Called By a New Name

There was a time in June when I met with a group of amazingly godly Maasai women. These women had been trained previously by other Kenyan women in biblical storytelling, and I was there to follow up with the women and hear their stories. I have written previously about the experience here. It was humbling and beautiful and inspiring and sad and challenging and so much more, all at the same time. These women toil, often in places where there are no other Christians. They alone are the pillars of the Church, carrying the torch of salvation to regions who have not yet seen the Light yet.

When our session came to a close, the ladies were milling around, chatting and gabbing as only women can, (that doesn’t change from culture to culture) when it was asked if I had been given a Maasai name. When I answered an honest, “No,” it was decided that today was the day that I would be called by a new name.

And so they stood and discussed for a moment, and then announced.

Nassirian, meaning “Woman of Peace.”

At first I was taken aback, humbled, embarrassed.

In my head, I heard this: “It’s only because they don’t know you. If they knew you better, they’d take it back. Your life is full of turmoil, strife. There is no peace in you about anything.”

And yet the name was spoken, and in all grace, I received it, holding back the welling up in my eyes for fear that they might be misunderstood. My heart swelled, suddenly blocking my throat, making it difficult to swallow, as it thumped louder and stronger there.

I smiled humbly. “Thank you for that name. I am greatly honored. I will treasure it for life.”

And the conversation quickly moved on to name others. But me, I was stuck there. My world paused. No one knew it but me. They will never know how that one moment in time will forever be memorialized in my heart. It will forever be a stone that I carry with me, just as the Israelites carried a stone up out of the Jordan River.

Thus far has the Lord brought me, and I have this stone to show for it. Nassirian.

One other name was given, and then the rain began to fall. Gently, softly, big cleansing drops pouring forth from Heaven.

He has heard the name. Nassirian. Woman of Peace.

He ordained the name, and though I am not yet who He has created me to be, He is doing a new thing, and new Name has been given, so that I too know where He is taking me.

The water of Heaven baptized my hair, running a stream down my cheeks, dripping off the end of my nose. It has been washed. I have been washed, and He is doing a new thing.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God.

I have read it often. I have pondered what it would be like to be called a peacemaker, and not in the sense of pleasing man, but in the sense of embodying grace and mercy, letting gentleness be evident to all. I can see her, the woman who God is calling out. I can almost touch her, and on good days, I feel my heart consumed by her. She is gentle in tone. She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue. She demonstrates mercy to all other fellow sojourners, knowing that not one of us has yet reached our destination. Her hurts have been many, her bruises in various stages of healing. Because she knows the pain of mankind, and knows the comfort of the Comforter, she is able to offer comfort to all others in her path. A safe place to land.

I can see her.

And on quiet, dark mornings, when I beat the sun and children in rising, and I greet my Savior with crusty eyes, bare feet, opens hands, and moldable heart, He welcomes her to the day, this woman of peace.

He calls me by a new name. And I will ever praise Him.

Today I am linked up to ShoutLaughLove, as we journey to joy together.

A Life of Service

Serving others is one of the great hallmarks of the Christian life. But before it can be fully embraced and incorporated into life, it is first important to understand whom it is that we serve, what it is that we serve, and to what end. Why do we do what we do? Otherwise it can be easy to lose focus, become distracted and knocked off course. Scripture says that where there is no vision, the people will perish, and so let us contend for the faith, get ahold of the vision of service, and walk in it. 

This is a bumper sticker that is produced and sold by an organization called The American Humanist Association. This is what their website says about them:

We strive to bring about a progressive society where being “good without god” is an accepted way to live life. We are accomplishing this through our defense of civil liberties and secular governance, by our outreach to the growing number of people without religious belief or preference, and through a continued refinement and advancement of the humanist worldview.

Bordered on one side by the transcendental views of traditional religions and mythologies and on the other by atheism and secularism, the values we hold are grounded in the philosophy of the Enlightenment, informed by scientific knowledge, and driven by a desire to meet the needs of people in the here and now.

We count humanists and other nontheists as the core of our movement but are always willing to work with friends and allies on issues of common concern.  The positions we hold and the actions we take are not simply for our own benefit, but for the betterment of all of society.

         

This organization argues that people are fundamentally good in and of themselves and can essentially work together for the betterment of society by their own good intentions. There are several problems with this, though:

1. People are not fundamentally good in and of themselves. Genesis 6:5 says, “The Lord saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time.” If this is what the Creator sees of us, how can we possibly think that we can do good all by ourselves?

