Hoping for my A-game on the journey back to Africa

“Once more I struggled, determined to rise through God, above the body, the flesh, and the world, to a life of ardor and devotedness to God.” - Journal of Henry Martyn on board the Union transport bound for Africa

A week from today, I'll be on my way to Africa again. For the third year in a row myself and a small team from Refuge will be heading to Uganda in pursuit of fostering relationship with those we have connected with since our first journey there in 2012. I haven't begun to pack yet (that's what Monday night is for!) but I've already made what's become my annual trip to the Travel Clinic; the good news is that after three visits they couldn't find a shot on their list that I hadn't already received so they ordered up a prescription for malaria pills and called it good. Believe me, I'm okay with that.

For me, the worst part of the whole adventure is the going to- and coming back-part. Flying coach on international flight is not the most pleasant of experiences. Sure you have your own console to watch any number of movies on and they keep your palate satisfied and your thirst quenched. Truthfully, you have want of nothing except elbow and knee room. After a couple of hours of sitting in the equivalent of a jump seat, how I wish there were waysides along the way so you could get out and stretch your legs a bit when the need suited you. God help you if you're in the middle seat squeezed between a little boy from Mindanao with diarrhea and a large Asian man who you have to keep waking up so the little guy can get to the C.R. (comfort room) – yes, it has happened to me.

The faces reveal that this is definitely a "going-to" pic

How different the mission experience is today compared to the journeys that previous generations made. Cramped quarters for the equivalent of a day by comparison is simply a matter of inconvenience – and small inconvenience at that. Yes, your bum goes to sleep and your eyes become heavy because of the dry air on the plane but within eight hours we're on the ground in Amsterdam with a couple of hours to walk and browse the shops at Schiphol. In another eight hours we'll be landing at Entebbe road-weary but otherwise none the worse for wear. Considering that just the day before we were waking up in our own beds back home, being tuckered out at the end of a long trip while waiting in customs is really a small price to pay for your troubles.

They're in reasonably good spirits considering this is the way-home

If only it were this easy

There has been no generation quite like ours who can cross continents and oceans with such ease and 

alacrity. Jump on a plane in Minneapolis and within 12 hours you can be across the Pacific Ocean. In five hours more you can be on the ground in Manila. Consider what the likes of Hudson Taylor and Amy Carmichael would think of such a rapid segue to the mission field. I think their reaction would be something akin to our reaction to Kirk being beamed aboard the Enterprise – a matter of fantasy and make believe.

Henry

Lately I've been reading a biography of Henry Martyn, an English missionary who served in India and Persia. Living in the early years of the 19^th century, it took him nine months to reach his first post located north of Calcutta. Nine months! He didn't travel there on a civilian sailing vessel with whatever were the modern conveniences of the time; rather, he made passage on a British troop carrier transporting soldiers to the upcoming invasion of Cape Colony (i.e., Cape Town). As his biographer notes he was something akin to a Daniel in the lion's den, a young refined scholar thrust in among an “assemblage of sea-dogs and fighting men ranging from raw village lads to blasphemous veterans”. He may not have been a member of the crew but since England was at war with France while on board he was assigned particular duties should their vessel engage in combat upon the sea. Only after Cape Colony was secure did the Union press on to Kolkata (i.e., Calcutta) finally arriving at the end of April 1806. During the voyage over from England he had endured close quarters with sailors and soldiers on a ship of war, had turned 25, had tended to the wounded in the aftermath of battle, suffered from dysentery and sea-sickness, experienced the terrors of storms on the high seas and was treated frequently with disrespect by the crew simply because he insisted on preaching the gospel during their Sunday service. The journey tried his very soul.

I don't think Henry's ship was this majestic looking

Unable to endure the fetid atmosphere below [Text note: The air below decks became too foul even for those unsqueamish days, and at intervals one or other of the lower decks was cleared of humans and fires were lighted to purify the atmosphere], Martyn spent the first days of the voyage on deck “standing in the air in a sort of patient stupidity, very sick and cold,” longing for the relief of being alone, but surrounded by a crowd, “the soldiers jeering one another and swearing, the drums and fifes constantly playing.” The common miseries of seasickness were followed by fever and faintness; but the struggle that was darkening his days was in its essence spiritual. He was torn by conflicting desires. “The world in a peculiar form...has a hold upon my soul, and the spiritual conflict is consequently dreadful...I am now in the fire fighting hard.”

Next day he wrote again:

Some of the terrors he experienced

Once more I struggled, determined to rise through God, above the body, the flesh, and the world, to a life of ardor and devotedness to God.

