I saw some photographs of my Dad today, and was surprised by the intensity of emotion those simple images provoked. Even though he’s been gone for a dozen years, those snapshots left me feeling the dull ache of grief and loss , all mixed up with the sweetness of good memories. The older I get , the more amazed I am by this man’s influence over my life and the lives of so many others.
I know that he barely remembered his own father, who passed away when he was a toddler. He was raised by a good but life- weary Mom and a bunch of older brothers. They were good hearted men, who were (as we say in Western PA) “rough as corn cobs”. In spite of these challenges, along the line somewhere he learned how to be a devoted Husband and extraordinary Dad.
The pictures I saw today fittingly capture some great moments ...... "Grandpa" playing with my little ones, " Mr . Fix-it " hard at work on some project and the smiling fisherman driving a boat, his only real hobby. He never owned a boat, but he would sometimes rent one for an afternoon. Boats and hobbies were too expensive for one who had so many kids to put through college (all seven!!!).
When Dad passed there was no “reading of the will” like in the movies. Providing for his family had consumed more than 35 years, working outdoors in all weather conditions, 40 hours plus all the overtime possible to build a house , feed and cloth a growing brood. Although he was a masterful money manager, he never had opportunity to accumulate much from his blue-collar wages. But he did leave me (us) with some amazing gifts.
When I was a teen ager , I am sure that Dad often wondered whether or not he had passed on any of his “core values” to me, (his low compliance child) . More than he realized, his little shadow was watching and learning. By observation, I learned that my father was a passionate defender of the weak and the helpless. Normally a gentle spirited man, his blue eyes would turn to ice in the face of injustice or abuse of the ignorant , handicapped, or the elderly. He didn't just talk about these thing, he was often elbows deep in practical service to those in need. I once heard mom complain that she needed to create some tragic story to see if she could get dad to fix things around our house. Important life lessons were taught in the car as we ran errands or traveled to the next benevolence project .....like the day I learned about labor unions! He patiently explained to me that while in his generation he had seen labor unions drift from their mission, he could not forget that he was a fatherless child because the coal companies in a previous generation did so little to protect those workers who went "under the hill".
And although he was a man of compassion, he had no sympathy for people who created their own misery because of laziness, bitterness or constant poor judgment.
I spent a lot of time with my dad during the normal progression of life, and had great opportunity to observe his interactions and relationships. While I did not always understand the full meaning of the adult interactions it was easy to read the respect mirrored in the faces of acquaintances, business people and neighbors He was a man of integrity, who having promised something, would keep that promise even at great personal cost.
These qualities have become the standard by which I measure my own performance and all other men. I must confess that although I’ve enjoyed privileges beyond his experience in education, travel, business and ministry, I am not a better man.
As a Christian, I believe I will see my dad again in the next world, and I like to imagine that one of our first conversations will be about the seeds of good things that he planted deep in my spirit by his example.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
guest post Brooke irvine
The place specifically in which I was brought into the world happens to be a small town on the East coast of south Florida. I spent a few short years as a beach baby soaking up the sun and from there I moved to quite cloudy Western Pennsylvania. My family which exceeds the normal 2.5 children was rounded off by me as number five. Our house was always overflowing with anyone and everyone who needed a place to be for an afternoon, a week, month or years. A few of them even became so intertwined with the family that we forgot they hadn’t always been there. As a young child my memories are filled with crawling into my Grandfathers lap, chattering unceasingly never thinking it strange that his ability to respond had been taken from him by a stroke. Another casualty of that same stroke was the ability to use his right arm and leg which is what drew my father, the oldest son, back to his hometown to help his aging mother to care for his now invalid father.