2. Good is relative. The line of good is pushed and swayed by whatever is acceptable by culture for that time period. The definition is based on what the majority says. Scripture says that there is a way that seems right to man, but in the end it leads to death. Even the AHA website says that their worldview is continually being refined and advanced. If we are not basing our directions, our decisions, and our definitions on what Scripture has laid out for us, how will they stand against the shifting sands of time?

I am currently reading the Gayle Haggard’s book called, “Why I Stayed.” For those who don’t know the story, her husband is Ted Haggard. Up until the end of 2006, he was the senior pastor of a 14,000-member mega-church in Colorado Springs. In November of 2006, it was discovered that he had fallen into great sin, including sexual immorality, infidelity, and illegal drug use. The fall of a godly man such as Ted Haggard is overwhelmingly tragic, but what really breaks my heart, was the church’s response to it all.

There was a board of overseers in place to hold him accountable, which is good and biblical. But it strayed from biblical when he was not only removed from leadership (which was called for), but he was also removed from the fellowship of the church. He was essentially put into exile and not allowed to be a part of the body of Christ.

Gayle Haggard writes in her book that she kept waiting for the Church to show forgiveness, to show grace. She kept waiting for the body of Christ to welcome them back into the fellowship, based on Scripture. She was looking at Paul’s letter to the Church at Corinth, when he wrote about the church’s need to welcome back in a previously unrepentant sinner.

Paul wrote, “The punishment inflicted on him by the majority is sufficient for him. Now instead, you ought to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow. I urge you, therefore, to reaffirm your love for him.”

She was looking for the church to step into role, and yet they didn’t. There was no one among them who was willing to step up and shout out, “Wait a minute! What we are doing does not line up with Scripture!”

See, there is a way that seems right to man, but in the end it leads to death. Good is relative. The Word of God is not. We cannot rely on our own goodness to serve others, which leads us to the third point.

3. Being good to others without the shadow of the cross in your life will always place self first. It looks like this: I’ll take care of me and my family first and then from whatever I have left over, I’ll serve others. From whatever money, time and energy I have left over at the end of my crazy days, I’ll serve others.”

But that wasn’t the way of Christ. Christ never placed himself first, even though He had every reason in the world to do so. Even in His darkest hour, He still humbled himself to say, “Not my will, but your will be done.” Christ teaches us sacrifice. This is what separates followers of Christ from anyone else in the world. He teaches us to put others first, and our own needs second.

As wives and mothers of young children, I know it already feels like we put everyone else before ourselves. We take care of our husbands and our children to the point of exhaustion.

I clothe the naked every morning as my little ones jump out of their pajamas and run around the house in nothing more than the beautiful skin God gave them. I feed the hungry several times a day as tiny mouths open wide like baby birds waiting for their mouths to be filled.

But is that really what Christ was talking about? Are we really serving the least of these of brothers of His? Who are the least of these?

As a mom, I look at my three angels and am overwhelmed at their potential in this life. What will God do with them? What is His calling for them?  What is my vision for my children? Do I want them to be good, church-going kids who turn into responsible citizens, or do I want them to be world changers, radically in love with Jesus? And just as the King of kings changed the world by sacrificing everything, I want to model for my children what that looks like.

So what does that look like?

More tomorrow to come...

A Long Night's Journey Into Day

**These were the words that were born out of my healing experience in South Africa. If you are just coming in, the story started back here.**

A Long Night’s Journey Into Day

It’s been a long night’s journey into day and my feet are growing weary from the travel. Just on the horizon a fire grows brighter, but I’ve traveled so long in darkness that my body recoils from the light. As much as the flesh draws back, though, the heart pushes on closer to the rays of sunshine coming up over the land. This journey began long ago, long before my feet ever touched the ground, but this very day was known in all its splendor and detail to the One who pieced me together. The sun is now coming up.

The night was so long as I ran from sun’s outstretched rays. Around the world I went just to outrun that fire in the sky that consumes all darkness, revealing what is hidden and dragging out into the open that which is well concealed. Through turning my back on God, through the rape, through the drugs and alcohol, through the hatred and rage, through the violence and lawlessness that became normal life, watch me run. “This is the verdict: light has come into the world, but men loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil¹.”

