Translating

This morning, I went to Arlington (the school the boys go to) to translate for the three of the Congolese families. Usually such conferences involve me trying to remind people that these kids have been through a lot, and so when they have behavior breakdowns, it's a lot more than language and culture differences.

I am working with a little boy, Schadrach. When his father was asked are there anythings the teachers and staff need to know about Schadrach, or about Congolese culture that could help in communicating, the father gave a brief account of what the boy had been through. Bruno, the father was a minor functionary in the government, and when the fighting started, he had to flee without his wife and children. So Schadrach feared he might not see his father again. He saw lots of killing. Bruno said he saw different toys in the school, and he hoped there weren't any toy guns because that really affects Schadrach. "Traumatize" was the word he used.

Schadrach misses his grandmother, still in Congo. I think if John misses Mammaw from one weekend to the next, how much more Schadrach? Pulled from his home, witnessing unimaginable violence (Congo's war is the most violent conflict since WW II), stuck in a refugee camp, in a new country where he doesn't know the language. I saw this with Rosey last year-- it's a hard time, getting acclimated. It's hard to explain that one day he'll make friends, that it will take time. Until then, you'll be a sad, lonely boy, that's what I'd really be saying.

Schadrach was born the day after John. Such different lives.

Congo

First United Methodist’s mission trip to Estonia was a watershed event for that church, because it was a watershed event for the people involved. It’s not too much to say that the people I met on that trip changed my life and continue to do so. In the first instance, so many of the people who went on the trip have become close friends. There was something that bonded us all together.

It’s been 11 years now, so I feel I can tell this story. Statute of limitations is over. Albin Whitworth, First’ s irrepressible organist, has a severe problem with antiques. Addiction might be the right word. So wherever we went we were on the lookout for antique stores. Albin had heard that a particular street in St. Petersburg had a lot of antique stores. But we were going down the street and could not find a one. It took me a second to figure out that that’s what he was looking for. I took a little Russian in college, and so I could see a few stores selling antiques, but Russian letters are so different you couldn’t catch it. I was sitting next to Susan Arnold and said, “there’s one. There’s another,” etc. She jabbed me in the ribs and said, “I’ll pay real money if you keep quiet…”

But it was the Estonian Christians who got to me. Their faithfulness in the face of a brutal Soviet occupation (between the Nazis and the Soviets, Estonia lost ¼ of its prewar population) inspired me. Well, it challenged me. I knew I was called into ministry almost as soon as I converted to Christianity. But I hedged, wanting to finish the Ph.D., teach English etc. It was mostly that I did not want the hassle of being a pastor. I wanted to do my own thing. Here were these people who risked it all to follow Christ. I was ashamed of my complacency about faith and calling.

Ok, so I come back from Estonia in 96. Sometime that fall, late summer, I am in the UK library and see a woman looking lost, no one helping her. I ask if I can be of assistance. I can tell quick she’s Russian, named Svetlana. Turns out she is from Kazakhstan. We converse a little bit, I help her find what she is looking for. Then she invited me home. I met her husband, a computer engineer, her parents who lived with them. Svetlana is a great pianist and her dad is an awesome tenor. They gave me a concert, set out some good food, “Here’s the man who helped me,” etc. I met lots of Russians that day.

I was blown away how many Russians there were in Lexington. I tried to get someone to see that it was time to have a Russian church. No dice. Who was I? And besides, immigration was (is) just not part of the church’s vision. I made a decision that if God ever put me in the place to reach immigrants, I was going to jump on it, and drag anyone I could along with me.

So eight years later, I get to Louisville, and I start meeting Ukrainians—a seamstress, a guy in the post office, a fellow with a Ukrainian flag on his car. I took it simply as a sign. Terena Bell hooked me up with some resources to find the Ukrainian community in Louisville. A doctor hooked me up with Igor and Ira Derevyanni (Igor owns Diamond Night jewelers, over by Sonic on La Grange Rd in Lyndon. He is a great artist and jeweler. Stop in and see him.) So I started learning Ukrainian, but things did not work out to do any ministry there.

This produced a crisis of faith in me. That is, I made the vow in 96, it looks to become reality in 2004, but it came undone, regardless of how hard I tried. What gives? I have kind of pushed past it, but it still hurts. The weird thing is, the call has been in effect from the standpoint that what I expect to do with whatever group God gives me is what I did in Winchester, what I do here at the Rock: learn the language, find the needs, share the gospel.

Then enter the Congolese. I find out about them by accident in a chance meeting with a former friend at Asbury Seminary. It seemed easier than working with Russians or Ukrainians because there was no new language to learn (I guess, tho, I will learn one of the African languages. I hope.)

There was a kind of theological reflection that was going on with the families from Congo. That is, it seemed like Pentecost was still going on—people coming from all over, hearing the gospel in their own language—now we just had to figure out to send the gospel back out into the world, to the places where people are coming from. So for example, the Rock has been active in helping churches in Honduras and Mexico, built on folks who used to worship with us here in Lexington. The same thing can and should happen in Congo. Or Togo. Or Cameroon. Anywhere people have come to us from. Except that many of our people can’t go home because they will be killed. But we can use their contacts so we can go to strengthen the work of the church in Africa.

