Ugly

Beryl was a missionary to China in the 1940s. She faithfully pushed through missionary training in England which was several times interrupted by the war. But God's call was on her life and she determined to follow. Finally she and several other novice missionaries set out on their first journey to the land they all longed for -- China.

It was an arduous journey on a cargo ship through the Mediterranean, through the Suez canal into Red Sea and later the Arabian Sea. Eventually they arrived in India and finally went on to China. Conditions were bleak, but good practice for what they would soon face for years to come in China.

Less than two weeks after arriving in country, Beryl was traveling by Jeep up a treacherous road when the vehicle began to slide. It rolled down the hill mangling Beryl's body as it tumbled. When it came to a stop, her body lie lifeless beneath its wheels. After all her training, despite her hopes and dreams, she was ripped so abruptly from life. She never even arrived at her mission outpost. She was gone.

It's an ugly story.

But it is not so unique, is it?

We have all faced ugly stories in our life experiences. Those experiences where, as much as we struggle to make sense of them, sense cannot be made. They are simply ugly.

I have been studying Hebrews 9 lately which talks a lot about the Old Testament tabernacle. On-line I found a picture of a replica and I was surprised to learn it was ugly. I had always focused on the gold lavished Ark of the Covenant, and the gilded lampstand. But from the outside looking in, that place was not attractive. What happened there was also not attractive -- bloody sacrifice. How pointless it must've seemed from the outside looking in.

Students of the bible may gasp at this opinion. After all, isn't the tablernacle a symbolic image of Christ himself? But before you write me off too soon, consider the famous Isaiah 53 prophecy of Christ, "He had not beauty or majesty to attract us to Him, nothing in His appearance that we should desire him..." (vs.2 NIV).

Sacrifice is ugly. It is bloody and gorey. If it were not so, I would have no trouble letting my seven-year-olds watch the movie, "The Passion."

But if we look through the ugliness, not with eyes of our flesh, but through the vision of the innermost soul, we find something more.

Although the sacrifice is ugly, the love that motivates it contains an unspeakable beauty that radiates and permeates even to the heavenly realm. It is as powerful as it is incomprehensible to the frail human mind.

We cannot understand God's ways. I do not know why we waste so much time trying. What kind of God would He be if finite, weak creatures as we could really comprehend his dealings?

So let's take a new look at the ugly things we face -- those things that make no sense and realize that God does not owe us an explanation, and even if he chose to give one, we'd likely not be able to grasp it, anyway.

Let's instead focus our efforts on the Love and Presence of God to motivate us through any and all sacrifices he calls us through. For in His Presence, all the ugliness we do not understand is burned away by His incomprehensible beauty.

Write on ME!

"...I will imprint My laws upon their minds, even upon their innermost thoughts and understanding, and engrave them upon their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be My people." --Hebrews 8:10 (Amplified)

It's a standard scripture, full of trite religious lingo, and words I've heard in utter repetition since childhood. So much so, that if I had read this a month ago, I would have quickly breezed over it. "Yeah, yeah. I know that stuff," I'd have said to myself and moved on.

But in this last month God has awakened me to something new -- new to me, at least. It is something that perhaps I knew in theory before, but now grasp in experience. It has to do with holiness, the filling of the Holy Spirit, "resting" in Him (Heb.4) and it is as difficult to describe as what goes on in your heart when you see your newborn child for the first time. It is strange and mysterious -- as the ways of the Lord tend to be.

I hesitate to write about it as I am likely to be misunderstood, and am ill equipped to describe it in something as frail and human language. But I shall try.

To put it in a nutshell of theological terms, I am discovering that not only does Justification come by grace through faith. But the process of sanctification works in similar measure.

We have all heard the testimonies of those brought to the end of themselves and in utter desperation, surrender to Christ and his Salvation by faith. It is all about Him and not about me. Is it such a far leap to think sanctification could happen the same way?

