Holy Week Ruminations

During the reading of the Passion on Sunday, I asked myself, "Which one am I?" . . . Judas, with a passionate, righteous treason in his heart; John, leaning on Jesus yet ready to abandon Him in His darkest hour; Peter, confused about the washing of his feet, confused about his own love for the Master; the Pharisees, threatened by a power fueled by humility; Pilate, reluctant to condemn, cowardly in his handwashing; Mary, heartbroken and frightened; the soldiers, completely ignorant of their ignorance . . . Which one? It troubled me to identify myself with any of them, and yet I suspected there was a little of each in my very human soul.

Holy Week is a time of spiritual disturbance, and rightly so. Tonight a little child washed my feet. Young children who didn't understand anything other than the cool water and welcome touch of hands laughed and played, while those of us who have grown into pridefulness and self-awareness shyly took off our shoes and let someone cleanse our feet and dry them. I couldn't help noticing that the water was filthy afterwards.

As we have been preparing for the baptisms on Sunday, we have talked about the symbolism of water. In baptism we are forgiven and cleansed, welcomed into the Body of Christ, christened for service in God's Kingdom. Is the water filthy when we step out? Would it become filthy if I stepped back into it today?

Holy Week ruminations: I am too much like "the worst of these," and much in need of a deeper love for "the least of these." And yet the Messiah has come and set me free from sin and death, from all that is within me that struggles against His will:

Even when their foolish words they turned on him
He did not his disciples send away;
He knew their hearts were foolish, eyes were dim,
And therefore by his side needs must they stay.
Thou wilt not, Lord, send me away from thee.
When I am foolish, make thy cock crow grim;
If that is not enough, turn, Lord, and look on me.

-- George Macdonald

Look on your servant, O Lord, and have mercy. Excise all treachery, treason, cowardice, ignorance and noble, misguided intentions. I will not be sent away, nor do I want to seek the world's safety when the Cross calls. Allow me to die with You so that I might live through You.

And although the water be filthy afterwards, may Your pure, holy Presence be the clearest expression of my love for God and neighbor. Amen.

Getting What We Deserve

"In the event of Servant Partners personnel or their dependents being kidnapped, every effort will be made to secure their release, using the guidelines in the “Security Protocols for Servant Partners Teams” for that specific field. However, consistent with our dependence on God, it is important that workers and their families be aware that it is Servant Partners policy not to pay ransom money, as this would place a price on the lives of other Servant Partners workers."


Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be so faithful about reading the international news reports. I often end up troubled in mind and spirit. For example, this week there is a story about two humanitarian workers who were rescued from Somalian pirates by Navy SEALS. The general response seemed to be, “They (the Somalian pirates) got what they deserved.” All nine were killed.

Most people don’t know that almost all missionaries and humanitarian workers sign an agreement before reporting to the field which says that it is understood that in the case of kidnapping, no ransom will be paid, nor should a rescue attempt be expected. These measures are for the sole purpose of protecting the wider community of foreign workers. Obviously, if kidnappers can expect a nice ransom for kidnapping a missionary or humanitarian worker, then one after another will be kidnapped. And if a daring rescue at any cost can be expected by the foreign workers, then there is little reason to carefully count the cost ahead of time, and minimal deterrent to exercising extreme caution on site. I don’t know if those two workers signed such an agreement, but they certainly knew that they were headed for a dangerous place where anything could happen.

In addition, it struck me that the line about the deaths of the Somalians was as short and unfeeling as mine above. I know, I know: “They were criminals!” “They kidnapped good people!” “They were pirates!” And yet they were also human beings in need of a Savior. Did they have families? Hungry children at home? Is anyone concerned about where they are spending eternity? Or is that part of getting what they deserve?

