Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he
asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for
on the way that had been arguing about who was the greatest. He sat down, called
the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all
and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and
taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my
name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent
me.”
-Mark 9:33
“I once thought the disciples were slow, but not now. I now
think that the real challenge of Jesus was not a matter of intelligence but
ultimately a challenge to give up an old vision and to accept a new one.”
-John Powell
A few months ago, I was at a retreat for university students
on the east coast, where we studied the book of Mark for a week. It was called MarkEast, which is really pretty
intuitive when you think about it. Today, I am not longer a university student,
and I am no longer on the east coast. I am in Mozambique but I still the things
I learned at MarkEast and the subsequent month in Halifax are sinking in. Studying
the book of Mark I wondered over and over again “Why don’t the disciples get
it?” Now I am asking myself that question: “Why don’t I get it?” Even after
learning about true greatness, I still want greatness for myself. Even as a
Christian, I find myself wanting to be the next Mother Teresa known for doing
good works or C.S. Lewis known for insightful and intelligent writing. But then
I remember. This is not what greatness is to Jesus.
During my time in Halifax and in Mozambique, I have met many
truly great people. These people won’t get a Nobel Prize or be on the cover of
Time Magazine. They won’t be interviewed by Ellen and when they die Elton John
won’t write a song about them. But the
Kingdom of God isn’t like this world. Jesus honours the humble.
People like Mrs. I. To tell the truth, her name escapes me.
I can’t even remember how many children she’s had. But that does not change the
fact that I am humbled and honoured to have met her. This woman is the mother
of one of the Mozambicans who works in the office with us. The other weekend we
three meninas accompanied our coworker and his wife to a church conference in
his hometown of Nacala. We were graciously hosted by Mr. and Mrs. I. Here is a
woman who has lived through Portuguese colonization, a brutal civil war, and a
time when Mozambique was considered the poorest country in the world, all the
while raising a family and serving in the church. And she treated us, as
strangers, with the utmost respect and kindness, feeding us a veritable feast. For
some reason she was rather fascinated with the quiet Canadian. She told me she
had a grandson who was perfect for me. She liked me even though I was just a
stranger enjoying her hospitality. I could not even offer conversation because
my Portuguese is extremely weak. But still, the woman treated me like an old
friend. I hope I can be that willing to offer folks my respect and love. As we
were loading up the truck to leave on Sunday after all the goodbyes and I was
about to get in the truck, Mrs. I said something to me. I couldn’t understand
her so I looked questioningly at her son, my coworker. In broken English he
tried to find the words for what she had said, something that apparently does
not directly translate. “She said… you’re like… a sister.” I smiled at her as we drove away, and I
couldn’t help but be in awe. How I wish I could be like Mrs. I! What a faithful
mother, servant of Christ, and hard worker. She has doubtlessly lived through
more sorrow than I will ever know. And yet she can still see a sister in a
silent young stranger. I know that as a white person, Mrs. I could have felt
angry and resentful against me. But she chose love. And even though I do not
know this woman very well, I suspect that her life has been a long exercise in
the habit of choosing love.
Hi friends,
This week has been very busy, with a trip out to the International School, a missionary family moving out to go on furlough, and a weekend journey to the port city of Nacala. The next weeks will prove to be busy as well.
For now, check out this video chronicling some of the first half of my time here in Mozambique. https://vimeo.com/69944073
I have to admit that the last couple of weeks have had of a
lot of inner struggle for me, as I did my work and lived my life here and
wondered: is this really where I am supposed to be? What should I do with my
life? What is the best thing I could do with my life? Is God calling me to
long-term cross-cultural missions? Am I willing to say yes if He is?
I had these and a lot more questions. Questions about where
I should live and what my job should be and what education I should take. It
doesn’t help that after September 1st I have absolutely no idea what
I will be doing for a job. I know where I will live and I know how I would like
to spend my spare time. But as for work and possibly school, these stand in my
future like a giant question mark.
Actually most of my future is a giant question mark, and for
a girl like me who wants to know exactly what to expect, that is frustrating. I
feel envious of those people who always have known what they want to do and
spend their lives doing the thing they love. As for me, there are a million and
one things I love doing, and I am not sure what vocation would be best. Things
would be a lot easier if I just knew what exactly I am supposed to be doing for
my whole life.
