On the way

Today, on the way home from school, we got to wondering how we came up with some goofy hand sign we use. Joe finally said, "we all came up with it together," which I thought was a pretty good answer; there's a lot of power in doing things that way, in thinking of things that way. I mentioned that was kind of how the Holy Spirit worked in believers. John then said, "The Holy Spirit reaches into His pocket and pulls out his glue stick and keeps everyone together." Truly, the Fathers could do no better.

When the angel Gabriel announces that Elizabeth will give birth to a son, Zechariah can't believe it. Then the angel stops him from being able to speak until the child is born. But when Gabriel comes to Mary and tells her she will give birth to a son conceived by the Holy Spirit, she expresses doubt in the same way that Zechariah does, but she is not struck silent. I wonder why.

Greater love hath no man than that he take his children to Chuck E. Cheese for two and a half hours...

p/g

Christmas Morning

It's been said that it took the wise men, the kings, whatever they were, two years to get to Jesus, but all the shepherds had to do was cross the field! I guess the shepherds didn't have anything to lose; if they go and it's a bust, oh well, they had a diversion from the monotony and cold of watching flocks by night. If it's true, well, then nothing will ever be the same again.

The magi, on the other hand, have a lot to lose. But I'm not sure they knew that going in. Some of the early church Fathers say that the star in the sky marked the end of astrology. They didn't mean horoscopes, they meant something much more. Astrology was big stuff in the ancient world. It was about the only certainty pagans had about their gods-- the stars moved in predictable patterns, and if you were learned, possessed mysterious knowledge, you could predict eclipses or the flooding of the Nile. It was all-important knowledge. Something new in the sky-- a comet, or some strange alignment of planets meant something. Maybe good, maybe bad; better check it out. So the magi followed a sign they knew something about.

But they did not know that with the birth of the Christ Child certainty had come into the world. No more need to look at goat livers or chicken bones to determine the future, or the nature of the gods. The one and only god had come into the world, took on flesh, shown great love and mystery.

They knew they had to worship Him. But were they happy about it? What did they do with it? Your life changes when you accept the babe born in Bethlehem. The things the magi had-- wealth, status, power, knowledge-- mean very little in the wake of Christ's birth. That is, they mean very little if you depend on them for happiness or peace. The end of astrology means not only certainty about God and who He is; what He is like is availible in the person of Jesus; the end of astrology means that all the things we hold on to must go. They are increasingly revealed for the hollow and empty things they are. There's never enough money. The love runs out. You can't drink it away.

We have a lot to lose, don't we? I think of the drunk who came by the church. To exchange to the certainty of the love of Jesus for his bottle, he thinks it's too much. I once thought in broader strokes-- the intrusion into my life and rights of a God who can say what is holy and unholy was too much to take. So much of who I was and what I liked to do had to die.

We are blessed when we wake up before it is too late, when we realize that all our ways are leading to death, and that the birth of Christ is an invasion, a beginning of the end. All the forces of darkness, death, and corruption are going to be swept away. They couldn't, can't, see it coming. But we do, even though (as the Apostle Peter says), "we suffer grief for a little while."

I think there is a new birth today. I hold the Christ Child and pray that He will grow in me. I want my home to be a "Little Nazareth," where He can grow and speak to us.

p/g

Hide and Seek

“I am frightened by the corrupted ways of this land—if only I could kill the killer”
--Alannis Morrissette, “All I Really Want”

“Then the king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, whose names were Shiprah and Puah, ‘When you help the Hebrew women in childbirth and observe them on the delivery stool, if it is a boy, kill him…. Now a man of the house of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket fro him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the banks of the Nile” (Exodus 1:15-16; 2:1-3).

“When they [the magi] had gone, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream. ‘Get up’, he said, ‘take the child and his mother and escape into Egypt. Stay there until I tell you, for Herod is going to search for the child to kill him’” (Matthew 2:13).

The summer days in Germany were long. The sun did not start going down until around ten. So we kids stayed out as long as we could. Our favorite game was hide and seek. The way we played it was a lot more fun than I had played it in the States. But one day, something strange struck me, something that has come back on me a few times since the boys were born.

I realized that in some way, Hide and Seek is a vicious game of survival training. Can you hide from the hunter? Can you find the prey? Answers to those questions mean life or death in many parts of human history. I remember thinking about the Holocaust and the terrible stories of people trying to hide, but being given away by a crying child. Or a mother who had to smother her child to save the lives of many. Then I got back to playing.

I know, I know, I have a dark streak in my personality, one that is at once fearful of violence and convinced that part of my task is to resist it and help others do the same. I suppose there was something of a call in my childhood thoughts about hide and seek.

Sometimes when I see John or Joe running across the field to the creek, I am tormented again by those childhood thoughts. How slow children are, how weak. And then, as a man, I now know that if people are weak, they are taken advantage of. It’s even legal to do so, because they are weak and can’t stand up for themselves. An instructive moment: I mentioned to a colleague that “activists” in the church community have missed the main justice issue in America: abortion. The reply was that if I asked the people in the community if abortion was the main issue, they wouldn’t agree. I replied “That’s because the people for whom it is an issue are dead.” The dead do not get to speak, and a fetus can only raise a hand in a startle-reflex. Why are we so scared of children? Moses and Jesus would have a hard time being born in our own day. There is nothing new under the sun, and the more things change, the more they say the same.

A few nights ago, we were playing hide and seek downstairs. Normally this is such a good game, and I don’t really think about my darker thoughts. I mean, one of us hides and the other two snuggle on the couch while we count. (When boys get older, they don’t snuggle with dad as much, so you have to sneak it in where you can). Thursday night Joe lamented that he doesn’t know how to hide very well. Dark clouds rise. Then, he was hiding in a good place, but two of his toes were sticking out. That was it. We went on playing, but I was twisting inside. Do I give him a crash course in hiding? There’s nothing sadder than desperation.

Of course it’s ridiculous, but then again it is not. Does anyone deny the existence of evil, its particular fondness for the weakest and most vulnerable? We sometimes think it is a limited thing, something that happens to the unfortunate few. We can feel bad when we hear about it, but it won’t touch us. Finally, evil exists in a million forms, and perhaps the most pernicious are not the physical manifestations, but rather the devilry of domination and control in relationships.

I met a man a few days ago who came to the church looking for some clothes. He was a drunk, and said, “I’ll be honest, I shit all over myself. I can’t go around stinking like this.” It was pretty bad, for sure. I mentioned that there was a deeper filth all over him that he had to let go of, too.

“I’d rather die,” he said.

“You’re going to,” I said. And then he told me that his dad gave him whiskey to shut him up when he was a baby and small child. He could not hide from that hunter.

p/g

Christmas Songs

Last night we had a Christmas Singing Service. I guess there were 80 or so of us together, and we had polled the congregation to find our favorite Christmas hymns. Then we just sang, and were blessed. The Itoula family sang, Princia Itoula did a solo and so did Noella Mapigano, Magdalena Rodriguez, and Nancy Agrinsoni. Denis Diaz led us in Feliz Navidad. All told, we sang in English, Spanish, French, Swahili and Lingala. I hope everyone got to see that we were all together, a very diverse group of people, but all together as children of God.

Afterwards, we had dessert. It was so good to see everyone together. I sat at a table with some kids—Rosy, Joyce and Jose Itoula, Alex, Savanna, and Lainie. Kids are quick to be friends. But the adults, well, we still sometimes separate because it’s easier. That’s ok. I like nothing better than walking around to tables, introducing people, and causing trouble, then leaving.

It always comes back to guts. Will we be one family? Will we make a choice to not simply tolerate, but to embrace? I’ve been in too many places where people “value” diversity. Funny, but the people who talk most about diversity rarely model it, because they are content on the surface to see lots of difference, but don’t really want to accept that different people may actually have something to say! More importantly, diversity doesn’t happen if you can retreat somewhere to a homogenous place. It means actually living together.

I know this is an uphill battle. In fact, I suspect that I may lose. We may lose. That is, we will have misunderstandings. We will grow weary of trying when it is easier not to. We will not “submit one to another, out of reverence for Christ” (Ephesians 5:21). Only our love for Jesus and the Holy Spirit will sustain this work.

I learned an important lesson in Winchester: if you do the right thing, the money and the people show up. It’s hard to trust that, but I have not been disappointed yet. Our ministry is to all people, but especially to the poorest of the poor among us. So we are marginal, and it is always going to be a struggle to survive, to find people willing to be here not just in worship, but also in terms of community life. And then, the very people who are our constituents do not have the kind of money it takes to run a mission. But we are also a church. First and foremost a place of preaching. So we are a weird thing, but a good thing, and I hope people can see that, and join us. If you want a glimpse of heaven, come visit us sometime!

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Christmas Greetings

What a year! So many changes-- we thought we would be done with leukemia in the fall of 2005, then just before Christmas we got the bad news Melissa would need further treatment, meaning bone marrow transplant. Decisions about where-- Vanderbilt or UL? We think we made the right choice, and anyway, Melissa is disease-free since August! It’s been a long recovery from the rigors of the transplant, but she gains strength everyday. We have a long way to go. We continue to ask for your constant prayers, as the cancer could come back. But everyone is upbeat, and no matter what, we keep living!

We are serving at The Rock La Roca United Methodist Church, and if you have followed this blog, you know what a freaked out place it is! We are very blessed to be in such a ministry. I can’t put my finger on it, I couldn’t have planned it, could not have conceived it, but when I am in it, I know it is what I have been looking for in a group of believers.

John is 6 years old and lost his first tooth a few weeks ago. He is in Kindergarten at Cornerstone Christian Academy. Joseph is 4 and also goes to Cornerstone for preschool. I cannot say enough what blessings they are in our lives. I turned thirty-seven and am a diligent student at the School of Hard Knocks.

This is now the 13th Christmas since I accepted Christ as Lord and Savior. I love Advent and Christmas, maybe it was the years in Germany? There was so much happening this time of year there. The Feast of St. Martin (Nov 11) kicks it off. Then Dec.5 we put our shoes out for St. Nikolaus. We ravaged our Advent calendars. We opened gifts Christmas Eve. All was calm and bright.

