Choosing earth over heaven

^“One day one of the local officials asked him, 'Good Teacher, what must I do to deserve eternal life?'

Jesus said, 'Why are you calling me good? No one is good—only God. You know the commandments, don’t you? No illicit sex, no killing, no stealing, no lying, honor your father and mother.'

He said, 'I’ve kept them all for as long as I can remember.'

When Jesus heard that, he said, 'Then there’s only one thing left to do: Sell everything you own and give it away to the poor. You will have riches in heaven. Then come, follow me.'

This was the last thing the official expected to hear. He was very rich and became terribly sad. He was holding on tight to a lot of things and not about to let them go.” Luke 18:18-25, The Message

...

“Few biblical figures are as tragic as this young rich man as he walks away from Jesus' invitation. But other factors, such as achievement, pride, and family, can also reside in the place that should be reserved for God. Anything that excessively anchors us to the earth rather than freeing us as commissioned representatives from God indicates a breakdown in the discipleship process. What is really frightening is how easy it is for all of us to choose earth over heaven.” Darrell Bock, Luke: The NIV Application Commentary, p. 470

The man's got a lot of dough

Every time I read his story, I think of this young man (well, only Matthew tells us that he was young – see Matthew 19:16-30) and ask, “Who is he?” Does he represent the “rich and famous”? The Donald Trumps of that world? A guy whose yearly income towers over the GNP of some small country in Africa? Or, is he someone closer to home? In Luke's account, all that we are told is that he was “a man of great wealth” (v. 23). But that's a relative statement. Compared to what? Donald Trump certainly is a man of “great wealth” but in comparison to say, Bill Gates, what he has is merely pocket change. I would guess that my annual income would put me slightly above the poverty line for this neck of the woods but in comparison to many of my friends in Africa, I live high on the hog. So depending on your point of view you are either swimming in it or just scraping by (although even at a net worth of 3.1 billion dollars, Donald Trump is enjoying himself regally in his luxurious wealth pool.) Matthew's and Mark's account of the same incident are almost identical – in every case, the young man goes away downhearted because the price of what Jesus has quoted for the kingdom of heaven is, from his perspective, way too steep.

I live in a modest home, drive used (and, thankfully, paid for) vehicles, and wear Wal-Mart variety clothes. The most expensive shoes I own are the ones I currently wear for running. My closet is chock full of clothing. I have footwear for all kinds of seasons (a must for living in northern Wisconsin.) By Barron County standards people would say I do “okay” for the kind of profession I am in. And I would agree. I'm not living in the tall cotton but I'm not on skid row either. Still, this encounter bothers me because I think it's meant to. It forces me to ask myself what I am holding on to and how I would respond if the Lord asked me to do the same. To me, the question is not “could I do it?” but “would I?” Would I turn my back on my comfortable lifestyle here in the Midwest in response to the Lord's invitation to move into a far more impoverished neighborhood for the sake of the gospel? I really can't say because the question, after all, is at this moment hypothetical.

This fall, for our family reading time before school each day, we have been reading Kisses from Katie, the autobiographical account of Katie Davis' move from a wealthy suburb of Nashville to a poor neighborhood in Uganda. A young woman from money, she turned her back on it all for the sake of God's call on her life to serve and love children in this impoverished country in Africa. She was 18 when she arrived and now at 23 she is still there and the foster mother of 13 Ugandan children. Her story is fairly remarkable made more so to me by my opportunity to meet her this past March when I was in Uganda. The other night at the dinner table, our 17-year old daughter asked me, “Do you ever find yourself getting mad at yourself for all the things you own?” Lately, Emma has been looking at her bursting closet and the assorted jewelry that has accumulated on her desk and finding herself getting angry. “Why should I have so much while so many others have little or nothing at all?” It is a contradiction that any person who has ever traveled outside the U.S. and frequented economically deprived areas faces. Why was I born in suburban America insulated from the pain and suffering that much of the world experiences on a daily basis? And why does a kid named Ronald have to drop out of secondary (high) school because his family cannot afford his tuition? It's all very disconcerting.

I told Emma that I don't get mad at myself. I find that having been to places like Uganda, the Philippines, and Mexico that I am much more grateful for the simple conveniences of indoor plumbing and clean drinking water that I have access to whenever I have the need. But I also tell her the accumulating affect of having been to those places has been to force me to rethink what are my lifestyle priorities here. Do I really need to purchase another book for my library? While a certain piece of equipment for my hunting forays would be nice, is it necessary? Admittedly, these are very small steps but meeting people like Katie and Ronald and many others living in comparatively spartan conditions has motivated me to hesitate before I just buy things because I can.

Says Katie:

She really is remarkable

“...I quit my life...and for good this time. I quit college; I quit cute designer clothes and my little yellow convertible; I quit my boyfriend. I no longer have all the things the world says are important. I do not have a retirement fund; I do not even have electricity some days. But I have everything I know is important. I have a joy and a peace that are unimaginable and can come only from a place better than this earth. I cannot fathom being happier. Jesus wrecked my life, shattered it to pieces, and put it back together more beautifully. (from the Introduction)

Honestly, I'm not there yet. I still dream of a patch of woods in Douglas County to retire to. I find myself thinking about a deck out back and a porch out front – and some landscaping to boot. Were these projects somehow to be completed, I know they would be replaced with other yet unconceived ideas. It is the way things are. I pray to hold such dreams loosely and not sell out to them so that when an opportunity arises – and it will arise – to invest in kingdom matters in Uganda or elsewhere I will be able to do something instead of being so strapped that I can do nothing. Jesus reminds me in this story that the unnamed “poor” are real people some of whom I've already met. 

