Before I begin, let me say that I believe in grace. I believe I am a saved sinner, and in previous posts about living among missionaries here in Uganda, I have been amazed at how God uses broken people (myself included) to build His kingdom.
But this beautiful gift of grace is being used to cloak diseases eating away at the church. Young people, especially in the North American church, are rooted only in bumper sticker theology and a warped view of grace that has reduced it to something cheap and meaningless.
This past year alone I have seen too many promiscuous, selfish, and in some cases abusive young men put on church stages, given a guitar, a microphone, or sometimes a salary. Maybe it's because I'm a woman that, in my experience, most of these people have been men. As a woman, I'm friends with other women. I know who these guys are. I've cried with and for the girls who lost their virginity to them and then have been treated as damaged goods, the girls who were lied to, shoved aside, or not believed by the church.
I believe that people, through the power of Christ, can change. But I see a difference between someone who lived in sin before converting, and someone who was able to master hypocrisy and wear a mask the whole time. I see a difference between someone who is broken and remorseful and someone who has never flinched with shame. I see a difference between someone who is wanting to be mentored and taught and someone who thinks that, after two minutes of living a Christian walk, they are qualified to be lifted up as a leader for others.
Their mantra is always the same: grace. Amazing grace. Where sin abounds, grace is more.
Unfortunately, the people they hurt aren't around to hear their message. In their seeming quest to test the limits of grace, these guys have driven so many people far from it. Can you blame these girls for leaving the church, for not being able to stomach the stench of our hypocrisy? The truth is they are long gone.
As a church, we should forgive these guys. Anyone should be welcome through our doors. And, even for those who aren't remorseful, the reality is that there will always be hypocrites in every denomination.
However, the leaders in the church should be seasoned with wisdom and should be intent on guarding our stages. Only God can fully purify His church, but I think we can do a better job of training church leaders and keeping them accountable. Instead, I find that we are easily impressed by things that, according to the Bible, don't really impress God at all.
Taking a Scripture verse out of context, putting it in pretty font, and getting it tattooed on your arm doesn't mean a thing has changed in your heart. As a church, are we rewarding sordid testimonies or faithfulness and integrity? Do we equate forgiveness with trust? Are we more interested in someone's family name, than in the stamp of the Holy Spirit on their daily lives? Does damage to the name of Christ and hurt to members of the audience take second place to how well someone can play an instrument, or sing that Christmas solo?
I have seen so many people rise to places of leadership based on charisma and connections. Isn't that the world's way of doing things? Isn't the Kingdom supposed to work differently?
I realize that this rant paints me as a judgmental ogre. People in the church are pretty free to rant about homosexuals and Muslims, but the minute people call out hypocrisy we plug our ears and repeat messages of unity in the church and misquoted Scripture about judging.
I'll be honest, I am not perfect. Lately I've been trying to read my Bible more regularly, as I realized it was sitting unopened for far too long. And as I read, I realize -- this is scary stuff! No, I'm not talking about Old Testament angry prophets -- I'm talking the New Testament. The new covenant. The one that's supposed to get us all off scot-free.
Matthew 7: 18-20 (JESUS talking! What? I thought He only said nice things?!) "A good tree can't produce bad fruit, and a bad tree can't produce good fruit. So every tree that does not produce good fruit is chopped down and thrown into the fire. Yes, just as you can identify a tree by its fruit, so you can identify people by their actions."
And onto verse 21-23, even scarier still ... "Not everyone who calls out to me, 'Lord! Lord!' will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Only those who actually do the will of my Father in heaven will enter. On judgment day many will say to me, 'Lord! Lord! We prophesied in your name and cast out demons in your name and performed many miracles in your name.' But I will reply, 'I never knew you. Get away from me, you who break God's laws."
I don't fully understand all of this, but it puts the fear of God straight back into me! Over and over again Jesus hung out with tax collectors and prostitutes, but lost his mind when people within the church were hypocritical or tried to turn the church into a power-playing, money-making machine.
And then there's Acts. The Early Church, the Holy Spirit, the new covenant, right? What I'm reading as I read through Acts is that sorcerers, idol-worshipers, and cheating tax collectors were welcome to join the church and be saved by grace. But Ananias and Sapphira, members of the church who tainted it by lying? They dropped dead. Dead. Killed. For lying!
I feel like Christians often get this backwards. God isn't disgusted with your godless neighbours, or the teenage unwed mother you saw at the grocery store. He came to save the world, not condemn it. But, I'm going to guess, He's a lot more disgusted by our general acceptance of a lukewarm, mediocre standard within the church.
