This week we headed downtown to attend a noon-time Messiah sing at a cathedral. Toting our own musical scores like the classical geeks we are, we enter through the back door and follow the signs to the alto section. My husband sings bass, I sing soprano or alto and our daughter just sings. So we compromise.

As the orchestra warms up, we drink in the beauty of the place - the sculptures, the dark,gleaming oak, rich brick and cool stone. Stories from the gospels shine through vibrant stained glass windows - the annunciation,the worshipping shepherds, the gift-bearing magi.

The gothic architecture, with it’s towering pointed arches and cavernous ceilings, seem more fitting to contain the greatness and glory of God than the school auditoriums we have worshipped in over the years. But I’ve experienced the glorious presence of God in Chinese underground churches and grass structures without walls in the Mikea Forest of Madagascar, so I do know that architecture has nothing to do with presence. But still, it moves my soul.

Beauty in form.

The orchestra begins, a tenor stands to sing, and I start to cry.

Beauty in sound.

In these days of the musical style less-is-more, when Sufjan Stevens and his friends are la-la-laing their way through “It’s Christmas! Let’s Be Glad” - and grandma gets run over by a reindeer on every radio station in town (except NPR, God bless them) - such a magnificent work as Messiah seems overkill. (And please don’t stone me. I like Sufjan Stevens. I listen to Sufjan Stevens…once in awhile.)

But when I listen to Messiah, my gaze and my soul rises to God. And I suppose that’s the whole point.

The soloists take their turns singing scripture, word for word. As a matter of fact, the entire libretto (the text) is from the Bible - OT prophesies, and nativity accounts,stories of the death and resurrection of the Christ.

Beauty in Word.

As the contralto soloist sings - “He is like a refiner’s fire…” my mind wanders to the story behind the music….

In 1742, when George Frideric Handel was commissioned to write an oratorio on the life of Jesus, illiteracy was high and copies of the Bible were rare and obscenely expensive. The stained glass windows and carved doors and sculptures of the day had a purpose beyond beauty, as they told the Bible stories in a language that could be understood. Oratorios, such as Messiah, did the same through music.

And this is, no doubt, why Handle wanted to take on the project. But he had other reasons as well. For a start, he was broke - as the vast majority of classical musicians and artists have been through the ages. Handel was a brilliant composer, but his share of failures had left him deeply in debt and, some say, on his way to debtor’s prison. With his health also failing him. I can only imagine that his heart and courage may have been failing him as well.

Beauty in brokenness.

The story of how Messiah was written is the stuff of legend and probably some myth. But we do know that Handel wrote the entire score in 24 days. 20 big choral masterpieces, over 30 instrumental and solo pieces - 260 pages of manuscript in 24 days.

In his book, Spiritual Lives of Great Composers, Patrick Cavanaugh sets the scene:

“In a small London house on Brook Street, a servant sighs with resignation as he arranges a tray full of food. he assumes will not be eaten. For more than a week, he has faithfully continued to wait on his employer, an eccentric composer, who spends hour after hour isolated in his own room. Morning, noon, and evening the servant delivers appealing meals to the composer and returns later to find the bowls and platters largely untouched. Once again, he steels himself to go through the same routine, muttering under his breath about how oddly temperamental musicians can be. As he swings open the door to the composer’s room, the servant stops in his tracks.

The startled composer, tears streaming down his face, turns to his servant and cries out, “I did think I did see all Heaven before me, and the great God Himself.” George Frederic Handel had just finished writing a movement that would take its place in history as the Hallelujah Chorus.”

Beauty revealed.

The bass sings “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”

I remember that the first performance of “Messiah” in Dublin, Ireland was a benefit concert - the proceeds being used for orphans, a charity hospital and to free 142 men from debtor’s prison. After this it became a tradition to raise money for London orphanages and support the poor in a variety of ways through Messiah performances.

Beauty in action.

I’m brought back to the moment. It’s our turn to sing.

“For unto us a Child is born, unto us a Son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Might God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.

Beauty.