And the following morning:

Beginning to grow quite outrageous with myself and like a wild bull in a net, I saw plainly this was coming to nothing, and so in utter despair of working any deliverance for myself, I simply cast myself upon Jesus Christ, praying that if it were possible, something of a change might be wrought in my heart. (Henry Martyn: Confessor of the Faith by Constance Padwick)

Now the idea of this post began after reading the journal entry beginning “standing in the air in a sort of patient stupidity, very sick and cold...” My journey to Africa will be nothing like Martyn's was to India. But I do get a bit of what he meant of the “patient stupidity” that tends to settle upon me when I travel. My intention is to remain spiritually alert in case I have one of those awesome airline conversations with a fellow passenger that it seems a lot of preachers experience. Or I bring lots of reading material along in hopes of getting a lot of studying done in transit. But usually what happens is that once we're in the air and I've been served my first beverage I see what movies are available and begin to watch one. Or I read some but then begin to doze off. By the time we're over the Atlantic, a state of somnolence – or as Martyn would call it - “patient stupidity” settles upon me. And it's only the first leg of the journey.

Not a self-portrait...but it could very well be

The border crossing at Busia

Last year when we were in Africa, we flew to Nairobi and then several days later drove overland to Uganda. What could be done in probably six hours on American roads took an interminable 15 hours on Kenyan ones in a small but durable van. We crossed into Uganda at the border town of Busia. We had to walk across while our driver was going through customs and filling out paper-work. We hadn't stopped for lunch. We had been on the road since early that morning. We were tired and hot and sweaty and road-weary – and we still had several hours to go. While we waited the sun set and then I heard it – the wailing of the imam of the local mosque calling the faithful to pray. Up until that moment the only time I had ever heard it was while watching the news or a movie. To hear it up close and personal was frankly eerie. I thought of my friend Akram, a disciple of Jesus hailing from Egypt, who told me once that when you hear the imam pray he is calling down powers of darkness upon the people. I certainly felt a cloud descend on me. The next day after a good night's sleep in a bed it occurred to me that I had missed an opportunity to worship Jesus at the very moment the prayer leader was praying to Allah. Because of that “patient stupidity” that had been brought on by traveling all day in a cramped van with nothing to eat but a candy bar, I just stood there being creeped out by the wailing while the thick exhaust of trucks crossing over the border swirled enveloped us.

If I have a choice, I don't want to travel to Uganda that way ever again but I sorta wish I could be transported Star Trek-wise back to Busia at sundown one evening if only to worship the living God while the local Muslims bow reverently on their prayer rugs and recite their prayers to Allah. I wouldn't do it to “dis” them, of course. It actually would have nothing to do with them at all. I'd do it in an attempt to regain a moment I lost because I was practically sleep-walking when it happened, caught up in a moment of “patient stupidity” that so frequently descends on me in transit.

I'm not always on my A-game when I travel. I think I get a passing grade as far as general politeness and extending grace toward others. But all too often I just get caught up in just “getting there” forgetting that like in so many other things the journey is the thing.

Winter ain't for snowbirds

“Well, it's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my home town...” - Garrison Keillor

All of us who live north of the 45^th parallel (or in close proximity of it) are living through the Winter of our Discontent. Like a relentless boxer in the ring, Ol' Man Winter has been landing body blows of snow, Antarctic-like temperatures and driving winds of epic proportions right in the rib cage. The great chorus “Uncle!” can be heard as people trudge out into the cold to dig out their car again and again. And again.

Despite adequate instruction from the city water department to keep a steady stream of water running at the house at all times, we did not heed the warning and a week or so ago awoke to find that we had no water in the house. The line from the street had frozen solid. Fortunately the guys were able to make it to the house later that afternoon. With the frost eight feet deep in the street, it took them nearly an hour to thaw out the line. While we waited together they politely reproved me for not heeding the warning. “It's all about ground temperature, not air temperature,” they reminded me as they wrapped up their gear and headed off to their next house call.

I should have listened better for after a couple of days of the faucet running and a slight warm-up outside, we decided that was enough of that. Linda and I took off on an overnight in Superior in order to attend Ed's track meet the next day. When I called home Saturday morning to check in, Charlie informed me that there was no water at the house. Again! And given that it was Saturday meant that the soonest the city guys could get there was sometime Monday.

During the next four days – as it turned out they didn't get their until Tuesday – I was given a very practical reminder just how much water even a small family uses on an average day what between flushing, bathing, shaving, dishwashing, clothes-washing and the like. Twice a day I was trucking 8 gallons of water from Refuge over to the house to fill the toilet tanks and have water for general bathing. On Monday night, we drove over to one of Linda's co-workers' home just so that the three of us could shower. (How glorious a hot shower feels after even just a couple of days without one!) I nearly hugged Tim, the city-guy, when he showed up at the house on Tuesday afternoon to thaw out our water line again. This time it took him an hour and a half.

Still open for business

When a wonderful mid-winter thaw descended on us, I borrowed a roof rake from a friend of mine and spent over an hour going around our house trying to pull down what snow I could. The hardest thing was just getting to the house. The snow banks along the street are about 5 feet high and the snow in the yard is thigh-deep. I managed to get some of the snow down (just in time for another foot or more to fall Thursday night).

