Growing Pains: Did you really think there wouldn't be a cost?

“That day when you sent me out so boldly to change the world, did you really think there wouldn't be a cost?” --Martin Luther in the movie “Luther”

When we enter Christian service on any level, we'd be terribly naive to believe there will be no cost. Any perusal of scripture leaves no doubt, “To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps,” 1 Peter 2:21 explains. But so often the cost proves very different from what we brace ourselves for.

I recently read of blog about how missionaries can never go home again. They are truly strangers and aliens when they go home on furlough as they return to a world that is no longer their own. Friends and family members' lives have moved on. They find they no longer really fit in. So “going home” is really not going home at all. Back in the country where they serve, they find they can never fully fit in either. They are always a little behind the power curve. In one way it has become home; in another, they find they remain just another foreigner. And so we, as missionaries, are truly strangers in a strange land wherever we go. It is cost that comes with the territory.

I have largely learned to just accept it. It is a price that must be paid to have the privilege of living an extraordinary experience in the plan of God for this world. And it is very worth it. The alternative of just remaining hunkered down in one spot never understanding that people see the world differently, to me, is completely unthinkable.

But lately, this cost has erupted with new significance for me. Everyone thinks about the sacrifices missionaries make when the leave their home country for the mission field. Few give thought to the pain involved when circumstances require missionaries to leave the mission field they so desperately love to go “home.”

America is not home anymore for me. Mikepercs, Hungary is home with all its roosters crowing in the middle of the night, the dogs barking, and the smell of coal thickening the winter air. The horse-and-wagons rumbling down the street outside our house still make me smile as do the sounds of the village festivals melding the croaking frogs in the midsummer's twilight.

And yet, circumstances beyond our control, confirmed by affirmation from above (that I really did not want to listen to), have made it clear that in this next year we will be returning to the states.

In a lot of ways for us, it is like moving to a mysterious foreign country. The USA has changed so much since we lived there some 15 years ago. Technology has evolved. I don't even know how to pay bills in America anymore. I feel awkward and ignorant when I am in the states. I still feel that way in Hungary sometimes, but people understand that here. I am a foreigner!

I don't know how to use a smart phone! I've forgotten that gas comes in gallons, and how much is gallon, anyway? Miles instead of kilometers. Pounds instead of kilograms. No one walks anywhere. Public transportation is scarce. Food tastes funny because of all the preservatives. I am already culture shocking and we haven't even left yet!

Once again we find ourselves strangers in a strange land. And it is scary, scarier than when we came to Hungary, because we have three teenagers to shepherd through the radical change – three kids who know little about American life and culture.

When watching the movie “Luther” the other night, one quote stood out to me. As Luther's views began to shake up the establishment, he was confronted by his early mentor. Luther responded, “Did you really think there wouldn't be a cost?” It echoed in the recesses of my spirit.

Yes, I thought there would be a cost, but I didn't count on it being this one. It hurts to lose Hungary and the remarkable people I have come to know and love here. The things they have taught me shall be treasured in my heart for decades to come. They have made me into the person I am. Hungary has changed me, and I cannot imagine my life without this precious place.

And still we must go. Through the ache and with a heavy sigh, we will have to move forward and again become “strangers and aliens” because we indeed are not of this world.

No, moving to Texas is not going home. The only real home will not be found here in the “puszta” of Hungary or there on the plains of Texas. The only true home will be found in the Heavenly hereafter.

This perpetual sense of loss and feeling of homelessness is all part of the cost. And although the cost is high, I'd suffer the ache again and again. Because at the end of this life, I know the pain will not prove pointless. It will prove to have been what's necessary to grow into what I needed to be. 

It's just

growing pains.

Recovering Thankfulness by shattering the lens of "me"

In America, the Thanksgiving season has arrived with all the splendor (and chill) of autumn. And while we ponder pumpkin pie and smoked turkey, it's a good season to think a little about what thankfulness really is.

"Thank you!" If you were raised to be polite, you probably say that a lot. When you make a purchase at the store, you say, "Thank you. Bye," as you leave. But is that really thankfulness?  Do you sincerely feel that sense of appreciation that comes from thankfulness. Probably not. Why? Because, you paid for the item. You simply got what you deserved.

