but God

I recently spent a few days at Bethel Church in Redding, California. For those of you who may not be familiar with Bethel, they have a reputation of hosting the presence of God and walking in the power of God. I heard story after story of God breaking into the impossible and making it possible. I was stirred by these stories. I began to long to have these types of stories in my own life. And, don’t get me wrong, I do have testimonies of God’s faithfulness and provision, but for me these have seemed to be the exception rather than the rule. If we believe God is who He says He is, and will do what He says He will do then doesn’t it stand to reason that every day is a target for miraculous breakthrough, healing, and provision?

As I have processed this experience I began to notice a thread of commonality that tied all of these stories together. It was profound in its simplicity. The reason these pastors and leaders have so many God stories isn’t because they are holy or elite, it’s because they have made space for “but, God”.

Ephesians chapter 2 paints a picture of what our life was like before Jesus. We were lost, broken, enemies of God, and obeying the devil. We were powerless in and of ourselves to remedy this problem. Then, in one of the most radical acts of love in the history of humanity- “but, God being rich in mercy…” made us alive in Christ Jesus. We didn’t deserve it, and we definitely didn’t earn it. God took something that was impossible and made it possible. The facts were that we were enemies of God, the truth, however, was that God had a plan. God had a plan- let that sink in a moment. Pause and remember what you had to do to enact that plan in your life. All you did was invite Him in, right? You made space for the invasion of God in your life. Sadly, for most of the Western church that is where it stops. We get our golden ticket and then, rather than living an abundant life of power and miracles we settle for a passive morality.

Everyday we have the opportunity to live from facts or truth. The facts may be that the balance in your checking account won’t cover your bills for the month. The truth, however, is that God is your provider. The facts may be that you just got diagnosed with a disease. The truth, however, is that God is your healer. The facts may be that your business is on the verge of collapse. The truth is that God is able. We have the choice to choose what to partner with. Choosing truth isn’t denying the facts, it’s choosing a superior reality. This is how we make space for “but, God”.

I’m convinced most Christians aren’t living a supernatural life not because they don’t want it or are against it, but because they have insulated themselves from it. The first thing we do when we have a pain is call the doctor. When our finances are looking shaky we schedule an appointment with our financial planner and figure out how to shift our investments around for maximum return. Tings aren’t wrong or bad. It’s just that when those are our plan A, we remove God from the equation.  The question then is, do you have space in your life for “but, God”?

Remembering Africa pt. 4

Maputo, Mozambique 2011         

There were 14 of us. 14 rucksacks. Two trunks. One guitar. And believe it or not, one van. It was the kind of travel I had become used to. It was bumpy, cramped, hot, and exciting. It was Africa.

We had been in Mozambique a little over two weeks. The trip had been a dream come true. Two years earlier I had spent two and a half weeks in Kenya. That trip had awakened within me a love for Africa I couldn’t seem to shake. There was something about the people, their smiles, and their hope that was contagious. I had never experienced anything like it. I was thankful to be back. Our three-week trip was culminating with an expedition to an island community. We had been told there was no electricity and no running water. I was itching with excitement as the boyhood adventurer was awakened. I felt like Bilbo, in Tolkien’s classic—“Then something…woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves, and wear sword instead of a walking-stick”.

I was sure we looked foolish piling into our transportation for the first leg of the trip— like circus clowns in a toy-sized car. After a few minutes of Tetris-like packing, we were off. We drove for maybe an hour. Uncomfortable though it was, I felt as if every part of my being was fully alive. We made a brief stop at a roadside market—the color of our skin attracted the merchants like a swarm of bees to a brightly colored flower. They were peddling wares ubiquitous on the continent: brightly colored flip flops, multicolored plastic bowls, cups and containers, toys, cigarettes, and fruit—lots of fruit. I felt like an animal on display as a thousand pairs of eyes gazed into the window in excitement at the arrival of the pale skinned foreigners. Perhaps they felt the same as we aimed our camera lenses back at them.

The drive was beautiful. It was a perfect winter day in southern Africa. The air was crisp and clean feeling. The sun was shining but it wasn’t too hot, it felt good on my skin. We finally stopped. The van had taken us as far as it could go. Our second leg of the journey would be on a ferry.

           

Practically falling out of the van, our arrival was a sensory overload. The riverbank was bustling with activity. Hawkers touted their merchandise while older men reclined on the shore, their bobbers attached to cane poles, rose and fell with the breathe of the river. Children ran in circles around their mothers who were leading a few cattle with twine loosely tied around their necks. I wondered what compelled the cattle to follow when their restraint could be broken by the turn of their head. The light breeze brought to our noses the salty smell of the Indian Ocean that lay only a few miles to the East.