At thirteen my already abnormal life became even more abnormal. I had grown up listening to stories of a far off land called Haiti and hearing my mother and father employ Haitian Creole as a way to discuss sensitive subjects in front of their brood. It still came as a shock when my father was offered the harrowing task of shaping up a sixty year old development organization in Haiti. It was even more of a surprise when he and my mother decided to accept and move my 15 year old sister and I, the only two left at home, to this strange and unfamiliar land. I learned so much through seeing not just a different way of life but a difficult way of life. People dying of preventable diseases and half-naked children wandering the streets with no hope of anything different are hard for even a self centered teen to ignore. And slowly what started as the uprooting of my world and all I felt comfortable in became a refocusing of my entire worldview. The people I once found baffling became the family I never knew I was missing.
This new found worldview was shaken, battered and bruised in about thirty-five seconds one sultry January day. On the twelfth of January, a massive earthquake, felt throughout the country, struck. Moments like that become emblazoned on your memory forever. A local merchant and I were bartering over necklaces on my front porch. Suddenly everything began move. I have wracked my brain for a way to describe what it felt like, and I have come up empty. As I stumbled away from my house I heard pictures falling from the walls inside, and glass soda bottles clinking together and falling to the floor. I was joined in the yard by several employees that hadn’t left for home yet, my father, and a team of short term volunteers from North America. I remember the scared look on my housekeeper, Mme Felician’s, face. Her three children, friends of mine, were students in Port-au-Prince. The next few days are like a scratched DVD. Some moments are completely skipped over, like hours of the story are just missing. Others are frozen: sitting with my dog late at night trying to ignore the aftershocks and go to sleep as he trembles in fear next to me, standing with my plate frozen in my hand as tears role down my cheeks and my father tells me Mme Felician’s children were crushed under their home, staring at a picture of the fallen Presidential Palace a place I had been weeks earlier, and finally my father telling me there was no way in hell he would let his little girl go into Port-au-Prince right now. The final image came after my pleading to accompany the emergency medical response team that was preparing to leave. I had translated for several medical clinics and was convinced that I could be of help to this one. My father got his way and after watching my dear friend, a Physician’s Assistant, struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a consequence of her involvement, I can’t help but admit he made the right choice, though I still deeply regret not being of a direct help to those who were suffering not far from me.
In the first days after the earthquake, my parents were consumed with two missions, organizing emergency response efforts, and evacuating thirty North American short term volunteers. On January 16, I loaded onto a large caged truck with these volunteers. I was devastated to be leaving, but my parents convinced me that my presence on the trip was very important, as I was the only translator. Other than the driver I was the only one who had ever made the trip before. We were driving to Cap Haitian, in the north of Haiti, from Montrois. The trip took about nine hours, on bumpy mountain roads. It was an interesting experience in many ways. My job of translating caused others to look to me in a way that adults rarely view teens. Once in Cap Haitian, our group boarded a small charter plane and flew to Florida. I spent the next several months living and attending school in Pennsylvania. My parents had moved to Port-au-Prince in order to be a part of the relief efforts.
I returned to Haiti in June, almost six months to the day after I left. Life has changed in many ways for me. I now live in the still shell shocked city of Port-au-Prince. I am attending a different school, and as I drive along familiar routes every day, I see toppled buildings and rubble blocking side streets. Some of the rubble has been cleared away, exposing minimally damaged foundations, symbols of Haiti, broken, but not destroyed. Around the dinner table, our conversation revolves around what is constantly in the back of everyone’s mind; the buildings being rebuilt, communities being restored, to keep feelings of helplessness at bay. As we walk down the street, we feel camaraderie; we are all still here. We are picking up our heads. Ayiti, land of mountains, trodden on for years has yet to be shattered. My adoptive patria is proving its resilience.
At thirteen my already abnormal life became even more abnormal. I had grown up listening to stories of a far off land called Haiti and hearing my mother and father employ Haitian Creole as a way to discuss sensitive subjects in front of their brood. It still came as a shock when my father was offered the harrowing task of shaping up a sixty year old development organization in Haiti. It was even more of a surprise when he and my mother decided to accept and move my 15 year old sister and I, the only two left at home, to this strange and unfamiliar land. I learned so much through seeing not just a different way of life but a difficult way of life. People dying of preventable diseases and half-naked children wandering the streets with no hope of anything different are hard for even a self centered teen to ignore. And slowly what started as the uprooting of my world and all I felt comfortable in became a refocusing of my entire worldview. The people I once found baffling became the family I never knew I was missing.