BUT if you went to pay for an item and clerk said, "I tell you what, I am going to pay for that, myself. You can have it for free," your attitude would be different. Some of us would try not to accept it. "No. no, you can't do that. I must pay for my things."  Others might take a step back dumbfounded.  But at the end of the transaction, most of us would say, "Wow, thank you."  Same words. Totally different sentiment, a sentiment of true thankfulness.

I fear we have largely lost the sentiment of true thankfulness in our modern lives. We have more stuff and likely live in nicer houses than our parents' generation, certainly more than our grandparents'. We have all the gadgets of our technological age. We have dishwashers, clothes washers, even clothes driers! We live in an age of jet airplanes and regular vacations.  We have more to be thankful for and yet, ironically, we've largely lost the sentiment of thankfulness.

Baby boomers became known as the "me" generation, bent on "self-realization and self fulfillment."  Now the millennials are becoming known as the "me, me, me," generation, marked by overconfidence, sense of entitlement and laziness. The me culture has become our norm and it has even impacted our Christianity.

Perhaps here is where we find our fundamental flaw.  We only see the world through the lens of ME.  Psychologists of our times speak of  people suffering from everything from inferiority complexes to superiority complexes, or vacillating between the two. Yet all the complexes place the "me" at the center of the universe.

And when we can only see the world with the "me" at the center, we are incapable of comprehending the truth of who we are and who God is.  Until we "get" this, it's hard to truly be thankful.

I was recently reminded of one of my favorite stories of the Bible. Matt. 15:26 tells of a gentile woman who came to Jesus in utter desperation because her child was tormented by a demon. For many it is a troubling story because of what Jesus says to her: "It is not good to take the children's bread and throw it to the dogs."(v.26).

Stinging words! But surprisingly, this woman was not offended at all. Why? Because she knew it was true. The woman understood exactly what He was saying. Jesus was calling things as they are. She had no right to ask anything of Jesus. She was not even a Jew, for heaven's sake!

She could demand nothing. She knew she was like a dog, the pet that lies beneath the table. She accepted that, because she was not looking at the world through the lens of "me".  As a result, she could see things as they were. She understood exactly who she was and who He was.  Because of this understanding, she made an appeal. "Yes, Lord; but even the dogs feed on the crumbs which fall from their masters' table," she said. (v27).

It was a remarkable moment. It brings tears to my eyes, as it must of done for Christ himself as he answers with great emotion, "O woman, your faith is great; it shall be done for you as you wish."(v. 28).

So while God's own chosen people were rejecting him, the Jewish leaders were fighting with him and his own disciples were so often missing the point, this pagan woman really understood who God was and who she was. And on that basis, she made her appeal, an appeal for mercy, for grace. And when she received that which she asked for, we can be sure her heart brimmed with true thanksgiving.

As we enter this thanksgiving season, let's take the time to step back from all our luxuries, remove the lens of "me" and just see God for who He is.  When we let Him truly be the center of our universe, we can begin to understand who we are in the face of His reality.  And then, perhaps, we can recover a true spirit of Thanksgiving.

This blog has been dead for the past year, mainly due to a huge writing project that's now complete.  My newest book, "A Story of Grace: Beyond the Iron Curtain" is now available on Amazon.com. Written with Phil Metzger, pastor of Calvary Chapel Budapest, this book looks at some of God's amazing works in Central Europe over the past twenty years. http://www.amazon.com/Story-Grace-Beyond-Iron-Curtain/dp/0578143062

I look forward to returning the world of blogging soon.

Easter Saturday: Doubting God

Nestled between the tragic "Good Friday" and triumphant "Easter Sunday" lies a day often overlooked in the Christian calendar: Easter Saturday.

It's a day sometimes observed by the more high church denominations with ceremony and tradition, a day of mourning. It's a day of grief.  But it is also a day of much deeper emotion, a day that represents doubt and despondency.  And it poses a poignant question: How would you respond if everything you could see, hear, touch, feel, and taste told you that what you've believed in was completely wrong.