*Excerpt - Spiritual Lives of the Great Composers by Patrick Kavanaugh (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Zondervan, 1996 p. 27).
*Photos:
Stained Glass Window by Bev Lloyd-Roberts, Great Britain
St. Paul by Nicolas Demars, France
Music notes 3 by Am y, Singapore
Susan’s Snow Angel by Debbie Schiel, Australia
Modern Stained Glass by Stephen J. Sullivan, USA

A wonderful version of the old favorite carol…

Enjoy!

I grew up in a church that didn’t observe advent. Because it began as a radical counter-church movement in the 1800’s, the Salvation Army didn’t observe any of the high church rituals - including advent.

The non-denominational church I “grew up” in as an adult didn’t celebrate advent either. We decorated the lobby and put on an extravagant Christmas program every Sunday before Christmas, but advent was not part of our church culture for the best part of 20 years.

So it’s only been the last couple of years that I’ve begun to explore outside the lines - and I’ve discovered riches there.

For instance - the Jesse Tree.

Though I’ve seen photos of the stained glass versions, I never knew about the home version of the Jesse Tree. This old custom seems to be great way to tell and re-tell the ancient stories of our faith. Each day a new symbol is hung and an old story is told. Some people create a felt version, while others use tree branches. There are pages and pages of ideas for creative Jesse Trees and handmade ornaments and stories and devotional books online.

We had our own creative traditions, our own ways of telling stories when my children were younger. But perhaps it is time to establish some new traditions. My first grandchild - a little girl - will be born in just two months now. I think there will have to be a Jesse Tree at Nana’s treehouse.  Old ways to tell ancient stories to a new generation.

During these December days, I’ll keep exploring advent and share some of what I’m thinking about and reading. Like this vibrant passage that tries to capture the feeling of advent - from “Whistling in the Dark” by Frederick Buechner.

“The house lights go off and the footlights come on. Even the chattiest stop chattering as they wait in darkness for the curtain to rise. In the orchestra pit, the violin bows are poised. The conductor has raised his baton. In the silence of a midwinter dusk, there is far off in the deeps of it somewhere a sound so faint that for all you can tell it may be only the sound of the silence itself. You hold your breath to listen. You walk up the steps to the front door. The empty windows at either side of it tell you nothing, or almost nothing. For a second you catch a whiff of some fragrance that reminds you of a place you’ve never been and a time you have no words for. You are aware of the beating of your heart…The extraordinary thing that is about to happen is matched only by the extraordinary moment just before it happens. Advent is the name of that moment.”

Photo Credits:
“Stained Glass Nativity” by George Bosela.
“Heart on the Snow” by Kriss Szkurlatowski.
Used by generous permission

Thanks to a friend who has just given me me a heads up, I realize my error in not writing an update on my 13-year-old daughter’s recovery after her illness in Malawi. Sorry! Here’s what happened…..

The last I wrote about this, Hana had just been on anti-biotics for 24 hours and we were hopeful for a quick recovery. Unfortunately, she got much worse before she got better.

The hallucinations increased - she heard voices in the attic and thought people were hiding under her bed. She was disoriented and confused to the point of being unable to take a shower. She kept turning on the water and walking into the living room, unsure what to do next.

And she was afraid - which is not like Hana. She was very afraid. She started having heart palpitations; she thought she was losing her mind. And her behavior was erratic, to say the least.

One day at Hope Village, as the choir sat in a circle during a break, Hana suddenly crossed the room and dumped a bottle of Fanta on the head of one of her friends. Something was going on in her head that had nothing to do with reality - she was convinced the boy had done something to her and she was retaliating. But a healthy Hana, while entirely capable of wrestling, chasing, spraying with water, tickling - would never waste food or drink in Malawi when thirsty kids are standing outside the gate. Of course, the choir kids thought this was hilarious, and the little boy was very gracious - promising to get her back, but they were all worried about her too. They knew she wasn’t well and in their world, people just die.

The days were difficult, but the nights were worse. For three nights straight, I didn’t sleep as I applied cool cloths to her head, read scripture to her, and prayed over her. Every hour or so, she would spring straight up in bed, and start singing every worship song she could think of. This was was how she battled the fear.

I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t improving. I went on the internet and googled Cipro to see if some of the symptoms could be side effects from the anti-biotic - that in itself scared me to death. But I still had no idea what was happening to my child.