This new found worldview was shaken, battered and bruised in about thirty-five seconds one sultry January day. On the twelfth of January, a massive earthquake, felt throughout the country, struck. Moments like that become emblazoned on your memory forever. A local merchant and I were bartering over necklaces on my front porch. Suddenly everything began move. I have wracked my brain for a way to describe what it felt like, and I have come up empty. As I stumbled away from my house I heard pictures falling from the walls inside, and glass soda bottles clinking together and falling to the floor. I was joined in the yard by several employees that hadn’t left for home yet, my father, and a team of short term volunteers from North America. I remember the scared look on my housekeeper, Mme Felician’s, face. Her three children, friends of mine, were students in Port-au-Prince. The next few days are like a scratched DVD. Some moments are completely skipped over, like hours of the story are just missing. Others are frozen: sitting with my dog late at night trying to ignore the aftershocks and go to sleep as he trembles in fear next to me, standing with my plate frozen in my hand as tears role down my cheeks and my father tells me Mme Felician’s children were crushed under their home, staring at a picture of the fallen Presidential Palace a place I had been weeks earlier, and finally my father telling me there was no way in hell he would let his little girl go into Port-au-Prince right now. The final image came after my pleading to accompany the emergency medical response team that was preparing to leave. I had translated for several medical clinics and was convinced that I could be of help to this one. My father got his way and after watching my dear friend, a Physician’s Assistant, struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a consequence of her involvement, I can’t help but admit he made the right choice, though I still deeply regret not being of a direct help to those who were suffering not far from me.
In the first days after the earthquake, my parents were consumed with two missions, organizing emergency response efforts, and evacuating thirty North American short term volunteers. On January 16, I loaded onto a large caged truck with these volunteers. I was devastated to be leaving, but my parents convinced me that my presence on the trip was very important, as I was the only translator. Other than the driver I was the only one who had ever made the trip before. We were driving to Cap Haitian, in the north of Haiti, from Montrois. The trip took about nine hours, on bumpy mountain roads. It was an interesting experience in many ways. My job of translating caused others to look to me in a way that adults rarely view teens. Once in Cap Haitian, our group boarded a small charter plane and flew to Florida. I spent the next several months living and attending school in Pennsylvania. My parents had moved to Port-au-Prince in order to be a part of the relief efforts.
I returned to Haiti in June, almost six months to the day after I left. Life has changed in many ways for me. I now live in the still shell shocked city of Port-au-Prince. I am attending a different school, and as I drive along familiar routes every day, I see toppled buildings and rubble blocking side streets. Some of the rubble has been cleared away, exposing minimally damaged foundations, symbols of Haiti, broken, but not destroyed. Around the dinner table, our conversation revolves around what is constantly in the back of everyone’s mind; the buildings being rebuilt, communities being restored, to keep feelings of helplessness at bay. As we walk down the street, we feel camaraderie; we are all still here. We are picking up our heads. Ayiti, land of mountains, trodden on for years has yet to be shattered. My adoptive patria is proving its resilience.
guest post Brooke Irvine
Time passes. Slowly at times, at others it flies by so quickly one can hardly catch a glimpse. In rare instances, time comes to a screeching halt, some events in our tiny lives manage to be so huge that even time seems to pay homage. When I close my eyes and think about these few moments in my short life, there is one place that occurs more often than any other. It is a simple place. A simple slab of concrete and a few steps. A place to shake the dust off your feet, a place of welcome, a place to say goodbye, a peaceful place, and a place the earth shook.