On Friday, the disciples, family and followers all watched Christ die a gruesome death.  Perhaps even as they stood there, against all hope, believing God would intervene at the last possible moment and all would see that Jesus is Messiah!  But God didn't intervene. God let Him die.

For those who believed in Him so completely, it had to have been incomprehensible. They knew Him and loved Him. He could not be dead! He had not done what Messiah was supposed to do! He had not ushered in a new era.

And yet as they wrapped his body quickly in spices and laid it in the tomb, they faced the incomprehensible reality.  He really was dead. As they pushed the stone over the cave opening, they had to begin burying all the hopes and dreams they had wrapped up in Him as Messiah. It was over.

As the sun rose on Easter Saturday, they had to go through their Sabbath routine, but it had to have felt so empty.  The questions must have screamed through everyone's mind, even if no one dared utter the words aloud.

Had Jesus deceived them? The love they had for Him made the possibility all the more painful to consider.

Was He not the Christ? How could He be if now He were dead?!

But His love, His miracles!  And yet now, He lay dead in a tomb. Death did not lie.

All evidence, all reality, all of life experience culminating in the day of Easter Saturday left no doubt. They were wrong. They had clearly misplaced their faith.

We all have Easter Saturdays in our lives.  They do not always correspond with the calendar holiday, but they are there--days when we doubt, days when we wonder where God is and if He even really cares. And our harsh circumstances testify with all certainty that we've misplaced our faith by putting it in Someone we cannot see.

Easter Saturdays are critical, defining moments in our lives. They are moments when the rubber hits the road in our faith.  After all, what is faith but the "confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see." (Hebrews 11:1)  It's easy to have "faith" when God makes sense. But that's not really faith at all. But in those Easter Saturdays of our life, when all logic and circumstances scream "there is no God,"  that's when real faith begins.

Easter Saturdays are not the enemy of our faith. They stand as a necessary ingredient in establishing a true faith built on more than religious axioms and tradition.  Easter Saturday represents a critical part in the process that brings us from the point of inexplicable tragedy (Good Friday) to a place of complete redemption and hope (Easter Sunday), where faith actually does become sight.

Born To Die

It's Christmastime! The streets are ablaze with glittering lights as snowflakes dance in the early night air, and homes, schools, and shopping centers  burst with candy canes, caroles, and colorful gifts. In the hustle and bustle, the stress and expectations, Christmas can really become as artificial as the silver and gold tinsel on a plastic fir tree.

So much so that we become lost in all the gingerbread, chocolate, and childhood dreams of a fuzzy-faced icon in a red suit.

Yeah, yeah, we all know the true meaning of Christmas. And if you are at all like me, you struggle to keep it all straight this time of year. "No, no, it's not about the presents," I say to myself as I rush into TESCO. "It's about Jesus." But immediately the thought is lost among my lists of things to buy, cookies to make, meals to plan and prepare.

To be honest, I all but failed this year to stay spiritually on track during the chaos of Christmas; that is, until I went to Miskolc and visited the orphanage there on Saturday.

I've done the orphanage thing for many years. But this year was different. It was different because Marko wasn't there.

Marko, precious Marko, passed away at age eight last month.

I really hadn't thought about the void until I walked into the house where he used to live. As I passed through the door, I totally expected to hear his little voice cry out, "Szia, Trudy!" as it always had before. I did not even know I expected it, but it's cold, harsh absence hit me with a sober silence.  Sure, there were the sounds of the other kids laughing and playing, but Marko was not there, and I wanted to cry.

I pulled it together as the day's events continued, but a heaviness remained. At one point I saw Philip playing with one of the new little boys in his lap. I saw the little dark-haired boy wrestle and laugh out of the corner of my eye, and for half-a-second I believed it was Marko, at home in Philip's arms where he belonged. For half-a-second, I forgot. For half-a-second, everything was alright again.

Then reality hit. And all that was left was the ominous presence of Marko's all-too-painful absence.