I meditate a lot on the baby Jesus, the mystery of the Incarnation. I think of Mary and Joseph raising Him. I wonder about what it means that the Word could not walk or speak. I remember how much I look forward to each new place the boys go in their development, the things they say, can say, can understand. And then I wonder about the first time Jesus spoke. What did He say? When He learned to speak, did we learn to listen? When He speaks, He says, “come and see.” “Follow Me.” “Give up everything.”

All of you are in our prayers. We wish you a Merry Christmas, with all the fullness of the meaning of the season!

p/g

Otherworldly

I told david and Noella (two of our Congolese people) that the church in America is weak. They nodded and said they had noticed as much. Noella asked, "How many of your people can fast three days?" What can you say? As a United Methodist pastor, I took a vow that says among other things that I will "teach fasting and abstinence by precept and example." I know that I have preached on it a lot, try to keep to fasting on Wednesdays, but on one even humors me about fasting. It's too serious, I suppose.

David then asked, "Do you have a Baptism School?" Apparently where he went to church in Congo, they had a long-term class to get people ready for baptism. And when you passed, they took you before the congregation, but if someone said you were still living in sin, oh well, start over. We think, "Oh my! How harsh and judgmental." St Cyril did not think so. Neither did St. Ambrose. Or Augustine. Or more recntly, John Wesley. My church in Winchester kicked a guy out in the 1870s because he sold a bum mule to someone. Now that's discipleship. I could at least say to David, we are working on in-depth discipleship program.

A month or so ago, I asked them what their names mean. The oldest boy is Malippo, and it means "reward." The youngest boy is Benjamin. The family's last name is Mapigano, which means "war." Noella said they changed Benjamin's last name to... "Espoir," or "Hope."

David related that when the genocide in Rwanda happened, and people spilled across the borders, his mother took care of people as best could. David fussed at her a little bit because it was taking away from the family's meager provisions. She told him, "One day we may need someone to take care of us." He couldn't argue with her on that. "And now," he said, "here we are." Praise God.

We laughed a little bit about some things. It's cold to them here. They have never seen natural ice. But David said some people he knows were resettled to Norway.

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No Need for Name-Calling...

In the last two weeks three different people have referred to The Rock La Roca as part of “the emerging church.” I know they meant well, but I took it hard. The only think I know about the so-called emerging church movement is from Brian McLaren, and I don’t care much for his stuff. I think it’s an attempt to soak off the vibe of some sentimental notion of the pre-medieval church. There’s a loose definition that says there are new kinds of churches “emerging” that aren’t “traditional” in the way we have tended to think about church. Fine. But the end result for me has to be that we don’t do or say anything new.

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Dancing Days Are Here Again

All I can do is keep falling back on Psalm 126—“When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy.”

My thoughts on this Psalm are always closely related to Psalm 121, especially “He will not let your foot slip, He who watches over you will not slumber.” The only way you can understand that is living with it for a long time. If you want it as an instantaneous promise that nothing bad will ever happen, then I guess you’re right—it’s foolish and wishful thinking.

But if you trust 3000 years of peoples’ faith and your own experience with God over the long haul you see that it means precisely what Paul said. None of us are getting out of here alive, sin and evil are real. But, “nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

So, a few days before the scan when we were tired of waiting, wondering, trying to prepare for the worst, Melissa said simply that if it’s bad news and a downhill slide, she’s ok because she’s going home. Not an easy conversation. But imagine if you did not have the going home part, just bad news and a downhill slide.

But for now, we are delivered. I’m not sure what to say in prayer. Maybe the more you have to say, the less important things are? When it’s vital, life and death, maybe there is only silence in the face of God’s awesomeness.

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Multi-Cultural

An instructive moment at Wal-Mart: I was there with David Mapigano, the father of the Congolese family we are sponsoring. We were laughing and joking about how much we're alike-- 2 boys, 2 years apart, wives much taller than both of us... Then I saw Julio, one of our parishioners. We waved him over and tried to have conversation, altho my Spanish is grim. I understand half of what is said to me but can't say much back. David and Julio tried to talk a little, and that was awesome-- recognizing that they were both immigrants and had something in common, and knowing that they were both Christians. I was standing there thinking, "I can't believe that I am the pastor of such a freaked out church!" I don't think I have a had a moment more thankful for my calling, and for the opportunity that we have at The Rock La Roca.

And then at the evening service, a black man said to me at communion-- "merci pour la message ce soir." Well, it's a Spanish-speaking service and here's this guy speaking French. I talked to him and his wife after the service, Luc and Joannie. They are from Haiti and heard that there was a church that had preaching in French. Joannie said, "God wants everyone to be together, that's why this is happening."

Can we do it? Are we tough enough? Are we bold as love? Multi-cultural churches generally fail. It's too easy for people to choose to go to a place where it's one language, one type of people. But I do not think the La Rocans are like that. I used to think people come here because they choose to. Now I am wondering if part of it is alos being chosen, being called, and then submitting to work through how God's spirit is pushing through us.

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Camped Out at The Rock

Well, today we did something we had talked about for a while: we camped at the Rock. Joseph had the idea; we would take sleeping bags and sleep on the floor. So we brought them in and napped a bit today. Joe is still asleep. But John came over to me with a book. It is a book I like quite a bit, one I heartily recommend: Six Centuries of Great Poetry. He says, “Read me a poem from this book.”

“How do you know these are poems?” I asked.

“Because Steffi read us some today.” Steffi is Stephanie McKinney, long-time family friend, long-suffering babysitter of the boys on Sunday mornings during the early-service. So, good job Steffi! John happened to open it to… Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress.” I love that poem, and it had a poignant sense when Melissa got sick, especially when she lost her hair. “If we had but world enough and time…” Indeed.

Now there is a fierce sense to the poem, the fierceness that I knew was brewing in me, and would emerge from this journey with Melissa: that there is not world enough and time, and worse than that, meaningless things crowd out what time and world you do have!

The thing I have not resolved is how to be relentless and graceful at the same time. How to pursue the things that matter and trash the things that don’t. In ministry—how not to get bogged down in details, or doing anything that keeps you from the real point: saving souls, making disciples. Anything else is pointless. And if you have to spend time justifying how a task that is not evangelism and discipling supports the work of evangelism and discipling, you have already lost.

And then in the personal life: what builds a relationship? How to break out of the mindlessness that is so easy? How do I reject what is urgent to do what is not just important, but right. Or simple.

In ministry, a thing’s urgency is almost always in inverse proportion to its evangelistic or discipleship potential. Usually, it grabs us unawares, and we subconsciously realize: my faith is about me, and my exercise in ministry is still about me, but here someone is reaching out and I have to do something now… hurry hurry hurry.

In personal life you wake up one day to find you have not wrestled with the boys since you don’t know when and you plan this or that and then something gets in the way and it doesn’t happen and you hurry hurry hurry to a miserably good time. There is a reason God created the Sabbath. Stop everything.

We read some poems by John Donne—when (if) you studied him in school, how much was made of his faith? Very little I bet. And yet he was nothing if not a Christian. Then we read some John Milton. Some John Keats. “So many named John!” John said. “John Mansfield?” he asked. “One day, maybe so,” I responded.

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Words

I learned a good new word in Spanish: "gente," or more specifically, "mi gente;" "my people." Maybe a better word is folk. It comes from Latin, "gens," meaning "kind, type, or sort." Generic, genus, gentile come from this word. The reason I like the word is because the context I learned it in indicated it meant a close relationship, something more than just "people." Not quite immediate family.

Everybody needs a gente. What would Melissa and I do without a gente? On the one hand, we have family that sticks by us, helps out in unbelievable ways. I think that's the direction Church needs to go, to be a gente for people with no gente. To be a gente to people who already have one, so we can see what gente is really all about.

Advent is a time to welcome Nazareth into our hearts and homes. What would it mean for our hearts and homes to be "Little Nazareths," a place where Jesus is welcomed and nurtured, where St. Joseph is what it means to be a real man and St. Mary what it means to be a real woman.

What a gente God has for us if we can adopt it!

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Advent

"Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" Nathanael asks when Philip tells him they have found the Messiah, Jesus of Nazareth. We ask those kinds of questions all the time. We all snicker if someone says they're from some really country town, with names like Viper or Gravel Switch. Interestingly no one laughs if they tell you they're from Pig Town (which is what the "York" in New York means).

But I think we ask it in different ways, when we doubt, when we fear, when we don't forgive, when we don't repent-- in short, whenever we fall back on thinking Jesus is just a good idea, something other than the Son of God.

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Trout Fishing in America

When I first moved to Lexington 11 years ago, occasionally someone would call and ask for Richard. The first two times this happened, I asked “Richard who?” “Richard Brautigan,” came the answer. I thought it was a prank played by one of my friends. “Brautigan’s dead, dude.” The voice on the other line was taken aback, and I got to wondering if it was a serious call. Sometime later, I got to talking to someone else asking for Richard Brautigan, and I said a little more gently, “He’s dead.”

I was telling the truth, knowingly and not-so-knowingly. On the one hand, the writer Richard Brautigan, who I thought my prank-playing friends were asking for, is dead (they know I don’t really care much for him, and I wondered if his work was the subject of one of my rants… thus the prank calls to egg me on… sad, I know). On the other hand, the Richard Brautigan the callers were really wanting to talk to was dead as well, recently deceased.

Richard Brauitigan, the beat writer, has caught up with me. I don’t know that I like him any better after re-reading him this spring. But I can’t get his book Trout Fishing in America out of my head. It’s not that it’s any good, because empirically, it’s not. But there is something poignant in the writer that begins to invade my experience of the book.

Brautigan’s biography intrigues me because those who knew him best recall that he never spoke of his mother, any brothers or sisters or his childhood in poverty (he threw a brick through a police station window so they would take him to jail and he might get something to eat), . It’s like he just showed up in Haight-Ashbury one day. His last book, So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away was a reminiscence of his life, including his childhood. He committed suicide a few years after it was published. Some say when he broke his silence, that’s what killed him. Who knows.