But running without rest leaves the soul tired and dry, cracked on the heels, blistered on the toes, and parched at the lips. The heart resents the consistently fast pace and the body wearies of the pounding. It all begins to fall apart.

There is no depth too deep that God’s arms cannot reach you.

There is just no depth too deep.

“In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness but the darkness has not understood it².” What I could not understand was the mercy that was being offered to me. What I could not understand was the forgiveness being given to me. What I could not understand was how a King could take my punishment upon himself. What I could not understand was a love so unconditional that even the darkness within me was covered by the blood He shed. What I could not understand was that no matter how far or how fast I ran, the Light was still waiting to shine on the horizon of my heart.

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me, and the light become night around me,’ even the darkness will not be dark to you, the night will shine like day, for darkness is as light to you³.”

So the running stops, and in the wee hours of the morning, the light of the Almighty begins to pierce the bitter obscurity that had become my existence. One by one, my sin, my hurt, my brokenness, my rage, my violence, my irreverence, and my hatred began to take shape, their forms revealed slowly by the long-awaited day. Just as sunshine pours through the tiny window of an unlit prison cell, revealing the cobwebs and dust of a stagnant, stale life, so the Light began to illuminate my life, causing my eyes to squint and turn away, and my heart to break for all the atrocities it harbored for so long.

Africa surrounds me now,

where the rays of the mighty fire dance on the mountains just over the waters of the deep blue.

I am the acacia tree that sways as the Spirit blows.

I am the lion who stretches out in the warm air.

I am the hospitality that was so generously given to God’s servants.

I am the colors woven into the old woman’s dress.

I am the church bell chiming to the people.

I am the drum beating to the sound of a new life.

I am the rock crying out in the silence.

I am the child lifting her hands up to her daddy to be held.

I am the broken man sitting in the cold prison cell.

I am the babe living with the fatal disease.

I am the prostitute weeping at the feet of the great Teacher.

I am the dirty kid begging in the streets for a piece of bread.

I am the guitar that belts out melodies of thanksgiving and

I am the voice that cannot sing loud enough.

I am the mountain that can be moved by His mere voice.

I am the imperfect broken vessel that is being used by the Perfect Creator,

and I am the immovable cold prison walls that do not give way.

I am a small reflection of the immeasurable grace

that was so easily poured out to me.

I am the tear that rolls down the cheek of the hardened criminal.

I am the hardened criminal.

I am the forgiveness offered to the rapist behind bars,

and I am the victim turned survivor of that very rape.

I am a picture of all that is wrong, and I am picture of all that is right.

Africa surrounds me and has enveloped my heart.

The incredible sun now hangs just above the mountains that dump into the oceans where my sin is buried. The Light now touches all that was once hidden, the cobwebs are torn down, the dust is brushed off, and what was once stagnant and stale is being moved out, stirred up, and stretched beyond all comfort for the glory of God. “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made His light to shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ⁴.” So it has been a long night’s journey into day, and it will now be a long day’s journey Home.

¹ John 3:19; ² John 1:4-5; ³ Psalm 139:7-12; ⁴ 2 Corinthians 4:6

A Work Has Just Begun

As I sat there in the dark that night, debating whether or not to go back the next day, a few things were revealed in my heart. Somehow, I thought that once I became a Christian, my heart would be free from the things of the past. I don't know where I got that notion. Maybe it was the "health and wealth" gospel: Come to Jesus and life will be grand! But as I sat there arguing with God about returning to prison the next day, I realized that my heart was so full of anger and hatred that I could barely see straight. Oh, how painful that conversation was, how enlightening and revealing that conversation was. And how far reaching my anger had become.

You see, I had been hurt, violated in the highest form. And the ramifications of it all nearly ruined my life entirely. And I had heard about forgiving those who persecute you, blah blah blah. But in the deep, dark recesses of my heart, I harbored such bitterness and hatred for the men who had so horribly violated me that forgiveness was not an option.

I wanted an apology. Nay, I wanted them to beg for forgiveness of me. I wanted to see those scumbags hit their knees before me and beg to be released from this evil that they had done. Somehow, in all of this, I thought I deserved that. To be able to have that sort of control over them, after the control that they had over my life for so long, seemed like a reasonable craving. I wanted them to know and experience the destruction they caused and the depth of the evil they did. My heart was black with anger.