I remembered a song we used to sing at Pioneer Clubs and it
is based on Psalm 119:105, which says “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a
light to my path.” From this I get an
image of playing a game called Grogs at camp, which, if you are not familiar
with it, involves walking through the woods at night. All you have is a
flashlight to illuminate the path, and all you see is the little bit of path directly
in front of you where the flashlight is shining. You don’t see the whole forest
stretching before you- but the little bit of light before you is enough to find
your way. The Bible doesn’t say “Thy word is a GPS showing every turn I’ll have
to make on the path before I reach the destination.” It’s a lamp to my feet,
showing the next step. And that’s enough.
So, I’ve stopped worrying so much about the future, and
instead I want to focus on God and His Word. Because what I do with my life
isn’t as important as why I do it, and who I do it with. And I hope the answers
to the who and the why questions are: with Jesus, and because He’s good. Anything
else is just details.
And I have to say, yesterday as I stood in a crowded
almendra outside of a church as everyone danced and sang tirelessly for hours, I
did not doubt that this is where God wanted me to be right now. And, yes, I
will quote my favourite Latin-American booty-shaker on this: “this time for
Africa.”
So now I know one of the reasons why there are no wooden houses...
Happy Canada Day everyone! It is hard to believe that it has
already been one month since the plane left the ground from the Halifax
airport. We celebrated the day by eating a cake baked by my sole Canadian
colleague, and it was enjoyed by Mozambicans, Americans, and Brits alike.
We had the cake at morning tea-time
I made this special meal for Canada Day
The thought I would like to share with you today is a
thought about community. “Community”
is a trendy word right now, I think. Many of us want to experience community,
whatever that means. But, as I have been learning, Mozambicans know a lot more
about what community means than we do.
Pastor B. is a short, jolly, and like all Mozambicans I’ve
met so far, an excessively optimistic man. I met him first at our morning prayer
meeting in the office, which happens 7:30am every weekday. Though he has been
studying in South Africa for the last couple years, this Bible translator was
in town visiting his sister who was very ill. When he spoke at our weekly
missionary fellowship one night, he was modest about his English skills but spoke
very well, and in his delivery of the message, it was clearly genuine and came
from his heart and the Bible. With his multilinguism and his strong faith and good
teaching, Pastor B. was sponsored by the organization to get more education so
that he may have more training. While this is a great opportunity for him and
his family, there are consequences. It is taking longer than he thought it
would to get his degree, so he is short thousands of dollars for an additional
year. As if that weren’t enough, the church denomination he is part of is not
supportive of any missions organizations outside of the denomination. As a
result, Pastor B. has been cut off from his church. They see his involvement in
other organizations as turning his back on the church. People treat him as if he is a heretic, and
they ignore his phone calls. When he does enter a church meeting, people ask
him what he is doing there. If it were me, I would be deeply hurt, and I would
most likely choose another church to go to! But that is not the way Pastor B.
thinks. When you are part of a church, you are part of a church, no matter how
much they reject you or hurt you. He will still keep on trying to come back and
rejoin the community, despite their rejection of him. He would not dream of
leaving.
I was inspired by Pastor B’s story. Here is a man who
understands true community: loving others and being committed to a community
even when it causes hurt. This is what Christ is like! You may remember that in
early May I went to a retreat for university students called MarkEast, where I
spent a week studying the second half of the gospel of Mark. Something that
struck me during that week was the incredible determination of Jesus to die. God’s
chosen people, Israel, did not recognize the Messiah when he came. And even the
people closest to Jesus—his disciples—turned away. Judas betrayed him. When he
was arrested, the disciples fled. Later,
Peter denied ever knowing him. And it was the chief priests and the scribes—the
people who were supposed to be drawing the people closer to God—who wanted
Jesus dead. From reading the Gospels, it is clear that Jesus had the power to
stop his death. But he stayed silent and complied as he was cruelly executed. That
kind of love is incredible. Jesus died, I believe, as an atoning sacrifice for
our sins, so that we may know God. And he was still willing to go through this
painful, painful thing even when everyone he knew had basically chosen a side
that was not with him. But I would think, and I hope you would agree, that it
was worth it.
So in that way, Jesus and Pastor B. can teach us something
about community. Community is making a commitment to love people in all
circumstances, no matter how much they hurt or reject you. This love is only
possible through God’s spirit.
Yesterday at church, one of the songs that was sung was “God
of this city” in Portuguese. In Portuguese, the song is called “Grandes Coisas.”
Being here is making me more and more convinced that every African is a good
singer. Every song is sung with such gusto and power. This particular song is
very special, of course. I first heard of its origins from my brother, who had
spent time in Thailand as part of a YWAM Discipleship Training School. The
song, as it turns out, was written by an Irish worship band called Bluetree.
