The Parisian Spirit

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I went to Paris expecting beautiful art, food, and history.  Of course, I wasn’t disappointed; Paris is a magical city and I love it.  I hope my visit was the first of many.

What I didn’t expect was a spiritual experience.  Everything I’ve read and heard prepared me for churches and cathedrals that were nothing more than museums. I know that statistically speaking Europe is more post-Christian than the US.  But many of the churches Jenny and I entered were far more than beautiful monuments to the past.  They may have been full of dead men’s bones (literally) but there was no denying the life there.

The architecture of a cathedral does its work well.  Entering from the bright and noisy streets, the churches are dark and cool and quiet. The church leaders clearly take maintaining a sense of separateness seriously even when they sometimes resort to having attendants whisper ‘Shhhh!’ like grumpy librarians.  But I got the feeling it’s because they know their churches are more than landmarks to check off from a travel guide.  The good news is that the reminders turn out to be mostly superfluous; the experience of entering such ancient places of worship naturally evoked a sense of reverence from most.

Everything seems to whisper, ‘holy’ as you enter.  The stained glass transforms sunlight into breathtaking colors and patterns.  The soaring walls invite your gaze up.  The metaphor is simple and it works—thoughts that were focused on tired feet or the next delicious meal or problems from home seem to turn heavenward of their own accord.  The idea of generations of worshippers over countless centuries combined with a sense of God’s Spirit brought me to tears in nearly every church we entered.  Talk about a cloud of witnesses.  I felt like I could almost touch them.

And the people weren’t simply there to either curate/maintain or tour a historical site.  In every single church, we encountered genuine worshippers.  They had to tune out picture snapping tourists like me.  Sadly, they sometimes had to navigate around keepsake vending machines that pressed pennies into likenesses of the church (who decided those were ok?!).  And at the Sacre Coeur, they had to run the gauntlet of tourist shops, street performers, overflowing trash cans, and guys aggressively trying to sell woven bracelets or bottles of Heineken.  But the sacred somehow peacefully lived among the daily.

On Palm Sunday, the three men who entered the Eglise Saint Germain des Prés (the oldest church in Paris) with me held their branches and knelt in worship as they passed the threshold.  There was something really right about the ceremony of it.  It made me feel kind of homesick.  I loved that for the rest of the day, I passed people in cafes or soaking up the sun parks whose bundle of branches signified they’d been to worship that morning.  In that same church, a very old woman—in her 80s I’d guess—sat praying before a statue of Jesus holding rosary beads for the entire time I was there.  I found myself wishing I could sit at her feet and soak up her wisdom.  If only I spoke French.  And in every church it was like this.  Visitors swirled around people who were there to pray or serve.  Behind glass enclosed meeting rooms, priests counseled parishioners—latticed confession booths gathered dust in the corners or had been removed.  Posters announced service and mission projects both locally and abroad.  And others encouraged locals to gather in community. Maybe things were different because we were there during the Lent season.  Whatever the reason, I had the sense I was connecting with something missing.

These were the last things I expected—signs of living, breathing places of worship.  And all in churches and cathedrals built by who knows how many people working together often over hundreds of years.  It was overwhelming.  Can you imagine giving the best of your life’s energy to create something you’d never enjoy?

I left Paris with a deep sense of thanksgiving for generations that gave more than I can imagine to preserve the faith for me and every worshipper I know.  I am glad God called them and I’m more convinced than ever that I want to learn from the faith practices of the past rather than reject them unexamined.  I think this experience was one more way God is underscoring the lesson in humility and teachability he’s been guiding me in.  It makes me blush to think that I actually believed I didn’t need anything much beyond my Bible and my own discernment to figure out how to live a life for God, live in community, and guide a church in ways that honored him.  How arrogant to think I didn’t have much to learn from those who had gone before me.  That isn’t Christian theology but it is very American thinking.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying I want to undo the reformation (at least not most of it).  But I am left more committed than ever to learn as much as I can from those who went before me.  And I know that’s a good thing.

Check out an iphone video of some beautiful church music here.

[PS I have lots more to tell you about Paris.  Stuff like a champagne tour led by a guy named Trong, dancing in a WWII jazz club in a cave, jumping out of a metro car and traipsing through a dirty tunnel back to the station, and frites—lots and lots of frites.]

A Belated Goodbye

In early 2003, Kyle and I met with the leadership of a new church.  We talked with them about our mutual love for Jesus and convictions about what a local body of Christ should be.  Soon after that night, we were thrilled to begin pouring into The Austin Stone.  Kyle began serving as an elder, I was teaching, mentoring, and working on the website, and Torey was graciously filling the role of the only ‘youth’ in the church with as much of the requisite middle school awkwardness as she could manage.  We had a lot of fun especially in those crazy earliest days.