The question it makes me ask, the question the nervous bungling of the trout fisherman (esp as a child) in the story makes me ask, is how does the church reach into such people’s lives? I mean, there are millions of little Richard Brautigans. Whatever we can say of the success of his literary career, he was never happy. There was never enough money, booze, women, or adulation of fans to fill the emptiness of a loveless childhood. That’s the way it is. The things we try to fill life up with kill us.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, tell us about Melissa. But that’s what I’m trying to do. While we were still in Louisville, we were sitting around thinking about things like this. About people like Richard Brautigan. People not as famous who had difficult childhoods, and no one protected them. It got back to me and Melissa remembering how much the Kingdom of God was our first love, and how a million things crowd it out. And then bam, you’re sick, maybe dying, and all those things that crowded out the Kingdom are looking pretty stupid.

Melissa said, “Whether we have 1 year or sixty, we have to keep laughing.” And we went on. Praying. Loving. Believing. Living abnormally. Trout Fishing in America is a strange metaphor for… life? Something that never was but you still lament its passing?

I used to fly fish. That is, I had a fly rod and would practice catching blue gills at the pond on USM’s campus. I was hoping one day to go out West, specifically to Bishop, CA, where my great grandfather used to fish. He was from France, the mountains, where the trout are abundant. I thought I might forge some connection. Never happened, because I am a wretched fisherman (as Dane Conrad can attest). And because ultimately, trying to attach some significance to a past you never had doesn’t go anywhere. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to figure anything out about Trout Fishing in America-- it’s a character, a place, an idea, something you can’t quite hold on to.

Perhaps things aren’t as weird as an early 60s novel, but we are using something, searching for something to fill up our lives, and if it’s not Jesus, I don’t fancy your chances of making it out alive.

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Kingdom Service II

I have been doing some more thinking about the Kingdom Service, esp about how a sermon that is short sentences broken by the pauses of translation into two languages still gets across. It has everything to do with the Holy Spirit. I was preaching from 1 Peter 1:1-9, about remembering our true identity, being together from all over the place, belonging nowhere except in the “gathered community.”

The reason the sermon worked is because the Holy Spirit had already done the work! We were the gathered community, we were aware of Christ’s sacrifice for us, we grope towards living into our identity as created, redeemed children of God.

I suppose if none of that were true for us, I would have had to come up with something eloquent so no one would have felt cheated! We come expecting because we have received.

Pray, pray, pray. This is all you can do-- pray that you will be open to the power of the Holy Spirit to do the work He always does: convincing the world of its sinfulness, drawing people to Christ, providing faith, and then empowering them to live the Christian life. I guess based on where we were, I could have simply said, “Jesus. Holy Spirit. All of us together. Look!” and we all would have really felt something! The Holy Spirit had already done the work the Word was talking about!

p/g,

Aaron

Stuff

I have been chewing on something Melissa said a few weeks ago, something about getting thru the worst of the stomach pain by praying and hearing God say something like "Haven't I always been here? You wouldn't have made it in life even to the age where you got cancer if I hadn't been there." I wonder what kind of answer that is, and how does it make a difference? I know it does, but I wonder how? I wonder how in the spiritual life when you confront difficult issues, acceptance and honesty are so comforting whereas in the simple things, or the mundane things, acceptance and honesty are seen as painful, naive, and cruel?

She has scans December 1st. Just in time for the holidays, she says wryly.

You have to be thankful when things are going ok and you can't really think of what you're thankful for. And you have to be thankful when there's nothing.

Kingdom Service

We had the first "Kingdom Service" since I've been here. Now I wonder why we waited so long. We get all the services together for one service. That, in my mind, is going to be increasingly important. It is hard enough to keep a multicultural church together when things are flowing. In order to keep it together long term, people have to form relationships across the services, across cultures.

I can't tell you what it is... I know that when we do translation the way we did Sunday, the sermon is not technically as good. I spoke, then Cedrick Lukonga translated, then Ruben. So there is not the usual narrative flow that I work best with. BUt somehow, it works, and works well. I don't mean it is "good." I mean people respond. It's the Holy Spirit. He can do more with His own words than He can with me dressing them up. It is humbling. I used to be worried when people would say, "good sermon." I would always say, "By His grace," so there might be no mistake. Now, I have to trust that in ways I only thought I did.

Even if the sermon is simply short declarative sentences that lend themselves to translation, it works. Shame on me for thinking anything else!

p/g

Blessed Be The Name of the Lord

At the Wednesday prayer meeting, Michele Rodriguez led the singing. She started with “Blessed Be the Name of The Lord.” That’s a song I had a hard time with when I first heard it. Kelly Patton used to sing it at our service at Christ Church. It has some tough lines: “Blessed be your name on the road marked with suffering, when there’s pain in the offering, blessed be your name.” Honest, and so far so good. But then, more honesty that’s hard to take: “You give and take away, you give and take away, my heart will choose to say, Lord, blessed be your name.”

I got over my apprehensions about it when Melissa sang it very prayerfully and praise-fully.

Michele prefaced the song by saying in youth they were studying Job. As she talked about the beginning of Job, the “deal” between God and Satan, there was one of those moments where you understand something you have known. On the surface, God allowing Satan to do whatever to Job is jarring. But as Michele was talking, I found myself thinking this story is not about Job. It’s about people and evil. Everyone will experience what Job did, and the story, in a very artful way, deals with the deepest problem for theology: the problem of evil. Human choice is one part of evil, perhaps the only kind of evil the modern mind can accept. But Job also deals with the malevolent force present in the fabric of the universe.

And of course, we all know this on some level, but the story of Job gets so personal, we are so sympathetic that we cringe at the injustice and pain. I find that I lose sight of myself in the story. It may be the hardest story to break into in the Bible. On the one hand, it is so very human and so I am right there. On the other hand, it’s hard to see it as a story about everyone. Do I hesitate to think Job’s story is the way of the world? Maybe it’s just me.

Of course, Melissa has a much better insight than I do, living the story, and at the same time counting her blessings that she is not Job, etc. One great truth in Job: the best thing that your friends can do is be quiet, but be there. There is a time for talking. But in pastoral care the one thing you have to make sure of is that if you are talking to someone who is suffering, you’re not trying to answer your own questions about pain of God’s justice. And how hard that is for me; I always want something to say.

Melissa has scans coming up. If she is clear, woo hoo! But there is a lot of anxiety about it—almost wish they had not told us. Just let us walk in and say, “Hey you have scans today.” She is basically over the stomach pains that started in August (man, time has flown). She is eating more, has some more energy. Now she needs more confidence to get out and about when she has the energy.

Norbert Itoula was a mathematics instructor in Congo. He now has a job at Transylvania University as a janitor—in the Math and Sciences building! He hopes that he can have some contact with the staff and maybe as he learns English, get a better job in the same building!

The boys don’t have to work too hard at being boys. Sure, they are exasperating at times (bath time especially). Or they just go wild. But they are also unbelievably sweet and funny. How hard it is to be a father, tho. It is a foreign occupation, not natural. The human tendencies are too much there. One day this summer, I thought about the gospel’s beginning and end (narratively speaking). Joseph takes care of Jesus and Mary, and at the end, John takes care of Mary. There is a great need for men who will take care of their families in the ways that Sts. Joseph and John did.

It’s a messed up world. In our quest to be in ministry to and with the school across the street, we are gathering information, looking for needs. It only intensifies the idea that what we need to do is not a program, but an invasion of people into the life of the community. We don’t need a plan, we need people. Lenin had a saying that I think makes strange sense: “quantity has a quality all its own.” The Rock La Roca doesn’t have money (we’ll take some if you want to send it), but what we have is people. We need prayers to determine how we will motivate lots of people to move in. We need 100 people from our worshipping community who will each get to know 2 families in the area. Something like that—pray for it, please. One of the tough stories that hit us was a boy who comes to our church. He lives with his grandmother. His dad is out of state. His mom left one night and has not come back—no one knows where she is. You can well imagine how heartbroken he is. So what do we need? People to come and help with children’s ministry? Well, sure, that’s a start. But what we really need are lots of people who will hang out with our kids, one-on-one, playing and praying with them.

Life is messy. We do everything we can to stay away from that. And ministry is depressing if you don’t have the right info up front. Most of your addicts will die. Most of the people who come out of homosexuality will fall back into it. Your liars will go back to lying, and some people will never stop being s.o.b.’s. Narrow is the way that leads to eternal life, and few find it. You just have to know that going in. But you also have to know that the work of Jesus is messy. Look, He was born, and that’s messy. He died and that was messy. He talked to people, healed them and that was messy. He sent His disciples out and that was messy.

p/g

Entering Scripture

Things look different and in some ways better on a number of fronts for Melissa. Her appetite is getting better. After three months with stomach problems, that is good! Her hair is coming back. She has more energy. But some days are still hard.

And then, we have scans beginning of next month. There's a lot of anxiety about that-- what will they show? Cancer still gone?

Just before the bone marrow transplant, the cancer had spread to a lot of places. Some you knew only because the scan said so, others because she could feel them. I was too chicken for her to show me.

One of the places was in her back, and it caused almost unbearable pain. Psalm 38, a Psalm of confession, says, "My back is filled with searing pain" (verse 7). Even though the Psalm is about confession, about coming to God when our sin gets the best of us, there is something important about the honesty of the Psalms, how they confront and express EVERYTHING. Nothing is hidden. And so, in God's word we find not simply comfort or help, but also solidarity.

Curtis, Ruben, and I have had some opportunities to talk about what The Rock La Roca is up to-- to pastors in the ordination process and also to a church planting class at Asbury Seminary. I didn't really have much to say about church planting because I am new here. I focused instead on what looks to be something vital for the future of churches in America: ministry in a multi-cultural environment.