Once we put on the name of Christ, let us learn to live in a way that honours it. Let us take up the power of the Holy Spirit, to let Him make us righteous. Let's be honest about our struggles and mistakes and hold each other accountable. Let's be transparent, let's believe victims. Let's ask for wisdom, that even optics wouldn't soil the name of Christ. And, sometimes, the damage is done, so let's get on our knees and ask for forgiveness.
On a similar note ... check out Ann Voskamp's letter to her son after a rape case in Ohio. It's an amazing challenge to protect the vulnerable, to have courage to speak the truth, to pursue holiness and to reject the shrugging, "Boys will be boys" that so often permeates the church.
Saturday 27 December 2014
Tuesday 16 December 2014
a poem - maybe i need africa
On the way back to Uganda last August, we had a terrible time! Roadblocks and headaches at every turn. We got on the plane in Toronto not knowing if we would be approved for missionary status with the PAOC, not knowing if any opportunity would come up for Isaac. The numbers didn't add up, "the plan" didn't seem to make complete sense. I wrote a few poems as we crossed the Atlantic, and here is one of them. I feel like I'm in that place again, always trying to talk to God about things that I'm focused on -- money, security, health -- and He just quietly draws me to Himself. He doesn't tell me what to do, or give the answers I'm looking for, but makes me crack open my Bible instead or become reliant on regular time in prayer. And I think maybe I miss the main point, and maybe the point is getting to a place of dependence on Him.
The verse above my mirror right now: "I have set the Lord always before me. I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me." Psalm 16:8
*Just a note: If you are African, and resent Africa being represented only as a place of trial, I'm sorry. If you are not in Africa, and think that it's only about Africa, you're wrong. Right now, and especially on that plane ride, Africa represented where we felt called to be, the unknown, and potential difficulties. Your Africa may look totally different than mine.
Maybe
I Need Africa
Maybe
I need Africa
More than she needs me.
Maybe
The ones who stay behind
Maybe
You call the weaker ones
To a path that’s longer.
Maybe
Picket fences would strangle me
Maybe
Money would quench me.
Maybe
Predictability would lure me off my knees.
Maybe
This stretching, these changes
Save me.
I’m prone to wander, Lord,
I feel it.
Maybe
Struggles will be the fetter
Maybe
Africa makes me better.
Hot sun searing off the fat
Savannah breezes blowing away the chaff
Maybe
My prayers shouldn't be about money, health
-- Even security
Maybe
The point is to bind
My wandering heart to Thee.
Saturday 13 December 2014
my turn to learn
Sometimes little moments appear that encourage you, moments you almost walked by or missed altogether.
I have been volunteering at a refugee center every Friday since September. I leave school, go home and plan a basic lesson outline, hop on a boda and arrive at the center to have class from 5 to 7. There's usually about 8 or 10 Congolese men there, although there is one spunky older lady named Charlotte as well. Almost all young men, almost all unemployed. Trying to learn English to navigate life in Uganda, trying to build dreams on the sand that is shifting politics, shifting statuses, and a staggering unemployment rate.
Tonight was our last class. I didn't realize, but the Heritage middle school youth group Christmas dinner was the same night. I had had to cancel the English class the week before so that I could help with the Heritage Christmas concert, so I really did not want to cancel again. I decided to go teach English, figuring I'd return in time to catch the end of the Christmas dinner event. I hopped on a boda and arrived, as usual, shortly before 5pm.
Somewhere along the way, communication must have gone wrong due to the previous week being cancelled. One student showed up: Jacques, a young Congolese guy who arrived in Uganda last January.
I sat down, ate the apple I had grabbed as my dinner, waited. Chatted with Jacques, who was a little quieter than usual. I asked if something was wrong, but he said it was just the fact that he was still recovering from malaria.
I didn't say anything more, but I had sensed his optimism beginning to wane over the last few weeks. Jacques has such a great attitude. He shows up on time for every English class. Every week he sets up the board and markers for me, every week he wipes down the board and puts everything away for me, jumps up to tuck in all the chairs. He's trying to develop himself, trying to find some way to make himself marketable. He's working at his English in my class and in another class during the day. He's teaching himself guitar. He took a baking class at the center where he learned how to bake cakes and muffins. He took a business class. He took a class on social media and computer literacy. A few weeks ago he had a book he had gotten from a friend of his who is moving to Canada, a book preparing refugees to move there, providing information about cultural norms and logistics. He was devouring the book, quizzing me about Canadian culture.