I recently read a book: They Found the Secret by V.Raymond Edman which chronicles twenty people's experience with God -- post salvation -- where they came to end of themselves and simply had to cease striving in their own sanctification and KNOW that He is God. And in the midst of their weakness, a passion for the mere presence of God was born and they found completion in Him, despite their incompletion in themselves. Still they did all the "good" deeds that they engaged in before, but now the power of God stood squarely behind them. They learned how sanctification came not in their striving to follow models of Christian behavior, but in their resting and surrender.

This is not to say they were suddenly perfect, but rather they experienced God's spirit completing them in the myriad of ways they fell short.

And strange as it seemed, in the midst of that surrender and rest, Christian behavior became increasingly natural, not due to self motivation, but simply out of an ongoing experience of the presence of God in their lives.

And from this perspective I discovered the above verse in Hebrews 8. Imagine it for a moment --God inscribing his law on our very thoughts and motivations. This is not something we can do for ourselves. Sure, we can memorize and should, but to actually have it inscribed on our very souls, that comes only through the work of the Spirit. It is a work that forces us the face our own shortcomings instead of always pointing a finger at others. It is a work that awakens us to our weakness and drives us to continually surrender to Him for strength.

What's more: It is a spectacular transformation that step by step changes the way we see the world and how we operate in it. Spurgeon said it best, regarding this scripture:

"Oh brothers, is it not a wonderful thing that God should ever make it as natural for us to be holy as it once was to be unholy, and that we shall find it as much a joy to serve Him as we once thought it a pleasure not to serve Him, when indeed to deny ourselves shall cease to be self-denial? It shall be enjoyment to us to be nothing. It shall be delight to renounce everything of self and to cling close to God and to walk in His ways."

It is not our striving that brings about our sanctification any more than our striving wins us justification. Rather, it is surrender -- totally giving up all that we are (including our pursuit of our own happiness) and allowing Him to complete us with all that He is.

The description in this verse should excite us and drive us to surrender to His presence and the work of His Spirit in our lives.

"God, Make My Heart Engravable. Because I want you to write on me!

No Place Like Home

Today's blog post is my tribute to Mikepercs, the village in which I live, the town that I love...

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The Perilous Prayer

Prayer can be a dangerous thing. If prayer is as powerful as we suppose it to be, how could it be otherwise?

I met a woman about a month ago who told me of her perilous prayers. She prayed that her children would not have easy lives, but rather lives that reflected rock-solid faith -- no matter what it cost them. In essence she asked God to give them hardships if that would develop truly genuine faith.

It is not a prayer to enter into lightly.

The result: her husband died suddenly, leaving her to raise her children alone. Then as a teenager her daughter became pregnant. And in the face of these crises, her young son experimented with all kinds of acts of rebellion as he entered his early teen years.

Dangerous prayers, indeed.

But she smiles with an inexplicable peace as she tells the story today. "My kids are so solid and secure in their faith now, because of what they went through then," she explains. "It was hard -- very hard. But my prayers were answered so completely!"

Have you ever prayed a dangerous prayer?

It is a real paradigm shift for most of us. To be honest, it is something I've tried to avoid. And yet, now more and more, I sense God calling me to it. To pray such a prayer, understanding its ramifications, we must be willing to give up all things we value most, for the sake of Him.

And I guess in doing so, we actively choose to elevate Him to that which we value most.

I spent last month in the states and while there I came across a truly tragic situation. Someone I knew years ago fell into adultery and now stands on the brink of losing all that he once held dear. Of course, these situations are always as complicated as they are tragic. But a pastor gave my friend some sound advice:

"You need to give up 'the other woman', sacrifice all your expectations and rights regarding what you believed your marriage should be, and dedicate the rest of your life to restoring your marriage. You may have to give up all pursuit of your own happiness, for the sake of holiness."

It is good advice for all of us. While there may be no 'other woman' in our lives, there is certainly plenty of 'things' that we pursue for our own happiness at the cost of holiness.

We talk a lot about our lives being all about God -- but how much time do we spend pursuing holiness compared the to time we spend seeking happiness? We act as if happiness is our right as Christians, and holiness is something we will save for the hereafter.

Are we ready to get our perspective right? Are we willing risk it all for the sake of holiness? Our answer reflects how deeply we really believe that his grace is sufficient for whatever he asks us to walk through.