And the pathetic truth of it all was that they probably never gave another thought to me again after that night. It rotted me from the inside out, and they went on gleefully with their lives. The crime took place in Ecuador, South America, so the odds of me ever running into these people again, ever in my life, were absolutely slim to none, at best. It was a lost cause of hatred leading to my own destruction. And I stewed in it.

And yet God remained: "Go back. A work has just begun."

And so the night passed, and my puffy, tear-stained eyes opened to welcome a new day. I prayed throughout the morning, questioning myself and questioning God. And in the end, I loaded up in the van with the rest of my team, and headed back to prison. As large group time dispersed and folks were congregating into their small groups, I found myself surrounded by the same group of men who had barraged me with questions the day before. I braced myself for the worst, just hoping to not cry and not vomit. I had high hopes indeed.

The men were sitting in a half circle in front of me, with my chair in the center facing them. The man sitting dead center, directly in front of me scared the hell out of me. He was of average height, his muscular arms showing through the dirty white t-shirt he wore. His distinguishing features were his tattoos. He had a small guillotine tattooed in the middle of his forehead and large capital letters RIP tattooed across the front of his neck. His very presence terrified me, leaving me uncomfortable of where to even land my eyes. It was this man who spoke first.

"I am serving a life sentence for the rape and murder of my girlfriend."

Wow. Seriously? That's what we're going to start with? Seriously...

And Then It Got Real...Scary

**Continued from yesterday's post**

Coasting on the wave of having seen a soul come to glory only lasted a short while, as God began to whisper gently to my heart. His whisper is so gentle, though the message itself is not always so soft.

"Tell your story."

I'm sorry, what? Maybe You have forgotten where we are, and what I've been through (because You are so forgetful, right?). I argued with God, because that's productive and effective. I was sure that He was wrong, or maybe I just heard Him wrong. But He continued to press.

"Tell your story."

After surrendering to the fact that God's perseverance is much stronger than my own, and with great fear and trembling, I consented to share my testimony with the large group of prisoners. Now, this wasn't just a sweet story about growing up in church and coming to a realization that I needed a Savior. Nope. My story is a bit different. It's laced with a rape when I was 18, which led to years of alcoholism and various drug addictions. If it was out there and could numb my pain, I gave it a go, and then some, until I was completely incapable of being sober and absolutely loathed who I had become. Addictions like that will lead a person to do things that she never thought she would ever even consider, let alone be capable of doing. And yet she did them. I did them. Yep, this was the story that I got to share with that large group of prisoners, locked up for every crime under the sun, including what I had done, and what had been done to me.

When the large group time finished and everyone dispersed into their small groups, my group of one became a group of 8 men, unknown to me up to that point. They had questions for me. They had questions about how I felt about being raped. WHAT? Seriously? And over the course of the conversation that ensued, I discovered that every single one of them had been incarcerated for rape. They had been the cause of such deep pain and humiliation to someone else. They had questions, and so they asked, and I did my best to not vomit on them, or melt down in a puddle of tears.

By the time I left that day, I was pretty sure that I couldn't return. I was pretty sure that God had made a mistake, or that I had misunderstood Him and I had made a tremendous mistake. How could I have been so transparent? How could I have been so naive as to tell my story? I was so angry, so disgusted by what I had just experienced. I felt like all that I had buried for years under alcohol, drugs, and then church life, had just been resurfaced and was laid bare for all the world to see. All my wounds, all my hurts, all my disappointments and failures had just been violently ripped open into a gaping wound for these people, these prisoners, these criminals to see.

As I sat weeping on the floor that night, I could hear that whisper yet again.

"Go back."

Hmmm, maybe You missed what happened today. Maybe you missed the questions they were asking me. Maybe You missed the pain I was in at this moment. Maybe you missed the uncontrollable tears that have been pouring down for the past several hours. I think that I will not be going back.

"Go back. My work has just begun."

Oh, mercy. Just begun, really? That means it could get a lot worse before it gets any better.

On some level, it did get worse. But on other levels, it got so much better. Forgiveness was about to happen....

Once Again Aware of My Own Brokenness

There are few sights as painfully ugly as my own brokenness. There are few sights that disgust and pain my heart like my own depravity. Tonight I came face to face with it, and all I could say, over and over again, was "forgive me, Jesus."