I think of Paul, who was responsible for the incarceration and deaths of innocent Christian men, women and children. The thief on the cross. The slave trader who wrote “Amazing Grace.” A young man who spoke on our soccer court a few months ago who killed people in cold blood, served a prison term, repented, and now spends his days trying to keep other young people from making bad decisions. And then there’s me. I’m too ashamed to list my sins in this blog, but they are numerous, varied and serious. Thankfully they are also forgiven. And thankfully, like Paul and the other folks I just mentioned, I did not get what I deserved. I got grace. I got another chance – and another – and another. Love came down.

I guess my point is that I think we Christians should be saddened by the death of anyone who has not heard and received the Good News in Jesus Christ. Of course we’re glad that two people who were held captive are now free. Their freedom was bought, however, at a tremendous price. The next time we think, “Good riddance to bad company,” (or some such thing), perhaps we should look in the mirror and be reminded that Jesus died for one such as me.

And I recently signed another one of those ‘no ransom’ agreements with my mission agency, Servant Partners, but certainly not because I’m brave or noble. If I were kidnapped, I would be as terrified as the next person, but please don’t call the Navy SEALS. I don’t want to walk out over the bodies of the unsaved, regardless of how ‘hellish’ they are. Jesus died for them, too. Sometimes we have to follow Him to Gethsemane and drink from His cup. Redemption trumps ransom and rescue – every time.

LOVE FOR THE LONG HAUL

In a recent issue of Mission Frontiers, David Taylor gives an overview of the current state of the Church in Africa. While statistics on Africa in regards to infant mortality, AIDS, and unreached people groups remain daunting, Taylor points out that the Church is growing, and that there is a movement afoot to seek long-term solutions for these daunting social ills. One comment in particular jumped out at me:

“What is often missing in our response to Africa is a long-term strategy, the lack of which usually renders our short term aid more problematic than helpful . . . From the African perspective, Western NGOs appear quick to jump on a crisis, raise tons of money, take their cut and then dump the rest on the problem, moving on as quickly as they can to the next event.”

In the wake of Hurricane Mitch (1998), which took at least 17,000 Honduran lives, money poured into the country, primarily through Christian agencies. At the time, I was working under the banner of a large international Christian organization. This group claimed on its website to have received more than two million dollars for hurricane relief in Honduras and Nicaragua. After reading that one day, I emailed them, “Where is the money? We have received only $5000 for hurricane relief.” The response?: “It takes money to make money.”

Most agencies take at least 15% from donations, and 15% of $2,000,000 is already a LOT of money! But apparently it was decided stateside that much more was needed for publicity and who-knows-what. Not long after Mitch, a natural disaster occurred in Africa, and this agency began to publicize that catastrophe instead of following through on long-term solutions for Honduras and Nicaragua with the money given for hurricane relief. Disillusioned, I resigned. Apparently my experience was not an isolated one.

In the same missions article, the writer identifies a component which characterizes mission work that works, that provides what I call “love for the long haul.” This component is indigenous Christian leadership. Christian relief and development which continues through the storms and thrives in the everyday world of the poor is directed by national leaders who have an experiential understanding of the systemic evils being confronted. Missionaries like me serve God and our adoptive countries with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, but we cannot hope that our incarnational intentions ever truly imitate the man or woman who was born, raised and converted to Christ in that same culture.

Our ministry has been committed to discipling and empowering nationals since its inception, and LAMB is blessed today to be able to say that every area of our ministry has a Honduran administrator. Our executive directors, David and Evelyn Gradiz, are Honduran, and Evelyn grew up in the innercity neighborhood of Flor del Campo where our ministry was born. As a child, she carried her own chair to school each day so she wouldn’t have to sit on the cement floor. Today she has a master’s degree in Project Development from Honduras’ most prestigious university, but doesn’t dream of making money for herself. She longs to serve Jesus and her people, and she and David pour themselves out daily towards that end, as do our other leaders.