             

I was delighted to be greeted by children selling cashews that had been roasted and salted. After a breakfast of only sweetened hot tea and bread I was hungry. I took the opportunity to buy a few bags not knowing when we would eat again. They were delicious and unlike anything I had ever eaten in the States. They tasted earthy and rich. My fingers shined with their natural oil. We fought through the crowd and stepped onto the ferry.

             

The time it took the operators to get the ferry going lasted longer than the ride itself. We were standing on the opposite shore within minutes of the ferry starting. I am certain we looked ridiculous. In fact, there is simply no way to avoid looking ridiculous when you are the only white people for hundreds of miles and are at the mercy of the Portuguese-speaking Africans around you. Out of place was an understatement. Mozambicans hoping to sell us something again encircled us testing our patience. We waited for our translator to secure transport to take us to the interior of the island.

            

 Our translator came back to me in a few minutes proudly reporting he had found a truck big enough to take our team into the island. I stared in disbelief at the size of truck he had found. It was small, S-10 small— the smallest pickup back in the States. It would have been fine it we didn’t have 17 pieces of luggage and if there weren’t 7 Mozambicans, two goats, and a chicken already in the back. The life-sized Tetris game began again as we struggled to pack our gear and our bodies onto the truck. The Mozambicans laughed and pointed. It was funny, I guess. Half and hour later we were off. That drive was something I’ll never forget.

             

The drive certainly had its chaotic moments—we got stuck in a ditch about ten minutes in and half the team almost flew out of the back on more than one occasion. That was all part of the adventure though. What made it memorable for me was that it was just one of those rare moments in life where I was genuinely thankful for what I was seeing, smelling, and feeling. It was the type of moment you recall years down the road, as you’re sitting in your office on some idle Monday, and it still brings a smile to your face. I was on the continent I love, with people I love, doing what I love. It doesn’t get much better.

Remembering Africa pt. 3

Maputo, Mozambique 2011

It had been two years since I had left Kenya. Two years too long if you ask me. In the meantime I had spent a couple of months in southern India and if that trip accomplished only one thing, it confirmed what I had suspected— I had left my heart in Africa. I had spent the better part those two years dreaming about going back. I had watched every documentary and read every book I could get my hands on. It didn’t matter what it was about as long as it was in Africa. I even took a History of Africa class at my university. I had a bug I just couldn’t seem to shake.  In the spring of 2011 I was asked to co-lead a team of college students to Mozambique in the summer of that year. I was going back!

I was immediately struck at how different the Mozambican landscape was from equatorial Kenya. Green, lush rolling hills had been replaced with sparse, brown, flatness. Rich, fertile black soil had been exchanged for sand that seemed to find its way into my clothes, my bag, and every other place it wasn’t welcomed. With the exception of a palm tree here and there, green wasn’t on the menu.

Our team was scheduled to stay at an orphanage on the outskirts of Maputo for a little over three weeks. I had heard stories of the type of children this orphanage took in and, to be honest, I was nervous. They were the outcasts and rejects. They were victims of circumstances they had never asked for and helpless to affect any sort of positive change in their own life. Some were HIV positive, others had been raped or molested. I was afraid I couldn’t give them the love they needed, the love they deserved. I remember being brought to tears on more than one occasion as child after child in shy, broken English recounted their story. My heart wrenched in pain each time I heard one. I struggled to understand the human who could inflict such horrors upon an innocent child.

We arrived at the orphanage mid-afternoon. We were hardly given time to set our bags down before we were swept off to tour the compound. Thick, cement walls topped with broken glass formed the perimeter we walked. There were children everywhere, literally everywhere. They seemed apprehensive and uneasy at our presence. I didn’t blame them. I knew their trust wasn’t something that was given. It would have to be earned. Little ones who found themselves in our path scurried as we approached.  My eyelids felt like lead curtains. I fought to keep them open. After two days of travel and multiple time zones, I knew it was a fight I was sure to loose. After the tour and orientation I collapsed onto my bunk. I didn’t even have time to remove my sweat soaked clothing before I slipped into a black, dreamless sleep.

                                                                        *****

An unfamiliar noise drifted into our room causing me to stir in my bunk. The beat seemed erratic, disjointed and yet, there was something methodical and soothing about it. Drums. I guessed. I struggled to remember where I was as the fog that had settled over my mind slowly began to lift. I rolled out of bed trying to muffle the squeak of the metal bunk bed as best I could. I threw on some clothes and forced my stiff body out into the crisp, Mozambican morning. An unexpected chill had swallowed the heat of the previous day. I was glad I had grabbed a light jacket before leaving my room.