This place is on a tiny island off the coast of a tiny island. It was on La Gonave, and it was my home. More specifically, the entrance to my home, the front porch. It was small, too small even for a chair. It was usually a bit dusty. Sitting on the top step, there was a view of my yard, brown and dusty in the dry season, and green and lush when the rains came. The trees sheltering it had tiny purple flowers and strange yellow seeds. The sunsets from there were incredible. The Caribbean sky would be streaked with all the colors of the rainbow, the vibrant reds and pinks mingling first with yellow, then fading from purple to an inky blank. It always had a funny green tinge just before a torrential downpour. I remember sitting there when God sent the rains. The first of the season was always the best. The hard drops would start suddenly, sending up puffs of powdery dust when they hit the ground. The people and animals cacophony would suddenly die away as all took shelter and observed the life giving gift. I would sit, letting the cool drops sooth my parched skin as it did the dust. My clothes would be thoroughly soaked in a mater of minutes, but I didn’t care. The thunder and lightning and pitch black dark would finally force me to the refuge of my home, never with fear, but with a heart rejoicing. We were remembered. The rains had come and for a moment all was well, and there was peace in that.
This was a place of life. Of comings and goings, of business and laughter. My father would sit after work had finished for the day, until after dark. He would talk and laugh and teach, rebuke. Young men would sit and listen and converse. It was a place of community, it was a place of learning.
I remember the day a sick and scared looking little boy crossed the threshold. He had never been in a place like this or with people like us. My nephew, Wilkenson Moise. He came in that door and the door of my heart, one of which he never walked back out of. Picasso, my puppy, a source of comfort and annoyance too sat on that porch. I remember the night he came. So adoreable, sitting between my reluctant fathers feet. The two of them had an interesting relationship. Will was terrified of Picasso. Everytime the dog came near, he would have to be held. The terror however quickly disappeared when they were on other sides of the screen door. Will would trash talk, saying things like, “Al kashe tet ou” (Go hide your head)
Family and friends ect coming and leaving
earthquake
me leaving finally
It was a place I found God. He was in the whispering breezes, the beauty of the sunset, and the trembling of the earth under my feet.
This place is on a tiny island off the coast of a tiny island. It was on La Gonave, and it was my home. More specifically, the entrance to my home, the front porch. It was small, too small even for a chair. It was usually a bit dusty. Sitting on the top step, there was a view of my yard, brown and dusty in the dry season, and green and lush when the rains came. The trees sheltering it had tiny purple flowers and strange yellow seeds. The sunsets from there were incredible. The Caribbean sky would be streaked with all the colors of the rainbow, the vibrant reds and pinks mingling first with yellow, then fading from purple to an inky blank. It always had a funny green tinge just before a torrential downpour. I remember sitting there when God sent the rains. The first of the season was always the best. The hard drops would start suddenly, sending up puffs of powdery dust when they hit the ground. The people and animals cacophony would suddenly die away as all took shelter and observed the life giving gift. I would sit, letting the cool drops sooth my parched skin as it did the dust. My clothes would be thoroughly soaked in a mater of minutes, but I didn’t care. The thunder and lightning and pitch black dark would finally force me to the refuge of my home, never with fear, but with a heart rejoicing. We were remembered. The rains had come and for a moment all was well, and there was peace in that.
This was a place of life. Of comings and goings, of business and laughter. My father would sit after work had finished for the day, until after dark. He would talk and laugh and teach, rebuke. Young men would sit and listen and converse. It was a place of community, it was a place of learning.
I remember the day a sick and scared looking little boy crossed the threshold. He had never been in a place like this or with people like us. My nephew, Wilkenson Moise. He came in that door and the door of my heart, one of which he never walked back out of. Picasso, my puppy, a source of comfort and annoyance too sat on that porch. I remember the night he came. So adoreable, sitting between my reluctant fathers feet. The two of them had an interesting relationship. Will was terrified of Picasso. Everytime the dog came near, he would have to be held. The terror however quickly disappeared when they were on other sides of the screen door. Will would trash talk, saying things like, “Al kashe tet ou” (Go hide your head)
Family and friends ect coming and leaving
earthquake
me leaving finally
It was a place I found God. He was in the whispering breezes, the beauty of the sunset, and the trembling of the earth under my feet.
