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.