The Mystery of Ministry

The nature of ministry is something that cuts very deep into the heart of modern Christian subcultures. I fear to speculate how many people get involved in “ministries” for base motives such as craving for recognition or acclaim. I’m sure there are many. I’m sure there are also many who do so out of a sense of obligation, whether imposed on them by pleas for help from the church hierarchy or by their own conscience. In any case, I think the majority of us grow up thinking of ministry as a profession; an idea that I believe has choked the life out of the Christian community.

We’ve divided ourselves into professional and non-professional Christians. The professionals go to church to work – to “minister”, if you will. The laymen go to church to listen to the professional Christian’s spoon-feedings of Christian Living 101. This seems to me to be a horribly deformed anomaly that leaves the so-called professionals exhausted with the business (and busy-ness) of professional ministry, and leaves the others cocooned in the absurd notion that God wants them to simply be regular customers at the spa for the spiritually tired.

It seems to me that ministry should be the life of everyone who claims to have been delivered. I imagine a miserable species inhabiting a desert where every day is another struggle to find water. In this desert, there are some inhabitants who have found such water that, when they’ve drunk it, is in them a well of water springing up into everlasting life (John 4:14), and they never thirst again. Some years later, many people still claim to be recipients of the miracle elixir, yet they stagger wearily each designated water day to the "official well" for a refresher by the professional water-masters (ministers).

Somehow this seems wrong to me. If salvation is really the incredible thing we say it is, why are we always in need of a fix? If we are truly recipients of a heavenly gift of living water, why aren’t we running around all week, loving and sharing and inviting everyone we meet to drink it too. Instead, we feel a warm glow every other month when we can share with our Sunday School class that we had the opportunity to invite someone to church. God help us, if our only offering to the miserable, tired, hurting, and sick is that we have a neat club where they can hear professionals talk about the “magic water”. Furthermore, if the thirsty can’t see a significant enough difference in us to make them wonder what we’ve been drinking, perhaps we’ve been drinking from the wrong well all along and deluding ourselves with our weekly spiritual pep-talks, involvement in “ministries”, and other programmatic activities to such an extent that we are utterly useless to the world.

Soup Enchilada

Life rarely goes perfectly according to plan. I've heard it said that life is what happens to you, while you are planning life.

I walked into the embassy cafeteria the other day and the industrious kitchen staff had again done their best to put on an appealing and tasty selection of entrees for the embassy staff and labelled all the dishes in the best English they could muster. Imagine my amusement and surprise as I looked through the glass at something oblong and rolled in a tortilla, with the words "Soup enchilada" nearby on the glass. I chuckled as I contemplated the mess that a soup enchilada might be and wondered what, in fact, was in this thing. Robin and Anna were with me and, amused enough to be curious, they pointed to the rolled tortilla thingies and asked for "soup enchiladas." As it turns out, their pointing was heeded while their words had little effect and they actually got Chicken tostadas, which, strangely enough, were filled with curry chicken (not remotely a mexican flavor). The "soup enchilada" turned out to be "enchilada soup", which we hadn't noticed under the steamer lids, and we had a good laugh at our own expense.

All of this reminded me of an old expression I hear and even use occasionally - He, she, or it is "messed up like a soup sandwich." I'm sure the imagery isn't lost on anyone. Soup in between two pieces of bread would be far sloppier than any Sloppy Joe (sometimes inexplicably known as Manwich) since the first messy meat sauce muddle was made.

So what is my point in all of this babble about culinary semantics? No serious point really. I just thought it was funny. But in retrospect, it goes to show that others may not always say or write what they mean, even when they do, their efforts may not meet our expections, our perception may often be skewed, and in the end, if we keep a good spirit about us, we can still laugh at the quiddities of man, be thankful for the bizarre experiences that spice up our lives, and go on with a song in our hearts.

All that Junk

Yesterday, as I was walking lopsided through a typical Russian open-air market with a 12-pound watermelon in one hand and 5-6 pounds of other fruits and vegetables in the other hand, I happened past a vendor with a radio emitting some strange stuff. "Watcha gonna do with all that junk - all that junk inside yo' trunk?"

Anna said, "Oh, I've heard that song. I don't like it." I've heard it before and don't like it either, but I hastened to fill Anna's young mind with more of dad's opinions with a clarification: "That isn't a song, Anna. A song, by definition, requires that someone sing it. He isn't singing. Maybe chanting...or grunting. Grunting about some girl's backside, no less. To which she responded that she didn't want to know what the song was about. Smart kid!

Funny though, how even an uncouth message can be reshaped in one's mind into a message of truth and grace. I have been thinking about the gospel message and how that bizarre chant might be rendered in a gospel context. We all have a lot of "junk" in our "trunks" and the heart of the gospel is that we come to Jesus with all that junk, trunk and all, and leave it in His care.
So, I wound up with an odd juxtaposition of some crass "grunt" with the words of an old gospel song: Watcha gonna do with all that junk? Take it to the cross and leave it there!