Friday, October 2, 2009
trains
My father was a “lifer” on the railroad along with all four of his brothers, so as a child I learned the love and the language of trains and the systems within which they run. I knew the schedules, the sounds and smells and could identify the rail system of any engine or caboose by its colors and insignia.
When our family would plan a vacation, old-fashion steam trains were high on the priority list of things to do. On several memorial occasions we rode behind those smoke belching monsters on short excursions through the countryside. The boys were absolutely at the height of excitement …what could be more fun than a real steam train….the girls were busy brushing the cinders off their dresses wondering if something was going to explode or catch fire.
I remember vividly the sense of awe I felt standing beside the locomotives looking at the enormous steel drive wheels. A little smug in my superior knowledge, I would ask my younger siblings to show me the “ the force that drives this train”, and they would almost always point to those massive wheels. But even as a child I knew better. Inside the cab were the doors to the firebox and the enormous boilers, ……..I had watched as the coal was shoveled into the fire box, and heard the explosive release of steam pressure through relief valves. That big engine could pull the train only because of the fire in its belly.
The prayer offerings of the faithful …, this is the fire that empowers the church and the real source of its effectiveness. The visible machinery of program and public events are only “ministry” in the actual sense of the word if covered and empowered by prayer. Like my young siblings , distracted by impressive machinery, many people will never see or understand what really drives the church.
When our family would plan a vacation, old-fashion steam trains were high on the priority list of things to do. On several memorial occasions we rode behind those smoke belching monsters on short excursions through the countryside. The boys were absolutely at the height of excitement …what could be more fun than a real steam train….the girls were busy brushing the cinders off their dresses wondering if something was going to explode or catch fire.
I remember vividly the sense of awe I felt standing beside the locomotives looking at the enormous steel drive wheels. A little smug in my superior knowledge, I would ask my younger siblings to show me the “ the force that drives this train”, and they would almost always point to those massive wheels. But even as a child I knew better. Inside the cab were the doors to the firebox and the enormous boilers, ……..I had watched as the coal was shoveled into the fire box, and heard the explosive release of steam pressure through relief valves. That big engine could pull the train only because of the fire in its belly.
The prayer offerings of the faithful …, this is the fire that empowers the church and the real source of its effectiveness. The visible machinery of program and public events are only “ministry” in the actual sense of the word if covered and empowered by prayer. Like my young siblings , distracted by impressive machinery, many people will never see or understand what really drives the church.
suited to sail
Some time ago, in order to help another missionary with some government papers, we bumped and rattled several hours north to the coastal city of Cap Haitian. Our business took us to the docks and from a second story vantage point we could see most of the harbor. Looking beyond the calm harbor to the ocean inlet we saw in place of the usually tranquil ocean, angry black swells of ten feet tipped with white caps. A brisk north wind was causing the docked boats within the harbor to tug at their moorings as if impatient to be off on their next voyage.
Because the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly in Haiti, there was plenty of time to review the scene before us, …. the wait for our papers stretched to nearly six hours. In the entire morning not one boat moved into or out of the inlet, in fact only a dredge and its busy little tender changed positions as we watched. This lack of activity in a usually busy harbor was not really a mystery because the boats tied to the docks were obviously too small or too broken down do brave the menacing swells just outside the inlet. And so they waited at anchor….. balky wooden sailboats used to carry cargo from city to city along the coast, rusty steel freighters, slim pleasure craft. Certainly they were safe from the threatening ocean but quite useless that day as far as any work was concerned.
Often when we pray for a visitation from God on our complacent churches and uncommitted believers, our petitions might lead a listener to believe that somehow God is not keeping up His end of the bargain. Perhaps we ought instead to check our “seaworthiness” as instruments of evangelism and missional activity. Many of our “harbors” appear to be occupied by the saved and safe who lack the desire or the spiritual understanding to evangelize.