Day after day, we continue working with the children and Hana came with us to the village, but she couldn’t function. Then one day, while we were at the immigration office, waiting to talk to the boss about a visa problem, a miracle happened.

There was one other man waiting in the office, an East Indian gentleman. He stared at us for a few minutes before he asked, “what’s wrong with your daughter?” I told him that she had been very ill and we were just trying to get home. He said “She’s badly dehydrated.”

Amazed that he could tell what was wrong by looking at her, I said “yes, that’s what the doctor said.” The man then asked me if she was on ORS - oral rehydration salt therapy. I told him we didn’t know about this, the doctor had not prescribed anything but Cipro and drinking.

But the man told me to run to the nearest pharmacy and start Hana on it immediately. He said ” it’s a Malawian thing” that saves children’s lives. When you get this badly dehydrated all of your electrolytes - potassium, sodium, chloride, bicarbonate - are depleted.

I thanked him and started her on ORS within the hour. I went back online and did some research on dehydration and electrolytes - and there were all of Hana’s symptoms. I also found out why she was completely paralyzed that first night when she woke up, burning with fever: potassium depletion. Apparently, when you reach this stage, you’re in danger. They recommend calling 911.

Slowly, but surely, Hana began to improve as she sipped the salty tasting solution throughout the day. And every time she said something loopy, I gave her a banana. I don’t know if that helped, but it made me feel like I was doing something. On her last day at Hope Village with the children, she was finally able to run around with them for a bit - but not long. She just didn’t have the strength, but at least she was coming back to her senses.

The trip back to the US wasn’t easy for her - Malawi to Johannesburg to New York to Washington D.C. to Cleveland - alot of airports. As she clutched my hand tightly, I carried both of our backpacks, guiding her on and off of the various planes. When we finally landed in Cleveland, her Dad met her with a big bottle of Gatorade, the first of many waiting for her in the frig. Over the next several days, as she hung out with her brother and sisters, she cried with both relief and sadness. Relief to be in her own home, recovering, her mind beginning to function again. Sadness because she was so sick the last two weeks in Malawi, she was unable to do the things she wanted to with the children. Sadness because she already missed her Malawian family and friends.

Looking back, I realize Hana had been righting dehydration on and off throughout the summer. There were a couple of other times when she became disoriented and nervous and complained of dizziness - she just wasn’t herself. I just didn’t know what was happening and Hana is such a strong girl - a healthy eater, an athlete, and a big water drinker. But as the doctor explained, the African sun in winter is deceptive and there is zero humidity. You don’t even realize the moisture is leaving your body.

It took about a week, for the heart palpitations, nervousness and dizziness to completely go away. But now Hana is Hana again - swimming two hours a night with her swim team, reading non-stop, and pontificating about what she reads. She has just finished two C.S.Lewis books - The Screwtape Letters and the Great Divorce - treating me to a rousing discussion I could barely keep up with.
She’s baaaaaack - and I am so very very grateful.

I could be convinced that the man in the visa office was an angel in disguise. But, at the very least, he was an answer to the desperate prayers of an anxious mother and father. I’ve seen God heal in many different ways over the years. For us, our miracle came when we walked into an immigration office at just the right time on just the right day at the same time as just the right man who had the answers we needed. Coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidence.

Thanks to everyone who prayed for Hana during this difficult time.
Those prayers kept us. No doubt.

The schools close today to observe Malawi’s 44th Independence Day. The way the kids tell it, it’s the day they got their land back from the thieves who stole it. (That would be the British.) Anyway - the kids are free, so we plan a full day of activities at Hope Village. Naomi, a volunteer from Minnesota, and Hana stay up late the night before cooking stovetop popcorn - otherwise known as” chimanga popos” - for 50 people. In the early morning, we gather paper plates, napkins, biscuits and candy, along with materials for crafts and games - and head to Hope Village, Where we soon discover that we’ve forgotten the keys. This is a huge bunch of keys - for the clinic, the medicine storeroom, the guest room, the kitchen, the school office, the school rooms, the chapel. You’d think they’d be hard to miss.