There are many Christian ministries and agencies working in Honduras. I wonder how many can say that they are truly led by nationals? While it is true that many of them have local people on their payrolls, it is also almost universally true that decisions regarding the direction, vision, and day-to-day operation of their ministries are made stateside. The justification given is that “those who raise the money need to be accountable for it.” At LAMB we believe that the money belongs to God, and that He answered our prayers for Honduran leadership by equipping and sending us these precious, capable servants who are now sitting at “the round table” of our ministry.

We are committed to “love for the long haul.” I hope to serve LAMB in Honduras for many more years, and I pray that we will continue to bear witness to life-transforming, long-term initiatives that are bringing hope to the men, women and children in our programs. I am content to let my Honduran brothers and sisters lead the way now because, as David Gradiz says, “Jesus will always be our CEO.”

Education, microbusiness, safehouses, childcare, youth programs . . . and wherever else our CEO leads us in His Name. We are “those who follow the Lamb wherever He goes,” (Rev. 14: 4), and we pray that by entrusting our God-given tasks to Honduran leadership, we have clearly demonstrated that this work was never ours. As C. S. Lewis would say, “Come higher up and further in!” I’m confident that will be our experience as we continue to seek to do ministry God’s way, not guided by moneymaking strategies, but by the Holy Spirit who seeks and saves the lost.

BRANDS PLUCKED FROM THE FIRE

“And the LORD said to Satan, ‘The LORD rebuke you, Satan!. . Is this not a brand plucked from the fire?’” (Zech. 3: 2)

Plucking brands from the fire can be an extremely delicate activity! Satan does not take kindly to having his brands removed, primarily because he plans to use them to "steal, kill and destroy."

This image fits perfectly with our experience with two children, brother and sister, Marvin and Marjeli, who were born in Enemy territory and whose lives were surely forfeit had not the Lord of Mercy and Justice intervened.

The first person in our ministry to become acquainted with these siblings was Olga, who gave them food one day and then gradually had them on her doorstep every single night begging for supper. They said their mother was sick and couldn’t work. Could they have some food for her, too? Olga went with them to their house and discovered that their mother was sick indeed: tuberculosis. She was also using drugs and selling herself to support the habit. Her children were 8 and 1, the older brother carrying the baby sister from house to house to find food while the mother languished in their pitiful room. Their family was added to our food bank.

A few months later our daycare director, Suyapa, met the children. They had followed their friend Olga to our offices one day. Suyapa began to lobby to have them brought into our school and daycare. Some of the staff resisted accepting “street children,” but eventually compassion won out, and Marvin and Marjeli became part of the “God’s Littlest Lambs” community. Marvin was 9 and Marjeli was 2. Although Marvin had been promoted to third grade in the public school, he could not read, so our teachers got to work, discovered he was very bright, and began to fill in the academic holes.

Then their father came home. Add a drug dealer to the family, a thief and addict, exploiter of children, abusive and erratic. Marvin missed school, and when someone was sent to look for him, he was “working.” Because of the parents’ close relationship with violent gangs, nobody was anxious to “set them off,” and any talk about taking the children to our children’s home (which was suggested more than once) made them very angry.

Our staff continued to love and educate the two children,and our social worker began reach out to the parents. They were given a bed and continued to receive food. A two-week food ration, however, ran out very early, as it was often sold to buy drugs. Marvin and Marjeli began to show up at Olga’s house asking for supper again. So in addition to breakfast, lunch and two snacks, supper was added to their daily ration at the daycare. They were also bathed at the daycare, their clothes were washed, and they learned about the love of Jesus.

A few more months went by. Every time the ministry leadership came together, these two children were discussed. Everyone was in agreement that they needed to be at the children’s home, but nobody knew how to pluck the brands from the fire without risking serious retribution from the parents. Would they kill someone on our staff? Would they kill one of our children? We didn’t know what else to do except pray, continue to love, and wait.

The one day the mother went to the neighborhood health center and was re-diagnosed with TB. By law the entire family had to be tested. Both children tested positive. Government officials immediately took the children to be quarantined in the public hospital for respiratory illnesses. The parents were told that the children could no longer live with them, that they would have to go to Social Services. The parents requested that they be sent to our children’s home.