And speaking of that snowfall on Thursday night, it was the worst combination of snow – it came down wet and heavy and then the temperature dropped freezing it to the driveway and sidewalks. I think between the bank where Linda works and I am employed to shovel their walk, our driveway, Refuge's walk and my neighbor's driveway late last night when she got stuck and came next door to ask for my help, I maybe shoveled for four hours altogether yesterday. It was like chiseling up loosely formed concrete while a strong Arctic wind blew in your face. My shoulders are feeling it today.

I stopped in at the office before heading up to the Justice Center yesterday morning only to discover that – egads! - we had no water at Refuge. In twenty-two winters here that has never happened. Once again I was on the phone with the city informing them of our dilemma. Given how crummy a day it was and that those guys had already been in their plows for a very long time, I had to make other arrangements for Sunday's service in case they didn't make it that day. Fortunately, they did show up a little after lunch. They were there for nearly two hours. They fixed it so the water will flow continuously and no considerate fool thinking to save the church money will be able to shut it off.

When I go to my homefeed on my Facebook page, I note how many of us are sick, sick, sick of winter. Some folks from Refuge had their hay barn collapse just the other day. A friend from town had not one but two pole sheds collapse. And I thought I heard that Chetek's annual Winterfest (scheduled to be held this weekend) was...er...cancelled because of, yes, winter. And it's only February 22 which means the snow and ice and cold are going to be here for awhile. Shoot, last year we went from Winter to Summer. No one really remembers if we had Spring or not.

My niece who is a sophomore at Northern Michigan in Marquette posted a picture of a sign which reads: “On the bright side have not seen a mosquito in weeks.” I guess that puts things in perspective. It's a statement that a mom might make. “Look at the bright side. At least, it's not hot out.” On the up-side, years from now all of us who have lived through this winter of the Polar Vortex 1, 2 and 3 we will have earned bragging rights. When our grandson or some other youngun' is complaining about the cold, we'll be able to say: “Cold? You think this is cold? This is nothing compared to the Winter of '14. Now that was winter.” And we'll probably sound just as annoying as the old guys who talk about that -60 below day in Cameron, Wisconsin back in the 70s do now.

Maybe you've seen this one?

One thing more: you have to be here in order to say that you survived the Winter of 2014. If you went to Florida, Texas or Mexico to escape the cold – even if it was for just a week at a time-share or were on a ministry-trip loving on orphans – it doesn't count. You know who you are. Like my sister who posted this tale of woe on her Facebook page the other day:

I intended to leave my house at 6am to get to work for my first patient at 7am. First, I couldn't get the back door open cause it was frozen shut. So, I had to get Dan up. He was able to do that. Then with my hands full, I trudge out to the garage. Can't get my key into the garage door because the lock is frozen. So, I go back in and get Dan back out. Several tries with the lighter and it finally worked. Finally left at 6:20. It is an ice rink out there.

As you can tell we don't take it out much

Now, there's a story whose author deserves a hug, right? Except I happen to know that a week or so before this she and her hubby and son were sunning themselves in 85 degree heat for a week straight somewhere in Mexico. That's what you get for skipping town mid-Winter, Sis. Or how 'bout this text I got just the other day before the heavy snow came from a friend vacationing in the Houston-area:

 

Heard snow is coming ur way again so we are headed out for snowcones to feel the north's pain. 77 and partly cloudy [here].

The fact that she's from up here doesn't give her a free pass to come back and say she was with me in spirit during this cold stretch just because her tongue turned red from the snow cone she enjoyed. We who have never left, who have been here through driving winds, horrific snow and bitter cold, we keep track. We know who has been here and who has slipped out the back door and got away to far warmer climes when the sledding got tough. Be careful who you tell your “survival” tale to at Bob's. You never know who may be listening and who may ruin your perfectly legitimate snowstorm-story with a, “Yeah, but didn't you go to Mexico for a week that winter, too?” robbing you of whatever bragging rights you thought you were otherwise entitled to.

We'll leave the tap open this time

A brush with death on the mountain

None the worse for wear

“I wonder what sort of a tale we've fallen into?” Sam to Frodo in The Two Towers

This past Sunday night a bunch of us from Refuge and Chetek UMC rode up to Christie Mountain for a couple of hours of some serious snow tubing. During one of the runs, seven of us joined our tubes together and were careening down the hill at what felt like Mach 1 speed when someone noticed James, my friend Austin's first-grade son, was standing at the bottom of our run smiling and waving at us. Our first reaction was to laugh and then almost in the same breath we started screaming at him to get out of the way before he became Christie's version of road kill. At the last second he did. At the end of the run while we were laughing at that close encounter of the snow-kind, his eighth-grade sister, Mary, quipped, “Well, at least we now have a story to tell.”

