Prophet for Hire

This blog is going to be taking a different approach for a while... I was laid off at the end of July after 3 1/2 years of service and ministry as Diaconal Minister at Trinity Lutheran Church in Lansdale, PA. Trinity was my first call as a Diaconal Minister, and I learned a great deal about myself and the promises God has for me during my time there. I was sad to leave there. I am still sad sometimes that I had to go--sad both for myself and what I lost, and also for the place that I grew to love and am now no longer able to be a part of.

Part of the self-identity that grew in me during my time at Trinity actually started when I was in high school. And, so, I am would like to begin this new chapter of my life and my blogging experience with a story from another time in my life...

I was in tenth grade the first time I attended a TEC weekend. TEC stands for "Teens Encounter Christ." TEC was a youth retreat that I attended several times throughout my high school years--once as a participant, and then several times more as a staff member.

The first day of my first TEC experience, a woman came in to speak to us. "You don't know me," she said, "but I know you! I have been praying for each of you by name since you registered for this weekend."

Being a tenth grader, I thought, OK, that's a little weird. She went on...

"When I prayed for you, I asked God to give me a word that represents each of you, and a Bible verse. God gave me what I asked for, and now I am here to pass on to you what He told me about you."

Weirder still, I was thinking. I don't even know this person!

"I have put each of your names on a slip of paper, along with the word God gave me concerning you, and your Bible verse. I'm going to hand them out to you now."

This lady must be nuts! Being a good Lutheran, I did not believe in such nonsense!

Then I got my piece of paper. It said:

Rebecca: Name: Prophet. Matthew 21:11,12,14- "And the multitudes were saying, 'This is the prophet, Jesus, from Nazareth in Galilee.' And Jesus entered the temple and cast out all who were buying and selling in the temple... And the blind and the lame came to Him in the temple, and he healed them."

Then I stuck that piece of paper in my Bible and forgot about it for years.

At some point during my time at Trinity I came across my old TEC Bible on the back of a closet shelf at my parents' house. It was covered in "Jesus loves you" stickers, Bible verses, and an old nail that I had glued to the front at some point. Inside were bookmarks with Bible verses on them, handwritten notes, and butterfly stickers. And then I found this old, type-written piece of paper...

Rebecca: Name: Prophet.... it began.

What could this mean?

I took the Bible and its contents back with me to my office at Trinity and kept them in my left hand desk drawer. Several times over the years I would open that Bible and read that slip of paper. I found it especially meaningful in those times when I was struggling with my own purpose and ministry at Trinity. When one of our young people, my friend Kevin, died, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper. Before preaching a sermon on "who gets into heaven" (Hitler?) I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper. When we opened our Code Blue homeless shelter and I was spending nights at church and sleeping in my office so these guys could stay warm, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper.

I found it again, recently, as I cleaned out my office. When it was all over, and my ministry there was history, I pulled out the Bible and studied that piece of paper.

Rebecca: Name: Prophet....

What's next???
I guess now I'm a prophet for hire....

Psalm 46: A Prayer for Haiti

Image by thaths via Flickr

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of the city; it shall not be moved; God will help it when the morning dawns. The nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter; he utters his voice, the earth melts. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Come, behold the works of the Lord; see what desolations he has brought on the earth. He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire. ‘Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.’ The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge." --Psalm 46

In the margins of my Bible beside this Psalm I have written in blue pencil: for hope in times of fear, October 2001. Sometime around September 11, 2001, I committed myself to reading the Psalms--at least one a day. When I came upon this Psalm, I was sitting in a foreign country across the ocean in Africa watching my own nation struggle with the aftereffects of a horrible, life-altering, culture-altering, traumatic experience. Although this Psalm does not answer the "why?" question, it does provide hope that God is in the midst of even the most horrific circumstances.

Now it has happened again. Only this time I am sitting in America watching the devastation in another country--a country whose people have faces that look like those I love, those who are members of my family. This was not an act of terrorism, although Haiti has seen its share of that, too (Google Francois "Papa Doc" Duvalier and Tonton Macoute to learn about this). In some ways, this is worse, because at least with terrorism you have someone to blame.

