pensive white faces going to the guesthouses. I also walked past an open cargo truck filling up with dozens of Africans (not a white face among them) heading for my place. Classic.

So here I am, camping African style with only Africans. I was happy enough with the arrangement. White people in Africa make me anxious, after all. I never know how to respond to them or how they’ll respond to me. Call me a racist. I just don’t like being around them.

I have no criticism toward OM for what I’ve just experienced. I think they were being pragmatic when they realized that only the Africans would be willing to sleep in a bare concrete building under construction without bedding or working outlets. They did it this way to make it affordable. 

But I think it’s an interesting commentary on the state of the relationship between whites and blacks in Africa. Most westerners have good intentions coming to Africa, but very little stomach for the standard of living. Most westerners try to be modest, but have a baseline of creature comforts that naturally segregates us from our African friends. Don’t get me wrong. I like a good hotel with a hot shower! But when we come to Africa and just look at it from the outside, we miss out on so many crucial elements of community life here: laughter around a boiling pot of nshima, impromptu dance parties, and the ability to ask a stranger to share his mattress.

PS y'all: If you've been in the developing world and stayed in nice accommodations and feel a little judged by this, please don't! 95% of the time, that's exactly what I do. My point isn't to say we have no business in Africa if we're not living "African". My African friends would find that idea silly. My point is just that if we hope to develop deep friendships here, we need to at least understand what it feels like to need each other, to NOT have a back-up plan, or cash reserve, or extra blanket. In Africa, they don't have social security. They have each other. And I think that's a beautiful and necessary thing for us to understand and learn from, especially if we hope to have a mutual friendship with our African friends.

Love... From Russia of Course!

I arrived on Tuesday in St. Petersburg Russia for a 3 day stint before going on to Zambia. I'm here because God told me to come. Long story. The bottom line is, I don't know why I'm here, but here I am.

I was immediately struck by how helpless I felt. I could barely sound out the Cyrillic letters on the signs, much less make sense of the incredibly complex tongue-twisting words they form. My feeble attempts at communicating my 3 well-rehearsed Russian phrases met with mostly blank stares. I was saved by free WiFi in the airport, which I used to get directions to my hostel... after a quick stop at Starbucks (yes, it’s EXACTLY the same as in America).

In the crowded bus we wooshed past huge stone buildings and stark apartment high-rises with that forbidding look of cold Russian pragmatism. I saw giant statues of military heroes and forgotten soviet factories with trees growing from the roofs. The place would have been downright eerie if not for the bustle of blue-eyed sharp-featured people.

I arrived at the Red House Hostel near the city centered. Hostels are always a unique cultural microcosm wherever I go. A haven for students and backpackers, they are like overgrown dorms with coed bunkrooms and brightly painted common spaces full of people lounging, cooking, drinking, and speaking a variety of languages. This one happens to be blissfully quiet with comfortable beds and hot showers. The people are friendly and I’ve met a number of folks on long global treks from France, Brazil, Australia, and Siberia.

Part of this adventure was a specific church I felt led to pray at. The Kazan Cathedral is a replica of St. Peter’s Bascillica in Rome. Ironically, it was built as a monument to Russian military dominance over the west! I walked the 2km to the church and milled around for a couple hours just watching and listening and wondering why I was here. I stood in on an interesting prayer service complete with chanting, incense, and pilgrims kissing the walls. Though I watched and listened and waited, nothing happened. But I wasn’t feeling very Holy Spirit-y. So after a while, I went home, crawled into bed at 10:30pm (the sun hadn’t even gone down yet!) and slept a solid 12 hours.

Kazan Cathedral

Inside Kazan, pilgrims line up to kiss the icon, "Our Lady of Kazan"

This morning I stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee. I offered some to the Brazilian brothers sitting next to me and suddenly we were friends! Julio and Marcelo invited me to rent bikes with them and tour the city. Well why not. We cruised along the river, through a fort, and stopped to tour an old Soviet prison. I’d like to say it was amazing. It was just okay. Historic architecture isn’t really my thing.