Later in the warming house, Austin and I were visiting over a cup of Joe. Right now we both have daughters who are on the outreach phase of their respective Discipleship Training Schools so made famous by the international para-church ministry Youth With A Mission (YWAM). Austin's 18-year old daughter, Rachel, is in South Africa near Capetown and our 25-year old daughter, Christine, is in northern Thailand. Both will graduate from the five-month spiritually intensive school in March. And then? Christine's plan is to remain in the Madison-area, get a job at a day care there and work and save up for her next great adventure. For Rachel, Austin's not sure what his daughter is thinking. Maybe stay in the YWAM-world (there are a plethora of various schools they offer all over the globe), maybe go back to work or pursue a degree. It's pretty much up for grabs.

Ain't it grand?

Rachel's the smiling Mexican on the left

James the Magnificent

That conversation – and Mary's quip about “a story to tell” - got me thinking of my own journey when I was Rachel's age. I was 18 and didn't have a clue where I was headed. My grades had been good enough in high school to be accepted at UW-Madison but from Day 1 I felt lost on the sprawling campus of 45,000+ students. Of course, the first two years of any university's undergraduate program is all about getting your generals out of the way but somehow I had it in my head that I had to know what my major was then and now. But I was clue-less and so now I like to tell people that my three semesters at UW-Madison I majored in wandering. And I got the grades to prove it. At most schools if you succeed academically you get a computer generated letter from the Dean that essentially says, “Good job. Keep up the good work.” In three semesters at UW-Madison, however, I made the other Dean's list. So poor were my grades that I got to meet her twice. Yeah, it's not a good thing. 

 

I think of Christine who's five-month gig at YWAM has re-cultivated her joy in Jesus and with life. She graduated from high school in 2007 and apart from a month-long stay in South Korea in 2008 since that time has worked in day care. She lived with a girlfriend down the street from us for about a year between 2011 and 2012 but then the girlfriend got married and the new husband moved in and Christine had to move home. She's been itching to spread her wings ever since. Upon her completion of her DTS, she has plans and part of that plan includes keeping Chetek in the rear-view mirror as much as possible. It isn't that she hates it here. It's just that right now as far as she knows her life is out there and she's got to find it.

These girls look like they're game for anything

Jim and Jessica are a couple from our fellowship who are on something of their own pursuit of finding life far from here. Last fall, after a lot of prayer and consideration, they checked out of life as they found it here – a beautiful home in the country, good-paying jobs they enjoyed and a very active family life that revolved around their five children – and metaphorically jumped from the plane otherwise known as the American Dream into Guatemala to pursue the kernel of a ministry dream there. A friend of theirs from our area had moved to the environs of Guatemala City a few years ago to begin an orphanage and Jim and Jessica felt inspired and led to help her in that endeavor. At the moment, however, the orphanage remains mired in governmental red tape so just like their friend they have sought to bloom where they've landed. They found a safe place to live, a good Christian school nearby for their kids to attend and a faith-family to join and be a part of. At the same time, like the four Penvensie kids exploring Professor Kirke's castle, they have felt at times that they have been feeling their way through the wardrobe into Narnia which in their case looks a lot like Guatemala. It's quite a story they've fallen into.

This is what Jessica posted on her Facebook page just the other day:

 

Had a friend say to me today, “Your story is like reading a good book! I can hardly wait to see what the next chapter holds.” To which I can only say in prayer, “Okay, Lord! You are the Author, work in us and write the story of our life with You.”

No matter how long their journey in Guatemala lasts be it this school year (the length of their original commitment) or something far longer is too soon to say but one thing's for sure: like Mary said after nearly plowing into her little brother at the bottom of Christie Mountain, at least they'll have a story to tell when it's over.

She's quite a story-teller

Our youngest daughter, Emma, left for college last fall in pursuit of a degree in theater from Bethel University in St. Paul. Now that she's made it to the Cities (that is, the Twin Cities), I just don't see her ever looking back to our tiny hamlet of Chetek except to check in with the old folks here. The world and her dreams, after all, are also out there and won't be found just by walking across the long bridge on the north side of town. She was the Salutatorian of her graduating class last spring and on Graduation Day she challenged her classmates and the rest of us in attendance that day with this bit of sound advice: “In the story of our lives that each of us are writing make sure it's a story worth telling.” I couldn't agree more. In fact, with the yarn that each of our kids is busily spinning I'm like Jessica's friend anxious to discover just where all this is taking us.

Our caravan of snow tubes missed James by a second or two the other night. If he had been paying attention he might have gone home and told his mom he nearly died out "on the mountain" and that he saw his 7-year old life flash before his eyes. But I'm pretty sure he's totally oblivious to the fact that had he remained where he was standing a moment or more longer he would have gained altitude and this little anecdote would have ended differently. Instead we all had a good laugh, picked ourselves up and drug our tubes over to the lift for another go at the hill with James leading the way. Those are the kinds of stories that moms like to read about – you know, good times had by all. But Austin looked at me and said under his breath, “Was it wrong of me that for a moment I kinda wanted to hit him just to see how far he'd fly?” Nah, sounds like a dad to me. 