But, the thing that interested me most was a comment Ron Crandall, the seminary professor, made after our presentation-- in Acts chapter 6, the early church deals with a multicultural issue: Greek Jews feel their widows are ignored in food distribution, while Hebraic Jews get preferential treatment. I had not looked at it as a cultural issue. I was always intrigued by the outcome: the apostles appoint some fellows (notably Stephen and Philip) to make sure no one is short-changed. the fascinating part to me is that you never see Philip or Stephen handing out bread: they are evangelizing!

So, after Dr. Crandall's comment, I began to wonder: is there a natural outcome in the church when it seriosuly tries to draw different cultures together such that the people involved in ministry simply share their faith in Jesus? Is that why it is possible to have about 15 people sharing the Good News in our neighborhood? Or to get 30 people on a prayer walk?

A seminary student asked me if there was anything I felt called to that kept failing but I stuck with it anyway? I laughed and said, "Yeah, evangelism!" I have been trying for 6 years to get large groups (i.e., not 2 or 3) to go out into their neighborhoods and form relationships and invite people to church. Why is it happening here and not in other places? Perhaps because of the natural outworking of the Spirit in our lives? We have welcomed all kinds of people-- multi-cultural means more than Hispanic; it encompasses issues not only of race, but also socio-economic, education and other things that separate us.

Most churches are homogenous. That is, they are not only white or black, they are white or black within other parameters. As Norbert said on the prayer walk, it is natural for people to stay with people like them. But when the Holy Spirit comes, all peoples can come together without the hindrances we have thrown up.

So, since we have welcomed all kinds of people (and it is important to note, no one batted an eye when 20 Congolese showed up), maybe it's only natural that we talk about it, invite people. We know the Lord is doing something with us.

p/g

Congo War

Providence: a few months ago, I began calling the church to work more closely with the school so we could break into the community with the Gospel.

I went over to the school to see if my background check went thru, and see where I could start working. Turns out that they have a student at the school who needs some tutoring, someone to help her along. They took me to the room, and it was Rosie! The daughter of Hugues Itoula! She doesn’t know English yet, and she lit up to be able to talk. She was sitting alone, looking kind of lost. How is it that the Lord leads us? Looking to break into the school, working with refugees from Congo, go to the school and be placed with one of the children!

Why are the Congolese refugees here? It has been a real learning process and has revealed a lot ignorance in my education! First, there are three Congos. The big one, the one whose Civil War we hear about most is The Democratic Republic of Congo, formerly Zaire, formerly Belgian Congo, The Republic of Congo, which was French Congo, and a smaller place called Congo Cabinda, which was annexed by Angola. Most of our families are from the former French Congo.

The people in the former French Congo elected their own gov’t in the 90s. The French had pretty much taken the oil from Congo, but the democratic gov’t wanted to be paid fairly for it. The French did not like that idea very much, so they sent some aircraft, soldiers, and brought in mercenaries from Angola and another country (maybe Mauritania? I couldn’t quite get it all from Hugues as he told me this sad story.) So they were bombed by the French Air Force and driven out by the army. Hugues’ father was involved with the democratic gov’t in some capacity, and if he goes back, the French-installed dictator will most likely kill him.

Did the French get a U.N. mandate for this? Maybe we should be more like the Europeans? I mean, they know so much about it.

One of Hugues’s sisters had polio years back. They had to flee on foot some 300 miles—sometimes they carried her, sometimes they pushed her in a wheelbarrow, and hid from the soldiers and airplanes when they came around.

Daylight Savings Time

Last Sunday, the Congolese families did not know to turn back their clocks. And I did not think to tell them. So, they showed up at the 10 a.m. service.

To get this picture, you have to know this about The Rock La Roca. It is a Restart Church. The old church, Epworth, had fallen on hard times, was probably going to close. It restarted with a lot of help from the Conference. The 10 a.m. service is mostly the folks from Epworth congregation. The service is fairly traditional. The 11:15 service is the contemporary service. I think there is a sort of deference paid to this service as it is the “new” one, and has drawn a lot of new people. But in my rambling thru the community, the people are actually going to respond to the 10 a.m. service. But I digress.

The Congolese families have been coming to 11:15. I wasn’t sure what would happen at the 10 a.m. service. But I looked into the congregation and saw the Congolese singing! Had they learned English? No. Madame Itoula showed me later that night at her home the songbook they used in Congo. It is in the Ki-Kongo language, but the melodies are the ones we know! The missionaries translated the words of our hymns into their language. So they knew the songs!

The early service people just mobbed them with love. And afterwards, two families said whatever it will take for us to get a multi-channel broadcast device, they will pay for it. The goal is to be able to do simultaneous translation in a number of languages, broadcast it to headsets, and many peoples can worship together!

I have this sense that the old Epworth, now The Rock La Roca, a church that sent out more than 50 pastors and missionaries—I have a growing conviction that this church was raised up not for the glory that it had for 50 years, but rather to be here now and in the future. The old Epworth has a heart for mission and evangelism. Those days are not over! If we can get everybody together, to let the early service see the power and passion of the 11:15 service, to see it reaching people who might not otherwise come to church; if the early and 11:15 services could embrace the evening (largely Hispanic) service; and if the “new” services could hear the stories and see the heart of the first service, what a church we would have! What wonderful work the Holy Spirit might do through us!

Prayer Walk

I have been reading in Judges lately. It’s kind of part of my “entering into the history of Israel” to find God’s faithfulness. I was telling Melissa about the long haul, the long faithfulness of God. She mentioned that in her prayer life she keeps hearing God say, “Haven’t I been with you for 35 years? Even when you did not know it? Even when you turned away? Haven’t I answered every prayer?” In my mind, there’s all this doubt, even disappointment. And yet Melissa testifies He answers prayer.

We did something a little out of the ordinary at the Rock/La Roca. We hired a missionary. People have been talking for years about North America being a mission field, the kind of place where if you had told a women’s group or Sunday School class that there were 200 million unchurched people, they would have felt compelled to take up an offering for a missionary. Or maybe a young couple would have felt called to move to the distant land.

The distant land is right outside your doors!

So Curtis Book is on staff with us. He was born to missionary parents in Zimbabwe, and with his wife Les has been involved in missions in New York, London, El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Colombia.

Curtis organized a prayer walk in our community. It was awesome. About 30 people gathered in teams of 2 or 3 to go into a prescribed area to pray for the families, and then if we saw someone on the street or a porch, we’d talk to them, take prayer requests. The prayer walk united a lot of important aspects of ministry at the Rock: paying close attention to the neighborhood, praying, inviting. The one goal is to draw people to salvation in Jesus Christ.

Almost 30 people. Awesome. The Little Seminary was in effect. John and Joseph went with me. They got to see the neighborhood and meet a little boy about their age. Of course, they got to playing while we talked to the parents. I think we talked them into a community church.

Norbert Itoula went with me. Norbert is the patriarch of the first Congolese families to come. Wow, did we have a great walk! We were assigned an area just south of our church, a place that the church has not really drawn from, a predominantly African-American area. I mentioned to Norbert the division of the neighborhood. He had an interesting take. He said it was so for God’s glory. It’s human to divide, to stick with people like you. But when the Spirit comes, then the divisions fall. [HAVE I SAID BEFORE THAT THE MOST MULTICULTURAL AND DIVERSE FORCE ON THE PLANET IS ORTHODOX—I.E. NOT AMERICAN MAINLINE—CHRISTIANITY? OH. I DID MENTION IT? SORRY.]

Norbert shared that it is by God’s grace that he is here. 8 years in a refugee camp in Gabon. 4 of his children are not with him here. He is here and he doesn’t think it is an accident. He says that he is here to work for God, to evangelize. “I am saved, and not because I am so good, but because of God’s grace. And others? Without Jesus, they are lost.” I’d challenge every church member to ask if they feel the same way. And if not, what is the Scriptural warrant to lay off evangelism?

Ode to Foucault

A fellow I worked for in college, Tommy Blanton, asked me, “You’re an English major—what are bibliographies for?” I had been around Tommy long enough to know he had the answer. And anyway, I had not really given it much thought. I suggested they were to document sources and point to areas of further investigation.

“Wrong!” he thundered. “The purpose of a bibliography is to obfuscate reality!”

I knew he wouldn’t let it drop so I kept working. He proceeded to explain that something gets published. Then someone makes reference to the previously published work. It ends up in a bibliography. A third work comes along, adding the second to its bibliography, and now the original source is enshrined in the literature, beyond reproach (this phenomenon is part of what Thomas Kuhn talks about in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions). Aha! A bibliography is developing…

So, imagine my chuckling to myself when I had to do an annotated bibliography to be ordained as a United Methodist Minister. No problem; I had contemplated doing a bibliography as my Master’s Thesis, and had started on it, but changed my topic. It was easy enough for me to do an annotated bibliography. But what good will it do a pastor?

I know the ostensible answer; it shows that you can do research, dig deeper into the Biblical literature. And yet, I knew enough to know that I could cite one set of “Authorities,” someone else could cite another, and there might not be much discussion of the actual value of the bibliography.

There is a practical outcome of the bibliography’s subversive purposes to obfucscate reality: whole movements and “traditions” in the Church have cropped up around issues and ideas that no longer, maybe never did, have a coherent point of contact with Scriptural Christianity.

You always go back to the source. This is why Vincent of Lerins said that when it comes to determining what we ought to believe, we follow what was believed by all, everywhere, from the beginning. Vincent’s great work, The Commonitory, was an attempt to distill the method, the interpretive principles of the four great Ecumenical Councils, the councils that hammered out what it means to believe in Jesus.

In the work of the Councils, we find a remarkable challenge because so many things we prize as modern people will have to go—they simply cannot jibe with following Jesus. They will have to go unless we keep talking them to death and calling it dialogue, write books and articles with opinions, cite them in secondary and tertiary sources, teach them in seminaries… Kuhn’s analysis of “paradigm shift” is apt; if something is accepted long enough, even if it is not accurate, it is hard to dislodge, because the people who need to dislodge it learned it as truth, and all the problems they studied to be so learned were built around the inaccuracy’s being reality. There’s nothing like a bibliography to build community! It defines shared values, passes on knowledge; it is culture in the literal sense.