 

On the Art of Making Friends in Africa

"The Wall" at Refuge

At the fellowship I serve as pastor, the leadership is committed to fulfilling what we believe our calling to be relationally connected to the Church of Jesus Christ around the world in our shared purpose of making disciples. Given that our town is predominantly white, I find it an oxymoron that our last name is “International.” But at the present time, we know people who are serving in the Philippines, in New Zealand, in China, in Liberia, Nigeria, Egypt, Uganda, Kenya, Guatemala, among Somali refugees in our own county, and among First Nations people living on the Lac Coutre Oreilles Reservation about an hour north of here. As I related a few posts back (Culture Shock and Awe), everyone I have just referenced has shared on more than one occasion at the weekly worship gathering of our fellowship and while they do not all receive regular financial support from us, they are prayed for with regularity. What's more, in recent years small teams from here have gone to a few of these individuals to visit and encourage them in their work there.

Last year, the small group in charge of planning our annual missions event felt led to focus on Africa.

This was curious to me for at the time we only knew a handful of individuals serving there and they were little more than acquaintances. But we set our course and in time, a connection with a pastor in Uganda who had shared at Refuge a few years before was renewed quite serendipitously and that spring a man from Africa was standing in our sanctuary inviting us, “to come to Africa and serve the Lord.” That unusual experience was repeated twice again that spring – once by a man from Nigeria and once by a man from Liberia ("GO TO AFRICA!"). Clearly, the Lord was calling us to go there.

Eventually, two small teams from here went “over there” earlier this year. One team, led by one of our elders, went to Kenya because of a prior relationship with the sister of a pastor serving there. The team that I was a part of, led by another of our elders, went to Uganda a few weeks later. We went in search of friends. And we found and met many. In fact, my “friend” stat on Facebook went up dramatically because of that field trip to the Pearl of Africa.

Dolores (LCO) and Linda have become friends

But developing friends via social media alone involves a learning curve of sorts. We didn't go over there with bags of money or with the overt intention to start throwing our financial weight around. But we were immediately aware that many of our new African acquaintances misread our intentions. Thinking we were there to find some worthy project to get behind, we became the belles at the ball being feted by one consort or another. Now most didn't lay it on too thick but in one instance where we were escorted all around a certain rural district from one project to another we became very uncomfortable when it was clear the group leader wanted to elicit a financial commitment from us. It's not a healthy way to build a friendship.

Because I am a pastor, I was given the floor at nearly every stop to preach. I'm not uncomfortable in speaking off the cuff. My ministry at the Justice Center has taught me to do so with ease. But what made it awkward at times is when we would be gently pressed to make certain promises of financial commitment and this we could not – nor would not – do.

I don't want to give the wrong impression. It wasn't all of them. And even those who button-holed us are clearly doing good work with very limited means. But they obviously viewed us as cash cows simply because we are Americans and milking time was here.

Pastor John

Since returning from Uganda, I have remained in contact via Facebook chat with several of my new friends. And in fact, both of the pastors of the fellowships we shared at while we were there just last month shared at Refuge. But here's where it gets awkward. Some of my new friends have not even tried to be coy about the matter and asked if we would help them financially. In the last few months, I've been asked to help pay for tuition, for medicine, and to help alleviate a financial downturn in a person's life. None know or guess that at times I am chatting with a few of them at the same time and each is asking that I help with their particular need. I replied to one Ugandan teen's friend request and every day I was bombarded for a plea to send money so she could go to school. It got to be where I had to ignore her chats until she gave up on me. Last month, I asked a friend of mine who has been serving in East Africa for fifteen years how best to respond to these requests for aid. He shared with me that in Africa where there is a much more sense of community people share with one another more readily than they do in the States. It makes me think how different our worlds are: one of my friends on this side of the world is a very wealthy individual but I would never even think to ask him for money for fear how it would affect our friendship; but what if part of what we would call a lack of social grace is really an expression of recognition that we are, after all, friends and friends share with friends?

Pastor Moses

The two Ugandan pastors that shared at Refuge each spoke of looking for “partners” for the different projects they have begun whose focus is to help alleviate the plight of orphans – and in Uganda there are so many orphans! But when I think of the word “partner” I think of two people who are in relationship and are working together toward a common goal. What I think they mean is they are looking for “investors”, people who will make a one-time or an ongoing investment to help those who are fatherless. It's not that what they are doing is not support-worthy. It's not that I think they will misappropriate the funds for selfish purposes. It's the fact that I do not want to begin a kingdom venture motivated by guilt alone. For several years our family, for a minimal amount, has supported an orphan in Guatemala. For our commitment for doing so, we received a grainy black-and-white photograph with the kid's name on it and nothing since. I write that check without so much of a thought and I trust it is going to what the ministry says it uses my funds for. But honestly, my concern for him has not grown since Day 1. Sitting at my office desk, I can't even think of his name. Somehow this does not seem right to me.