I was instinctively drawn to the sound that had awakened me. I walked passed empty dormitories and wandered where the children were. A couple of mangy dogs snoozed under a cement bench with a checkerboard painted on it. The aluminum bottle caps strewn about must be used as the playing pieces. I noticed an elderly lady, bent by years of manual labor, sweeping an abandoned cafeteria. She smiled at me as I walked by.

I stopped abruptly after rounding the corner of the cafeteria. What had been the football pitch the day before now held hundreds of children in brightly colored school uniforms standing in perfectly straight lines. I noticed a few adults at the front of the assembly, teachers I assumed. There were three older boys near the teachers kneeling over large, hand made drums. I could tell they weren’t playing the drums out of obligation; the determined, satisfied look on their faces told me they loved what they were doing. I sat down on a cement ledge to watch the demonstration unfold. Without warning the drumming stopped. I sat transfixed wondering what would happen next. The silence of the moment was interrupted only briefly by a shout from one of the drummers.

As if on cue with the rising sun, the assembly of children began to sing simultaneously in perfect harmony with the beat of the drums. I felt a chill run down my spine as their rich voices washed over me. The sound was pleasant and spellbinding, like nothing I had ever heard from an American choir. Time seemed to stop as I drank in the beauty of the moment. I recalled some of the stories these children had shared with me in the previous days, stories of unbearable pain and unbelievable suffering. And as I sat there watching these children sing, an unfamiliar emotion began to grip my heart. It was subtle at first and slowly began to increase until I didn’t think I could contain it, like glass being slowly filled with water until it overflowed. Hope had invaded my heart and I knew I would never be the same. 

Remembering Africa pt. 2

Moi’s Bridge, Kenya- 2009

The 80’s model flat bed rumbled to a stop. We had been at the school all day and the sound of the clutch catching and the door slamming was unmistakable amidst the roar of children. How it was still running was anyone’s guess. It had wooden railing down the side of the bed and had probably been used to taxi an untold number of fruits, vegetables, people, and even animals through the years. For us it was a welcomed sight. It meant a 15 minute ride to the home of the pastor we were staying with and a freshly cooked meal of choice Kenyan cuisine: ugali, rice, kelp, avocados, probably some chicken and definitely the sweetest, milkiest tea you have ever tasted. At this point, 10 days into my first East-African adventure, the sight of the entire chicken head in the pot no longer turned my stomach. I was starving.

We were exhausted. We had spent the better part of ten days being shuttled in between a school, orphanage, and church. Our goal was simply to love. Sometimes that meant meeting a practical need like providing clothing and sometimes that meant sitting with a child or grandparent and engaging in a meaningful conversation. We wanted each individual we came in contact with to know the love of the Father. To know they weren’t forgotten. So we prayed, and hugged, and laughed, and cried, and played a ton of soccer and, as it turns out, Kenyans don’t tire easily. We were spent physically, emotionally, and spiritually in the best way possible.

The ride home wasn’t long and had quickly become my favorite part of the day. The sight of a pick-up full of Americans driving through town was sure to elicit shouts, thumbs up, and a parade of children in chase squealing in laughter every time we waved or shouted “Jambo”, hello in Swahili. My favorite part though was the sunset. It was as if each evening the Creator delighted to display his majesty and creativity through a living painting that would last just minutes only to be swallowed again by the blackest night and the brightest stars I have ever seen. To this day, if I close my eyes, I can remember the breathtaking sight of the sun setting behind Mt. Elgon, framed it in the richest assortment of reds, oranges, yellows, and even pinks.

The truck groaned as it slowed to make the turn into the compound where we were staying. As I looked around at my teammates I realized for the first time how filthy we were. The red African soil had covered every inch of our bodies and clothing. Streams of sweat looked like tiny muddy rivers flowing down shins and foreheads. I wiped my forehead with a bandana I was carrying for the hundredth time that day and noticed a group silhouettes playing soccer. As we approached I recognized the boys to be the Sudanese refugees who lived a few doors down.

In spite of my exhaustion I banged on the side of the truck causing it to lurch to a halt. I had to play soccer with those boys. I don’t know why, I just did. It was one of those rare moments in life you know you will never forget—playing soccer with Sudanese refugees in the shadow of Mt. Elgon. I convinced my hungry, tired teammates to join me as they reluctantly climbed out of the truck.

Nervous smiles greeted our arrival at the pitch.  Tiny eyes peeked out behind hands that covered shy faces. Their apprehension quickly faded as we began to kick the ball. Nervous smiles quickly turned to peels of laughter at the clumsy Americans’ expense.