Like every other man who attends the class, Jacques can probably only fantasize about getting a visa to Canada or the US. A few weeks ago Mbale, another student, was telling me about a lottery he had entered to try to get an American visa. (After a quick Google search it appears that this is a real thing - the Diversity Visa Lottery) He was nervously excited about the chance of getting the visa, but didn't say anything the next week when he had not been selected. And I sit, little white girl across the table, with an iPhone in my bag and a million opportunities, not because I am smarter or more hard-working. Just because I was born a Canadian citizen, rather than being born a black African in beautiful, war-torn Congo.
To be honest, I was a little annoyed as the minutes ticked by to almost 5:30. I am volunteering my precious time, I could have been at the middle school Christmas dinner, and only one guy is here. We went over some English questions Jacques had, and then just as I was about to say, "Well, then, Merry Christmas, I guess I'll get going" another Congolese refugee, Pauline, who happened to be hanging around the center joined in and the three of us started talking.
I've never met Pauline before, so we exchanged the usual questions. Turns out he's a French teacher at an international school, and so he and Jacques enjoyed helping me with my pathetic French. Then he asked in French if I was a Christian, and I answered that I was.
We laughed about the difference between Congolese and mzungu churches, how mzungus only dance with their necks and jump around. I told them that when I went to the Congolese church I actually wondered if the children in the congregation had practiced their dancing during the week! Turns out Pauline and Jacques are both big fans of Hillsong, and Pauline started strumming a Hillsong song on the guitar while Jacques tapped a beat on the table.
Then Pauline played a song he had written, closing his eyes and singing in French. He told me that the words were about finding consolation in the Bible, and how if he serves the Lord he will never be -- what's the English word -- embarrassed?
Over the past few months I've never asked my students a whole lot about their pasts, but the conversation opened up about how they ended up in Kampala. How Pauline had thought his whole family was dead, saw no hope at the end of the tunnel -- and then last year heard that 9 family members had arrived at a refugee camp and aid workers had connected them. They talked about what life is like in a refugee camp, and how even though all your needs are met life is still difficult. Both would rather be working in the city, providing for themselves and having more freedom.
He got a far away look in his eye that I'd seen before when talking to refugees, a quick flash of pain and vivid memories. "They say my mother and sister were kidnapped, they do not know where they are," he said calmly. "I believe and I pray that one day I will also see them again."
I was amazed at Pauline's joy and spirit of thankfulness. "A year ago, I could not see any hope. But I have found hope in God. And I thank God that I found the job as a French teacher -- I didn't even know any English at the time! -- and now I can live and work, and I am able to feed my family. God has been very good."
We talked about how God can bless us, but how even when bad things happen it doesn't mean God's love has been pulled out from under us. We live in a broken world tainted by sin, and Christmas is a remembrance of God's response to our suffering -- He entered into it and experience it alongside of us and made a way for us to have eternal hope.
On the boda ride home I enjoyed the cool evening air. Kerosene lamps were winking against the darkness, chapatti stands and chip vendors and pedestrians were crowding the sides of the road. I thought about Jacques and the other men, and wished I had jobs I could give them. I thought about my own foolish anxiety, tossing and turning and worrying, when I have had such a good life. I thought about Pauline's smile and glow of joy, about the unique beauty found in faith that has sprung from such hardship.
This morning in my devotions I read Acts 2:28, quoting the Psalms: "You have shown me the way of life, and You will fill me with the joy of your presence."
I need to learn from Pauline. I need to find my joy in the presence of God, just spend time and rest in His love, knowing that nothing can separate me from it. And I thanked God for my conversation with Jacques and Pauline, for a moment that I had almost missed.
I have been volunteering at a refugee center every Friday since September. I leave school, go home and plan a basic lesson outline, hop on a boda and arrive at the center to have class from 5 to 7. There's usually about 8 or 10 Congolese men there, although there is one spunky older lady named Charlotte as well. Almost all young men, almost all unemployed. Trying to learn English to navigate life in Uganda, trying to build dreams on the sand that is shifting politics, shifting statuses, and a staggering unemployment rate.
Tonight was our last class. I didn't realize, but the Heritage middle school youth group Christmas dinner was the same night. I had had to cancel the English class the week before so that I could help with the Heritage Christmas concert, so I really did not want to cancel again. I decided to go teach English, figuring I'd return in time to catch the end of the Christmas dinner event. I hopped on a boda and arrived, as usual, shortly before 5pm.
