hatching into a cherubim

As a kid, I devoured a collection of books called The Heroes of the Faith series. These were my first biographies of Christian heroes like Martin Luther, Mary Slessor, George Muller and Jim Elliott. One of my favourite biographies, which quickly became creased from reading it over and over, was the story of Amy Carmichael.

When Amy arrived "on the mission field," she was disappointed by herself and by the missionaries she found there. Surprisingly, they were all fully human -- broken and bickering amongst themselves.

"Wings are an illusive fallacy," she wrote. "Some may possess them, but they are not very visible, and as for me, there isn't the least sign of a feather. Don't imagine that by crossing the sea and landing on a foreign shore and learning a foreign lingo you 'burst the bonds of outer sin and hatch yourself into a cherubim."

The first time I went to Africa, in 2009, I expected a spiritual growth spurt. I expected to hatch into a cherubim, I suppose. Everyone, it seemed, that went abroad came back with a deepened intimacy with God. I was not ready when Africa shook my faith, when I saw church corruption and power struggles and prosperity gospel and wondered firsthand, "Is this my Christianity? Do I really want to be a part of this?" I was not prepared to have to hear the words from a godly Ghanaian pastor, who somehow seemed to have laser vision into my soul: "Erica, even if the name of Christian is soiled, you cannot afford to lose your own salvation because you are looking at hypocrites." I had expected to solemnly lead people to salvation, not be told I was at risk of losing my own.

Amy Carmichael's words come back to me now, as we are in the thick of our second year in Uganda. Sometimes it feels like my weaknesses are only magnified here, not overcome. As time passes in our close-knit community, as we peel back the layers and really get to know other missionaries here, we see their flaws, too. We see addictions and struggles and tendencies that they have fought for so long. We hear more details of their pasts being shared, and the different baggage that each of us carries. We pray together, we confess to each other, sometimes we cry together.

Sometimes we get depressed, weary, angry that our struggles have not yet been sealed with victory.

Today in chapel we were singing the song "Rising Sun," and the lyrics suddenly washed over me.

Praise Him all you sinners,
Sing, oh sing, you weary ... 
We lift high His glory 
Shown throughout our stories 
Praise Him all you children of God. 

Our great Redeemer
Glorious Savior 
Your Name is higher than the rising sun
Light of the morning 
You shine forever
Your name is higher than the rising sun. 

The glowing purity and goodness of God hit me all over again. He is higher than the rising sun? He is majestic and beautiful and he bothers with dusty, weary sinners? His glory is revealed in our stories?

And I realized all over again that God is not good in spite of the fact that His children mess up. He is not pure in spite of the fact that we still sin. He is not faithful in spite of the fact that we stray. Our witness is not effective in spite of the fact that we are broken. His goodness is unparalled, His purity untaintable, His faithfulness incomprehensible, our witness unarguable because of our sin, our brokeness, our weakness. What a God that can use hurting people riddled with issues, even to be missionaries, pastors, teachers, youth leaders! You cannot capture the depth of grace unless you juxtaposition who you are -- who you really are -- against who God is.

And the phrase that keeps being burned into me, spearing my pride: His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When this girl, who has wrestled anxiety over and over again, can hear about planned terror attacks and honestly say to people that I don't worry, that there has been a gift of peace I don't understand and can't explain and -- you know, you know this isn't me. You know that I've struggled. You know this is God.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

When I want to pretend that I'm perfect and mask any doubts. When I think that being a "good Christian" is to hide your issues from unbelievers.

His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

Maybe we can only lift up His glory if we risk ourselves, step out, and tell our stories.



There's a wideness in God's mercy
I cannot find in my own
And He keeps His fire burning
To melt this heart of stone
Keeps me aching with a yearning
Keeps me glad to have been caught
In the reckless raging fury 
That they call the love of God. 

- Rich Mullins (a guy who wrestled with alcoholism and depression, among other things...)