That rather nicely dovetails with the message I heard in English yesterday in a Russian Nazarene church, given by an Irish pastor from Scotland...there might be a metaphor in there, but now I'm too exhausted to find it. Anyway, the message was about God's strength being made perfect in our weakness. The pastor bemoaned the long years of distraction in many parts of the holiness movement with the idea of being some sort of super-Christian, rejoicing in our "holiness". He pointed to the example of Paul in 2 Corinthians 12, who had much about which he could boast, but said, "Most gladly therefore I will rather glory in my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest on me. Therefore I take pleasure in weaknesses, in injuries, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then am I strong."

Denying that we are human, carnal, weak, burdened with problems and faults will never make us more useful for the Master. It is in our openness about these shortcomings that we minister to others most effectively. No one wants to hear the boasts of a super-Christian about how "perfect" he is. That isn't motivating in the least! We should take off the masks, let down our guards, allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and bear one another's burdens.

May it be thus.

Sesquipedalian Sangfroid

My turbid, matutinal, sapid caffeinated elixir in hand, I lounge in dishabille in fugacious, postprandial perpension… What separates the numinous panjandrum from the hoi polloi? The recherché quasi-clerisy seems often distant from the moiling purblind masses, sitting in their hauteur, a farrago of demagogues, uttering sibylline imprecations at the slightest susurration of vacillation from the lumpen, ecclesiastical peasantry. Forced comity, abstersion of dubiety at any cost, immitigable afflatus, recondite tergiversation in response to any demurral from the unfortunate, inchoate autodidact; the tenebrous milieu of those immured in perfervid genuflection of a theological empyrean on earth; the spiritual, albeit panglossian, ne plus ultra of esoteric utopia.
This is no disquisition, merely the eldritch, mental peregrinations of a Philomath - an aspirant polymath - in a fainéant moment exposing a perduring quiddity; a renascent penchant for magniloquence. Yes, it’s true. I’m a sempiternal votary of pleonastic frisson! I asseverate the alimonious joys of sesquipedalian pastiche. However, feign would I cloy the appetite of the parsimonious wordsmith, driving him to ennui with my nugatory badinage. Farewell, hirsute and glabrous, bibulous and ascetic, orotund and laconic friends. Benisons be on you!

Faith or Fatalism

It often seems to me that there isn't much of a difference between faith and fatalism. Faith says that God will do what's best. Fatalism says that what will happen, will happen.

On the face of it, those statements are different, but if you dig deeper they become much closer to each other. The typical Christian will say that everything good that happens is a blessing from God. If something bad happens, they will blame it on the devil. That seems entirely too convenient. If the same things happened to a fatalistic non-Christian, they would simply be resigned to whatever happens because it was going to happen anyway. That draws pretty close to Paul's statement, "I have learned to be content in all circumstances".

I find comfort in pondering the eternality of God. Now, by that, I do not mean that I think of God as having existed for a very, very long time and that He will continue to exist for a very long time. I don't think that is the picture the Bible gives us. It tells of a God, who inhabits eternity; that is, who lives presently in all of it and outside of it. He created time. We mark it by the devices He put in place.

I try to picture this as God holding the world's timeline, cupped in His unfathomable hands. As He looks into His hands, He sees (in the present tense) creation, the fall, every human that ever existed or will exist, the incarnation, the crucifixion, the resurrection, every sin ever committed, every future sin, every disease, every cure...all the way through beyond the point at which He will call an end to time.

From that perspective, which gives new flavor to omniscience, it is easy to imagine that God's understanding of the whole scope of someone's existence and the effect, which that existence will have on others is likely to be strikingly different than our understanding. Then when I ponder, for instance, the value of physical life vs. spiritual life and what healing might mean to the mind of an all-knowing God, I'm not sure how I should pray. If I ask God for something and it does happen, I will think that He answered my prayer. If it doesn't happen, I will conclude that it simply wasn't His will. Whether I pray at all or not, will not His will still be accomplished? Is it possible that one's physical ailment is part of a divine plan for spiritual good in some other? Is a physical ailment even significant in the ordering of an entirely spiritual Kingdom in which the physical is merely a passing illusion; a vapor?

These are questions that boggle my mind and I don't pretend to have found good answers for them. I rest currently on the premise that the point of my prayers, and my faith in His willingness to hear and answer them, is perhaps not so much about a quest for results or answers to prayer, but more about cultivating a relationship with my Eternal Father. More than I care about the thoughts and desires of my children's hearts, He cares about my thoughts and desires. He sees them all - the good, bad, and ugly. How much of a role they play in the cosmic ordering of events in this universe, I'm sure I'll never know. However, apparently He loves to hear me casting those cares on Him, perhaps for no other reason than that it demonstrates my utter inability to effect change and my recognition that He is Lord of all. Whatever the outcome, whether the object of my anguish is eliminated or not, I must eventually conclude that His will has been done or concede to erosion of my faith in His goodness. Whether that makes me a person of faith or of fatalism depends entirely on the perspective of the observer.