This year has been a year of a lot of death. From young Ben's death of brain cancer to the suicide at the orphanage in the summer, to our friend who lost his father, to Marko, and the flower girl from our wedding.

Loss makes for a sobering Christmas. It pares back the superficiality and forces us to look deeper at the holiday -- to reach out (perhaps desperately) for something more.

And when we reach out for a deeper meaning in Christmas, we discover a baby born to die.

Indeed, there is no superficiality here. No tinsel, no sugar plums. Only the somber reality that, on some level, Christmas commemorates a life coming in the world with one fundamental goal, one purpose. And that purpose was death.

And it would be the most significant death the world had ever known, for all of human destiny hinged upon it. It was a death that would bring grief, just like you and I have known.  But it was also a death that ignited life eternal for all who dare ask.

That makes Christmas on one hand a holiday as sober as grief itself, and yet on the other, a true reason to sing, "Joy to the World! The Lord is Come!"

And so we celebrated Christmas at the Miskolc orphanage.  We handed out the gifts (provided by the generosity of the American military community in Germany) and it was fun to see the kids tear into them with all the eager anticipation that fills the season with magic.

So even if you are grieving this holiday season, you still have a place by the manger because the manger is not so far from the cross. And the cross is just a few steps away from the empty tomb.  And that's a reason to celebrate -- especially in a time of loss.

Unlikely Heroes of Faith

"Love ... always hopes ... always endures." 1 Corinthians 13:7

"It's over," the phone call came from Miskolc to Debrecen in a torrent of emotion.

 "Marko died this morning," the sms on my phone read.

It was a sober day for all of us. The fight for a precious life was over. The struggle had ended and now there was nothing left to do but ache and mourn.

 The doctors had said they had done all they could do for seven-year- old Marko back in the Spring. And at that time we all braced ourselves for the end, not expecting him to reach his eighth birthday. But the end did not come.

 And in those months that followed something remarkable happened. It was not the miracle we hoped and prayed for -- that Marko would be healed. But perhaps it was equally magical and mystical.

 It was a miracle that transformed an American football coach and his Hungarian girlfriend from mere volunteers at an orphanage into true "angels of mercy" or perhaps more significantly the loving parents of a rejected, sick and dying child.

It was a cross few of us would choose to take up. But it was the one put before Philip and Laura and neither hesitated for a moment. In fact, they likely would not have called it a "cross that they must bear" at all. It was a labor of love.

Each day they visited Marko at his hospital bedside, bringing odds and ends to make his situation a little more bearable. Loving him. Praying over him. Laughing with him on his better days and aching with him on his harder days. Celebrating the moments when he showed improvement. Always hoping that against the odds, that somehow, someway, this little boy's story could turn out differently than his diagnosis predicted.

They became Marko's parents in earnest, as if he were their very flesh and blood right through that critical moment when Marko slipped from Philip's big football player arms into the all-encompassing arms of his heavenly father. And because of Philip and Laura's love for him, he was prepared to understand the love of the heaven he entered.

Now Philip and Laura's arms are empty and their hearts bear the same void carried by all parents who have ever lost a child -- a scar that, as I understand it, may fade in intensity but never fully heals.

Although they would not call it such, they are true heroes of the faith.

 But there are no heroes without sacrifice. And there is no sacrifice without suffering. And unlike most parents who suffer such a loss, this suffering was not thrust upon them. They chose to take it up willingly when they vested their hearts into the waning life of a precious, orphaned child. They made that choice because they believed Marko was worth it.

Although our ache is not as intimate as Philip and Laura's, we do ache with them. And we stand inspired and awed at their demonstration of holy love, God's love, in the face of a difficult situation -- in the face of such a significant loss. But the loss is not as significant as the gain:

Marko may have lived as an orphan, but thanks to Philip and Laura, he died as a well-loved son.

A Time to Grieve

This morning we lost Marko, the orphan who has been so sick for so long. No more pain, no more suffering, Marko now rests in the arms of his Heavenly Father. So much is wrapped up in this story on so many layers. But now it's time to put all that aside and take some time to grieve. In the face of all this, we do indeed have hope.