The connection between Africa and Haiti is unnerving for me. What I want people to know is the legacy that Haiti shares with Africa, and perhaps inspired in Africa. That Haiti did not make a deal with the devil, as Pat Robertson has so foolishly and ignorantly claimed. In fact, Haiti, under the leadership of Toussaint L'Ouverture, became the first independent former slave state in the Americas, and the second independent republic in the Western Hemisphere. The Haitian Revolution shook the foundation of the slave trade in the Americas, and eventually contributed to its undoing.

Haiti's experience speaks to the resilience of the African people in times of extreme, unfathomable hardship.

Now I sit at home in front of the TV, wondering if my $50 is enough. Knowing that there is much work to do. Seeing my people, bodies piled high, suffering from this tragedy. Hearing the broken French on the TV. Watching dark skin marred with white dust and red blood try to make sense of it all. I heard what Presidents Bush and Clinton said to our nation today during their press conference--the best way to help is to send money. We are doing everything we can.

The hardest part for me is knowing that I can't be there. We have work to do here. There are people here who need us. I knew that on September 11--I had to stay put and keep serving--and I know that now, too. But that doesn't make it any easier.

And so I say this prayer for Haiti from Psalm 46, which comforted me then, and comforts me now: "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult... ‘Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.’ The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge."

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Happy Birthday, Kevin!

Today is the birthday of one of my friends, who died tragically of cancer last May at the age of 37. Happy birthday, Kevin! I miss you.

My September 11 Story

September 11 is an eerie day for me, as I assume it also is for most Americans in the post 9/11/2001 era. What it must be like for most Americans to remember the happenings of that fateful day, however, and to have it define their consciences and their very beings, is not something that I am familiar with or can understand from experience.

The truth is that my September 11 story is one of life as a missionary in a predominately Muslim town in Central Africa. On September 11, 2001, I was living in Ngaoundere, a bustling town on the central plateau of Cameroon. I was teaching English and Bible at a Protestant High School where many of my students were Muslims. When those planes hit the World Trade Center, it was a little after 3 p.m. in my part of the world. I had just finished teaching for the day and had gone out to the market to buy rice, milk powder, and cheese.

My 9-11 story is that on that afternoon I walked into a shop for ex-patriots that is owned by a prominent and beloved Muslim family in our town. Madame Alizar and her husband are originially from Lebanon. They have made a good living opening their shop selling things that Africans don't eat (like cheese) to the many missionaries and foreign buisiness people that come to Ngaoundere.

On that afternoon the TV was on in the back room. When I came into the shop, Madame Alizar saw me and came out to the front counter. She grabbed my arm frantically and said, "What are you doing here?" Something was obviously wrong. She told me that I had to go home (to my home in Ngaoundere) at once, that something horrible had happened in America.

By the time I got back to my home, it was all over, and the other missionaries were looking for me. They had CNN International on and we all sat down and watched. We knew that this was REALLY bad. Perhaps some of us even knew what it might mean for our country. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that I did not.

My experience of 9-11 is not one of fear. I don't understand what it was like in America in what must have been those horrible days following the attacks. I hear stories of the eerie quietness of the skies. I hear that the churches were full that following Sunday, and that people stopped each other in the street and remembered their humanity for a while. I have heard those stories.

I have also seen how much 9-11 shaped our consiousness as Americans into something that I didn't recognize when I finally came home to U.S. soil in July of 2002.

On September 12, 2001, I awoke to another average school day. Life just went on. And then there was a knock at my door. A Muslim woman who was my neighbor had come to offer her condolences for what had happened the day before in the U.S. I told her it was OK; I appreciated her kind words, but she didn't have any responsibility for what had happened. Then she told me something that I believe sets my 9-11 experience apart from probably just about every American I know: She said that she didn't have any personal responsibility for the violence, but she was sorry anyways. She talked about how disgusting it was that this horrific act of violence had been done in the name of her religion. She told me that this is not what Muslims believe, and that the Prophet Muhammed would not have condoned this.

This might not have marked me so deeply except that over the course of the day, it happened again and again. Muslim people who I knew, and ones I didn't know, came to me again and again, all day long, to tell me they were so sorry that this had happened and that it had been done in the name of a religion that they espoused. These people, my Muslim neighbors, were truly grieved by the violence that had been committed in the name of Islam, the Prophet they love, and the God they love.