I once saw a beautiful poster of a quiet harbor scene under which were written the words, “A ship in the harbor is safe, …but that’s not what ships were made for”
Or as Paul asks so pointedly ( in beautiful Shakespearian English), “How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard; and how shall they hear without a preacher?”
Because the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly in Haiti, there was plenty of time to review the scene before us, …. the wait for our papers stretched to nearly six hours. In the entire morning not one boat moved into or out of the inlet, in fact only a dredge and its busy little tender changed positions as we watched. This lack of activity in a usually busy harbor was not really a mystery because the boats tied to the docks were obviously too small or too broken down do brave the menacing swells just outside the inlet. And so they waited at anchor….. balky wooden sailboats used to carry cargo from city to city along the coast, rusty steel freighters, slim pleasure craft. Certainly they were safe from the threatening ocean but quite useless that day as far as any work was concerned.
Often when we pray for a visitation from God on our complacent churches and uncommitted believers, our petitions might lead a listener to believe that somehow God is not keeping up His end of the bargain. Perhaps we ought instead to check our “seaworthiness” as instruments of evangelism and missional activity. Many of our “harbors” appear to be occupied by the saved and safe who lack the desire or the spiritual understanding to evangelize.
I once saw a beautiful poster of a quiet harbor scene under which were written the words, “A ship in the harbor is safe, …but that’s not what ships were made for”
Or as Paul asks so pointedly ( in beautiful Shakespearian English), “How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard; and how shall they hear without a preacher?”
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
more good news
I’ve always been a little jealous of the many great Caribbean preachers and evangelists that I have met during my ministry here. Instead of just preaching , they engage in an active conversation with the congregation …when they are really on a roll the congregation is finishing their sentences and chanting the message themes. It’s every preacher’s dream, to have that amazing kind of connection with the listening crowd. Unfortunately, I’ve never really learned to do that,....but I came really close once!
Several months ago I was invited to speak to a little congregation in a squatter's neighborhood in Anse-a-Galet LaGonave. This is altogether a very unimpressive place; the people resident there are humble and poor, (even for Haiti) and their “tabernacle” is a blue tarp stretched between several trees. The little congregation had announced special services and the Pastor was very insistent so I agreed to speak.
I’m certainly no advocate of the “open your mouth and the Lord will fill it” attitude toward sermon preparation but this particular night, the notes that I had prepared eventually went by the wayside. I started down my carefully chosen path by reading several passages that referenced the word “gospel” . The Creole word "L’evangil" relates very close to the Greek expression which literally translated means “good news” I started the message with an explanation that the good news is a response to the bad news …… that because of sin every human being is broken and scarred by the effects of sin, generationally and personally. We exhibit our twisted-ness from infancy and as we grow older, further broken and deeply stained , we rush headlong towards the judgment of a Holy God. But that is exactly where the good news starts, that in the middle of our hopeless thrashing that this same Holy God comes looking for us.
I told that attentive crowd that the good news just gets better… because God is not pursuing us to judge us, but rather to make us an incredible offer. If we will allow him to do for us what we can’t do for ourselves and receive the provision made to us by the offering of his Son that he will restore us to our lost family and to the privileges of sons and heirs.
But there is more good news , I told them that evening…. God wants to begin a process of transformation and restoration in our lives even while we must continue to exist in this soiled place. The New Testament describes a process of new beginnings, sometimes joyous, sometimes painful but by which newly forgiven neophytes become battle hardened and effective warriors for in the kingdom of God. Even while occupying this foreign battleground , marred and marked by sin, God offers to us deliverance from strongholds, fear, pride, anger, unforgiveness, bitterness and ultimately….. victory over the arch enemy, death.
To make the deal even sweeter, God offers us significance, the opportunity to participate with the Eternal God in His work and to do deeds that impact eternity.