Out biking with new Brazilian friends.

After the bike ride, I went back to the Kazan Cathedral to pray some more. I was stopped only once by a guy trying to convince me (in Russian) to visit his strip club (the flyers he was handing out left little doubt that it wasn’t a coffee shop he was running). But after a firm “nyet” or two I was back on track. The church was closed, so I sat on a park bench outside and didn’t actually pray much because I was so exhausted. I dozed off a couple times, tried to journal but couldn’t keep my eyes open. Two people sat down on the bench next to me and stayed for 30 minutes each, both just looking at the fountain in the middle of the square. Should I have talked to them? Did God send them and I missed out because I was too scared to strike up a conversation? I didn’t think so at the time, but then again, the voice of the Holy Spirit felt impossible to hear today. Finally, a gregarious Khazak girl sat down with her girlfriend and tried really hard to be my friend but her English consisted of about a dozen words. It was 11pm, the sun had finally set, so my new friend gave me a death-grip handshake and I headed for home.

The fountain outside Kazan Cathedral

On the way home, I stopped by the famous “Cathedral of the Spilled Blood” (It’s much prettier than it sounds) and listened to a phenomenal string quartet play Beethoven and Puccini. Then I gave my last 50 rubles to a big Russian man who thanked profusely me with a bone-crushing handshake (is that a thing here?).

On the canal leading up to The Cathedral of the Spilled Blood

But I know I didn’t come here for handshakes and Puccini. I certainly didn’t come here to tour another European city. Then why am I here? I still don’t know.

It’s 6AM now. I’ve been tossing and turning since 3. It’s hot and though I’ve thrown off all my covers, I’m still glistening with sweat. There are mosquitoes buzzing nearby and my 9 roommates are rustling. Every thought in my mind is anxious. What DID I come here for? What if God doesn’t show up? What if I’m still feeling this way when I go to the airport on Friday? Will this experience be redemptive or just prove to me once and for all that I’m a hack at listening to the Holy Spirit? Oh yeah, I just remembered I’ve been asked to preach at a church on Sunday. When will I prepare my sermon? And what could I possibly preach about in a state like this?

I’m out of bed now, in the kitchen with a fan blowing on me. This is normal, I tell myself. This is jetlag. My thoughts are always darkest in the middle of the night. I shouldn’t take any of it too seriously. But in that vulnerable space we find ourselves in the middle of the night, I’m finally willing to face it: I’m way out on a limb here, I’m lonely, I’m 5,002 miles from home, and I just don’t get it. I know the story is far from over. And I have to trust that God knows how to communicate in ways I’ll understand, even when my receptors feel fried.

Maybe the discomfort is the point... ya know, to shake things up or something. Or maybe I was just supposed to be obedient. Or maybe I’m just no good at this stuff. Or maybe I’ll get thrown into that old Russian prison or lightning bolts will fall from heaven. I don’t have prefabricated answers. Because if I had prefabbed answers, that would make this a prefabbed story and I don’t think I could live with that.

I’m not willing to live a prefabricated faith. I’m just not. And maybe that’s really why I came to Russia in the first place. Being brutally honest here, this is my game of chicken with God. Is all this Holy Spirit stuff real? Or is it plastic like so many Christian movies? 4 years ago in an African village, I dared it to be real. And God seemed to say, “alright. Game on.” And at the end of the day, I don’t mind if the answers are mysterious, even bizarre at times. But they need to be real.

It’s 6:31AM and the sun is shining. Silly Russia. I need to sleep now.

When the Truth is a Lie

I had a great conversation yesterday with a pastor friend who is trying to more deeply embody a Jesus-style discipleship in his church. I asked, “when you do discipleship, how do you practice accountability in a group without creating a controlling or toxic atmosphere?” I thought his response was pretty Jesus-like: hold people accountable by being honest about what you see in their lives while always communicating that you love them and that they have a choice in how to respond. And their choices don’t impact your care for them or their intrinsic worth.