I guess I've taken the stance of Peter and John on their way to the Temple to pray. A lame beggar reaches out to them as was his daily custom. Maybe they saw that guy hundreds of times since setting up shop in Jerusalem. But that day, Peter looked at him and said,

“I don’t have a nickel to my name, but what I do have, I give you: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk!” He grabbed him by the right hand and pulled him up. In an instant his feet and ankles became firm. He jumped to his feet and walked. (Acts 3:6-8, The Message)

When the student in his final year at secondary school asks me for help paying for his tuition, I pray with him and tell him to trust God to meet his needs. When our tour guide from the day we went boating on the Nile asks me to send money to his foundation dedicated to helping orphans, I pray with him that God will provide the funds he is seeking. When my friend John is asking me again for a contribution for the new primary school his fellowship has begun, I go to prayer with him. I'm not trying to give them the brush-off. I'm not trying to hide behind religious rigamarole risking a rebuke from James (see James 2:14-18) . It may be the day will come when we will be sending regular donations their way but not because we are feeling guilty about living in the abundance of America. Rather because the love of God compels us to do just this. Right now, we're building friendships and those take time to build. We don't want to be their source or sugar daddy. We just want to be their friends. 

 

Peripatetic Praying

per·i·pa·tet·ic /ˌperipəˈtetik/

Adjective: Traveling from place to place, esp. working or based in various places for relatively short periods.

Noun: A person who travels from place to place.

Synonyms: adjective. Itinerant

noun. Traveller – wayfarer – traveler

http://mw1.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/peripatetic

There are lots of ways to pray: silently or out loud, extemporaneously or read, conversationally or at the top of your lungs (I'm told this is the way Koreans like it), in English or in tongues, sung or written, alone or in a group. I've done them all (though praying silently is difficult for me as is shouting my prayers. Pentecostal though I may be, North Americans tend to want to take turns and listen to one another as opposed to all praying at the same time. We reserve our enthusiasm for football games.) There are various postures to prayer – kneeling, prone, hands clasped or raised in the air. If I had to choose a word that best characterizes my personal prayer activity, however, I would describe myself as a peripatetic pray-er. I pace, usually in the quiet of our sanctuary making rounds up and down the aisles. Over the years, I have found that when I am alone in our worship facility if I kneel I get sleepy. In my attempts to quiet myself before the Lord, an awful din of things I have to do or things I have failed to do roar around me. So, pacing seems to help me focus and quiet the distracting sounds within me. But in the last couple of years, I have developed a new way for me to pray. Much has been written on prayer-walking, the act of “praying on site with insight.” But I pray on the run.

If its' red its been run

I am an avid runner who has logged over 10,000 miles and run in dozens of races of various lengths since 2000. I'm an early morning runner as well who prefers getting my run in before my day takes off. On my running days (I only run 4 days a week), my alarm goes off around 4 a.m. and by 4:45 or so I am out the door for a run that varies between 8-10 miles depending on how I'm feeling or whatever race I may be training for. As I have shared elsewhere (Crossing the Century Mark for 2012), one of the items on my bucket list is to run every public road in Barron County. In my mind, it's a prophetic working out of Genesis 13:17, God's command to Abram to “go, walk the length and breadth of the land, for I am giving it to you” (NIV). I want to run down every road in Barron County so that there is no lane, no avenue, no dead end, no farm road where a disciple of Jesus has not been. Admittedly, it really is a bucket list in that it may take the rest of my days to “get 'er done” as they say around here. So on Saturdays, my long run day, as I head down a dark stretch of road I have never run before I imagine the light of Christ steadily moving over the literal highways and byways of the county I call home. I've got a long way to go.

What I usually see on my early morning runs

I don't listen to tunes as I head out on my run (although often the cadence of my shoes hitting the pavement brings a song to mind.) My thoughts ramble all over the place from stuff that I've got to do to my reflections on things that have happened last night or long ago, from the ridiculous to the sublime. It all rumbles around up there like BBs in a tin cup. A few years ago, however, I began to consciously make an effort to pray as I pass certain households of people I know or different worship facilities in our town. It's easier said than done. Although I'm only running at what elite runners would refer to as a leisurely pace, it's fast enough for me. So what I pray as I run by is the epitome of a sound bite as in, “Lord Jesus, bless this home and all who live in it” or “May this fellowship of believers remain faithful to you.”

A few years ago, I found myself offended at a leader of another fellowship in our town who in my estimate was failing his pastor miserably. Mind you, the guy hadn't done anything to me. But he had – or at least I felt he had – let his pastor down and since his pastor was my friend, I was offended for him. (For the record, my friend didn't seem too upset at this guy's behavior even though I thought he should be.) In any case, after carrying this indignation around for awhile, one early morning while running by his home the Spirit of God prompted me to pray for him and so I did. And while I don't run by his home every morning, every time I did I began to make it my habit to pray for this man, his wife and their children. A few months later, at a community function, this man emerged out of the crowd and slapped me on the back and we chatted away like old friends. Even though I had released my disappointment with him months before, from that night we have been on warm terms. I credit that to the Holy Spirit at work in my heart. That experience has only strengthened my resolve now to continue to run and pray.