"Remember, James: don't tell Mom about this. Let's keep this between you and me."

Slimed on Wednesday

“He slimed me.” Dr. Peter Venkman in Ghostbusters (1984)

“There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. They themselves are equally pleased by both errors, and hail a materialist or a magician with the same delight.” C.S. Lewis in The Screwtape Letters

It felt as yucky as this looks

Last Wednesday morning I was “slimed.” It had been an otherwise normal morning. I had gotten up when I usually do, checked my Facebook page and puttered around on the internet as I am wont to do most mornings. After getting cleaned up and having my usual bowl of oatmeal, I brushed my teeth and kissed my wife good-bye. And this is what happened next: as I opened my laundry room door to make my way to our back door I was suddenly inundated with a barrage of pessimistic thoughts. It literally felt like I was stepping out into a hail storm of negativity.

There are 365 ¼ days in a given year and on all but maybe one or two of them things from my perspective are rainbows and unicorns. Last Wednesday morning I didn't get up on the wrong side of the bed. As I have already said, it had been an otherwise normal morning. But the ugliness that washed over me by walking into my laundry room felt like it had been nothing but that door that had been keeping back the toxic waters I now was wading through.

It takes me all of two minutes to drive to Refuge and during that short drive the storm was relentless. What was I suddenly overwhelmed with? Well, our Annual Gathering was a few days away and I knew on that evening I would officially be receiving a pay cut. Offerings are such they can no longer afford to pay me the salary that I have been receiving for years. At the same time, I suddenly thought about pastor-friends of mine whose ministries are thriving and growing. It wasn't too far of a walk, then, to succumb to the accusations of mediocrity and failure that were flung at me relentlessly. A more spiritual man would have shouted “Be gone from me in Jesus' Name!” Instead, I gasped out, “Lord, help! I need a word to shake off these nasty darts of ugliness that continue to pelt me mercilessly.”

Mighty warrior I was not

Hanging around this bunch is good medicine

I spend a good chunk of Wednesday mornings at Roselawn Elementary across the street where I read to five different classes. I'm something of a rock-star there. I've been reading to children since my own now 20-something kids were in kindergarten so my reputation among teachers and their students precedes me. As usual, in most classes I was mobbed with hugs and cheers as I showed up at their classroom to read to them.

I had lunch at Bob's Grill with one of the guys from Refuge. We talked about life and marriage and things of that nature and at the end of our conversation without provocation he said, “You know, you're a great pastor and I really appreciate you and your ministry here.”

She even knows where Narnia is

Later that afternoon our daughter, Emma, needed a ride home from Bethel for her J-term break. Over dinner and during the nearly two-hour ride back home we talked about life and the cosmos, school and the future. It was wonderful and I was grateful for all that face-time with her.

And that night at our youth gathering, Charis felt led to have us meditatively read aloud Psalm 139.

“Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
    you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
    Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
    I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
    you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
    how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
    all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
    before I’d even lived one day.”

“Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful!
    God, I’ll never comprehend them!
I couldn’t even begin to count them—
    any more than I could count the sand of the sea.”

Psalm 139:13-18, The Message

Word.

Slowly and steadily throughout the day God had brought relief to my harassed soul. By day's end, I was officially encouraged. In fact, the next day it was as if had never happened. And Friday night at the Annual Gathering even though they did in fact approve to lower my annual salary, I did not feel rejected or demoted. They can only give me what they take in. They can't conjure dollars out of good intentions.

I'm not someone who likes to talk a lot about spiritual warfare. Of course, I believe it happens but I just don't like giving the devil too much credit. If my car breaks down is it really an attack of the evil one or could it be my penchant for not maintaining my vehicles very well? Our mutual adversary is not everywhere. Sure, he has lots of minions who have pernicious assignments to carry out but as the Apostle John pointed out, “You have already won a victory over those people, because the Spirit who lives in you is greater than the spirit who lives in the world” (1 John 4:4, NLT). But a day like last Wednesday reminds me that while the devil doesn't hide behind every bush, he does hide behind a few of them and every once in awhile tries to pick our pocket as he did mine. Gratefully, God brought a steady flow of affirmation throughout the day that helped me keep my head up until the flood waters receded.

Our adversary may not be everywhere but he is in some places

One of the men who worships with us left the Justice Center last summer. This past fall was one of progress for him in his life on many different levels. On the first Sunday in January he shared his story at the weekly worship gathering. Ever since then, things have gone south. Troubles at work, troubles with his neighbors, troubles all around. He's been discouraged for the last couple of weeks and spiritually speaking sounds like he's on the ropes. It was someone else who suggested that there might be a connection between the public sharing of his faith-story and the litany of woes he has been experiencing of late. Given my recent bout with spiritual harassment, I'm inclined to agree. And why not – here's an individual who struggles with addiction trying to make positive yardage in his life while all the while “the defense” seems to be crowding “8 men in the box.” Coincidence? Or the shady dealings of a determined foe who loves nothing more than to deflate our confidence in the Lord who loves us and calls us to persevere?