Jesus wielded authority without a “position” and without apology. People just “sensed” that there was authority to his words. He could speak very strongly to his disciples, but continued to serve and relate to them in a way that communicated their value and loved-ness. He gave them multiple opportunities to “opt out”. But he never tried to convince, control, or manipulate them. He always pushed them, always spoke the truth to them, but never withdrew his love, or confused their actions/attitudes/beliefs with their identity or their human dignity.

There’s a growing sickness in America and most of us feel it. It’s not just in the church. It’s everywhere. We don’t really know people anymore. We have thousands of acquaintances but very few friends. In the age of social media, loneliness is pandemic and we have forgotten how to see the humanity of others. We are all emotionally malnourished and underdeveloped. Our disconnection from others makes it easy for us form caricatured opinions about who they are as people from the wounded silos of our private minds. So when we speak of our politics, our faith, our opinions, or our lifestyles, we feel it deeply—we can taste it in the air—that our right to be human is on the line. So we hide away or scream our heads off, building thick walls to demonize anyone who would oppose us.

Here’s where it plays out in the American church and in discipleship: It’s very difficult for most Americans to “speak the truth” to each other without also speaking a lie: that if you are defensive or disagree with me, I can and will simply “unfriend” you. Or I will bully you into submission. The lie is “you’re not worth my energy, my care, my respect.” Disengagement is dehumanizing. Shame-based control is dehumanizing. But hard truth spoken in genuine love can be the most honoring gift we can give. It says, “I trust you to hear me. I think you’re worth the effort. I believe in you enough to risk you rejecting me for what I’m saying.”

Sadly, most of us forgot how to love. We THINK we love someone when in fact the thing we love most is our relationship with that person, and how that relationship benefits US. (Trust me, I speak from experience.) Object relations theorists posit that the infant mind can only identify something by its function. So for many of us, our underdeveloped social selves draw cartoonish caricatures of people, mistaking them for “things” identifiable only by their function.

So when someone “speaks the truth” to me or holds me accountable for something, I’m not listening for “is this person right?” But rather I’m listening for “does this person care?” And if they don’t care, then their choice to “speak the truth” will always come with a lie: that if I don’t shape up, I can never have value, can never belong, can never be loved. In that way many of the zealous “advocates for truth” coming from churches, political causes, and activist groups are in fact propagating a more insidious lie than any truth they hope to offer: it’s the lie of shame.

So here’s a few tips for that “difficult conversation” you simply must have with a friend or family member or that incendiary comment you’re dying to make on your friend’s Facebook post:

1. Ask yourself: do I REALLY care about this person? Do I care enough that I’m willing to feel the pain of losing them? Or do I just love the function they have in my life? Will I stick with them if they push back?

2. It’s okay to be wrong, to realize you’ve misread someone. We’ve all done it. Know when to apologize.

3. Don’t say things just to ease your mind. Believe it or not, your job isn’t to “clarify your position” or make sure people know what you think about a given topic. If your motivation is to feel better rather than to show love, then your “truth-telling” is intrinsically self-centered.

4. Conversation, not prosecution. Try giving them the benefit of the doubt, believing them to be reasonable people who want to hear you out (even if they’re not). Don’t prepare lengthy arguments, lists of offenses, or ultimatums against them. That stuff comes MUCH later.

5. Love is not an esoteric concept or philosophy. It’s a real feeling and involves real choices. If you can’t FEEL yourself in someone else’s shoes and deeply long for their wellbeing, don’t say you love them just before you slap them. That’s two-faced.

I tend to never ask for feedback (good or bad) because I’m afraid of the feedback I might get! But when someone lovingly speaks truth to me, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. It’s healing to hear painful truth from people who love me no matter what. It makes me feel seen. It makes me feel invested-in. It makes me feel human.