Today, I started working with a first grader from Congo, over at Arlington School. He is a sweet boy, but traumatized. Sometimes we forget they fled for their lives, from a war. And they are strangers in a strange land. He got to talking about a country he can’t remember. I told him I’d like to go there. He looked at me, maybe to say why? “The people there are suffering greatly,” he said matter-of-factly. The churches are in disarray. The pastors and congregations need support. I am not sure how it will work out. But I have been waiting for 11 years now, for something like this. Now that it’s here, I’d ask for prayer. And any help you want to give.

The Porch

I guess there’s something important about the front porch. We’re here in the 05 (our ZIP code is 40505, and me and some of the folks at the Rock refer to our turf as “The Oh-5”), and I have been looking for opportunities to meet the neighbors. This evening, I sat on the front porch, reading some Scripture. The warm breeze gave me some relief from the sweating I was doing, I suppose as some mild fever broke. I read a bit and then the woman from across the street came by and out of nowhere starts telling me about some problems she is having with her kids. A bit later, I see an elderly lady struggling to get some tree limbs to the curb. I help her a little bit and we get to talk. Then a couple walk by and we get to introduce ourselves. All because of the front porch.

I don’t half doubt that reading Scripture on the porch helped a bit, too.

Since I wrote this a few weeks ago, more has happened on the front porch. My neighbor across the street talks to me pretty much everyday, and has been getting up the nerve to come to church. The neighbor on my left is a believer, but limited in attendance by illness, so maybe he will come to church at my house on Thursday nights.

The neighbor to the right is a phenomenal musician, who likes to sit on his porch and listen to me try to learn to play banjo. His brother has come by a time or two, inviting me to his club, “TD’s” on Second and Elm. Of course, Butch goes there and knows TD and his brother (my neighbor). They play R&B. When they asked what I do for a living and I said I am a pastor, they were quick to say, “We play Gospel, too! We play Gospel, too!” I guess they felt weird asking a pastor to a blues club. Why? That says more about pastors than it does about blues clubs.

Thursday nights, we’ll be having dinner at my house for the people in our little neighborhood. It’s amazing the “colony” we have over here: me, Steffi, and the boys; Don, Laura, Ashley, and Jordan; Kim and Andy; Maggie, Rebecca, Sara, Chelsea.

It’s not simply being in Lexington that has made the difference. It is being right here in the community. It has been having the boys in the school across the street from the school. They make relationships with their classmates… it’s amazing to watch them, their joy at thinking they can tell people about Jesus in school. I wonder what that means to them? I don’t think they ever say anything. I think they just play and be friends. There’s a lesson there….

Baptizing James

Wedenesday was an interesting one. Rosario led a fellow to Christ after a Bible-study at the Lighthouse.

I hit the streets on my bike, seeing who I could scare up. Last stop I made was Butch’s neighbor, a fellow who is dying of cancer. Butch took me over there about two weeks ago. The guy wanted to get right with Jesus, but he was laboring under the common thought that he had to be good enough, or he had not had the time to make up for his wild ways. I tried to talk to him about grace, that God gives us the free, unmerited gift of His love and salvation, if we will believe, repent, and accept it. He couldn’t quite get it. Maybe it’s pride, we want to hold on, think we’ll get it right one day…

I came into a different situation today. He was on the couch, it’s just a matter of time, a few days maybe. I won’t lie, it was hard to see, changing color, all that stuff that comes as death closes in.

He could not talk. I asked him if he was ready to get right with the Lord, to finally let go and let grace take over. He nodded. We prayed to accept Christ as Lord and Savior to trust Him for forgiveness of sin, for whatever time is left, and for a future of light. Then I got a bowl of water and baptized him.

I tell you, there have been a few times where those very close to death have either accepted Christ or had some spiritual awakening and it seems that there is more light in the room than there was when you came in. It always seems that “I Saw The Light” is on my heart in such moments.

I don’t understand how these Jesus freak-outs happen. They have been ramping up lately. I will miss them when they are gone. I’ve come to see that there are seasons to this. There is a dry spell where you wonder, “Does it make any sense for me to keep pounding the pavement, keeping the feet on the street and the eye on the people?” But then I know there will come a frenetic time when somehow, the Holy Spirit is active and stuff starts happening, weird stuff. Like seeing the girl I have been waiting for, the school becoming even more open to us, getting to baptize someone in their home, and realizing it is coming from countless faithful people spreading the love of God, and using words sometimes when necessary. I just get to come in for all the fun.

The big need, the big prayer request: that more people will enter this hard work of loving our neighbors—becoming friends, sharing life together. To catch how this works, check out Peter White’s blog, Jesus in the 05: www.oligopistos.blogspot.com

The Allman Brothers

I guess I need to tell the boys more Bible stories. Melissa, our children’s pastor—at least I think she was the one who passed this on to me—says that Joe told her he was in a band called “The England Brothers,” that he played the piano and his brother played guitar but he died in a motorcycle wreck.

A few days later, a song by the Allman Brothers comes on the radio. Joe says, “Hey, this is the England brothers!” And it hits me that he asked about them one day and I told him how Greg Allman is an awesome organist and his brother Duane played guitar til he died in a motorcycle wreck. They listen to everything!

I do tell them Bible stories, too. Seriously, I do.

There was an interesting moment tonight, just before children’s ministry. When I was working on answering all the questions to be ordained, John was just born, and he would sleep in his bassinette next to me while I worked. When I went thru the next round, he was about 3, and he would play his trains while I had all my stuff spread out on the tables in the fellowship hall. John has my nervous habit of pacing around while he thinks. He went over to my shelf, picked up a volume of the church Fathers, began walking around and talking about Jesus to himself—imitation, the sincerest form of flattery!