After all these years I still have a few roads to run in town

The Desert Fathers and Mothers in the third century after Christ walked the roads of Palestine, developed a practice called “Breath Prayers”, prayers that literally could only be spoken in one breath. That fits my running routine perfectly. I'm no mystic like Antony, but when I'm running past the home of a fellow pastor who has been struggling with depression for years, I pray, “Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead and Christ will shine on you” (Ephesians 5:14). Or when passing the home of a young person on our Cross Country team who is not in relationship with Jesus yet I breathe, “Reveal yourself to her, O Lord.” What used to take conscious effort now almost seems instinctive. I see the home of a person I know and in my mind I exhale a prayer of blessing, of help, of strength, of peace. Who knows if God himself has not directed me down their street that morning for that very purpose.

It's not the only way I pray. I journal. I pray in my prayer language. I pace the floor of the sanctuary. I read and meditate on the Scripture. But as I don my running shoes and head out the door in a way that makes sense only to me, I feel like I'm strapping on a sword and heading into the fray to give battle against the powers that would affront my friends this day. And as I do, this prayer is on my lips: “May my heart pump God's Word like blood through my veins and may my feet be as sure as a cat's” (Psalm 37:31, The Message).

This is a common sight for me in the early hours

 I should add a postscript just so no one gets the idea that I am somehow saintly as I run. I have prayed other prayers as well. Like every time a driver feels compelled to turn on their brights when they see me (and thus blinding me),  instead of turning them down, I bark out a "Geeze..." and resist the urge to signal them with my right middle finger. A few weeks ago, when on a darkened street a skunk ran out in front of me, the first words that screamed into my mind as I instinctively picked up the pace was "JESUS...SAVE ME!" He did.

Culture Shock and Awe

“Barron County is a county located in the U.S. state of Wisconsin. As of 2000, the population was 44,963. Its county seat is Barron.” - from Wikipedia page on Barron County (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barron_County,_Wisconsin)

I live in a mostly white county. Exhibit A is a short article on Barron County that I found at (where else?) Wikipedia:

As of the census of 2000, there were 44,963 people, 17,851 households, and 12,352 families residing in the county. The population density was 52 people per square mile (20/km²). There were 20,969 housing units at an average density of 24 per square mile (9/km²). The racial makeup of the county was 97.69% White, 0.14% Black or African American, 0.81% Native American, 0.32% Asian, 0.04% Pacific Islander, 0.32% from other races, and 0.69% from two or more races. 0.96% of the population were Hispanic or Latino of any race. 34.4% were of German, 21.8% Norwegian and 5.3% Irish ancestry.

In case you're wondering if anything has changed in the last decade, the facts I gleaned from a report on the 2010 Census reveals that while we have experienced a slight population increase, at 96.5% we remain a predominantly Caucasian bastion of people of northern European descent. Of course, we do have a smattering of Native Americans who live primarily on the northwestern end of the county in the Cumberland/Turtle Lake area. Due to Seneca Foods being located there as well, every summer Barron County receives an influx of Hispanic migrant workers as well. But in Chetek, located on the far eastern end of the county, we never see any (if you don't count my neighbors down the street from me who relocated from Mexico some years ago.) All this to say that when we usually use the word “culture” it means an entirely different thing than what it means in, say, Minneapolis or St. Paul. “Getting exposed to a little culture” for us may actually come down to sampling some lefse and lutefisk at Chetek Lutheran at their annual fall feed here.

Some people wait all year to get their helping of lefse and lutefisk at Chetek Lutheran

But as I have related elsewhere (Same time next year), we've been found out. Somewhere around the turn of the 21^st Century, Somali refugees moved into Barron seeking employment at Jennie-O's Turkey Store, a plant that slaughters and packages 27,000 turkeys a day. While no one really knows how many Somali are living here now, estimates are between 600-700. There's enough of them to support not one but two mosques now and if you happen to be driving down LaSalle Street on a Friday afternoon, it's hard to miss the followers of Muhammad heading to the place of prayer. And it appears they are here to stay. Barron not only has a McDonald's and Subway now but two eateries owned and operated by local Somali businessmen to cater to local Somalis who seek halal (i.e., “kosher”) food. As they put it on one of their web sites, “Somali Food for Your Soul.” 

They serve a pretty good tea

But still at 12 miles as the crow flies from here, we don't see them around our town. There really would be no need for them to come here anyway. A person can get better prices and a far greater selection at Wal-Mart in Rice Lake where so many people from around the county, Somali included, do their shopping. So, with the exception of a few African-American children from a handful of “blended” families, we are mostly white people here whose children go to school with other white children and are taught by almost exclusively white teachers (if you don't count Senora Checkalski who despite her Polish last name is every ounce a Hispanic.) I personally don't believe that this is an equation for the breeding of latent racism because of the internet and easy access to Eau Claire to our south and the Twin Cities exposes us all to a greater world outside our small town. Still, “culture” in, say, Minneapolis is one thing – call it exotic, or adventuresome – but at the end of the day we can come home to our white neighborhood and eat mac and cheese or pizza and feel “cultured” enough for one day. “Culture” - be it Somali or First Nations people – is “over there” at arm's length not as close as our next door neighbors who act oddly and dress weirdly.