However, as soon as the children were transferred from the hospital to our own quarantine facility, the parents began to breathe threats again: “Give them back or we will kill somebody.”

Once again God intervened. The father, a sometimes auto mechanic, stole parts from a car he had been commissioned to repair. He spent the money on drugs. The owner of the car also had close ties with a gang. He said he would kill the father if he did not pay him for the parts. The father and mother fled the city, leaving the two smoking brands behind.

But we still did not have a signed permission to care for the children. And before long a pair of tattooed young men held vigil outside of our office for most of a morning. They asked about Marvin – they just wanted to ask him where his father was, they said. It was very important that they talk with him. Our office staff was nervous. In Honduras tattoos mean gang involvement, and gang involvement means potential violence. There was talk of calling the parents to pick up the children.

We held a prayer service in the office. We agreed that we could not hand over these two innocent children to their parents. To do so would be to return them to Enemy fire, perhaps forever. We decided to wait.

Two days later the mother showed up at the office alone. We ushered her inside, gave her breakfast, listened to her story. And then we gently suggested again that the children needed to remain with us. Could she sign a paper giving permission? She began to weep: “I’ll miss them.” We prayed with her. She placed her signature and fingerprint on the permission.

Marvin is 10 and Marjeli is 3. I asked Marvin if he knew that Jesus loves him. “Yes,” he said. “At school they told me.”

Street ministry, food bank, school, daycare, Alonzo Movement, administration, children’s home . . . I don’t know that our different ministry areas had ever worked together so closely! I don’t know that we had ever prayed so hard and long over a single situation.

We are rejoicing, but quietly. Maybe the fire is only smoldering, waiting for an opportunity to lick its flames out hungrily again for these two precious lives. Please pray for protection with us as we wait and watch. Please pray for Marvin and Marjeli as they begin to heal. And give thanks with us for two more brands plucked from the fire, tenderly but firmly, in the Name of Jesus.

WITH JESUS

“And yet let us evermore write over all our miseries, big, and, for the most part very little, these transforming words: “WITH JESUS.” And then the very breath of Heaven will breathe upon our whole being and we shall be glad.” -- Lilias Trotter

As an Old Maid and an expat missionary of some twenty-one years now, I have sometimes (often?) felt alone, lonely, left out, out of step, odd one out, redhaired child, the old shoe, fly in the pie, misunderstood – not only in the eyes of others, but in my own eyes as well! Toss in the soup that I am the insecure second child, a people-pleaser without the proper tools, and you can see why it has been so important to me to know that I am WITH JESUS, and that HE IS WITH ME.

Last summer I attended a healing conference, and the most significant session for me personally was called “sense of being prayer.” For some reason I did not grow up with a secure sense of who I am. The conference speaker said that people like me often “don’t make friends; we take prisoners.” Giving and receiving love is like swinging into the abyss, an image offered by Lilias Trotter of what it means to follow Jesus. Loving is easy for some people, but not so easy for a person whose sense of being is fragmented.

Leanne Payne offers these helpful words: “If I look for me, I will never find me – only my many fragmented selves. But if I look for Him, I will eventually find that the whole of me is united in Jesus.” Hope -- WITH JESUS.

Although I stopped taking prisoners a number of years ago, I went forward for healing prayer; the journey towards wholeness is a lifetime pilgrimage, and it is not only for us, but also for our families, friends and ministries. As we move towards greater wholeness in Christ, we cease to hide ourselves behind Him and instead hide ourselves in Him, becoming one with Him as He is one with the Father (John 15). We all need healing, and we won’t cease to need healing until we see Him face-to-face. I gratefully received healing prayer.