Add it to the bucket-list

Most people have a “bucket list.” I certainly do. Included on mine, among others, is hike the Ice Age Trail in its entirety, run the Antarctica Marathon, find and visit the district in Scotland from which my forebear, Alexander Martin, hails from and be part of a flash mob. Today I'm officially adding a new one: to travel in the footsteps of Paul the Apostle, literally. From Antioch in Syria to Alexandria Troas in present-day Turkey, and then travel by boat to Macedonia. From there take the old Roman world down to Athens and then hoof it over to Corinth and then back over to Turkey to the ruins of Ephesus. Essentially I want to follow the entire course of the missionary journeys he took roughly during a decade of travel and ministry between 47 and 57 A.D.

Admittedly, that's a lot of squiggles to follow

What's left of the ancient port of Troas

Last year I began an ambulatory stroll through the Book of Acts. I made it as far as the end of chapter 18 with Apollos loaded down with personal references on his way to Achaia Province and Paul on the road to Ephesus. During the months of November and December I read the passages concerning his second missionary journey and was stirred by his resolute conviction to get the gospel out regardless if the winds blew favorably or not. Usually, they did not. He and his ministry partner, Silas, were flogged in Philippi, legally banned from Thessalonica, forced to leave Berea, laughed off the Areopagus' floor in Athens, and harassed in Corinth and yet he stayed the course. Some towns yielded more disciples than others but even in the ones where only a few converts were made he was able to discover some diamonds in the rough, like Timothy in Lystra, Luke in Troas, and Priscilla and Acquila in Corinth. Now there's some spiritual heavy hitters!

This is just what Paul & Company saw - the island of Samothrace off the coast of Greece

So why this sudden rush to walk in the steps of Paul? Maybe to just heighten the growing wonder I have of the man. The guy was a machine, relentless in his pursuit of what he was firmly persuaded God had called him to do. I want to walk through the Cilician Gates, I want to stand at the ancient port of Alexandria Troas and try and imagine Paul and his companions boarding the boat that will take them across the Aegean Sea into the land mass later to be dubbed “Europe.” I want to visit the ruins of Ephesus and try and imagine the great Temple of Artemis and somewhere in its vicinity Paul standing in her shadow seeking to persuade men to turn from the worship of demons to the worship of the living God.

A hot time in the old town

I think of the day of the book-burning in Ephesus (Acts 19:19). He didn't work the crowd and stir these young converts to such a public act of repudiation but I can't help but feel that at the sight of the fire burning in the agora he must have experienced great satisfaction. After all he had gone through, after all he had suffered, the fact that the Name of Jesus was now held in the highest regard in one of the most important cities in that part of the world had to have brought him joy. It had all been worth it – everything from the blisters on his feet from thousand or more miles he had hiked, the scars on his back from the flogging in Philippi, and the permanent damage malaria had wrought on him. He had paid a great price in blood, sweat and tears but he had persevered. He had stayed the course. Watching all the occultic paraphernalia burn in the town square had to be his inspiration to press on to Rome and proclaim the gospel there (see v. 20). 

 

One guy's version of Artemis' great temple

I'd love to be able to sit on the highest tier of the great amphitheater in Ephesus and look down the Arcadian Way leading to where the harbor, long since silted up, used to be and exult again in the victory of God over the powers that once held sway there but were tirelessly run out of town by a man who had no quit in him. 

Best view in the house

 

On the road between Antioch and Troas by the sea

“As they traveled from town to town, they presented the simple guidelines the Jerusalem apostles and leaders had come up with. That turned out to be most helpful. Day after day the congregations became stronger in faith and larger in size.”

“They went to Phrygia, and then on through the region of Galatia. Their plan was to turn west into Asia province, but the Holy Spirit blocked that route. So they went to Mysia and tried to go north to Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus wouldn’t let them go there either. Proceeding on through Mysia, they went down to the seaport Troas. That night Paul had a dream: A Macedonian stood on the far shore and called across the sea, “Come over to Macedonia and help us!” The dream gave Paul his map. We went to work at once getting things ready to cross over to Macedonia. All the pieces had come together. We knew now for sure that God had called us to preach the good news to the Europeans.”

Luke as found in Acts 16:4-10, The Message

“This is in many respects is the most remarkable paragraph in Acts.”

William M. Ramsay in St. Paul: The Traveler and Roman Citizen

The Taurus Mountains

Following the conclusion of the Jerusalem Council that officially made it policy that Gentiles did not need to become Jews in order to become Christians (Acts 15:1-35), Paul and Barnabus made their way back to Antioch to share the news with the disciples there and return to their lives in Syria. Some time later, however, Paul has it in his heart to return to the different cities in Galatia where they had established churches the year before and says as much to Barnabus who is equally eager to share in the venture. But when Barnabus wants to bring John Mark, his younger cousin who had bailed on them the last time they were on outreach [see Calling it Quits], Paul will have none of it. Luke, who is usually mum about “family quarrels,” lets us all in on the fact that tempers flared and ultimately they went their separate ways. Barnabus returns to his home in Cyprus with John Mark in tow while Paul takes Silas, a prophet from the mother church in Jerusalem, as his traveling companion.