Dolores w/two of the Waterhouse girls March 2000

When we first moved here in the early 90s this isolation from people of other color came home to roost when Linda was at the mall in Eau Claire with Christine, our oldest, one day. At five years of age she “discovered” her first African-American and asked what was the obvious to her: “Who is that chocolate man, mommy?” Yes, it's a cute story but the idea of our kids growing up in a community off the beaten path and fairly insulated from the rest of the world frightened us. Apart from the Spirit of God, that may have been a motivating factor in seeking a greater involvement in the cause of mission. In time, we became a partner with a fledgling ministry on the Lac Coutre Oreilles Reservation about an hour and fifteen minutes north of here. Sporadically we would send crews up to help build their ministry center. And when they began a training school there made up of Ojibwa mostly from northern Ontario, they would come and join us at least once a term for what I called our reenactment of the first Thanksgiving. First Nations people and descendants of those who first settled the eastern seaboard sitting down to eat turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy with some frybread and wild rice on the side. We always had sharing. One year we even had dancing. Some of these folks became my friends and one winter I went with a team to visit one of the reserves in northern Ontario where a few of them are from.

Somali men at prayer

We became involved in ministry to the local Somali first through prayer. We got a little educated and then during Ramadan for a few years running would host times of prayer for the Somali. When a young couple from California felt led to come to Barron to begin a ministry to this segment of the Somali diaspora five years ago, they were “launched” from Refuge. We have been in partnership with them ever since. A woman from our fellowship with a penchant for cooking has become pretty good at frying up a batch of sambusa when the need arrives. While only a handful of us have actually had conversations with any of the Somali, that's still way more than how it once was. Our son, Ed, is a student at UW-Superior, about two hours north of here, and one of his study partners is a Somali kid from Barron – a kid that is well known by the founder of The Well International in Barron. I find this more than coincidental.

As I like to tell people, our last name is “International.” In response to a prophetic word, we didn't just become “The Refuge” back in 2007; rather, we are now “The Refuge International.” Personally, I was quite shy about this at first. After all, in a town that hardly boasts minorities (if you don't count the Poles and the Swedes) to my ears it sounds rather pretentious to give yourself a moniker like “International.” One thing I've done has helped bring a needed corrective to my understanding of our missional purpose. Several years ago I started asking guests from foreign lands who addressed the weekly worship gathering to take a few moments to pray for us in their native dialect before concluding their message. I just figure meeting people from different cultures and hearing the languages they speak in our sanctuary somehow prophetically “laces” the atmosphere with a desire to learn more of our neighbors who just happen to live across the ocean. Since making that the “price of admission”, as it were, we have heard many dialects spoken in our place – from Asia, from Africa, from Central America and elsewhere. In fact, in the last six weeks alone we have heard prayers in Russian, in Luganda (Uganda), in Swahili (Kenya) and in Ojibwa (LCO) all prayed by those from these places who have been our guests to share at a regular worship gathering here. It's like we've put our flag up on our little mailbox and the deliveries keep coming. I'm persuaded there is something big to this small act of prayer in other tongues.

This past Sunday, in our worship gathering, we had a Somali believer in our midst, friends of the founders of The Well, on one side of the sanctuary while across the way was an Ojibwa woman, fruit of the ministry that we have helped support on the reservation all these years. They were both present because they accompanied their friends to participate in our annual Thanksgiving service. Shire, the Somali man, asked for prayer to help find a job. Dolores, the Ojibwa woman, shared her need for prayer due to the fact that her cousin had died suddenly the night before. Later she was the one who on behalf of Discovery/the Church of Love and Compassion presented us with an official flag of Lac Coutre Oreilles and, at my request, prayed over us in her Ojibwa dialect. It was a special moment and afterward, one of our deacons suggested that we make it our aim to post a flag from every nation that has worshiped with us. That in itself may not be fulfilling the Great Commission but it speaks of a greater openness to getting on with what we need to be getting on with.

The flag of the Lac Coutre Oreilles band of the Ojibwa

Some thoughts at the beginning of Year 22



CFGT sanctuary circa Oct '91

 This past Monday, October 1, our 21st year anniversary of living and serving in Chetek came and went with little fanfare. I got up early, as is my habit, and went for a 10-mile run (which is not necessarily my habit). With Christine at work, Ed away at school and Charlie not of a mind to join us, it was only Linda, Emma and I who sat down for our daily reading time together. These days we are reading Kisses from Katie, the autobiographical account of Katie Davis the young woman from Nashville who moved to Uganda following her graduation from high school in 2007 and is still there. After praying together, our day began in earnest – Emma off to school and myself off to Refuge. At this time of year, much of my working day actually concerns the 20 individuals that I serve as Cross Country coach either preparing for the next practice or tabulating the results of our most recent race. It takes more time than I care to count but I love to do it and therefore I think the Lord is in it.


I did take time, however, to journal that day and here is my entry for Monday, October 1.