You see, in my heart, I have boasted about all that we and our children are/have been exposed to. We serve people from many different nations and backgrounds. We engage in various activities that require sacrifice and humility. We have slept on a mat under the massive African sky, and shared a mattress on the floor with the whole family in a small room in a muslim sheik's home. Both of my older girls have had malaria and have recovered just fine from it. I have chalked it all up to the cost we pay to sell ourselves for the sake of the cross, and, unknowingly, it has become an incredible source of pride that is so evil and so divisive. Because in my heart, I had become a "better" Christian than some of those others.

Oh how heart-breaking is the depth of my depravity.

I had inwardly boasted about being willing to take my children to far-out bush villages of Africa, sure that it would make God so proud of me, His daughter. I found great pleasure in myself in being willing to sit with people of other cultures to try to help them out of their broken situations.

Oh how disgusting is the depth of my brokenness.

I thought in my heart that there was no Nineveh that I was not willing to go to, as I had already been to so many. I thought for sure that I was nothing like Jonah, who fled from the Lord when asked to go to a people whom he despised to preach a message of salvation and redemption. I wasn't fleeing from the Lord; I was going. I have gone, over and over again.

And then tonight, I met Angel and she wanted to hold my baby girl.

Hello, Nineveh.

Her sun-dried hands were stained with the smokey odor of an ashtray, long overdue to be cleaned, yellow nails filthy with the toils of street life. Her teeth, brown and broken, spoke of a life riddled with meth and alcohol abuse for far too many years. Her speech was slurred and difficult to understand at times, as one who has had one too many drinks for one too many years, a little slower to make sense of things.

She's loud and rough, looking worn out and brittle. As she reached out for my precious Hannah, all I could think about was how dirty she was, and how I absolutely did not want her to touch my baby girl.

Oh how I hate the depth of my brokenness!

I wasn't there to pass my baby around so the homeless folks could love on her. I was simply there to puts some plates of food on the table before them, fill up their cups with juice, and go home feeling accomplished, another good Christian deed done. But as she reached out to touch my baby, I felt my body physically cringe as my left foot took a small step back. Whoa now. My space is being encroached upon.

Sigh. Forgive me Father. How it must have broken Your heart to see me treat my sister, Your daughter, in such a disgraceful manner. Forgive me.

I tried to rationalize in my mind that Angel wouldn't have known what I was thinking, and I smiled and played along with the conversation so as to not make her feel uncomfortable. So she couldn't have known. Surely she didn't see me tighten up and back away.

Who am I kidding? The dirty old drunk in a half-stupor on the other side of the room saw me stiffen up. A person knows when they are being shut out.

Oh how ashamed I feel. I wasn't there to serve and love anyone. I was there to boost my own pride, and in the meantime, I have dehumanized someone created in the same image of God as me.

I guarantee you it would be easy for me to justify this one. I was a pediatric ICU nurse for years and there are some nasty bugs out there. I was only trying to protect my little one from being exposed to some potentially harmful things. It's not good for her to be so close to 3rd hand smoke like the thick stench that was clinging to Angel's everything. And who knows what all she is carrying around on that dirt-stained skin and nails. I was only trying to protect Hannah. That's my job as her mother.

Wrong. That's not my job. I can no more protect Hannah from the adversities of this world than I could protect her older sisters from getting malaria in Kenya and Ghana. I can no more protect her than I can cause the rain to fall or the sun to set. It's not my job to protect her, but it sure is a nice scapegoat for me to hide behind as her mommy. It is my job to teach her to love, worship and trust God. It is my job to demonstrate to her what it looks like to show up in fullness of heart and love others because God first loved me. It is my job to be an Ambassador of Christ, because for most people, I am the only Bible they will ever read. It is my job to teach them to give away their lives for the sake of the cross. But how can I teach that if I am not living it out? How is it possible for me to love and worship a homeless man on Sunday mornings, and then turn my back on the homeless the rest of the week? What am I teaching my children then?

Forgive me Father for the depth of my depravity. Forgive me for making myself and my comfort more important than the winning of souls and loving of Your children. Forgive me for not serving You, but rather boosting my own foolish pride. Forgive me for making service more about getting a project done than building a relationship with my brothers and sisters. Forgive me for not recognizing Your image in her. Forgive me for the incredible depth of my depravity, and thank you so much for showing it to me.

There are few sights as painfully ugly as my own brokenness. Tonight I saw it face to face. And tonight I receive the mercy of an incredibly patient and merciful God.