There are many things to love about The Stone.  The worship draws people to honor Christ.  The Word is passionately preached and a sincere desire to faithfully convey its teachings is evident.  People are being sent to proclaim the Gospel all over the world.  Others are reaching out to the city by mentoring, serving, and living among the needy.  We were honored to be a part of what God was doing during our time there and know His work continues in our absence.

All of us who were part of the foundation of The Stone wanted God to form a different kind of church through us.  We were committed to things like all believers being equipped and empowered to use their gifts, to being a church planting church, to having elders as shepherds rather than being staff led, and to living in community because we saw these things in the Scriptures.  We also valued plurality in leadership and shared servanthood among staff and laity, men and women, married and unmarried, young and old, seminary trained and self-taught.  We wanted God to build a church that looked more like a family. Over the years, we realized that while everyone agreed on these values, we had a very different vision of what the result should look like.  And we also saw some of those values drift and be replaced by other goals in the face of the very rapid growth that God allowed.  Some of this drift was necessary and helpful and some has been less so.

It is hard to believe it was two years ago that Kyle resigned from service on our family’s behalf.  It was a decision made with heavy hearts but with confidence and peace that it was the right thing to do.  But one thing that has always saddened me is that I didn’t have an opportunity to say goodbye myself to the many people I loved and served alongside during our time at The Stone. I have had a few years now to think and pray and process while living through the season of storms God has allowed.  And while I have more peace and a little more understanding, that sadness remains.

And that’s why I’m writing–to extend a belated and heartfelt farewell.  Please know that my family and I loved you all as well as we could but certainly not as well as was possible.  Speaking for myself, I know I have a lot of growing left to do.  There are many things I would do differently if I could go back in time with more grace and maturity and truth.

I bless my brothers and sisters at the Austin Stone and pray that God will move in greater and deeper ways within you and among the Body of Christ at large in this city. I pray that we will all be able to echo Paul’s encouragement to the Philippians to one another, “Only conduct yourselves in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ, so that whether I come and see you or remain absent, I will hear of you that you are standing firm in one spirit, with one mind striving together for the faith of the gospel…” (Philippians 1:27).

With great love,
terra

Being In India

India is stark contrast. New Delhi is magical and peaceful and funny and deeply sad all at the same time. I loved it and I couldn’t wait to leave.

I’ve never seen anything like it but it was familiar.  My friend Robyn who spent several years as principal of a school in the Dominican Republic said it well: poverty looks the same wherever it is.  There are similar ingenious ways of making things work when you can’t buy something new.  There are similar smells where running water and garbage collection systems are rare extravagances.  Where electricity for things like refrigerating food is a luxury.

Ash from garbage fires covered every surface and left the air with a constant haze.  Standing outside one of the Good Samaritan campuses (Madanpur Khadar), there were two huge smoke stacks pumping more pollution into the air every day.  We learned near the end of the week it was smoke from a gas factory.  Most floors are tile for the very practical purpose of allowing the constantly accumulating dust and dirt to be more easily swept clean.  There were stray dogs with mournful eyes and beggars with blank ones everywhere.

And yet India is a wonderful place.  The color and life are hauntingly beautiful–the flowers and fabrics are gorgeous and the food is spicy and interesting and delicious.  The people are lovely.  Most have honey colored skin, dark eyes, and glossy hair.  I love their manner of greeting with its small bow and hands clasped in prayer.  I love the meaning behind Namaste—the divine in me honors the divine in you.  I love the respect of the other and the hint of understanding that we are all made in God’s image contained in that simple word.  Such a great sentiment, isn’t it?  What if, instead of a curt ‘hey,’ we westerners had such a ubiquitous way of remembering every single person we encounter is a precious and eternal being?  Of course, Indians don’t seem to have an easier time actually living out that understanding than we do.

It is heartbreakingly understandable that some are mistrustful or angered at the sight of Westerners like me parading through their poor communities.  I wish I could tell them in perfect Hindi, “It’s ok.  We’re not like the rest.”  And I hope to God it’s true.  I hope we are not there—I hope I am not there—to do ‘poverty tourism’ or put a spiritual or philanthropic stamp on a narcissistic desire to see new places and feel better about our own lives.