Our installation photo - Oct 27, 1991

 21 years ago today we rolled into town & by God’s grace 21 years later we are still here. Ministry sure looks different than it did then but that’s not to say I’m jaded or now have a soured look on ministry. Just the opposite. I love what I do and am grateful that I have a place “to work out my salvation w/fear and trembling.”

It’s not a part-time job. In fact, it’s not a job – it’s a calling. It’s not particularly hard work but it is the stress of dealing w/people through their highs & lows, ups & downs, their ebb & flow. If God permits it, I will be here for some time to come. But it is not “my” church. It is His & I serve at his pleasure until he removes the calling from me.

However long I am here I want to finish well. Whether that means w/a flourish & a grand send-off or rolling out of town in a U-Haul once again I pray for my part to continue to do good work here & continue to pray “Your kingdom come, Your will be done in this city as it is in heaven.”


When CFGT (now Refuge) celebrated our 40th Anniversary as a fellowship, I invited all the former pastors who were still alive to come and share on different Sundays to share of their time here. It was sorta like Homecoming Week spread over a month or so. I have never forgot what John Tuttle, my immediate predecessor, said tongue in cheek: “I’ll let the archeologists decide what my impact was during my time here.” John, who is never one to blow his own horn, did good work here. When he and Char arrived in Chetek in 1981, they inherited a congregation that had just come back together from a split through the efforts of his predecessors, Reverends Chester Lodgelin and David Bakken. Mrs. Mattson, the founding pastor’s wife, was still a force to be reckoned with. After her husband died suddenly of a stroke in 1974, she was never really the same and keeping her husband’s legacy alive – and her place in the fellowship they had labored so long to give birth to – became her mission. By the time the Tuttles arrived, it was mostly a small, aging congregation with enough eccentric individuals to keep things always interesting. Essentially, John and Char were the young people and John set a course of bringing their small fellowship out of the time-loop they seemed to be stuck in. As different members shared with me, it was a difficult transition but by the time John left in the spring of 1991 Mrs. Mattson always referred to him as “Pastor.”



Christmas 1991

 CFGT/Refuge is now in its 57th year and now I’m the guy who’s been here the longest. To use church growth guru guy, Lyle Schaller’s term, if Rev. Mattson is the “founding pastor”, I am the “forever pastor.” According to Schaller, they are two of the three hardest guys to follow (the third being the “fallen pastor” who I pray never to be.) When my time is finally done, I don’t know what “the archeologists” will say my legacy is. I don’t think I want to even conjecture. I sincerely hope, however, that my predecessor blesses me as much as I thanked God for John and Char in my first ten years.

On Monday, I spent time in prayer, journaling and Word. I also spent a good part of the day preparing for Cross Country practice and being there. But maybe my favorite part of the day came that night. Marty is a guy connected with Refuge through my ministry as a chaplain at the Barron County Justice Center (BCJC). He was released in late spring and has been a resident of Heart Island in Rice Lake since then. Heart Island, which is shaped like a heart, sticks out into the south end of Rice Lake. It is the home of Benjamin’s House Emergency Shelter, the Heart Island Family Enrichment Center, the Guest House and two Catholic nuns – Sister Jean and Sister Claudine. In Marty’s journey since he was incarcerated last December he has moved from a tiny flex cell at the JC to one of  the dorms to an apartment at Benjamin’s House to the downstairs half of the Guest House duplex. Six months ago, he lived in a room a little bigger than a phone booth. Now he has a room with a view looking over the bay – and the good news is he doesn’t have to pay taxes on it!



Color walk October 1991

 He hasn’t been feeling well for awhile and when he finally went to the doctor a few weeks ago he pronounced the death sentence on him: he has inoperable, terminal cancer. Apparently, it has progressed so far that while they could attempt treatment, it was the doctor’s opinion that it was too late to do anything except make him comfortable. In any case, Monday night I went up to see him and I brought Troy along. Troy, a former resident of the JC himself and now my partner in ministry to the inmates there, met Marty when I brought him to Refuge back in August. It wasn’t that they struck up an instant friendship but having both been former members of “the fellowship of the orange jumpsuit” they are connected by common experience. As we sat in Marty’s front room with the Sisters and his large Great Dane, Katie, laying between us, while I was the pastor it was Troy that Marty was listening to that night. And that made this moment common to every pastor very special indeed. A guy I had the blessing to lead to Christ and begin to disciple last year was sharing comfort and encouragement with a guy who began his Christian journey again just a few months ago. Before we left, I prayed and anointed Marty with oil but fittingly Troy got the last prayer in.



Christmas program Dec 1991

 That’s how my first day of my 22nd year ended, me and a former inmate of the Justice Center praying over another former inmate and homeless man dying of cancer. I had hoped to spend some time in prayer and reflection before I called it a day – a spiritual exercise in rededication to the work God has called me to - but when I got home, my early morning routine caught up with me and I was in bed and asleep before 10. I was up by 4 a.m. the next morning and soon after on the road running going after my next ten miles and at the onset of my next year of service in this wonderful place God has put me.