This week I’m attending a training conference given by Servant Partners (www.servantpartners.org). For several years I have been considering affiliating with a mission agency once again. In my early years on the field I served with two different agencies. For eleven years, as LAMB has been birthed and growing, I have not had that missionary fellowship. In many ways I have missed it, but because of certain negative experiences during those early years, I have been anxious about trying again. When I have to make big decisions like this, I come face-to-face again with that fragmented sense of being, the old insecurities wanting to clamor for a voice. And yet this week I have discovered that their voices have weakened, not because I am stronger, but because of healing, obedience and faith, I am all the more certain that I am WITH JESUS.

Yesterday we had a prayer time with a precious couple from Australia named George and Dorothy Mathieson who have a healing prayer ministry. During the group prayer, the Lord spoke to me: “It’s time to make peace with the U. S. missionary community. You can’t do that as an outsider. Come into Servant Partners.” Until that moment, I had not recognized that reconciliation was necessary. I thought I’d “left all that behind me.” But I also recognized that Voice and knew that He was giving me clear direction. Once again I was the lamb who needed the hear the Voice of the Shepherd, and sure enough, He was there. For those of us who follow Jesus wherever He goes, that Voice is Life, and the only road for us is WITH JESUS.

May I encourage you to live your life seeking health and wholeness WITH JESUS? Not behind Jesus or because of Jesus. Not for Jesus or in the Name of Jesus – WITH JESUS. As we walk WITH JESUS, our gladness will bring healing to others who will also long to share in the hope and joy of walking with Him. Amen.

"La Septima"

“So GOD said in effect, ‘If that’s what you want, that’s what you get. It wasn’t long before they were living in a pigpen, smeared with filth, filthy inside and out. And all this because they traded the true GOD for a fake god, and worshiped the god they made instead of the GOD who made them—the GOD we bless, the GOD who blesses us. Oh, yes!” (Romans 1: 24)


“La Septima” (Seventh Street) is in downtown Tegucigalpa. But it is much more than a street, and is seldom given to taxi drivers or vendors as a destination. The wares hawked on “La Septima” are only for regular clients, heavily armed newcomers (or cops), or the occasional fool. “La Septima” has a major rep, so much so that even its name is sometimes whispered, eyes widened to emphasize the danger.

Jasmin grew up on “La Septima.” One of the pimps, Sara, started taking her there when she was nine years old. Yep. Nine years old. Last week when Jasmin slid into a severe depression again, she ran back to the Septima. When I caught up with her, she ran into a bar, locked herself in the bathroom and screamed, “I don’t want to see anybody! I don’t want to see anybody! I want to die! This is where I was born, and this is where I’m going to die!” During the next twenty-four hours or so she beat her hands against walls and posts until they were bloody and bruised. She “went crazy” (her term) on drugs. “What did you take?” I asked. “Little green pills,” she said. Whatever they were, she hoped they would free her from what the Septima had done to her. They didn’t.

Then Sara, who could see that she wasn’t going to make any money on Jasmin, had an idea: she took Jasmin, fully loaded with little green pills, down to “La Primera” (another redlight district) where some people had threatened to kill Jasmin before she went into the safehouse a few months ago. Sara, Jasmin’s “best friend” (according to Jasmin), decided to help Jasmin die. I guess that’s what friends are for in that part of town.

Jasmin says a guy held a pistol in front of her face and was ready to shoot. But he didn’t. Despite Sara’s encouragement, he inexplicably (unless you believe in the power of prayer) hesitated, and Jasmin ran back to the Septima where a guy from the safehouse had arrived to pick her up. With some help from a few other unlikely angels, he loaded her into the safehouse pickup and drove her, kicking and screaming, to a grubby place run by “Missionaries of the Street.”

Since the night was still young, Jasmin tried to throw herself from a balcony inside the safehouse. She cut one of her fingers badly, and apparently the blood caught her attention. She began to calm down. By the next day she was weary and hurting all over, but calling to say, “I’m sorry. I’m going to try again. Will you come to see me?” Four days later she was cheerful again: “They had some heavy prayer for me. They chased away the demons.” She was talking again about her little boy, her plans for the future, her desire to live for Jesus.