This story is sourced from this website. But here is the story behind the song:
God of This City has a complete life of its own,
it started in a place called Pattaya, Thailand. We were part of a small
missions team within a band called Pattaya Praise. Pattaya is a small coastal
town in Thailand which has been built up around the sex industry. There are
30,000 female prostitutes over the age of 18, that doesn't include the
children, the men and the little boys. It's a crazy, crazy place. It's
physically dark; it's spiritually dark, and when I drove in and saw what was
going on, I just couldn't see God there at all.
So, we were doing the usual
missions stuff; sweeping streets, playing in prisons and a school. But we
wanted to play way more. We asked if there was any chance we could get another
gig somewhere, anything, it didn't matter. So, we ended up playing in a bar on
Walking Street, which is a quarter-mile long street in the middle of Pattaya
where it's the hub of all the prostitution and the craziness. The bar, called
the "Climax Bar" was pretty much a brothel. It was just a horrendous
place. The deal was we could play there for two hours if we brought 30
Christians with us who would all buy Coca-Cola, because Coke is
more expensive than alcohol there, and the bar would make a little more cash.
We brought 30 of our friends
from the conference, and played a two-hour worship set. We did every worship
song we knew in the first 20 minutes, and were like, "What do we do
now?" So, we went into a time of free worship, and began singing some riffs
over the city. It talks in the Bible about the "now" Word of God–that's
what those lyrics were–the now Word of God. We started singing, "You're
the Lord of this place, You're the King of these people, You're God of this
city–and greater things are yet to come and greater things are still to be done
here." And that's the truth. In the midst of all that darkness and
craziness, all the sex and child abuse–when it's so impossible to see God–He's
still God. He's still God of that city. He still longs after every single one
of those people, and He still wants relationship with every single one of those
kids, every one of those women and every one of those pimps. That's our God.
That's the God who is massive, mighty, and amazing. The essence of it is; we didn't
have that song when we went into that bar, and when we came out, we did.
Everyone has a different take on the whole "prophetic" thing, but
that was definitely prophetic.
A song that started in a bar in one of the darkest cities on
earth is now sung all over the planet to worship Jesus: from New Minas to
Nampula, there is no one like Our God. He is the God of this city, and of every
city. Yesterday at church as I listened to that song, sung in a language I barely
know, I realized how cool it is that there are people all over the world
worshiping God. In thousands of languages, in every time zone and different
cultures, people are lifting praises up to the same God. There is never a
moment when He is not being praised. We are never silent. And if even if,
somehow, we were, God would still be worshiped. It is like when Jesus rode
into Jerusalem, and his disciples were praising him (Luke 19:38-40):
“Blessed is
the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”
“Peace in
heaven and glory in the highest!”
Some of the
Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, rebuke your disciples!”
“I tell you,” he replied, “if they keep quiet,
the stones will cry out.”
God needs to
be worshiped. I am glad I am not the only one doing it, because I never would do
Him justice. But I get to be part of an incredible chorus of worship that is
never silent and never will be. A great multitude that no one could count, from
every nation, tribe, people and language.
Walking around downtown Nampula, it struck me that there are
many things people do here that would be very strange if this were Nova Scotia,
but here nobody bats an eye. So I have compiled a list of such things. These
are parts of everyday life here.
·People carrying things on their head: a bucket
of water, a bundle of charcoal, a sofa, anything!
·Parking officers carrying rifles
·Live chickens on public transportation
·Young boys carrying dead chickens down the street
by their feet
·Heterosexual men holding hands
·Unfenced goats just casually hanging out at the
side of the road
·Young children carrying babies on their back
·Women breastfeeding unabashedly in public places
·Men riding on the bumpers of trucks
In Canada, I think people would stare at these things. I
wonder what things are normal for me to do but would cause Africans to stare?
I think I could compile some other lists, too, like: things
I never thought I would learn to do in Mozambique, which includes a roundhouse
kick and making chicken tikka masala. Or: English words that mean very
different things in England and Canada, like pants (“On Saturdays we wear pants
around the centre”), or jumper (“I’m knitting a jumper for my grandson”). Or:
languages I interact with on a daily basis, which include English, Portuguese,
French and some Bantu languages.
A photo I took in transit of this typical scene
Making chicken tikka masala: grinding up garlic with a mortar and pestle, a tool found in every Mozambican home