October 1991 - It's not about the building



Less than a handful

Last Wednesday we held our annual “Around-the-Grounds” prayer event. For several years running, we have held a “back-to-school” prayer walk and gathering on the Wednesday before school begins. On a typical prayer walk, we may have 15-20 people of all ages on hand who, after brief, corporate prayer at the flag pole outside of the school, disperse into teams of 2 and 3 to either pray around the school grounds or through the school halls. It's usually a mixed crowd of parents, supportive members of the community and kids of all ages. We start at the high school/middle school and later move over to the elementary school to repeat the whole process there. The teams who move inside pray in different places of the building invoking God's presence there. They are also encouraged to sensitively approach teachers and other staff and ask if they can pray for them. In a small town, most people know each other anyway and staff usually welcome prayer and are frequently touched by the fact that someone would pray for them.

But this year's walk, at least on the surface, appeared to be almost a non-event. Only two other individuals besides myself were on hand – a 17-year old senior and a retired teacher. Despite news releases in both the “Back to School” special insert in our weekly paper as well as on the “church page”, despite discussion at the Breakfast Club and email reminders, vacations, appointments, and other things, apparently took precedent over this important walk. But on the kingdom principle that three is a quorum (“For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them." Matthew 18:20), we began our walk at noon as planned. We spent a good fifteen minutes praying by the flag pole before making our slow meander around the grounds of Chetek-Weyerhaeuser high school and middle school. Two of us use a prayer language and so frequently while one was praying in English the other was quietly speaking in tongues. We took Paul's counsel to heart about “praying every way you know how for everyone you know” (1 Timothy 2:1, Msg) and asked God to fill the place, to protect those who would frequent it or play upon the fields around it, and for gospel-sharing activity to take place within it. With the exception of the Middle School secretary, who is a part of the Refuge faith family, we found no one else to pray for. All else were either on lunch break or in staff meetings.

Part of the 2011 prayer walk

When it was time to move over to Roselawn, our senior had to go so it was now just Teresa and I. But we metaphorically linked arms and began the process all over again. All the teachers at the elementary school were in a staff meeting with the principal so we walked the halls mostly just quietly praying in tongues. Admittedly, given the fact that we had been at this for over two hours now, we both were beginning to run out of gas and out of things to pray for. But we finished the task and considered our schools sufficiently blessed for the onset of the new school year which begins just a few days from now.

That night I had invited all the other fellowships in town as well as anyone else from the community who were not able to participate in the prayer walk to join us at Focus for a prayer meeting. Apart from our own kids, Pastor Norm and my wife were the only two “outsiders” to bolster our ranks. But we worshiped, we had the group of about 20 break into three prayer circles and pray spontaneously for the upcoming school year and then, later, I opened the floor mic for anyone who wanted to pray something for us to corporately agree with. I had only two takers (but these kids can pray!) And then we returned to worship to end the gathering.

 So, was it a failed prayer meeting? I mean, what does it mean when you invite people to pray with you about a place and for some people that are important to us all and nobody (or very few) respond? Is it unbelief? Is it indifference? Is it not appreciating the significance of the Body of Christ corporately gathering together? Those who normally would have been there made a point of calling me up and letting me know they would not be able to participate this year on account of various reasons. And this is not the first time I have called a prayer meeting to order and there was no need of a gavel. But it isn't that prayers weren't prayed – they were! And they were not pale prayers, strung out needlessly to fill space. Both the three prayer-walkers and the twenty individuals who gathered in the sanctuary this past Wednesday night prayed sincerely and, at times, passionately for the things that were on their heart to pray. The fact that less than 25 were on hand to agree together on these things does not lessen the significance of their prayers. God heard and I trust that it matters.

At the annual Night of Power vigil held at The Well a few weeks ago, only six participated in the 6 p.m.-12 midnight prayer gathering on behalf of our Somali neighbors. A few nights ago at the House of Prayer, an all night prayer meeting was held on behalf of Steve and Kari from our fellowship as Steve continues to recover from a traumatic brain injury suffered on account of a motorcycle accident this past spring. While I certainly wasn't there for all of it, I think they had a good turn-out (maybe two dozen individuals who showed up at different times during the 12-hour set.) Worship was led and prayers were said. I don't doubt that they were effectual regardless of how any of us felt about the flow of our intercession.

I don't think our experience in Barron County is all that different than a lot of places in America. As a people we have no stomach for corporate prayer gatherings or we no longer know how to sit quietly and wait so “plugged in” are we. Things come up and certainly no one can be at everything but the relatively low turnout to these gatherings suggest to me that we lack understanding about the significance of when Christians in a certain community come together and pray. What's more, it is another sign that as a people we are maxed out emotionally and our appetite for God and his kingdom has been spoiled by other – and I would add, lesser – things. Nevertheless, I am grateful for those who came, for those who maybe did not come but prayed at work or at home and for all the other prayers that will be lifted on behalf of our teachers and students through the course of the next school year.

Sometimes the leopard can

“The gist of [Luke] 15 is that it is God who saves men, and that he does so because he wishes and delights to do so.” The Message of Luke by Michael Wilcock. The Bible Speaks Today Series. © 1979 by IVP. P. 156

Last Sunday afternoon in the multipurpose room of the Barron County Justice Center about 30 inmates and three jailers bore witness to God's ability to save. For the first time in his life, Troy went to jail on his own accord (he's been taken to jail lots of time before.) I've written about Troy before. Last July I shared about that remarkable Sunday when he asked to be born again (Being Born Again on Sunday - July 28) and then in December following Christmas Eve service (Miracle - Dec 30). Watching salvation come to his home in realtime has been one of my personal highlights of the past year.