When I came home to the U.S. I began to realize how different my 9-11 experience was from others' experiences. September 11, 2001, changed the face of America in ways that I do not believe are all positive. And, it seems to have been the defining moment of my generation, like the way the Kennedy or the MLK assassinations shaped my parents' generation, or the Great Depression and World War II shaped my grandparents'. And, strangely, I find myself being left out of that defining moment. I missed it--I missed the defining moment. That makes me incredibly different. I believe it also makes me incredibly lucky.

I have been given a gift. For many years, I was afraid to tell people about how the Muslim community cared about and supported me and my fellow missionaries in the days following September 11. It is a very unpopular message, but a true one. I know now, as I did then, that it is a story that needs to be told. I just haven't been able to tell it until very recently.

I know a very different Islam than the one that was portayed here in the days after 9-11. Don't believe everything that a too-liberal media tells you that you should believe about the events of that day and its aftermath. Don't believe everything the government tells you, either. The politics of fear have encroached on our lives and controlled us for too long. Propaganda was not just used in communist USSR or Nazi Germany to control the people; it has been used here in America, too, by our government and media over the last 8 years, and used well. Don't buy in to the idea that Islam is evil. "Islam vs. the West" is something that we have blindly accepted without really knowing what that means.

Remember September 11 for what it was. It was a tragic day in a world full of tragic days. Remember those little glimpses of humanity that you saw in the days following that tragedy. I know I do. I often think about those faithful Muslims who ministered to me in the aftermath of what has become an identity-altering day in the life of my nation. Pray that unity and new birth will arise from the ashes of that day, and that that unity and new birth will include a new identity where people of all faiths can be seen as valuable.

Incarnation as Revolution

It is with much fear and longing that I have been visiting my blog in the last few months. I come here and haunt it, needing to write, but not knowing what to say. And then I end up saying nothing. As someone who tends to bare all when I write (and speak), I have known these last few months that the things I am thinking about are not things that I could write down in a blog without raising some eyebrows. I also don't know what to say--when your feelings get so jumbled up inside that you can't even explain them, then how do you go about sharing them?

Six months ago, I wrote a blog called "Breaking Up and Breaking Out" about my difficulty with a church that struggles to affirm my gifts for ministry as a Child of God, much less in my role as Diaconal Minister. I came to understand that the only way I was going to be able to come to terms with God's call as deacon was to be willing to forsake everything to follow the call--even if it meant forsaking the church. I came right to the edge of that place. I stood at the precipice and looked over the edge. I was ready to jump. I knew I would always be a deacon. I knew that God had called me into God's service and had so many wonderful things in store for me as a part of our great love affair. I just didn't think the church was ready for me and what that call might mean. And I wasn't at all sure that I was ready to fight for it. God was calling me to serve and not fight, right? I didn't need the church in order to be able to serve. Maybe it was just better to leave.

And then, all of a sudden, perhaps because I was finally able to say I would leave, it became OK not to. Maybe I needed to be willing to walk away, forsaking all others--including even the church--for God to really be able to use me. There is Biblical precedent for that: "Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.'" (Matthew 16:24-25).

One of the things that I have come to realize in these last few months is that the call is still the same. It is a call to service. And, the call to service, and actually living into that call as a member of the Body of Christ, is one of the most radical ways in which transformation occurs within us, and outside of us. I don't have to "fight." The Holy Spirit is blowing in this church, and in my life and in the lives of the people around me. The Holy Spirit is reforming the church and reforming me, in all the wonderful and scary ways that happens. All we have to do is be "in the flesh." We have to be real to those people around us. Loving them. Hurting for them and with them. Rejoicing with them. Being the face of Christ to each other. It does make me wonder if being "incarnate" will ever be anything less than revolutionary.

One of my friends recently asked me how we go about changing the injustices in the world. He was particularly referencing racism, but it could have been anything. I told him the only answer I know--which is to lead by example. Revolution happens when instead of fighting, we serve. Revolution happens because through service, we fight for something worthwhile.

And there is more. So, so much more. But, I think I'll hold on to that a while longer, until I can get it sorted out enough to write it down.