Conducter or resister?

Not too long ago, someone asked me, "What do you tell someone, who just can't believe that a loving god would allow an innocent child to be raped?" That's a pretty tough question and at first glance, one is tempted to concede that there aren't any good answers to questions like that. Then I got to thinking, "Just how often does God interfere with our decisions?" I can't think of one time in my life, when I was stopped by divine force from doing something. Sometimes circumstances lend to the interpretation that divine guidance directed me in some way or lead me away from mischief, but that isn't quite the same...

We should like to fault God for not interfering, say, in the rape of a small child; perhaps with a well-timed heart attack or an angry swarm of hornets. But I wonder, would we like the same interference in our greed, gossip, jealousy, envy, pride, laziness, or lust? I can see it now...relaxing in bed on a Saturday morning when I could be doing something decidedly more constructive and suddenly a swarm of bees is in the room, compelling me to reconsider my morning plans. You start to tell your friend that little story about so-and-so and a sharp pain in your chest brings your unecessary revelation to an abrupt end. We cry at your funeral and ponder the possibility of life after death...

Self-determination is at the same time a gift and a curse. We cherish our freedom to choose our own path, but question God when He allows others the same freedom. If it would be just for Him to nuke the pervert who is planning to hurt a child, then He would be just as right to nuke me for hating the pervert. He does neither.

We do have a choice: to agonize over the problem or strive to be part of the solution. We can charge God with lack of action, while ignoring the fact that His chosen means of action is almost universally through us. If we are resisting our role as channels of divine grace to the victims of free will, then it is we, not God, who are limiting His influence in this world.

Conducter or resister? I'm afraid, more often than not, I'm a resister.

Chronicles of a Late Blooming Child Prodigy

Light years have again escaped notice as I fail to post anything at all, let alone anything of significance. In the absense of material worthy of perusal on my blog, jump on over to this ol' soldier's blog for some wit, wisdom, and wild licks on various stringed instruments. Glenn and I go way back...farther back than either of us cares to ponder some days!

Chronicles of a Late Blooming Child Prodigy

Looking forward to your public release of "Flight of the Banjo Bumblebee", Glenn!

WebLOG

Well, despite my early ruminations on the evils of procrastination, it appears I've set a new record for weblog non-use. I've decided that a good rationalization for this inordinate lack of posting to my blog can be found in the descriptive term used for this particular cyber-format: webLOG. What does a log do but sit there...and slowly deteriorate? So why should a weblog (blog) be any different?

Hey, it sounded good to me!

I have many things to be happy about! I just finished two weeks of teaching new interpreters treaty terminology in Russian. They all did very well. Their final test grades were all in the mid 90s. Either I ran a good course or I had a good crop of students. Maybe both. I'm also happy to be done with that course. Grading papers is a pain in the neck!

My son, Joe, is finishing his freshman year at Southern Indiana University. He's a smart guy, a lot of fun to be around, and a passionate Christian. I have a daughter who is just about to finish her junior year of high school and she still seems to like school, enjoy church, and love her dad, even though he hasn't been around much in her life. The youngest is wrapping up 6th grade and is just entering the most hormonal phase of a young girls life. She's a riot! Another smart kid too! Three smart kids! Good kids! That's a blessing!

My mother turns 70 the day after tomorrow and is still full of vim, vigor, and vitality. Oh, she moves a little more slowly then when she was chasing babies around, the eyes aren't what they once were, and there are some issues that come with aging, but she's sharp as a tack, as sweet as ever, and I expect she'll be around for a good many more years.

I've got a year of excitement ahead of me too. A week from Sunday, I fly to Tokyo, Japan! I've never been to Japan before! I get to spend about 10 days there, during which time I will fly into Russia a couple times! I've never been there before either!

Next month, I return to Middlebury College in Vermont for another six weeks of total immersion in the Russian language while simultaneously accomplishing another 1/4 of the work necessary to finish my Masters degree in Russian. In October, I'll be going to Moscow for six weeks to work in the embassy! I've never been there before either (you might get the sense by now that I love going to places I've never been to before)! I've also applied for a two-year assignment to Moscow. I'll find out in September if I've been selected. If I make the cut, I'll be moving there in March of '06!

It appears that I do have things to talk about, but I just don't happen to be the world's most prolific blogger. Oh well, c'est la vie...mama mia...Mea culpa...ad nauseum...pax vobiscum...