The first time Paul and Barnabus had itinerated through south-central Pisidia, they had come by sea. This time Paul chooses to make the long journey on foot probably stopping along the way in his hometown Tarsus before making the trek over the Taurus Mountains to the Anatolian Plateau beyond where the cities of the First Journey lay. In order to get to where they're going they pass through the famed Cilician Gates, a narrow pass through the mountains where the likes of Xerxes, Xenophon and Alexander the Great had marched their armies through on to conquest in centuries past. Of their journey through the pass, historian Paul L. Maier writes,

The Cilician Gates

At one point the Gates taper down to a narrow, precipitous pass that resembles a dry gorge. Paul and Silas would undoubtedly have stopped at this spot to gather in its full significance. Here was the aorta of the ancient world through which pulsed the conquerors of the past during four thousand years of history...Now a lonesome pair of missionaries were using the same pass for a spiritual conquest that would have far more permanent results.

First Christians: Pentecost and the Spread of Christianity

Atop that hill Lystra used to stand

Eventually they reach Derbe and nearby Lystra, the place where Paul had nearly been killed by an angry mob the year before. There they add to their small party a young man who was fruit of that first tumultuous visit. After being stoned, his visit to this Galatian town appeared to be a bust but by his third visit there he picks up Timothy who will, in time, become one of his close associates in gospel work. From Lystra they move on to Iconium and eventually reach Pisidian Antioch, the turn-around point. Every where they went they did what they set out to do - strengthen, encourage and exhort the believers in these cities.

 

Somewhere along the way, however, the mission changed. Instead of turning around and heading back east, they continued on in a southwesterly direction. After all,they're all single guys with no family obligations to hurry back to. And more than likely in the various towns they stopped they were asked by disciples if they could preach in other communities further east where they had relations. Or maybe Paul just had it in his mind that he had to get to Ephesus. But whatever the case, they kept going along the Via Sebaste making for this premier city of the ancient world. What better place than Ephesus to share the gospel? Being a port city as well as the economic and cultural epicenter of the province of Asia, imagine the impact the gospel could have there. But then there was an unspecified “hiccup” in their plan: they encounter a closed door. But it's not devils that hold it shut; rather it's the Holy Spirit who refuses to let them continue on their way (16:6). Now how they discerned that this was the case Luke doesn't seem to either know or care to clarify. Of course, Silas was a prophet and maybe the Lord spoke to his spirit and he, in turn, shared this sense with Paul and Timothy and after prayer and conversation they concluded it was indeed God's leading not to go to Ephesus. Whatever the particulars, they decided then to travel north and share the gospel with the people of Bithynia up by the southern shores of the Black Sea. But after proceeding in that direction again they have a 'check' about Plan B. As Luke put it, “...the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to...” (v. 7, NIV). 

 

Keep in mind these guys are traveling on foot and in two short verses Luke has shared the journey of maybe 400 miles – and then some (if you include every time they had to turn around when they determined the Lord wasn't leading them into the area where they were headed.) Here's what I'm wondering: I want to know what happened on the road between Antioch and Troas. If I want to go to Chicago, a distance of about 300 miles from Chetek, I can get there, including dinner and bathroom breaks, within 6 and a half hours. When the kids were younger we would take them to Sand Hill Lake Bible Camp near Fosston, Minnesota about 300 miles west of here. If we went on to Fargo it was another fifty miles or so. It was usually a long day but we made it there in a day. But these guys are traveling nearly the equivalent distance on foot. Just how long would it take to walk 400 miles? Where did they stay along the way? What did they talk about? And what were the team dynamics like when one idea of Paul's after another didn't pan out? Four hundred miles is a long enough distance for questions about the purpose of the mission to come up, if not the journey itself, especially as one closed door after another is encountered. I found this at one web site dedicated to the study of the Second Missionary Journey of Paul: “Imagine yourself on foot for 400 miles. You have minimal supplies  and you're not sure where your next meal will be because, quite frankly, you're not even sure where God is leading you.” (see Paul's Second Missionary Journey: Part 1). Exactly.