Verbs, Nouns, and Spiritual Pedagogy

A new study shows that infants use action verbs to understand new nouns. In other words, “hearing what an object does is how they learn what an object is.” It makes me think about the way we think and teach about God. We want to use adjectives and nouns to understand God: “he’s the loving, omnipotent, supreme being, etc...”

But the writers of the bible thought about God differently. To the Hebrews, God wasn’t a bundle of propositions, but a personal being best understood by his actions: He’s the God that made promises to Abraham, freed the Israelites from slavery, parted the Red Sea. He’s the God that clothed himself in skin and walked among us, who died, and was resurrected.

This narrative approach to understanding God (with all its rich action verbs) is a humbler, but more effective way to teach and facilitate spiritual “bonding” or “attachment” to God. It seems that as infants, we forge attachments to our parents because long before we understand what they are, we understand what they do. Why should spiritual attachment to a heavenly Father look any different?

So if we can loosen up on our rigid nounish doctrinal statements, we might find a greater voice and resonance in our culture by talking less about the stuff that God is and more about the stuff that God does.

http://www.scientificamerican.com/podcast/episode/infants-use-verbs-they-know-to-learn-new-nouns/

Nate & Debra Live in Concert... whicky WHAAA?!

Toby Mac stood in front of thousands of people at the main stage one night and opened his bible to Psalm 40. He read, “He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear the Lord and put their trust in him.” And in that moment, a whisper came into my head with an electric warmth, which has become a familiar friend over the years. The whisper pointed toward that big bright stage and said, “This is your new song. This is your stage.”

I was 17. I had come to the end of myself the summer before in teenage angst and rebellion and finally concluded that only Jesus could help me. That year in school I grew in leaps and bounds even while I battled depression, arrogance, and relapses into narcissism.

In the spring I read Psalm 40 and it leapt off the page. It seemed to want to say something important to me. So I carried it around for months, asking God to show me what it meant. He seemed to reply, “I have a new song for you and you don’t know what it is yet.”

When Toby Mac (of ALL people) read my verse and I looked up at the glitz and glamour of that stage like someone looking into his own future, my response wasn’t excitement or pride. It was confusion, mixed with a little fear, but also the peaceful resignation that if God wanted me singing songs about him on some main stage in some future life... he would work out the details. That night, I just worshipped.

Over the next 13 years, I wrote music... LOTS of music. I wrote good music, bad music, authentic, angsty, and idealistic music. I wrote prolifically and passionately. I recorded an album (just me and my guitar) at my Dad’s radio station, another one in college, and 2 more in my friend’s basement... always just me and my guitar, adding harmonies, cello parts, piano. But never daring to bring in other musicians. And outside of the occasional open mic night, I rarely played my songs in public.

2 years ago I was living in Chicago and I had a long conversation with God about this. At that time, he asked me what I wanted out of my music. I told him I wanted to pursue it, to work hard and become a “real” singer-songwriter, to have a stage to sing songs about Him. That same whisper replied, “Okay. You can have it.” Well... I turned 30 this year and guess what? I’m having my first ever concert next week.

I worked through last fall (with varying success) to gather a band. I had to drag my music out of my brain and onto paper. I felt I was dissecting and sometimes prostituting a part of me, which up until now had mainly been a private soul-language. I had to ask people to believe in me. It was (and is) terrifying and triggering. But I booked the venue, set the date, and ready or not here we go!

Debra reminds me that this is just a first step. But for me, a debut performance after 13 years of fits and starts is a big deal. God also keeps encouraging me to keep it simple, to be pastoral, and not to worry about numbers or making the music perfect. Ultimately, the stage is His. It’s not a tool to promote my ideas or myself. It’s a venue to share through art, what I know about Him... to talk about my journey with Him and invite people into their own journeys with Him.