Anyway,as Wapu winds his way back through the village and returns home to find them, the boys haul the tables out - and I jimmie the school office window until it pops open. Jailos and Hana crawl through the window and begin to hand out supplies - puzzles, books, blocks and legos, construction paper, rulers, crayons and markers. The youngest children dive for the legos, but everyone else wants to draw pictures. They don’t have access to paper, crayons, or colored pencils at home - it’s a luxury. Many of them draw Malawi flags, others draw mud houses or action figures. One boy draws a Bible and as we praise him, we overlook the spelling error - “Hory Bible”. Rs and Ls are easily confused here.

When the sun is high in the sky, we move the tables inside the cool walls of the church. We pass out bags of popcorn, biscuits and cups of Sobo - a drink concentrate that the kids love. After a short break, the kids go back to their activities - some of the boys work on their baskets, others do puzzles. Donna spends her time playing the ABC game with the older boys and tending a variety of boo-boos in the clinic, while Naomi, Hana, Wapu and Omali play with the kids. I open the bag of plastic letters and dump them on a table - an act that immediately draws a crowd of girls. As I call out the letter - “show me an E” - they dive in head first, scrambling and scratching, grabbing from each other. It’s more of a rugby scrum and I just hope noone gets hurt before lunch arrives.
To avoid cooking on a holiday, we decide to introduce the kids to pizza. We know that it’s a bit of a risk - since they live on nsima, nsima, nsima. (which is sort of like stiff corn grits). But they all seem willing to venture into the unknown. So we strike a deal with a local restaurant for 14 large pizzas - and they guarantee us a discount. No problem! Just call a half-hour ahead and 30 minutes later the discounted pizzas will be waiting for pick-up.

We follow instructions. Wapu calls it in and then takes off to get the pizza at the right time. We knew this would leave us with 40 children and no translator, but we weren’t worried. We’ve learned the important phrases: “Osamenyana!” - don’t fight. “Osalira!” - don’t cry. “Mukhale okoma mtima” - be kind. When all else fails, I just yell ” IWE!” - which translated, simply means “you”. But I’ve noticed that with the right tone of voice, this word stops everyone in their tracks.

And of course, the pizzas aren’t ready for pick-up and they aren’t discounted, but they finally arrive along with cases of cold Fanta and Coke. The kids are seated at the tables, wiggling in anticipation. Some look a little dubious. Edwin says he wants to vomit and Missi opts for biscuits - but everyone else loves the the pizza and asks for seconds.

Next, we head outside for some group games - and it turns into a riot of joy. We introduced two new things today - pizza and water balloons. It’s a toss up as to which they loved most - but the water balloons are a huge hit. we try forming 4 circles and passing the balloon to each other - but this is too tame. Instead they opt for throwing the balloons high in the air and crowding the center to see who it will drench. At the end of the day, most of us are soaked through.

When we exhaust our supply of water balloons we move to three-legged races.
With cries of “anyamata!!!!” (boys) and “atsikana!!!!” (girls) - the contest turns into a gender war. We tie their legs with gauze bandage, but the older kids opt for jump-ropes. A cry of “ready, set , go!” - along with a piercing whistle, sends them flying in all directions, often tumbling in a heap.

We raise the stakes and move on to one- on-one sack races. (Because of the harvest, we could only find one empty maize sack -so we used a seat cushion cover.) I don’t think I’ve ever seen kids jump this high and this fast. At the end of the day, we call it a draw between the boys and girls - and everyone is content.

As dusk draws near, we sit together on the grass, as each child and young person expresses their gratitude to God. Edwin says he’s grateful that Uncle Ken is coming and he’s grateful for pizza. Missi says he’s grateful that he’s alive and for biscuits. One by one, they thank God for big things, like protection from the witches, and for little joys - like Fanta. They thank God that they have sleeping mats and new blankets - one boy thanks God that we’re going to Lake Malawi next month. The kids have never seen Lake Malawi. They thank God for each of us by name and for people who give so they can live. They all thank God for Hope Village - which is truly a place of hope to them.

And today it has been a place of incredible joy.

The USA elections always capture the attention of the people of Africa. One time, as I traveled through Madagascar and then Malawi during the presidential elections, I was asked many times about my political affiliation - at the passport desk in Antananarivo, by the customs officer, by people on the street. When I arrived in Malawi around November 1st, the man at passport control asked me who I was voting for. I inquired why everyone was so concerned about who would be the next President of the US. He said “Because America rules the world. It matters.”