From here the gospel left for Europe

With the southwesterly and northern ways closed to them, that left only the port city of Alexandria Troas to the northwest, near the famed city of Troy. The only thing is that unlike the roads to Ephesus or Bithynia, there was no real direct route to Troas from where they were. But make for it they do and eventually arrive at this bustling city aside the Aegean Sea. As Stott puts it, “They had come a long way, in fact all the way from the south-east to the north-west extremities of Asia Minor, and by a strangely circuitous route. They must have been in a state of considerable perplexity, wondering what God's plan and purpose were, for so far their guidance had been almost entirely negative” (Acts: The Bible Speaks Today). Sir William Ramsay points out that the pace of these few verses is quite unique for Acts:

“...point after point, province after province are hurried over. The natural development of Paul's work along the great central route of the empire was forbidden, and the next alternative that rose in his mind was forbidden. He was led across Asia from the extreme southeast to the extreme northwest corner, and yet prevented from preaching in it. Everything seemed dark and perplexing, until at last a vision in Troas explained the purpose of this strange journey.” (St. Paul: The Traveler and Roman Citizen)

At least two things happen in Troas. First, after two closed doors Paul and his companions finally find the open one by means of a vision that he receives one night. And secondly, he meets Luke, a resident of Macedonia doing business at the moment in Asia. Up until this moment in Luke's sequel of his gospel, he has been the narrator of the grand story of the growth and development of the Church of Jesus the Messiah. But in Acts 16:10 he enters the story himself:

“After Paul had seen the vision, we got ready at once to leave for Macedonia, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel to them” (NIV).

Probably didn't have the circle-thing yet

It is the first “we” passage in the book (there will be more) and Luke's way of letting us know that at that particular moment he is both narrator and eyewitness. Because Luke isn't a 21^st century novelist, he doesn't care to let us know how they met but it's certainly within the realm of possibility that Paul came to him in need of medical care. Since going into “full-time mission” work he had contracted malaria and been both stoned and flogged. What's more traveling four hundred miles on foot and living more or less out of a suitcase for weeks on end may have done something to Paul's constitution. But whatever the case meet they did and a friendship began that would last for the rest of Paul's life for his benefit and for ours as well. Whether Paul led him to the Lord or he was already a believer by the time they made each others acquaintance I guess is neither here nor there. The fact that they meet is one of the most providential things to occur in all of Scripture. Paul's vision of the Kingdom of God and the new people of Israel made up of Jews and Gentiles alike permeate Luke's writings and continue to influence our understanding of such things today. All because despite encountering a couple of closed doors along the way, Paul and his companions sensed the Lord was leading them on and they persisted. “...it is clear that the coming of Paul to Troas was unforseen and unforseeable; the whole point of the paragraph is that Paul was driven on against his own judgment and intention to that city” (Ramsay).

Guatemala City is a long way from Sand Creek

I think of a couple from our fellowship who last fall left good-paying jobs and moved their family of seven to Guatemala. The decision to go was the culmination of many conversations and prayer that had occurred over the past several years. Their original purpose was to assist a good friend of theirs establish an orphanage outside of Guatemala City. But with that project presently on stand-by due to a morass of governmental red-tape, they are wondering just what it is they are supposed to be doing now that they're there. To their credit and God's glory they have successfully transplanted their family of two teenagers and three elementary age-kids to this Central American country. They have found a good school for the kids, a great faith family to be a part of and a small but adequate home for them to live in. They've taken some language classes and have pretty much immersed themselves in Guatemalan culture but with the orphanage no closer to becoming a reality, they find themselves wondering “Now what?” They are, it would seem, on the road between Antioch and Troas, heading in a general direction but uncertain where the road may lead.

 

The adventure thus far has been fun and transformational. They've met some wonderful people, gone swimming in the Pacific Ocean - twice, a son has camped at the base of an active volcano and really the move has been a win all-around. But come the end of this school year in May they have to decide if they continue living in the tropics or return to life above the 45^th Parallel. This is the stuff from which good stories come from.

 

I think about a line from the movie National Treasure. Ben Gates and his stalwart companion, Riley Poole, are in search of the famed Templar Treasure. Their quest has been one strange journey as they turn up one clue after another. With each new discovery they hope it will be the sign that points the way to the treasure only to be disappointed to find yet another clue. In a moment of frustration after finding one more clue Riley says, “Why can't they just say: 'Go to this place, here's the treasure, spend it wisely'?” He's tired of all the twists and turns in the race to find the motherload – but that's where the fun lies: in the journey, in the hunt. Otherwise, there's no great tale to tell afterward. Imagine if the divine guidance we each seek came to us as easily as accessing our email account. All we would need to do is log on, check our messages, get our instructions and carry them out to the best of our ability. Admittedly, it would be a more efficient way of doing things. Think of all the time and money that could be saved instead of this fumbling around in the dark that often characterizes our way. And then I read this: “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings” (Proverbs 25:12, NIV). Glory indeed. Yes, our friends the Hansons who have found the road that leads from Sand Creek, Wisconsin to Guatemala City, Guatemala, will find the way that they seek as they persist in trusting to his leadership, convoluted as it may appear to our eyes at the time. 

 

 

Tolkienfile that I am, I think of what Frodo said to Sam on their way through the Shire on their way to Buckland. Quoting Bilbo he said, “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door...You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Indeed, you might end up in Troas or in Guatemala City or someplace else yet to be discovered but somehow God is at work in the journey leading us to an end we cannot yet grasp.