As Christians, we believe that Jesus is the fullness of the revelation from God. He is the Truth. Remember that it was Pilate who wanted to quibble and prevaricate about that. The discipline required to maintain orthodoxy is immense—our natural inclination is to have something to say, to add to the debate, to see things changed to our models, to get our way. If we follow Vincent’s model, we will have to accede (submit) to a wisdom that is timeless, not subject to the whims of the present. And yet, it was not Vincent’s idea, not his summation of the work of the great ecumenical councils. Rather, it was the Apostle John, the longest-lived of the apostles, who advised: “See that what you have heard from the beginning remains in you” (I John 2:24).

What we have heard from the beginning is in conflict with the world and its values. There are plenty who have tried to harmonize the faith with the world, and thus have abandoned the apostolic heritage. And they have many voices, and writers, and teachers, a sound bibliography to back them up. Again, John says, “They went out from us, but they did not belong to us. If they had belonged to us, they would have remained with us” (I John 2:19).

I know, I know, you don’t think it comes down to anything as simple as bibliography. Bibliography is a thumb-nail sketch of the problem. If enough people repeat an idea, it gains force, whether it is true or not. The bibliography is one way, seemingly objective, to perpetuate lies. Talk about something long enough, and before long you’ll start to think that maybe Jesus is not the only way to salvation, that homosexuality is ok, that abortion is ok, that we can let go of straight talk about sin. There are even books written to advance those positions, books with extensive bibliographies!

Rambling

This past Sunday (October 22), we had another wonderful day of worship. About 20 of the Congolese people showed up, 7 different families. In fact, many more wanted to come, but there was not transportation for all of them. I believe there were as many Congolese children as there were kids normally present in the service. And: add another prayer victory: I have been hoping that there would be people available to translate. I speak French well enough, but not, perhaps, as idiomatically as necessary. Also, I don’t know a lot of theological words.

So, when Irma preached at the seminary, I met a student from Benin, another Francophone country in West Africa. I was put in touch with a young man at UK from Cote D’Ivoire. And at the service, two Congoloese men, Cedrick and Safari said they had been translators in Congo.

Since this is my blog, and I can pretty much say what I want and people will still read it: there are too many books, seminars, and gurus running around trying to convince everybody that they know or stumbled onto something spectacular, something that will make your church grow, or otherwise be awesome in the same ways that the guru’s church has grown or is awesome. God save me from the compulsion to be seen with the latest book. I’m only partially kidding when I say I don’t read anything written after the 4th century…

All I can say about what happens at the Rock La Roca is that we have been trying to follow the Holy Spirit. It will look different somewhere else. It will look different at the Rock La Roca next week! Strangely, I see very little difference between what I am up to at The Rock La Roca compared to what I was up to at Dunaway, a small church in the country. Very different ministries, but so much the same because what was important at Dunaway is important at the Rock La Roca: where is God working? That means: “where do we go if we’re following Him?” Follow Him down one path, and He’ll get you ready to go down yet another. And before you know it, you’ll be sold out to His purposes!

So, you can see that I will never make it as a guru. You can’t have a 3-day conference where you say, “Just listen to the Holy Spirit. Any questions?” Or you can’t have a preaching seminar where you’re strategy is: “Pray and plead for anointing from the Holy Spirit. Any questions?” The trap for churches and their ministers is we want a plan. “Five Slump-Busting Principles” that will invigorate not only your church but your love life. I know, I know; at this point, Courtnay is warning me about my “ministry of scorn.”

The point is: what is happening at the Rock La Roca does not need to be unique. I am not going to write a book or have seminars because in the end all we have done is listen to the Holy Spirit. What happens as you follow is a darn good story, and I’ll tell that all day long. But all I can really say is: take a close look at where you are. Meditate on Jesus. See where God is working. Pray for insight. And let the Holy Spirit have His way. Do something like that and you’ll be on your way to being as freaked out as we are.

What's In A Name

I guess I have an awkward blog address. My favorite band is a Canadian trio, Rush. The first album of theirs that I really liked was entitled Grace Under Pressure. The music was a little strange, and the lyrics told stories. I learned that the title came from Hemingway's definition of courage. The back cover of the album was an egg in a vise, with a sort of mathematical notation, p/g, or "grace under pressure."

Early in the cancer fight, my homeboy sent me and Melissa matching shirts of the Grace Under Pressure album. It's what we've needed, and what Melissa has definitely shown.

p/g

Platelets

Melissa's platelets are holding on, mid 60s Monday. She gets a lumbar puncture tomorrow, prevention against the cancer returning in the brain/spinal column.

If we dare to dream, we say that she is on the upswing-- the cancer hopefully does not return and she just has to deal with recovering from treatment and transplant, and that takes 6 mos- 1 year. Her intestinal tract has been the source of most pain and slow recovery--first in response to radiation, then, when she developed graft-vs-host disease (which she needs to have- it fights cancer) it attacked her GI tract. Then, she dealt with a long GI infection.

It seems to me that Melissa is finding more in the prophets these days, esp Jeremiah and Ezekiel. If you can enter into the painful story of Israel, you can also enter into the redeeming work of God. He is faithful, and because His story is real (a very raw and human story)you learn to depend on Him even when it seems darkest, because it is the darkest.

p/g

Missing the Plane to Jerusalem

I have been in prayer and thought over not so much what happened Sunday, but what the Lord still has in store for us.

A core commitment that I have had for years (at least 10 years now) is that the church has to find ways to reach all kinds of people. This is not simply a question of evangelism, of getting out into the neighborhood, attracting new members to the church. Rather, it is a realization of, or a living into, the work the Holy Spirit has for us to do. We have to recognize what the mission field looks like. The days of Church-that-Looks-Like-Us are gone. That idea was never biblical, but social forces were enough to allow it to flourish. Now we’re paying the price for years of comfort and ease: we don’t have the knowledge or the intensity to flow with the Spirit.

Among the many reasons Jesus died when He did is this: Jerusalem was full. Pilgrims had come from all over the world. It was not just Jews. The world in Jesus’ day was spiritually seeking, wondering what to make of the many gods and ways of worshipping. Sounds like today! So all kinds of people came: some faithful Jews, others who were just curious if the festivals of Judaism held the meaning for their lives.

But if you made that long journey, you didn’t stay for a few days. And anyway, Pentecost was not far away. Might as well stay for that. And the masses did, from all over the world, Jerusalem was filled. So when the Holy Spirit came at Pentecost, it was an opportune time, not just a miraculous event. When the Spirit descended on those gathered, tongues of fire came down and as they spoke, all the foreigners heard their own language being spoken.

It was an eminently practical miracle! If you were going to get the Gospel out, you had to speak the language. And there was no time for language classes. The people would leave Jerusalem, telling what they heard—both the language and the message. So the Gospel spread throughout the world.

It is plain as day what the Holy Spirit wants to do—the same work He has been doing; convicting, preparing, equipping the church for the work of preaching the Gospel. There is something going on that we cannot miss. People are coming from around the world to this country. This country is full of churches. There is a great and powerful opportunity to reach all the immigrants coming to the country. Some are already believers; we minister to them, disciple them, strengthen their faith. Others are not believers; we win them to Christ, and then both will, by natural affinity, either return home with the message, or support the work of spreading the Gospel in their home countries. So the very work of Pentecost is happening right here, under our very noses. People are coming to this country, filling it up. If the Church misses the opportunity, we are in deep trouble. Not because of numbers, but because we will miss what the Spirit is calling us to.

Already, the Rock La Roca has planted a church. Denis Diaz, our Hispanic worship leader, is from Honduras. His brother still lives there. Ruben and Irma visited him a while back. He was inspired, and started a church, “The Rock La Roca” in Honduras. This happened totally by accident as far as our plans were concerned. But the Holy Spirit moved, whether we knew it or not!

Now, we want to be open, ready, inviting. It is, as I said, clear what the Spirit does: He enables the Gospel to be preached. I can preach a great sermon, but if I have no anointing from the Holy Spirit, it is just air. And I have to say, the source of a great deal of my frustration these past months was revealed to me Sunday: very few discussions of preaching center on the power of the Holy Spirit. By the end of just about any preaching seminar or class, you’re convinced you have to do research, an outline, and prepare a well-delivered speech. And indeed, some people are very good at delivering precisely those things. But they do not add up to the Gospel. They may repeat and present the content of the Gospel, and yet not equal the convicting power of the Holy Spirit. I spent, and too many have spent, too much time trying to be good preachers rather than praying and pleading to be anointed preachers.

Since it is clear that the Holy Spirit is about the same work He always has been, the Church’s only option is to follow. To receive the gifts and power of the Holy Spirit to be witnesses to the ends of the earth. Unless we recognize that we are in a golden age of immigration, that we are uniquely placed with many churches to send out believing people back to their own people, there is no future for the church. And we have to realize that our Hispanic brothers and sisters are only part of the wave of immigration—that Africans, Asians, and Europeans are coming as well. It is like Jerusalem at Pentecost. Some churches will get this, will understand.

Platelets, Revival

Thursday, Melissa's platelets were 70. Just 2 weeks ago they were in the teens and she was getting platelets by transfusion. Something has kicked in, and we hope it continues!

I think Melissa is in a place where endurance and patience are the issues. Facing down the drastic treatment of bone marrow transplant was something that required lots of focus and attention. It was very quantifiable. You had something to say to people when they asked what's up. Now, it's harder to tell. How do you explain that the transplant is the rescue from the treatment, and that all kinds of weird stuff just crops up in its aftermath? It's not definable quickly, so what do you say?

And she just has to gut it out. All along, it is the little things like an infection or insomnia that are the things that bring you down.

The boys and I will be in Texas next week, so I don't know if there will be anything new on the blog. Maybe I'll get to it.