Up to this point the congregation was hanging with me. They listened thoughtfully , entranced by the idea that any kind of Supernatural Being could so love them. But it was here, when I reached the last point that the “magic” happened. As I looked at my carefully scripted notes, I realized that my last point in the “good news” list was unsatisfactory, the promise of eternal life. Looking in the faces of those simple people that night and recognizing that they were trusting me to speak truth to them, I realized that I didn’t really understand all that much about heaven. Daring not to create an imaginary place based on, Dante, Gospel songs and western traditions, I quickly decided that safest thing I could do was to tell these suffering people, based on scripture (of course) things that would not be present in the eternal life God is offering. Starting completely off the cuff, the first couple items were obvious. The Bible says there’s no night there, good news for people have lived all their lives tormented by fear things that go “bump in the night”. Frankly in a country where Satan is openly worshipped, it’s unfair to call this kind of fear irrational or superstitious. There is an awesome heaviness to the spiritual oppression that hangs over this country.
Then, gaining a little momentum, we moved on to declare that there is no sickness in our future life. To people who live with pain and disease as part of everyday life this is indeed good news. After announcing each familiar item that would be absent from heaven , I said to them in the Creole vernacular, “li pap la”, (it won’t be there). Before long I was off and running with a spontaneous litany of things not found in Heaven; no hospitals, no police stations, no courthouses, no thieves, no pain, no separation, no injustice, no caskets………And after each announcement the congregation responded “li pap la”, quietly at first but with gradually increasing enthusiasm. With tears streaming I continued to recite the list of present day realities that will not be a part of our future life. For that brief moment we , the believers, the ragtag followers of Jesus, were all caught up together in the hopeful joy and anticipation of that place. Amazing…..that the God of the Universe came looking for us to restore us to fellowship, to make us a new creations, to empower us and entrust us to represent him in this difficult place, Together we will build something of eternal importance and then at the end of the amazing trip, He will take us to a place where we will never again have anything to worry about, forever. What else could we call that if not… good news.
Several months ago I was invited to speak to a little congregation in a squatter's neighborhood in Anse-a-Galet LaGonave. This is altogether a very unimpressive place; the people resident there are humble and poor, (even for Haiti) and their “tabernacle” is a blue tarp stretched between several trees. The little congregation had announced special services and the Pastor was very insistent so I agreed to speak.
I’m certainly no advocate of the “open your mouth and the Lord will fill it” attitude toward sermon preparation but this particular night, the notes that I had prepared eventually went by the wayside. I started down my carefully chosen path by reading several passages that referenced the word “gospel” . The Creole word "L’evangil" relates very close to the Greek expression which literally translated means “good news” I started the message with an explanation that the good news is a response to the bad news …… that because of sin every human being is broken and scarred by the effects of sin, generationally and personally. We exhibit our twisted-ness from infancy and as we grow older, further broken and deeply stained , we rush headlong towards the judgment of a Holy God. But that is exactly where the good news starts, that in the middle of our hopeless thrashing that this same Holy God comes looking for us.
I told that attentive crowd that the good news just gets better… because God is not pursuing us to judge us, but rather to make us an incredible offer. If we will allow him to do for us what we can’t do for ourselves and receive the provision made to us by the offering of his Son that he will restore us to our lost family and to the privileges of sons and heirs.
But there is more good news , I told them that evening…. God wants to begin a process of transformation and restoration in our lives even while we must continue to exist in this soiled place. The New Testament describes a process of new beginnings, sometimes joyous, sometimes painful but by which newly forgiven neophytes become battle hardened and effective warriors for in the kingdom of God. Even while occupying this foreign battleground , marred and marked by sin, God offers to us deliverance from strongholds, fear, pride, anger, unforgiveness, bitterness and ultimately….. victory over the arch enemy, death.
To make the deal even sweeter, God offers us significance, the opportunity to participate with the Eternal God in His work and to do deeds that impact eternity.