It was such a joy to be serving with a part of the Body of Christ again after being disconnected for so long.  I had the chance to pray with Laura and others over a woman oppressed by a demon.  Later that week, she found us to tell us she’d eaten and slept well for the first time in ages.  I got to tell a little of my story to a group of staff at the school as they sat neatly separated by gender.  At the invitation of the school’s founder, I got to tell students and parents (separately) about the importance of waiting until they have finished growing and completed their education to get married and begin having children.  I got to tell them about how daughters are just as valuable as sons.  I got to tell parents about how important it is to talk with their kids about sex and intimacy and marriage.  If you know me I hope you’re smiling.  I was actually asked to talk with them about these things by people who had no idea how passionate I am about health and wholeness in these areas.  God is generous.  Best of all, I got to see others use their gifts and talents and skills.  There is such beauty in watching people show love and compassion in the unique ways they are meant to do.

I am unspeakably grateful I got to be there.  I am glad to see the hope and future being offered to kids like Asha and Nikhil and Ashish through Auntie’s legacy.  It was a joy to witness and I look forward to doing my part to see it continue.  In the meantime, I hope to keep learning the lessons India and the people of the Good Samaritan School have to offer me.

Lenten Prayer

I downloaded an lenten devotional to my phone.  It is full of prayers and scriptures for every day of lent.  It has been such a great practice for me.  Today’s prayer was especially truth-filled and apt.  I’ve prayed it several times already today and wanted to share it with you:

“Lord, you have told us to love our enemies and to pray for our persecutors, as Christ prayed for his tormentors from the cross.  And so we dare to pray:

Lord, have mercy.

Give peace to those who have destroyed our peace…

Grant love to those who have refused us love…

Protect from injury those who have done us injury…

Grant success to those who have competed with us to our loss…

Give prosperity to those who have taken what was ours….

You know, O Lord, how hard we find it to forgive those who have offended us.  Yet you ask us to forgive without restrictions.  Make us capable, Lord, of the love you ask of us, for alone we cannot do what you have asked.  Help us through Christ our Lord.  Amen.”

Meeting Nikhil

meeting nikhil

In a lot of ways, Nikhil is exactly what I expected him to be.  On his sponsor card, he is cute kid with a huge smile and is described as “excellent in his studies,” “well behaved,” and, my favorite, having a “heart to respect his teachers.”  You can tell from his picture that he not likely to talk your ear off.  There is a sweetness in his expression that makes you imagine a kind and introspective boy who doesn’t do a lot of rough housing.

On our first day at Madanpur Khader, I didn’t see Nikhil.  It was on our second visit to third grade class that I spotted him. I got to tell the children that if God clothes the flowers with more splendor than a king that he’ll surely provide everything we need.  We were making tissue paper flowers as a reminder.  As I knelt to help some children near the front of the room, I heard one of the people on my team say his name.  Looking up, I couldn’t miss him—beanie pulled down to his eyebrows and sitting next to a taller girl, working intently on his flower.

I made my way over and explained that I was his friend from America and asked if he remembered getting my letter.  He didn’t J.  He kept glancing shyly at his seatmates who were much more ready to talk with me than he was.  I explained that I was going to visit him at home in a few days and asked if that was ok.  With his eyes glued to his flower, he nodded.  I learned that his favorite color is yellow and that he isn’t an only child like it says on his card and that he actually has two sisters.

A few days later, we were back at Madanpur Khader to do a skit with the kids.  When Nikhil’s class filed out, I called his name and said hello.  It was one of the highlights of my week when I got a real smile in return.  I also got to see he was never far from his best friend when they weren’t seated in the classroom.  It was so sweet to see them walk arm in arm together.

Later that day, I got to visit his home.  It was like much like the others in the community.  One room with a huge wooden slab that served as couch, dining table, and family bed and concrete walls. Nikhil’s home was a great example of the crazy juxtapositions that come up in developing nations and among the poorest of the poor—their family of five lives in a single room without running water but had a computer that was logged onto facebook when we were there.

It was wonderful to meet his gentle mother and two precious older sisters.  His mother seemed as shy as Nikhil even if there hadn’t been a language barrier between us.  His two older sisters were much more outgoing.  I was excited to hear that they are both students as well.  His oldest sister is actually studying the same subject as my college aged daughter.  She insisted on a picture with just the two of us before we left.

I really underestimated what it would mean to meet Nikhil.  Don’t get me wrong–I expected it to be really neat to be introduced to a flesh and blood person.  But it was more than that. I think the main thing that changed for me after meeting Nikhil is considering and praying for him not merely as an individual but as a son, a brother, and a friend.  I feel a connection to him and to his siblings my previous information told me didn’t exist.  I want him to grow up to realize all the promise of his gentle spirit and studious nature in a deeper way.  I want his sisters to lead change for their nation and for women in particular as they pursue their careers. I want Nikhil’s life and work and marriage and children to be forever changed because of the excellent education and kindness he received from the Good Samaritan School.  I want his family to meet a God who loves them more than they can imagine.  And for my part, I definitely want to visit him and his family again!