Baptized at "the 40"

Troy and I met at the JC a few days after the services I held on the last Sunday in January 2011 and then began to meet weekly right up until I left for a three-week missions trip to the Philippines and he acquired Huber privileges. When he was released at the end of May, he was at our next worship gathering just as he had promised he would be. And he's been there ever since. After his release, we continued to meet weekly at his home reading Scripture and praying together. His wife, Marie, would sometimes sit with us but mostly it was he and I sharing together while the rest of his household came and went. He was born again in July and baptized at our Annual Faith Family Camp a few weeks later. Last fall, we ran a modified Alpha course of which Marie and he were a part of . When the plant he worked at relocated out of state, he didn't climb into the bottle (although he insists he was tempted to.) Within a week or two, he was hired by a factory in Rice Lake and has been working there ever since. His 13-year old son, Alex, comes to our weekly worship gathering from time to time as does Marie. Troy has used his many skills to repair all sorts of things at our facility, served as our cook for the Alpha Course and, when his wife was laid up, he actually baked a wedding cake for a young couple of our fellowship who were recently married. Is there anything this man cannot do?

Troy's son, Alex, and I share the same birthday (plus or minus 37years)

The man's got talent

Our Annual Missions Event this past May focused on loving our neighbors whether they live across the street or across the ocean. Troy shared at the Friday night story-telling session how he planned to return to jail as soon as we “off paper” (in order for a former inmate of the JC to participate in any of the worship gatherings they must be clean for one year or more) so that he could share his story with people who are sitting where he once sat. He met with Sheree, the Director of Inmate Services, in mid-July and was issued his official badge that designates that he is a member of the ministry team (his “get-out-of-jail-free” card.) And this past Sunday he accompanied me as I drove over to Barron to conduct the service there. He was understandably nervous. He has been to the JC way too many times for a guy his age and now, for the first time, he would be on the other side of it. Before we walked in, he turned to me and said, “I need a quick smoke.” A few puffs later, we were on our way in.

Due to the fact that there would only be one service today, the multipurpose room was full and because it was the sergeant on duty would assist the two other jailers who normally sit in on the worship gatherings. Jim knows Troy well having had to lock him up many times before. When the last block of guys were seated, Jim gave me the high sign and we began. Troy had told me at Refuge when we met for prayer before we drove over that he didn't think he would share much. When I introduced him to the guys (and gals), he took about three minutes to share a little bit about himself. It wasn't what you would call an eloquent speech but in my estimate him being there was the message that was exceedingly poignant. In that hour long service he took several more steps in what I like to refer to as “the Kingdom's great recycling plan.”

“Praise God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! The Father is a merciful God, who always gives us comfort. He comforts us when we are in trouble, so that we can share that same comfort with others in trouble.”(2 Corinthians 1:3-4, CEV)

In the Kingdom nothing is wasted – no trial, no pain, no stupid decisions we make, no wrong path we carelessly take – when, after repenting of the same and giving our pain to Jesus, he “recycles” it turning it into another's gain. That afternoon, Troy made good on a promise he made to me while still an inmate at the JC and testified just by being there of God's wonderful, yes, amazing, grace.

The Sower is still sowing

Sitting in that audience were two individuals that I have had frequent conversations with this past year. Both are what the guards would call “lifers”, people who just can't beat it and come and go to the Justice Center or other places of incarceration. “Sally” had been introduced to Jesus by one of the guards several months ago and having known her for years, we have met regularly over the last five months or so. She has two kids – a high schooler and a grade-schooler, both of whom are living with her mom in Chetek. She was facing sentencing a few days from our Sunday worship gathering. “Mark” is an undiscipled believer in Jesus who is facing sentencing another week from now. I gave Mark the same counsel I had given Sally the last time I met with her: Whatever happens in that courtroom, can you trust that the Lord's leadership is perfect? Can you believe the words that Paul counseled other disciples who were enduring hardship, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Rom 8:28) and that nothing, absolutely nothing, separates us from his love and care (Rom 8:31-39)? Sally was sentenced to prison for seven years this past week. Sheree sent me an email telling me that she no longer wishes to see me – or anyone else for that matter. What will Mark do when things don't play the way he hopes they will a week or so from now? Will he see a prison sentence as not only discipline but as an assignment from heaven? Or will he leave his Bible behind when he is moved to Dodge Correctional? Time will tell just how much or little the grace of God is at work in him. At the moment, Sally seems to be playing the part of the “seed in the rocks” as if on cue.

“Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?” (Jeremiah 13:23) so quipped Jeremiah to his Judean audience citing an ancient proverbial saying to upbraid them for their hard-heartedness. The implication, of course, is that people cannot change who they are apart, of course, by the work of a sovereign God. This past Sunday Troy bore witness to the fact that every once in a while, the leopard can, indeed, change. After the gathering was over and the inmates had cleared the room, Sergeant Jim came up to us to thank us for coming and then turning to Troy he said, “You know, it's good to know that some stories turn out well after all.” Amen, Sergeant Jim. I heartily agree.

May he never need it