Up to this point the congregation was hanging with me. They listened thoughtfully , entranced by the idea that any kind of Supernatural Being could so love them. But it was here, when I reached the last point that the “magic” happened. As I looked at my carefully scripted notes, I realized that my last point in the “good news” list was unsatisfactory, the promise of eternal life. Looking in the faces of those simple people that night and recognizing that they were trusting me to speak truth to them, I realized that I didn’t really understand all that much about heaven. Daring not to create an imaginary place based on, Dante, Gospel songs and western traditions, I quickly decided that safest thing I could do was to tell these suffering people, based on scripture (of course) things that would not be present in the eternal life God is offering. Starting completely off the cuff, the first couple items were obvious. The Bible says there’s no night there, good news for people have lived all their lives tormented by fear things that go “bump in the night”. Frankly in a country where Satan is openly worshipped, it’s unfair to call this kind of fear irrational or superstitious. There is an awesome heaviness to the spiritual oppression that hangs over this country.
Then, gaining a little momentum, we moved on to declare that there is no sickness in our future life. To people who live with pain and disease as part of everyday life this is indeed good news. After announcing each familiar item that would be absent from heaven , I said to them in the Creole vernacular, “li pap la”, (it won’t be there). Before long I was off and running with a spontaneous litany of things not found in Heaven; no hospitals, no police stations, no courthouses, no thieves, no pain, no separation, no injustice, no caskets………And after each announcement the congregation responded “li pap la”, quietly at first but with gradually increasing enthusiasm. With tears streaming I continued to recite the list of present day realities that will not be a part of our future life. For that brief moment we , the believers, the ragtag followers of Jesus, were all caught up together in the hopeful joy and anticipation of that place. Amazing…..that the God of the Universe came looking for us to restore us to fellowship, to make us a new creations, to empower us and entrust us to represent him in this difficult place, Together we will build something of eternal importance and then at the end of the amazing trip, He will take us to a place where we will never again have anything to worry about, forever. What else could we call that if not… good news.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
epiphany
I have attended dozens of seminars and conferences ....mostly for the fellowship and time out of the office ...at church expense… how is that for honesty? Some of them have been helpful, good and timely wisdom for life and ministry. But I must confess that for all the time and money invested, moments of epiphany have been rare. I do, however, remember one moment of emotion so complicated that no single word can describe it. How do you mix fear, dread , confusion, insight and hope.
I can not remember the speaker’s name but more than ten years later I can remember his passionate appeal and some of his words reverberate in my mind to this day. He said something like this ....., In very important ways our children will not be like us...... They will have different values , different preferences, and they will not share our loyalties to institutions and traditions. They are being shaped by cataclysmic sociological and philosophical forces and it will be our ultimate challenge to transmit to them the absolute essentials of our Christian faith. In response to his words, I remember the weird mixture of relief and fear. Fear that those troubling words could define the future (demise) of the North American Church but also glad that a personal devil, finally had a name. For years I had been wrestling with a growing awareness that for whatever reason we were not effectively ministering to an entire generation now called ”postmodern” . The old gospel presentations, appeals to logic , four spiritual laws etc. met with blank stares, a language not understood.
A lot of people attending the seminar that day left shaking their heads at the alarmist rhetoric. But the speaker was right all those years ago. His words have proven to be prophetic and the church is still attemting to deal with the implications of the future reality he described, now present.
I can not remember the speaker’s name but more than ten years later I can remember his passionate appeal and some of his words reverberate in my mind to this day. He said something like this ....., In very important ways our children will not be like us...... They will have different values , different preferences, and they will not share our loyalties to institutions and traditions. They are being shaped by cataclysmic sociological and philosophical forces and it will be our ultimate challenge to transmit to them the absolute essentials of our Christian faith. In response to his words, I remember the weird mixture of relief and fear. Fear that those troubling words could define the future (demise) of the North American Church but also glad that a personal devil, finally had a name. For years I had been wrestling with a growing awareness that for whatever reason we were not effectively ministering to an entire generation now called ”postmodern” . The old gospel presentations, appeals to logic , four spiritual laws etc. met with blank stares, a language not understood.
A lot of people attending the seminar that day left shaking their heads at the alarmist rhetoric. But the speaker was right all those years ago. His words have proven to be prophetic and the church is still attemting to deal with the implications of the future reality he described, now present.
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