The revival went well. It was good to be back in Winchester. Lots of old friends, made some new ones. I hope people's hearts were opened and seeds were planted. The boys came with me a few nights. John and Joe sang a song with some help. One night, they wrote their names on some name tags and then stuck them to an offering envelope. Inside, they drew a heart and gave it to me after the service. Wow.

Yesterday was the day of seeing people from Louisville-- Barbie Dickens and her three awesome boys. I promise you-- I saw it with my own eyes-- she beat her boys in a game of King of the Hill on a haystack. She had no mercy. You can expect no less from a woman with three boys... And we also saw Carla Evers, without her kids, and I know she needed that break!

Outhouse Apples

I don’t know that I will ever meet anyone quite like Dave Moore. He would tell you about what he went thru in Korea, and you’d just cry. And in the same breath he’d have you laughing as hard as you ever did. Well, Dave planted some apple trees years back. I think maybe his brother Gene grafted them. If you asked what kind of apple they were, Dave’d tell you, “Outhouse Apples.” Except he didn’t say “outhouse…”

I met with two of the Congolese families, which given the extended family structure means 11 people. The patriarch, Norbert Itoula, has such grave dignity that you readily accede to his discussions! He taught me some more about the Congo’s difficult history. He kept saying how happy he was to be in America. He heard there were many Christians here, but he says, “maybe there are also many who do not believe in Christ?” He has found himself welcomed, and he is surprised. He spent 8 years in a refugee camp in Gabon, a neighboring country. A refrain of the family is that they are amazed to be in America, to find people helpful, when the neighboring countries in Africa are not very helpful at all. Talking to one of the boys, who grew up in a refugee camp, I mentioned the difficulties of Africa generally. He paused before he said, “Africa is full of hate.”

Norbert went on to say that he finds it tragic but predictable that France (“responsible for so much of our troubles—they were our ‘colonial masters’”) has no resettlement program for the refugees from their former colonies. The refugees rely on the U.S. and Canada.

I wonder what should be the real discussion(s) in our immigration debate in this country? What to do about/for people fleeing for their lives? And then, what of the church? A refugee family here, a refugee family there, makes for a great story and good work, but it is only a drop in the bucket.

Norbert said, “I have a witness. I am here because of Jesus. And I said if I made it to America, I would serve Him however I could.”

Norbert’s sister lives in California. “Where?” I asked. “San something,” he said. I told them we’d need to narrow it down, and we got to San Jose. Maybe there is something there—Joseph, Jesus’ father, the protector of the Holy Family when they were refugees in Egypt, escaping from those who would kill them.

We talked about winter. “Is it true,” Norsi, one of the sons, asked, “that you can wear a jacket and still shiver here?” I felt that way coming here from Mississippi…

I took them to the church to get a few food items until their Food Stamps come in. They took a jar of peanut butter, among other things. And let me tell you, George Washington Carver was my hero when I was a boy, and I can tell you everything about peanut butter! Norsi said proudly, “This is African!” I told them that the soil in Georgia is almost identical to the soil in West Africa, and I paused because it is hard to think about and say, “and the slaves from West Africa brought ngouba with them.” That’s why we call peanuts “goobers.”

As I left, I gave them a bag of Dave’s outhouse apples. I asked them if they ate apples in Congo. Adam’s eyes lit up. “Yes! But we have to import them, and they are expensive. What a treat!”

There was a boy from Fishing Creek, Kentucky who got sent a world away to kill, to see friends killed, to be haunted by unspeakable acts. It makes sense that he would bring so much joy to others, who have come from a world away, escaping unspeakable acts. Dave, you’re gone but not forgotten, and beneath that rough exterior was a heart of gold!

Platelets

Melissa's platelets were at 60 today. They were 44 Friday, and she hasn't received any since last Monday. Finally, she is crossing a major hurdle!

As always, we need continued prayer for recovery and that the cancer would be done with. Prayer has been and will continue to be what we need most!

What Happened Yesterday

We have not had a Sunday yet where someone did not come to the altar. That's not about me, it's about prayer. That can't happen unless people pray. Not just one person or 5, but many. The Holy Spirit doesn't show up where He's not welcomed by open prayer.

About About 7 or 8 of the Cogolese came to worship. Their presence opened us up; I preached in French as well as English, and some things emerged from that that were unexpected. The demands of translating were not so great; infact, I was so blessed to have great freedom in preaching in both langauges. But I felt like both sermons were disjointed. I would preach a bit in English, then in French, back and forth. So I never got into a good "flow." Lesson number one (one that I have providentially been reading about): the artfulness of a sermon, the quality of expression, the grandeur of thought, are meaningless without the power of the Holy Spirit. You can repeat the ideas and content of a Scripture passage, even make a brilliant application, and la-dee-da, who cares? There's lots of places you can hear deep thoughts and smooth words. Only the Spirit brings convicting power. So you can deliver a disjointed sermon, speak a foreign language like a 12-yr. old boy, and with the Spirit's power, hearts are melted.

Lesson number two: Give the spirit room. He has His own agenda! So, for example, I preached on the parable of the great banquet, Luke 14. I was emphasizing our true nature without Christ, with a call to evangelism. But at the altar call, some folks came forward for healing. AMEN!!

The altar call... man, I don't know what to say. Many people came forward. Our worship team was tearing it up with Spirit-filled songs. I would pray with someone and then some part of the congregation would start clapping about something. One man at the altar shared with me something he received from the Spirit before the service-- the substance of my sermon, but preached more poignantly and powerfully to him in his heart before I spoke a word.

When the last person had been prayed up, two young men, Brandon and Andrew asked to pray for me. What power there at the altar, what power of prayer!

I knew we were all blown away by the promise we have from God at the Rock La Roca. we say want to be a church for all nations. It happened. While I was preaching in French, Judy Rodriguez was translating for the Spanish speakers. Ruben's eyes lit up-- he is a technology fiend!-- when he thought how we're going to have to buy some new sound equipment for multilple channels of broadcast. Right now we only have one frequency, and we use it to translate into Spanish (or english). We'll need something for French and who knows what else, because it is coming.

But, there's this: I told the congregation that what happened today was still a sign of weakness. Yes, the Holy Spirit was present. Yes, we were blessed. But when the Holy Spirit came at Pentecost, tongues of fire descended and everyone heard the Gospel in his own language. NO translators!!! I asked them to pray for Pentecost, a real Pentecostal revival of hearts full of love, and power to preach to all nations, tribes, and races. There were some tears then.

More later, because I am still trying to get all this straight.

Hola

Sunday, as we were headed back home, the boys wanted to get a Hi-C at McDonald’s. As we got our drinks at the drive-thru, Joseph looked at the Hispanic woman at the register, waved and said, “Hola!” He is learning a little Spanish at school. The woman talked to him a little bit, more than he could understand, so he started counting. She got a big kick out of it, and handed him a toy.

John said, “Where’s mine?” All I could do was mumble something about his paying more attention in Spanish lessons!

As I had hoped, Thursday evening, we got to go down to the creek. We bundled up and headed down. The boys ended up playing their own game along a high steep bank. I kept an eye on them as I went up and down the bank, looking for fossils or interesting rocks. Joseph always gets a rock or two for me to take home and he tells me to take it to church, “because it’s the Rock.”

While we were looking for rocks, leaning down, I saw something under a rock ledge. I pointed it out to the boys, “What do you see?” John piped up, “Clay!” Indeed. We found the biggest streak of it yet, two feet high, 4, maybe 5, feet long. We’ll have enough clay for anything we want to do.

The clay is not great. It breaks apart too easily, still has chunks of the original rock in it. I don’t know much about geology; I read on the internet that clay is feldspar that has been ground down into very small particles. The rock flakes easily. The longer and more severe the erosion by wind and water, the finer the clay.

I often wonder how we’re so blessed. I don’t want anyone to get a false impression, like somehow life is just grand and I’m this perfect dad, doing all these cool things with my boys. The being blessed part is that they love me in spite of who I am. It’s a lesson that has been good for me to learn. At heart I am a pretty selfish person and have spent a lot of my life doing my thing. The boys, though, take you out of that selfish mode. We have each other. It’s not simply a community by choice. It’s harder on them, really; they’re dependent. What does it mean to live together? Can love really grow if we can walk away? The guys in my small group were talking about that. Someone in the group (not me, I promise!) brought up the Amish, and we discussed how the way they live is an intentional choice to stay together, to not be pulled apart by technology. I’ve said before that we need to be “Functionally Amish.” I don’t mean riding buggies and farming with horses. I mean thinking about how we live, to see if it builds togetherness or takes it away. This is a big step for me, because I am a very private and egotistical person. Generally, the more I think about something, the more likely it is that it’s not something I know or “live into;” rather, it’s a place I know I need head to!

Prayer and Miracle

Some of you may remember how perhaps a year ago I asked for prayer for a young girl, Anastasia. She lives in Louisville and is the granddaughter of the woman who was teaching me Ukrainian. She had a difficult medical problem, and was not getting any relief. The family had exhausted the medical options-- she was just going to have to live with it.

Ira, my teacher, told me tonight about how Anastasia was healed. The young girl has always been very devout (the family is Ukrainian Orthodox) and had prayed for some time about her condition, but was feeling very discouraged. She had a dream back in the winter; an angel came to her and told her she would receive a gift on her birthday. "What kind of gift?" she asked. "Wait," the angel said.

Her birthday came and her problem was gone. I was very glad to receive the report, and gratified by the power of prayer. It was not just that Anastasia and those closest to her prayed, but so many of you joined with her.

Growing Up Beige

I am hoping that more or the Congolese immigrants will come to the Rock tomorrow. There is so much potential for ministry under our noses... Wake up, Church! The world is coming to this nation, and we can send them back out as missionaries and supporters of Jesus' mission in their home countries!

When the World Cup was going on this summer, there were some interesting matches. I don't mean interesting in terms of soccer, but in terms of history. I was riveted to the Angola-Portugal match. Portugal was my team this year, but that match raised some difficult questions. Portugal ruled Angola until 1975 (I think; at any rate Angola's independence is recent). What are the emotions bound up in playing the "colonial masters?"