Take a deep breath and consider it soberly:

Has the time come to embark upon dangerous supplication?

The Village Idiot

After a month in America, returning to Hungarian village life can be ... abrupt.

Gone are the days of high-speed vans with automatic doors that open like magic. Gone are the days of being taken out to restaurant meals every night, and clear communication with folks who actually believe (however deceived they might be) that I am an intelligent human being.

Today, I awakened to the reality that I am the village idiot.

Since I speak Hungarian on roughly a four year old level, the villagers have come to accept me as a mental four year old. And today I lived up to their expectations. It began when I dropped the girls off at Ovoda (Hungarian Kindergarten) and found the entire class, including the teacher, decked out in fine white shirts and black pants -- the traditional special event attire.

They had to tell me three times before I figured out they wanted me to go home and get appropriate attire for my girls. Thankfully, they are patient and generous toward the village idiot, and one of the teachers let me borrow her bike so I could make the trip across the village and back before they departed for the event.

Following this scramble, I proceeded into the day's tasks, stopping off at the village "Gummi Szerviz," or "Tire Service" shop. The adorable little old man, clad in blue work overalls, listened patiently as I slowly, painstakingly explained I would be buying summer tires in the city today and I wanted him to put them on this afternoon. His gray eyes began to glaze over as I struggled to construct the sentence. It was as if he were thinking, "By the time you get this horrendously constructed sentence out, you won't need summer tires, because it will be winter again!"

It can be humbling to be the village idiot. It can be frustrating when no one understands your words, and everyone doubts your mental capabilities.

But I would not trade it for a dozen Americas. For all the enticing things America has, for me there is something grander and more alluring in the simplicity of Hungarian village life, and serving God in its midst -- even as the village idiot.

So, it is good to be home in Hungary again, or as I would say it in what I suspect is very poor Hungarian, "Nagyon jó van lenni otthon Mikepércsen!"

God, Our Divine Abuser?

Death...

It is a raw, pus-filled, seething wound that never really heals.

This week I interviewed a woman named Viviane for a book I am working on. She and her family were missionaries in Malaysia -- devoted fully to serving God whatever he asked. But they never suspected what He would eventually ask of them.

After six and half years of dynamic, devoted ministry where both Viviane and her husband experienced that complete fulfillment that comes from fully used one's gifts in service to Him, her husband went to the doctor with severe headaches. Tests revealed his brain riddled with tumors and six agonizing months later he was dead.

Seven years later, her voice still trembles as she recalls the searing memories of day after day, watching her beloved husband slowly and steadily waste away, hoping beyond all hope that God would do something to save him. Surely God could and would want to heal such a man as this. Does not God bless those who faithfully serve Him?

But then He didn't. And Viviane was left alone -- with three grieving children to raise.

In that gentle, death-scarred voice, I could sense the magnitude of loss and suffering that reached much higher on the richter scale that any earthquake that has ever shaken the planet. And I wondered how such devastation could have struck in 2001 without me even noticing it.

No spiritual pat answers can soothe the pain. They only further the questions: Where is God in this? Why did He let this happen?

In the aftermath, this woman struggled with the conflict of it all. "I tried to find my comfort in God, but I felt like the abused going to the Abuser for comfort," she said.

Viviane is not alone in her sentiment. In CS Lewis's very honest reflections during his pilgrimage through the loss of his wife, A Grief Observed, he lashed out at God calling him the "divine vivisectionist" and "cosmic sadist."

Those are honest feelings, and I believe God appreciates honesty. He remains there in the midst of our railings of grief.

If we believe Romans 3:23, that "the wages of sin is death." Then we can see death as perhaps the truest, most poignant glimpse of hell we can have while still on earth. Death is a cold and complete separation that ironically burns with a cruel and brutal vengence.

Death is separation and the death that separates us from those who are most intricately woven into who we are is more that a separation, it is a violent tearing apart. And when we are left in these shreds, we can do little more than ask, perhaps angrily, "why?"

But Pastor Arpad Horvat-Kavai, who lost his first wife and unborn child in a car accident, argues that such "why?" questions may never be answered in this life. He says there is bigger question still. The question of whether we will allow our unanswered questions to separate us from God.