About 36 hours later ,I was traveling through the villages and came into a marketplace lit only by oil lamps. I walked into a dark shop and called out “Does anyone know who won the American election?” I couldn’t see the face, but a voice answered “George Bush”. I guess it does matter.

Recently, I traveled through Johannesburg, South Africa on my way to Malawi. Airport porters, who live in the townships and squatter camps, talked about Obama’s chances. A porter at the hotel, gave me a thumbs up and asked “Obama? You like Obama?”

Late last night, the news reached Malawi that Obama has clinched the nomination. This is chock full of meaning for the people of Africa. Not because of what America can do for the world, but because a black man has risen to such heights. A young friend tells me - it means we can do it, too. We can rise above our circumstances.

In America, we keep hoping the election is not about race, age or gender - but about the issues facing the country. We hope that America has grown enough to see a human being for who he or she is. Of course, the truth is, we’re not there yet. But in Africa it’s all about race. A black man - a son of Africa - is running for President of the United States.

In a shame-based culture, where the general under-lying feeling is one of inherent worthlessness, Obama represents hope. My friends tell me that most people here believe God has blessed the whites, but not them. They wonder if they are inherently “less-than” and deserve their impoverished, often illiterate, state. But a black man rising to the heights of the Democratic nominee tells them this is a lie. If Obama can rise, so can they.

Politics aside, it is touching to see the pride Africa is taking in Obama’s accomplishments. A young student tells me that Mugabe, the Zimbabwean dictator, used to be his hero - but now he is inspired by Obama. He has decided to study political science - and try to make a difference here in Malawi. ( Interestingly, I haven’t heard one person say they are inspired by Reverend Wright - Obama’s former pastor. Just the opposite.)

Yesterday a friend told us that she is 6 months pregnant - and she doesn’t want the child. My friend is angry because she had no access to contraceptives - and out of her four children, two of the toddlers are deaf. She is afraid she will deliver another deaf child. As we encouraged her, Loveness touched her stomach and said,”Who knows? This child could be the next President of Malawi. God can do anything!”

In that statement, I hear the hopes and dreams of the people here in regards to Barack Obama. “If a black man can become President of the United States, then God really can do anything - and He can do the same for me.”

But at the end of the day, no man can heal the shame of Africa -only God can do that. Only the message of the kingdom of God holds the power to heal this land - and it is so far above anything that the greatest man can even comprehend. In the kingdom, where what God wants done is done, everything is upside down. To rise you must first bow - and allow God and God alone to lift you up. To live, you have to die to every earthly ambition and desire - and allow Christ to live through you. Of course, this is not a crowd-drawing message, but it is a life-changing - even a nation-changing message - for those who can hear it and decide to live it. Heroes rise and heroes fall, but the word of God stands forever.

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Today my daughter is being inducted into the National Junior Honor Society with grand ceremony.

As the announcer introduces her, the packed room hears that Hana has a 4.0 grade average (she has always had a 4.0 average) and her favorite subject is language arts. Civil rights, justice issues, politics and reading top a long list of interests. The person who most inspires her is Condoleeza Rice because, “as a woman and an African-American she had many hurdles to cross to get where she is. She did it through hard work and determination - she just never gave up.” I notice two teachers at the next table exchange a look that says - how old is this kid? Thirteen.

And she has had her own hurdles to cross to get where she is.

I can never watch an event in my daughter’s life - whether a birthday or an award ceremony - without flashing back to her painful beginnings in China. I know little about those first 18 months of her life. I only know that, at 14 months, she ended up in an orphanage - alone, frightened and badly injured. At 18 months she was in my arms - sad and cautious. But within 24 hours, as love disarmed her, a mischievous personality and innate brilliance began to surface.

Today, she is being honored for that brilliance in a beautiful banquet hall in small-town USA.

My mind wanders to the thought that Hana and I will soon travel to Malawi, Africa to spend the summer working with children in our orphan care program. There are half a million orphans in Malawi - a paralyzing number - and we can’t begin to help all of them. But we can help one little boy named Missi, or one little girl named Mpelekanji, or one little boy named Patsala or….