That phrase, "colonial masters," is tough. I first paid attention to it when Gaston Mukaz, a Congolese friend in Louisville used it to talk about the French. And then a family here used it about the Belgians. There's something disturbing about that phrase.

There are three Congos-- the former Zaire, now embattled Democratic Republic of Congo, Congo Brazzaville, and Congo Cabinda (taken by Angola). So much to learn, so much twisted history.

I guess it was Wednesday that I showed some of the Itoula family where the church is, and had a chance to talk to them about spiritual matters. At one point, one of the sons mentioned "Les blancs," "The whites." we can say so much in so little! Mostly it made me think of a humorous moment from childhood.

When I started Kindergarten, we lived on Cape Charles, on Virginia's Eastern Shore. It was an isolated radar station across the bay from Norfolk. My grandmother called me after the first day of school and asked how things went. Fine, I said. "And, Mimi, me and Cathy are the only beige kids on the bus." No way was I white!

Jim Grayson said, "give me directions to the church in Winchester." Here goes: If you get off at the second winchester exit on 64 from Lexington, head towards town, the church is on your left, just before you get to downtown. There is a large stone sign, "Trinity United Methodist." Come as you are! 6:30 each night, Sunday-Wednesday! The pastor is Eric Patterson, a great guy to know!

Let's See...

In the strange world of bone marrow transplant, Melissa is doing well while still battling infections and the occasional debilitating stomach cramps. Her counts are good, and her platelets actually came up! They were 24 Wed, 38 Friday, and she didn't get any since Monday. Could be a fluke, but Dr. Herzig says she is making them, but not enough yet. Melissa kept syaing if they were going to take the spleen, hurry up and do it, but it looks like patience may be winning out.

Did I mention her platelets were up?

We ask for continued prayers. It's a long haul. We're about halfway thru the normal recovery time, so keep praying and seding Melissa cards:
2041 Osprey Cover
Shelbyville, KY 40065

John, Joe, and I are heading to Texas week after next, for my grandparents' 60th anniversary! Lots of family the boys have not seen in a while.

I am preaching the revival services at Trinity United Methodist in Winchester, KY tomorrow thru Wed at 6:30 each evening. I am looking forward to it, not just in terms of getting back to Winchester, but also because I have wanted to do some revival preaching for a long time. We'll see what the Lord has planned.

Fall

Last night, the cold front really cleared out the air. You could look straight up and see the Milky Way. To think we are on the far edge of the one of the arms of this galaxy…

When I was a boy in Germany, we used to camp out most of the summer. We were like savages who came in only to get more supplies for our outdoor living. We stole potatoes and beer from our parents for our Kartoffelfeuer—“potato fire,” a big bonfire, potatoes baking in the coals, sausages and the pilfered beer. Then as the village slept we would creep out to mischief.

We slept in rough tents—bean poles with clear plastic draped over them. If we got caught, we told our parents we had to smoke to keep the mosquitoes out. They didn’t buy it and when our cigarettes were confiscated we smoked twigs of some plant, maybe clematis—if you cut off the ends just right, the stem was hollow.

As we lay on the ground, looking up at the stars, you could see the white haze we call the Milky Way. In German it is “Milchstrasse,” or “Milk Street.” It made sense then—it is a path in the sky that looks white—Milky Way sounds a bit archaic, I guess.

There’s too much light from the ground in most places to see the Milky Way. I wanted to wake the boys up, to see it, but there is time. As the night was turning cold and windy, I could see leaves falling, and planned out how we will bundle up, go to the creek and see what leaves are down. John is interested in collecting leaves, and Joe keeps waiting for the leaves on “the pretty road--” Old Frankfort Pike—to change.

Melissa said yesterday that God keeps reminding her that He is here. The recovery from all the infection and continued stomach problems taxes her endurance. Each day brings some new understanding of patient (or not so patient) endurance, reminders in our lives that only for brief moments are things normal.

I hope I will quit being such a whiner! I know one thing, now when I get sick or feel bad (I have a bruised tooth socket—I think from a wrestling match with the boys that did not go my way and believe me, I understand my fate; I know Tom and Chris Baker, and my boys are on their way), I realize it is nothing compared to what many people are dealing with. Perspective is always nice. I used to think I knew a lot.

Church for All Nations

I was able to visit some of the new Congolese families yesterday. I think it is going to be hard to figure out how the work among them will happen, but I believe it will happen. They are simply overjoyed to have someone speak to them in a language they are used to hearing. I wonder how hard it is going to be for them to get acclimated to life in Lexington. They are refugees from the terrible war and massacres in Congo, so it’s not simply immigration to find a better life. It’s to save life and adjusting from that to a very strange culture can be hard.

It’s counter-intuitive work, as well. It’s not a ministry that can really bring the rewards that churches look for. The numbers won’t be huge, either in terms of attendance or money. I think the clear answer is that those measures condemn us if they keep us from real ministry. Friends, this is why the Gospel is not practical-- if it works because it’s a naturally attractive and productive thing, we will boast that we did the work!

America is in a golden age of immigration. Hispanics are only a part of that. To all my pastor friends and members of churches: do not miss this chance to reach out to a huge part of the population. We missed it in the early 20th century, and it is no surprise that our churches are fading. We totally missed that the demographics of the nation were shifting. We totally missed the missionary and evangelistic impulse of the Spirit. I fear that if we miss this latest chance to minister, we will fall even more into the system of bureaucracy that knows only how to manage dying churches. Maybe you can hold on long enough for your pension funds to last your lifetime…

The Lord does not rest! Many of you know how 10 years ago as I kept running into Russians in Lexington, I tried to minister to them, begging the District to do something, anything, to reach out. It didn’t happen, and I vowed that if it happened again, that the Lord placed people in my path that perhaps I might be uniquely qualified to minister to that I would not let the chance go by. So, the Congolese are here, and I never thought speaking French would be much use in Kentucky.

When I got to Louisville, it seemed I met Ukrainians everywhere. I took that as a sign from the Lord, looked for someone to teach me Ukrainian (enough like Russian that I should be able to pick it up fairly quickly), found a woman who would. But it wasn’t going to jibe with were I was, so I had to let it go, and I trusted (kind of) that when I left Louisville, something would happen.

But I was worried. Why did the ministry to Ukrainians fail? What happened such that it was not going to be possible? What about the time I put into learning? How does ministry get so skewed that we can’t pursue what is of God? And if my vow had to be let go like that… There was a lot of soul-searching. You can spot Hispanics and Congolese people pretty easily. But Russians and Ukrainians, they look enough like us to blend in. I was not running into them by chance any more in Lexington.

Yesterday in John’s classroom, in a little Christian school in Shelby County, KY, I heard his teacher ask another boy, “has your mommy gotten back from the Ukraine?”

I made a note to call his parents. Last night, I did. His mother is Ukrainian, will be back in a few weeks. The boy’s father said she would love to meet with me, teach me Ukrainian and connect with some of the Ukrainians I know in Louisville.

Ruben and I have been worrying about our name, The Rock La Roca. Does it communicate that we are only Anglo and Hispanic? We joke about just having a symbol, being like Prince, “The Church Formerly Known As…” But something hit me earlier this week-- in for a penny, in for a pound. English and Spanish are our two languages. Ruben and I are the pastors. If we get labelled, so what-- that’s not our problem. But if we hedge ourselves in and say because I am Anglo and Ruben is Hispanic that we can’t minister to African-Americans or Congolese or Ukrainians or whatever, then we have much bigger problems than a name. No matter the language, who we are is who we are.

WOW

Wow is an Irma word. Irma Rodriguez is known for saying wow about the things of God. We definitely have a wow.

Yesterday, the day after her surgery, we had a day unlike any other. First, Melissa and I took the boys to her uncle's church in Henry County for a Fall Festival. The boys had a great time, and Melissa did ok. Then in the evening, she went out to eat. That is the first time she has done two things in one day. she paid for it today, being tired, but it was a big day. A day of small things!

Maybe lots of wows. The first Congolese man and his son came to the Rock this morning.

The evangelism team is out visiting, and one of the members has said he would like to take on training another team. Could it be possible to get a massive group of people out into the community spreading the Good News?!

WOW.

She's Doing Fine

Melissa came out of surgery fine. She didn't go completely under. She is sore from where they removed the port and put in the new line. The procedure seemed more like an interruption in the day than anything else. It just took longer at the office. We were happy that she didn't have much pain. Hopefully this clears up the infection. Before she went in, the idea of having to do it was aggravating her. She wants to be done with all this, wants to get to feeling better, not go to the clinic everyday. It keeps coming back to: you can get thru the huge stuff ok, but things like this are insult to injury. It's one thing to have to face one big issue. Or a really huge issue. But really huge issues come with every kind of smaller issue, and it takes a lot of endurance to see past each day's inconvenience and discomfort.

When we got home, I took the boys down to the creek. We were pretty quickly led away from interest in the clay bank by finding other things, namely an arrowhead and some bones.

It looks like an arrowhead, but it doesn't, so maybe it isn't. It's the right shape, looks like it has been worked, but something about the back, where it would fit the shaft doesn't seem right, or looks only half-right. The rocks around the creek are perfect for making arrows. I think there must have been a whole lot more people in North America than we think, or all they did was make arrows.

We also found some bones. I am guessing they are a hip and thigh from a deer. They were right by the water, couldn't find anything else. I wonder if something dragged that part of the deer to the water. Or perhaps the bones have been long buried and the recent floods exposed them?

Prayer Request

Melissa will be having a short surgery tomorrow (Friday). She will have her port taken out. She has been batlling an infection for a month, and they think it is in the port. They have wanted to put in a different port anyway, one that can handle more lines-- right now hers is a single line, and that makes it time consuming to run thru all the stuff they want to. So, she'll get a new line that can handle four different IV bags, and when the infection is cleared up, she'll get a new port. Yikes.

It has been the little things that are hardest. They needle at you. You don't feel right to begin with and then there are these many little things (some not so little, but when compared to the treatment, they're not as dire or severe) that add to your discomfort.