While I was trying unsuccessfully to rescue Jasmin, I had a spiritual encounter on the Septima. I saw Satan and I saw GOD. I saw Satan everywhere, in the drugged eyes and battered women, the tottering young people and the dark doorways. The Septima is clearly Enemy territory. But a woman tending a little fruitstand nearby was reading her Bible, and an agitated lady suddenly ran over to me, put both arms around my waist and pleaded, “You mustn’t be here! You mustn't be here! Come! Come!” I laughed, put an arm around her shoulder and said, “I’m covered with the blood of Jesus, and now I’m going to cover you, too!” “Cover me, cover me!” she agreed, closing her eyes. So I did, and under the best cover available to God’s children, especially in Enemy camp in broad daylight, we moved on.

The “Missionaries of the Street” are mostly recovered drug addicts and prostitutes, and they look rough. But they have a heart for rescuing the lost, and they cruise the streets day and night looking for someone to save. One of their “lookouts” had spotted Jasmin that day, so they went to get her and take her home. Every day they leave the ninety-nine to rescue the one. They know that inside each one of these frightful faces there is a lost lamb yearning to go Home. Thank you, Jesus, for Your street missionaries. I see You in them. Their grateful service very likely saved Jasmin’s life, and Jasmin has said more than once that she hopes to join this missionary band one day. That would be an incredible “Thy Kingdom come”!

“Lord Jesus, more missionaries are needed on the streets of our cities. More missionaries are needed on “La Septima.” Speak words of courage to our hearts, dear Savior, and send us out to seek and save the lost. In Your precious Name. Amen.”

Look under the bed!

Baby Sammy’s story reminds me of the zillions of times my mom would say (in response to our whining about losing something), “Have you looked under the bed? Go look under the bed!” Of course I find myself echoing my mother’s words with my own children, especially Lucy, whose shoes are forever playing hide-and-seek.

Reportedly Baby Sammy was found under the bed. I have wondered how exactly that might have happened. His mother is mentally ill, had the baby at home, and then presumably stored the new baby under the bed and ran off. How was he found? I have wondered.

One idea I have had is that a neighbor was watching the pregnancy. There are still a few Good Samaritan busybodies in the world! No doubt she watched the girl grow up, noticed that she was pregnant, wondered what would happen to the baby . . . Perhaps she even asked the girl, as I did in our neighborhood one day of a different mentally ill woman, “What are your plans for the baby?” And was told, as I was, “I’m not pregnant!” And this was at eight months! I was alarmed, and this neighbor probably was, too.

Maybe this neighbor noticed that the tiny house where the expectant mother lived was quiet and empty one day. No one was outside cooking beans or washing clothes. The broken door was closed. The Good Samaritan neighbor decided to take a look.

She walked into the house and noticed a bloody, disheveled bed. The woman had her baby! But where were they? Then she heard a little cry, very weak and muffled. She moved the covers around on the bed but found nothing. Then she thought, “Look under the bed!” And there was Baby Sammy, still covered in his birth mess and now with ants as well. What a sight!

After four months in the hospital and another month with us, Sammy bears no signs of this horrible experience. He is strong and active, and his cries are no longer weak and muffled. He is a happy baby boy, fussy and with a big appetite.

I like to think that the Good Samaritan who saved Sammy is still the holy busybody of her little world, keeping an eye out for the vulnerable and needy. She wasn’t afraid to look under the bed, and as a result a precious life was saved.

We never know what we’re going to find under the bed, but the next time you are searching there, remember Baby Sammy, and ask God to give you the courage to be a Good Samaritan busybody. You might just be the one to rescue someone from sex slavery, domestic abuse or abandonment.

Each life is precious to Jesus, and we are His hands, feet and eyes.
And bless you, whoever you are: the person who found Sammy under the bed. May the Lord continue to bless you with His desire to seek and save His lost lambs.