In Hebrews 5:7, we see Christ's very human struggle. He, like Viviane, prayed that things could be different, and although He was heard, it did not change the outcome. The Amplified expresses it best:

"In the days of His flesh Jesus offered up definite, special petitions [for that which He not only wanted, but needed], and supplications, with strong crying and tears to Him who was [always] able to save Him (out) of death, and He was heard because of His reverence toward God -- His godly fear, His piety [that is, in that He shrank from the horrors of separation from the bright presence of the Father]."

When I hear a story like Viviane's, I shrink at simply the thought of death separating me from my husband or children. It would indeed be a "horror."

But in everyday life, I scarcely notice when I make choices that place that first wedge of separation between God and myself. And in this I begin to see that although my priorities may be in "good" places, they are certainly not in right places.

The pain of death that mars us in this life may well never heal until we reach God's presence. As beings created for eternity, we are ill-equipped to deal with it. But when our losses in this life drive us to speculate whether God might be some sort of Divine Abuser, may we take a moment to reflect on how we casually invite our sins to separate us from Him who loves us best. And perhaps we will catch a renewed glimpse of His pain -- for he too knows what death is.

"God Has Never Answered My Prayers"

"God has never answered my prayers," said 15-year-old Robi* who lives at the orphanage in Miskolc, Hungary, "And He never will."

The other orphan teens at the Wednesday afternoon Bible study raised their eyebrows as they turned to Russell and Karesz, the leaders, for reply.

It is a statement that would raise most of our eyebrows, if not cause us to gasp in shocked offense at such blatant irreverence for God. But what was Robi really saying with this statement?

I do not know his story, but one does not end up in a Hungarian orphanage if life has been good and happy. We can rest assured that his life, thus far, has been at best, really bad; at worst, unspeakably tragic.

Last summer Robi came face to face with the Gospel and love of Christ for the first time in his life. He responded, and was baptized.

Since then, despite his everpresent proclivity for getting into trouble, he often comes to the regular Wednesday Bible study at the orphanage. Sometimes he is little more than a disruptive influence there, but still he comes. And so last week, in the midst of his disruptions, he blurted out, "God has never answered my prayers, and never will."

The words are shocking. They are irreverent. Perhaps a cry for attention. Perhaps a challenge to God. But before we write Robi off as a "tool of Satan" to wreak havoc on the Bible study and place doubts in the hearts of the struggling believers there, consider the fact that Robi's words are not so different from those penned by David, a man after God's own heart, in Psalm 22:1-2:

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, and am not silent." (NIV)

Robi has not yet made it verse three in this passage, where David takes his eyes off himself and begins to recognize who God is and all that God has done through the ages, which galvanizes his faith to push forward, despite God's seeming silence.

Robi's faith is still in its infancy. He scarcely knows it what it means to be "sure of what we hope for and confident of what we do not see." (Heb. 11:1) The life in which he finds himself has left him ill-equipped to fight the battles that he faces. He is like an untrained soldier forced to the frontlines. And these Wednesday Bible studies represent his only training ground -- and he is being trained in the heat of fiercest combat.

As we see the despair, let us not overlook the hope in his words. First, clearly Robi believes in God. He knows God is out there, he merely questions God's interest in him personally. Second, "God has never answered my prayers," insinuates that Robi prays. There is some faith alive in him. And finally, the fact that he says, "God never will," insinuates that he expects to pray in the future.

Robi is distraught, longing for assurance, but he has not given up on God.

And the better news than that is: God has not given up on Robi.

If we were all a little more honest, we'd have to admit we have had Robi moments too -- those dark days when God seems so distant, "so far from the words of our groanings." (Ps 22:1) I am thankful Robi had the confidence to articulate the doubts most of us would keep hidden in our secret places.

Join with me and pray for Robi at the Miskolc orphanage, that God would bring this boy through this dark time, and make Himself known to Robi in a real and dynamic way. And that God would use Karesz, Russell, and other Christians to meet this boy where he is.

*Not his real name.