Somewhere along the way, communication must have gone wrong due to the previous week being cancelled. One student showed up: Jacques, a young Congolese guy who arrived in Uganda last January.
I sat down, ate the apple I had grabbed as my dinner, waited. Chatted with Jacques, who was a little quieter than usual. I asked if something was wrong, but he said it was just the fact that he was still recovering from malaria.
I didn't say anything more, but I had sensed his optimism beginning to wane over the last few weeks. Jacques has such a great attitude. He shows up on time for every English class. Every week he sets up the board and markers for me, every week he wipes down the board and puts everything away for me, jumps up to tuck in all the chairs. He's trying to develop himself, trying to find some way to make himself marketable. He's working at his English in my class and in another class during the day. He's teaching himself guitar. He took a baking class at the center where he learned how to bake cakes and muffins. He took a business class. He took a class on social media and computer literacy. A few weeks ago he had a book he had gotten from a friend of his who is moving to Canada, a book preparing refugees to move there, providing information about cultural norms and logistics. He was devouring the book, quizzing me about Canadian culture.
Like every other man who attends the class, Jacques can probably only fantasize about getting a visa to Canada or the US. A few weeks ago Mbale, another student, was telling me about a lottery he had entered to try to get an American visa. (After a quick Google search it appears that this is a real thing - the Diversity Visa Lottery) He was nervously excited about the chance of getting the visa, but didn't say anything the next week when he had not been selected. And I sit, little white girl across the table, with an iPhone in my bag and a million opportunities, not because I am smarter or more hard-working. Just because I was born a Canadian citizen, rather than being born a black African in beautiful, war-torn Congo.
To be honest, I was a little annoyed as the minutes ticked by to almost 5:30. I am volunteering my precious time, I could have been at the middle school Christmas dinner, and only one guy is here. We went over some English questions Jacques had, and then just as I was about to say, "Well, then, Merry Christmas, I guess I'll get going" another Congolese refugee, Pauline, who happened to be hanging around the center joined in and the three of us started talking.
I've never met Pauline before, so we exchanged the usual questions. Turns out he's a French teacher at an international school, and so he and Jacques enjoyed helping me with my pathetic French. Then he asked in French if I was a Christian, and I answered that I was.
We laughed about the difference between Congolese and mzungu churches, how mzungus only dance with their necks and jump around. I told them that when I went to the Congolese church I actually wondered if the children in the congregation had practiced their dancing during the week! Turns out Pauline and Jacques are both big fans of Hillsong, and Pauline started strumming a Hillsong song on the guitar while Jacques tapped a beat on the table.
Then Pauline played a song he had written, closing his eyes and singing in French. He told me that the words were about finding consolation in the Bible, and how if he serves the Lord he will never be -- what's the English word -- embarrassed?
Over the past few months I've never asked my students a whole lot about their pasts, but the conversation opened up about how they ended up in Kampala. How Pauline had thought his whole family was dead, saw no hope at the end of the tunnel -- and then last year heard that 9 family members had arrived at a refugee camp and aid workers had connected them. They talked about what life is like in a refugee camp, and how even though all your needs are met life is still difficult. Both would rather be working in the city, providing for themselves and having more freedom.
He got a far away look in his eye that I'd seen before when talking to refugees, a quick flash of pain and vivid memories. "They say my mother and sister were kidnapped, they do not know where they are," he said calmly. "I believe and I pray that one day I will also see them again."
I was amazed at Pauline's joy and spirit of thankfulness. "A year ago, I could not see any hope. But I have found hope in God. And I thank God that I found the job as a French teacher -- I didn't even know any English at the time! -- and now I can live and work, and I am able to feed my family. God has been very good."
 |
| Jacques practicing the guitar at the refugee center |
On the boda ride home I enjoyed the cool evening air. Kerosene lamps were winking against the darkness, chapatti stands and chip vendors and pedestrians were crowding the sides of the road. I thought about Jacques and the other men, and wished I had jobs I could give them. I thought about my own foolish anxiety, tossing and turning and worrying, when I have had such a good life. I thought about Pauline's smile and glow of joy, about the unique beauty found in faith that has sprung from such hardship.
This morning in my devotions I read Acts 2:28, quoting the Psalms: "You have shown me the way of life, and You will fill me with the joy of your presence."
I need to learn from Pauline. I need to find my joy in the presence of God, just spend time and rest in His love, knowing that nothing can separate me from it. And I thanked God for my conversation with Jacques and Pauline, for a moment that I had almost missed.
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