Remembering Africa pt. 1

 Nairobi, Kenya- 2009

It’s amazing how a place can steal your heart and never give it back. To be honest I didn’t mean to give my heart away. I wasn’t expecting it. It just kind of happened. All I knew about Africa was all most people know—wars, starving children, and HIV. Yet, for as long as I can remember I had wanted to go. I remember reading “Zoo Books” as a young boy at the library. I wanted to visit the lions and giraffes so bad. At that point, I probably didn’t understand Africa was continent and not a country. It didn’t make any difference to me. I just wanted to go. It would be many years until that dream was fulfilled. I had no idea how much that continent would change me and the profound role it would play in maturing me as a young man.

I was 18 and it was my freshman year in college. The church I was attending at the time announced a mission trip to Kenya, among other countries, and I knew I had to go. I had never been overseas (Cancun, Mexico on vacation doesn’t count) and I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I just knew I had to go. So I signed up.

Six months later and there I was on a British Airways flight from Amsterdam to Nairobi. It was at that point that I started to get scared. Three weeks in Africa. The questions began to overwhelm me. Could I handle it? What if I got homesick? What if I couldn't eat the food? What if something happened to my family while I was gone? My palms began to sweat as the reality of what I was doing began to hit me. All of the sudden the stale, recycled airplane air didn’t seem to be giving me the oxygen I required. I forced my self to relax as I unclipped my seat belt in spite of the sign illuminated just inches from my head.

I must have drifted off to sleep. I awoke with a jolt as the tires kissed the runway, lifted off briefly, and then settled back down. Our team was processed through customs without incident. I remember there was some sort of disease scare going on at the time, bird flu maybe, which made our entrance into the country far longer than necessary. I didn’t know this at the time, but Africa doesn’t run on Western time. Things tend to happen when they happen. We grabbed our bags and headed outside.

As I walked out of the airport my senses were assaulted with every form of stimuli imaginable. All were new and all were overwhelming. A mix of English, Swahili, and Kikuyu combined to form a dull roar in my ears as I struggled to take in my new surroundings. Beads of perspiration immediately appeared on my brow and upper lip in the sticky equatorial air. And that smell. They say smell is the sense that is most closely tied to memory. I believe it. That’s what I remember most. Only those who have been privileged enough to step foot on the ‘dark continent’ can understand or appreciate the smell of Africa. It is unlike anything I have ever smelled. To this day, there are times when I will catch a whiff of a similar scent and I am immediately transported back to the rich red soil of that beautiful continent.

It took us longer than it should have to find our local contact and load the bus. 12 pieces of luggage, one guitar, one keyboard, and 8 people later and we were off. We were headed to Moi’s Bridge in the Northwestern part of the country, an 8-hour drive. The adventure had only just begun.

the fight to rest

I have been in an extremely busy season in my life. In the last few months I have changed jobs, gotten engaged, purchased a home, and planned a wedding. It’s been crazy to say the least! God often uses seasons like this to bring some things to the surface I didn’t know were there. Early on in this season of transition, I found myself getting anxious, stressed, and worried on a consistent basis. To be honest, it was exhausting. My mind was constantly racing and I know that I wasn’t very fun to be around. What was most frustrating to me was that I was fully aware of all of God’s promises for peace and provision throughout the Bible. Heck, I had memorized some of them, yet none of them seemed to be my reality—just nice ideas. That was until God spoke.

In Psalm 23 David says that God prepared a table for him in the presence of his enemies (paraphrase). Interesting that God didn’t prepare a table for him in a peaceful field, or in the presence of his family, or his friends. I had read that verse hundreds of times and never really appreciated its significance—God wants us to sit down and eat with Him in the middle of a fight! Simply put, God invites us to fellowship with Him in the very moments it would be so easy to feel frustrated, worried, and anxious—like in a battle. God showed me that I had been using my circumstances as an excuse to feel a certain way. I had bought into the lie that “once this thing is over then life will slow down” or “once I complete this task, I won’t be worried or anxious”. We must understand that it’s not our circumstances causing these emotions; rather these emotions are simply indicators of a deeper heart issue, most often, a lack of trust in our good Father.

I am still very much in the learning process of practicing rest and fellowship in those hard moments. In the midst of this crazy season, I have learned something very helpful. Rather that being intimidated by the largeness of the task at hand, whatever it is, understand that you may not be able to build the entire wall today. You can, however, lay one brick. Just make sure that brick is laid with absolute excellence and before you know it, that wall will be finished.