So I’m doing my best to be faithful, to be myself, to work hard, and to fight perfectionism. Over the weekend I felt like I was getting ulcers, but today I’m peaceful and focused.

Next Saturday at 7pm at Grace Evangelical Church in Fayetteville... I’ll get up with my guitar, Debra singing harmonies, Michael playing cello and accordion, and Michael #2 drumming away. I’ll sing these songs I’ve written in my soul-language, “a hymn of praise to our God.” And I hope that people can step into my journey and feel a little bit of God’s heart for them.

Throughout the room, there will be artwork from people at the church. There will also be people I’ve asked to tell stories about THEIR encounters with the goodness of God. This is my best attempt at talking about spiritual formation through art instead of books, blogs, sermons, and bible studies. It’s less about delivering the right content and more about creating the right atmosphere. Well.... here goes nothing!

For more about the concert: https://www.facebook.com/events/466282540140026/466282546806692/?comment_id=466546993446914&notif_t=event_mall_comment

For more about my music (and to listen free online): nathanharkness.bandcamp.com

Discipling our Dark Places

Through the process of Restoring Your Heart, I’m coming to the conclusion that I am NOT a whole person. Meaning, there are large chunks of my identity, my history, who I am that I have quietly tucked away, protected in the sickly warm incubator of shame. So while I learn and grow and receive love as a friend, a husband, a leader, and a church-goer, that darker part of me goes on unloved, unknown, and undiscipled. This may be heresy, but it feels as though a part of me has not yet met Jesus or been pinned down by His grace.

The other day, I decided to be extremely honest with a group of men about my unlovable dark parts... maybe more honest than I’ve ever been. I shared that stuff not with a flood of cathartic weeping but with a cold, cringing decisiveness and vulnerability... Like grinding, oil-less gears, I lurched into the process of exposing myself, eyes fixed on the floor. If anyone knew what lurked within, who could love me? Could God even love me?

When people experience God’s heart, his love is overwhelming, embarrassing, and aggressive. We let it penetrate beneath our skin and heal the loop-tape lies that plague us.

Or not.

At every new level, God’s love stands toe-to-toe against our shame and offers us a choice: will I let Him win? Will I dare to embrace the terrifying hope He offers? Or will I tuck away the unsavory bits (or acres) of my being believing that God could never love me if I were that thing. That’s called shame: that resilient belief that something about me (my thoughts, my history, my wiring, my darker parts) disqualifies me as a human being worthy of love and acceptance. I understand why people, why I use shame to defend myself against God’s love in one area, even while embracing it on another. Love comes with an enormous cost: I have to dismantle my defenses. I have to be... defenseless.

When I looked up from my unflattering confession, I saw in the faces of those men affirmation and pride, not rejection. They were proud of my truth-telling and exuded grace in the face of my shame. They accepted me: my dark and my redeemed parts together. One man wrapped his arms around me and said, “I just love you for being honest.”

The next morning I took a long walk, feeling sick about the night before. As I processed it with God, I felt from Him a quiet, steady acceptance. And though I knew I wasn’t quite ready to fully throw my open the gates to his love, I also knew that transparency with him and with others was weakening my defenses. Hope is beginning to seep in, slowly, painfully.

If you’re in this boat with me, I’d say exposure (confession)—both with God and with emotionally safe and mature people—has been the most useful tool against shame so far. Vulnerability (not just honesty, but the kind of real vulnerability that hurts when you open your mouth) opens the door to experience the truth of love: the love of God and the love of others experientially heals the wounds dealt through our experiences. Then we begin to grow as whole, integrated people. Jesus makes disciples even of our dark places.

Here’s what Brene Brown has to say about shame in her book, Daring Greatly:

“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable. That’s why it loves perfectionists—it’s so easy to keep us quiet. If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. Shame hates having words wrapped around it. If we speak shame, it begins to wither. Just the exposure to light was deadly for the gremlins, language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”