I snap back to reality as Hana walks up to receive her certificate and NJHS pin.
I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if we had not helped this one little girl. And I wonder how many children there are like Hana out there in the world.

We can’t help them all, but all of us can help one.
____________________________________________________________________

If you’d like to help orphans and desperately needy children in Africa, click here for information on how you can help - or contact us at info@worldviewinternational.org

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Surprise!!!!

I stand in the doorway - looking dazed, I’m sure.

The room is filled with people I love - people who love me. They’ve been planning this for weeks, I’m told, and I didn’t have a clue.

The room is drenched in red - my favorite color. Ok, perhaps it’s a bit more than a favorite color. It’s a lifestyle, a philosophy, a theology. My sofa is red. One of my living room walls is red.My kitchen cabinets are red. My bed quilt is red, my chairs are red, my VW bug is red, my tea kettle is red, my sweet woven bag from Israel is red. You get the point…

I live red.

Of course my friends know this- so red helium balloons attached to red string fill the rooms. Handmade paper cranes dangle from the balloons - some of them are solid red, others are made from scripture with the words of Jesus in red.

There are as many cranes as years I have lived.
There are 55 cranes - every one of them earned.

Then there is the delicious cake with white frosting that reveals a rich red center when cut. And the plates, the cups and even the eating utensils are red.
It makes me smile.
I love red.

When instructed, I sit in the corner of the room and someone places a large metal box, that looks like a family Bible, in my hands. The entire metal surface is engraved with flowers and swirls - and tinted red. The exterior is beautiful and the interior is filled with love. My friends have created beautifully unique cards using red & white card stock, music manuscript, red ribbons, little metal tags & other interesting things.

One card opens with the song “It’s a Wonderful World” - another contains a CD of my favorite Broadway songs. One contains a beautiful, original prayer and meditation guide - another contains a poem by Emily Dickinson that says it all:

If I can stop one heart
from breaking
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life
the aching, or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
into his nest again
I shall not live in vain.

There are too many cards to read and they are intimate - personal.
I’ll finish them when I’m alone

Next, I close my eyes on command ( they better enjoy this - I’m not usually this easy to push around). And into my outstretched hands is placed a gift from all of them - a new ovation guitar. It’s something I’ve always wanted, but never owned and I’m rendered nearly speechless. My friends are definitely enjoying this.

Other presents follow - books I love, DVDs I love, a world clock, a stunning shirt from a friend who lives to spiff me up a bit. We spend the rest of the night enjoying each other’s company - playing a silly game, talking, eating.

The next morning, on my actual birth day, it is raining - my very favorite Irish weather. I imagine that God is behind this and I say thanks. I sit by the river with the engraved treasure box and a steaming cup of tea, reading my cards carefully - prayerfully. And I begin to realize the richness of my life as each friend reminds me how much I mean to them -and how God has used me in their lives. They remind me not to pay attention to earth years - no matter how battered and scarred I might be.

In heaven-years, I am a child.
A child who just had the best surprise party of her whole life.

I will always remember this year as my red birthday.
Because, as my Chinese daughter informs me,
red is the color of joy.

.

by Qumana

    I bought this bumper sticker at a store in Coventry and slapped it inside the window of my ‘69 bug the day it became operational.  People either love it or hate it  - there is no middle ground. 

It is a jarring question. 

Jesus is, after all, the Prince of Peace.
He is loving, compassionate, merciful, arms opened wide to the whole world. 

So just who would He bomb? 

Such a question challenges our value system, exposes our gods, and shines a harsh light on rabid nationalism ( which is not the same thing as gratitude for the blessings of one’s nation) - just as the Son of Man, Himself challenges and exposes us.

As for me, I’m a pacifist…basically. 
My house is a safe zone for everything living, except plants.
I don’t even kill regular bugs. When I find an insect in the house, I scoop it up and set it free.When mice invade my little cabin in winter, I have been known to not only  feed them, but leave fresh water in a seashell.  My father thinks I’m certifiable, but I like to call it compassionate stewardship of the earth.I have neither reason nor right to kill something smaller than me, just because I can.(I could draw a parallel with large and small nations, but I won’t).