Melissa has been thinking and praying a lot about Job. On the outside, when we are well, we're not sure what to do with that book. It seems alien, foreign, menacing. Perhaps only the ill and suffering ought to have any say in its interpretation!

What Don Quixote Taught Me

Don Quixote, as a knight-errant, needed a fair maiden to love, and have that love unrequited until he could perform some daring feat and earn her favor. He settles on a peasant wench of no particular beauty. He changes her plain, even coarse, name to Dulcinea del Toboso, granting her some aristocracy.

Of course, we laugh at his folly. But there, I think, is the trap Cervantes sets for us. We have already laughed at his squire, Sancho Panza. We think, “This is a joke!” He’s no Percival or Gawain; no Oliver if Don Quixote could fancy himself to be Roland.

We crack up when he addresses the whores outside the tavern as if they were women worthy of respect.

And yet, they are. Don Quixote, towards the end of his life says that St. Paul was the greatest knight-errant there ever was. There, I think, is a key to understanding how Cervantes tweaks us.

Sure, Don Quixote isn’t all there. But, he is the forerunner of Dostoevsky’s Idiot, the prototypical holy fool. In the end, it is clear that Jesus would have greeted the whores outside the tavern as actual women, in spite of what anyone else might think. And what if God chose us, exalted us, based on our usefulness? This is precisely why Sancho Panza is such a precious character in literature. He is one of the “nothings” that St. Paul says God uses to shame the people who think they are something.

And then, Dulcinea. Only a hardened heart indeed would say that the young peasant woman did not deserve someone to love her, to give her a sweet nickname, to be willing to fight and even die for her.

Maybe the problem is that we find fault with Don Quixote’s sense of reality. Maybe the problem is that only a madman can see what ought to be in human relationships! The rest of us keep judging by the world’s standards, confessing (if ever we are ashamed or wonder, “How did it get this way?”) that it is a dog-eat-dog world.

And yet, who said you had to live with the dogs?

Sudoku

It seems a simple thing, Sudoku. 9 9x9 grids that you fill in, all numbers from 1-9 present and not repeated in any line or grid. It's addictive. Melissa and I started doing them back at the beginning of the year. When the cancer was causing a lot of pain back in April, she quit, and the transplant was pretty rough, and days were to be gotten through.

But yesterday, she picked up her pencil and started Sudoku again! I know it seems small, but it's huge. Not a return to anything other than her becoming herself. She keeps saying, "I can't wait to be normal again." Ha. Normal waved bye-bye to her a long time ago.

About ten years ago, we got to hankering to play battleship. We went and bought a game right as Toys R Us was closing. She beat me 11 straight times, which I think is statistically impossible. She just kept saying, "I look for the holes." THE WHOLE BOARD IS A HOLE!!!!! She says the same thing about Sudoku, and it's no help to me, plodding along. I keep wondering if there is some secret, some way to figure out the sum of the numbers not already there and find where they belong. An algorithm, anything to let off the hook of patiently trying to plug numbers in...

Melissa heard that it may be possible that if the spot in the brain is completely gone, they will not put the brain port in, they'll just keep doing chemo trough spinal injections.

Prayers: that she keeps getting stronger; that we are done with this; that our house sells.

Oh, a few months ago we were listening to the radio and the DJ gave the call sign and said, "Where Lexington comes to ROck!" One of the boys said, "Hey! That's our church!" Amen!

A City Went Mad

The first three years of my college life, my parents lived in Vaihingen, Germany, a well-to do university-town and suburb of Stuttgart. I went there for Christmas and Summer breaks. I spent my days going into Stuttgart and exploring. It is a wonderful city, particularly the city center, with its long pedestrian thoroughfare, easy access to all kinds of shops, museums, and cafes. Stuttgart was almost entirely destroyed by Allied bombing; much of it is new. I suspect it gets left off of most tourists’ itinerary—Munich and Berlin are the big cities you visit in Germany. But Stuttgart is a good stop.

One vacation while I was there, Mikhail Gorbachev was coming to the university to speak. We lived perhaps a kilometer away. The university subway station was where I caught the train to the city, and so as I walked there, crowds were pouring out and you could hear the buzz of tens of thousands of people somewhere in the distance, gathering to hear Gorbachev. I went down the stairs, onto the train that would take me to Koenigstrasse.

I was disgusted. That Gorbachev now has some kind of rehabilitated status is bad enough, but that he could in 1990 draw a crowd of educated people in Germany (of all nations!) was revolting. Many perhaps do not care who Gorbachev is. But for some who do, and perhaps have held him in esteem, let me caution you.

I have jokingly said I was a cold warrior as a kid, but it’s true. I had my own copy of the Army Field Manual Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. I had a bag boy job in 8th grade and sent money to a fund that said it bought bullets and supplies for the mujahedin in Afghanistan fighting the Soviet invasion.

I hated the Berlin Wall, and was ashamed to live in times where such a thing existed. I thought it would never come down.

I learned Russian for the purpose of fighting the enemy.

Most of my feelings came because of book on my father’s bookshelf, a big multivolume book. Each volume was huge. Where they were on the shelf, the back cover was visible from the side of the shelves. A bearded man with kind, intense eyes looked out from the cover. He was (is) Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The books now sit on my shelf: Gulag Archipelago, a stunning piece of literature that chronicled in personal, legal, and historical terms the string of soviet prison camps (thus the Archipelago image). Millions died and tens of millions were brutalized in the camps. They even had Gulags for children. In some ways, people already knew what he wrote, but maybe it was better not to know. Maybe by not saying anything we wouldn’t aggravate the Soviets. Blah blah blah. When there are concentration camps, the world is always silent. Even today, the Chinese run an even more brutal system than the Soviets—the laogai camps. How we pretend that they are civilized or that we should even talk with their leaders as if they are men is beyond me.

One of my distant cousins was an expert on the Czar’s secret police and he worked with the team of people at the Hoover Institute who worked with Solzhenitsyn when he came to this country in exile, so I had some knowledge of Solzhenitsyn as a person, not just a famous, distant writer. I have read Gulag Archipelago perhaps 4 times. I do it to remember what happened. I do it because it is a great book by the greatest writer of the twentieth century. And it may be that after all is said and done, Solzhenitsyn passes his countrymen, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, in honor as the greatest writer, period.

I went to Berlin after the Fall of Communism. (I had been there in 83 --I think it was 83-- when you could not go to the East.) Of course, there was a lot of Soviet memorabilia. I picked up a so-called Officer’s Watch. Who knows if it was authentic. But it had a red star. Some years later, I had a moment of shame and threw the watch away, because that red star stands for death; the red star and the hammer and sickle are every bit as revolting and evil as a swastika. No one thinks twice about a t-shirt with the hammer and sickle—no thought for the millions of Ukrainians killed under that banner. Or Poles. Or Russians. In a sick way, we learned to tolerate the Soviets. Imagine if we had gotten familiar enough with Nazis to think it was not as serious as it was? But wait! We did—it was called the 1930s! And we did it again in Rwanda. Doing it in Darfur. And in a strange fit of blindness that cannot see that anti-Semitism will not go away, that some people want another holocaust, the world coddles Hezbollah and Iran.

In Woody Allen’s great movie, Hannah and Her Sisters, Max von Sydow’s character says some memorable lines: “It has been ages since I sat in front of the television, aimlessly flipping channels. I came across a documentary on Auschwitz. More gruesome film footage, and more puzzled intellectuals proclaiming their mystification as to how it could have happened. The reason they will never answer that question is because it is the wrong question. The real question is, ‘Given what humans are, why doesn’t it happen more often?’”

I was not going to listen to Gorbachev. I was not going to allow myself to be polluted. See, his reputation is that he brought down the Soviet Union, that he tried to move it to some rapprochement with West, to avoid conflict. He gets to say that because that was the unintended result. Glasnost, perestroika, these were more propaganda tools to help the Soviet Union survive. His goal was to strengthen the weakening position of the Soviet Union, particularly in relation to the United States and our growing parity with their military power in the 1980s.

Gorbachev was a KGB man (like the current Russian President, Putin. And beware—lying and killing is their business). As such, he knew about and was involved in all kinds of repressive activities against anyone who wrote, said, or thought anything that the Communist Party did not like. While the Gulags were gone, torture, and numerous other kinds of repression were alive and well under comrade Gorbachev. His posturing as some kind of hero or statesman was typical of the ways such minds work; one of their own kind said, “The people will believe a big lie more readily than a small one,”
And again, “One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.”

In the past few years, some great books about or by Solzhenitsyn have come out (or been republished). In his Invisible Allies, he writes about the people who helped him get his work out. Most of it was banned in the Soviet Union. So people would get a copy and type out a few more and pass them around. In a book filled with personalities, one chapter is devoted to a group of people—“The Estonians.” Many of you know of my love for Estonia and Estonians. Over and over again in the literature of the Gulag, the Estonians come across as truly unique as a nation. They were well-respected by fellow prisoners for the suffering of their tiny nation, for their devotion to their language and culture, and for their resistance to the overwhelming force of first the Nazis then the Soviets.

I was filled with great excitement when I read that Solzhenitsyn not only spent time there, but that he and some others also worked cranking out the first typed copies of his greatest novel, First Circle, at a farmhouse near Voru, Estonia. Voru is where First Church’s last trip to Estonia went.

What it is about the Estonians, to survive the Nazi invasion, to be the first to pull out of the Soviet Union, to be the only group of Methodists who survived Soviet Rule?

I think it is part of God’s delicious irony that I got to go to Estonia on a mission trip. I went to the places I thought I might only go if there was a war. Russian was useful in making friends for Christ. I couldn’t have planned it any better! Where my thoughts were war, the Lord’s were peace, a peace that shattered the spear and bow.

If you want a good read, check our Solzhenitsyn: Soul in Exile, a study of his Orthodox faith. Most striking is how much the Western intelligentsia turned their backs on him when he openly professed his faith. It was one thing to attack Stalin and his legacy; quite another to stand up for Jesus!