PS Find out more and get involved at
http://www.hopechest.org/india/

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Turning 40–A Confession

I turned 40 this week.  It is one of those birthdays that begins a whole new chapter in a person’s life.  I can imagine getting old and wrinkled and frail now in a way I couldn’t five years ago. I have started considering things like how many grandchildren and great-children I’ll get to meet.  It has occurred to me that I won’t live to see another turn of the century.  Not in a morbid way–simply as recognition.

But I have to say one thing has been really disappointing about this birthday.  I thought I’d be right in the middle of my Calling by now. I thought I’d know precisely what I was meant to be doing and would be doing it with ease and confidence.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’m less sure of things than I have ever been.

I thought I knew something about how to lead people toward truth and grace and life and peace.  I thought I knew how make a difference for good.  I thought I’d studied and thought and prayed carefully enough about how to build a marriage and a family and a church.  I thought I’d done enough of the right things that life couldn’t help but turn out well for us.  I thought God’s obvious gifts and blessings around us were evidence that we were doing precisely what He meant for us to do.

I thought I wouldn’t regret my choices, my sacrifices, friends I’d lost contact with because of other (higher—so I thought at the time) priorities.  I was wrong.  The time of certainty had ended.  My life today is utterly unrecognizable to the me of five years ago.  I want to believe that is a good thing.  I want to believe it is all working together for good.  But the truth is I’m not sure of much anymore.

In my mind’s eye, I see a pile of ashes in my palm.  A strong wind swirls it away until every speck is gone.  All that is left is my bare palm.  Does it mean nothingness? A fresh start?  I want to believe the latter.

The best thing about all the pain and loss is that it has brought me a fresh and much needed humility.  I look back on the old me and see lots of qualities and choices I don’t regret.  I cared for people.  I sacrificed for them and tried to love them well.  I tried to model strength and grace and stewardship.  So did Kyle.  So did Torey.  And I don’t believe we failed utterly though I see we were much shorter of the mark than I believed then.

But here’s what else I see.  I am ashamed that I had become smug about my spirituality.  I believed I knew the truth and was willing to obey it.  I harbored a subtle inward derision toward those who were misguided about the ‘right’ way to do church, who wouldn’t let go of sinful habits, who couldn’t make their marriages or families work.  Those sorts of people hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t studied enough, didn’t love God enough.

I am so sorry.  God, forgive me and heal hurts that inner attitude and its manifestation caused.  And if you were someone who was hurt by it, I hope you’ll give me a chance to say I am sorry in person.  At the time, I was surrounded by others leaders; some of whom exhibited a pride that was more open and articulate than mine—this isn’t gossip; they have said so themselves.  It made me sad and angry for them and for the church.  But I truly didn’t see the same sort of seeds in my own heart.  I didn’t see how simplistic my thinking had become, how my definition of grace and truth and goodness had narrowed according to terms I and others had created.  As excruciating as the past few years have been, at least I’m starting to see it now.  And I think I can say it’s worth it.  At least I can today.

“He leads the humble in justice,
And teaches the humble His way.
All the paths of the LORD are lovingkindness and truth
To those who keep His covenant and His testimonies.
For Your name’s sake, O LORD,
Pardon my iniquity, for it is great.”

Psalm 25:9-11

This is a terrible photo. It is grainy and blurry and I look pretty goofy. But I am climbing--none too happily as you can see by my expression--to an unknown summit. I think it is a perfect illustration for where God has me as I begin my 4th decade. Here's praying I don't tumble back down and break something.

a few gems

I’m reading CS Lewis’ classic The Weight of Glory and thought I’d share a few thoughts I’ve especially enjoyed.  Hope you do, too!

“If our religion is something objective, then we must never avert our eyes from those elements in it which seem puzzling or repellent; for it will be precisely the puzzling or the repellent which conceals what we do not yet know and need to know” (p. 34)

“To please God…to be a real ingredient in the divine happiness..to be loved by God, not merely pitied, but delighted in as an artist delights in his work or a father in a son–it seems impossible, a weight or burn of glory which our thoughts can barely sustain.  But so it is” (p. 39)

“For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the spendour of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, may be very near the truth as prophecy” (p. 43)

“There are no ordinary people.  You have never talked to a mere mortal” (p. 46)

“If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of the man, we are disillusioned, and not a moment too soon” (p. 63)

“People are constantly claiming this unarguable and unanswerable status for moral judgments which are not really intuitions at all but remote consequences  or particular applications of them, eminently open to discussion since the consequences may be illogically drawn or application falsely made…The man who “just feels”" that total abstinence from drink or marriage is obligatory is to be treated like the man who “just feels sure” that Henry VII is not by Shakespeare or that vaccination does no good” (p. 69-71)