On the other hand, I’m Irish…Belfast-Irish, no less. My pacifism is tinged with a capacity for violence. So I understand why Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a committed Christ-follower and staunch pacifist, plotted with his friends to assassinate Hitler.

WWII -or more specifically the Holocaust - is an event that has long troubled my pacific waters. I admit, I’m glad the U.S. finally entered the war and I’m grateful for all those who sacrificed their lives. They are my heroes. Just as Bonhoeffer, a pastor who died violently,as punishment for a violent act during a violent time in history,  is my hero. But Francis of Assisi is also my hero. Dorothy Day is my hero.  In many respects, Gandhi is my hero. Martin Luther King and Dwight L. Moody - both heroes.

 I’m a terribly conflicted pacifist..

I’m not, however,conflicted about the Iraq war - I’ve been opposed since the beginning.  I recently stumbled on a website that chronicles the path to war in Iraq and watched their free film Leading to War.  It left me at the same place - opposed to the war in Iraq.

You may or may not agree -that’s ok.
One person’s doctrine is another person’s heresy. 
But I think we can all agree on the tragedy of hearts broken, lives cut short, and families destroyed.

The Washington Post features a page, called Faces of the Fallen , that tells individual stories of  the over 4,000 U.S. military fatalities. The Huffington Post has stirred controversy with a mosaic of George W. Bush and John McCain using the faces of dead soldiers. Each one special.  Each one created by and loved by God.

But there are others, also loved by God, dying in even greater numbers.

There are no pictures on the website called Iraq Body Count.
There are names and ages. For instance,

Husayn Muhyi Hamzah
Student
Age: 10
Killed: January 10, 2008
Nationality: Iraqi

or….

Children of Labeeb Ali Khatir
Number of victims: 7
Ages: 7-17
Nationality: Iraqi

Between 82,591 -90,115 civilians dead - every single life precious to God. And I wonder now - as I did when the bombs started dropping five years ago - how many of them are my Christian brothers and sisters?

No one knows for sure how many Christians live in Iraq, a predominantly Muslim nation. The Christian Science Monitor says there are 650,000.  CNN says there are only 250,000. The CIA world fact book puts it at 3% of the population, which is around 720,000 Christians.

Whether we take the high or low estimate is irrelevant to me. The Bible tells me that as Christ-followers we are “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation. God’s own people…” ( 1 Peter 2:9)

We are not Iraqi citizens, American citizens - according to Philippians 3:20,
our” citizenship is in heaven”. While we each reside in our different countries, abide by our nation’s laws, live responsible lives, we are connected- every nation, tribe, and tongue - at a higher level.
We are one in Christ.

It’s a complicated world. I don’t pretend to have the answers.
I’m just asking the questions and trying to make sure I don’t confuse the the way of Jesus with the American way.
So….

Who would Jesus bomb?

Tags: Christian, Iraq war, Jesus, worldview

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It was another Easter morning a few years back…

I woke before dawn with a start and threw on my clothes. I ask my startled husband, “Will you take me to see her?”
Of course he will. 
He’s like that.
I’ve certainly asked him to do crazier things.

Dawn is appearing. 
Blurred shapes become trees, frost begins to glimmer in the rising sun.

We turn into the cemetery and I realize we are the only car on the road.
The land is marked as far as the eye can see with with spring flowers. 
No plastic. This place only allows live plants.  Ironic.

There are thousands of souls in this place, but I came for one.
My husband stands at a distance,watching me tug at the patches
of grass that have grown over her stone. I talk to her out of habit. 
Only weeks earlier she excitedly told me what she expected
God to do for her in 2004. 
She didn’t expect this.

Days earlier I had curled up beside her in intensive care, trying to come to terms with the end. Now I sprawl out on the frozen earth - over her body, weeping, trying to come to terms with death. I hear a voice, whether  in my head or my heart I do not know.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? She’s not here.”
The words cut through my pain and loss, igniting hope.

I stand gazing at memorial stones stretched out in every direction,
thinking of what they represent - loved ones lost, intense grief and suffering and loss. But suddenly I am filled with joy. 
Because He lives - death could not hold Him.
Because in Christ, separation is not forever.
Because we serve a God of Love who sees our suffering and loss -we are not alone.
Because there is another world waiting - and my friend is already there.
 
 

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