Fleas: Worship in Suffering

Sitting on my bed spending time with the Lord this morning, I am armed with my Bible, journal, cup of tea, and a container of dish soap.

The dish soap is for killing fleas.

My songs of worship are interrupted by the sensation of tiny little bites on my ankles. I open my eyes to see a flea, catch it and put it in the soapy water to drown. That makes about ten.

In one sense, the fleas are no big deal. Yes, I'm covered in itchy bites at the moment, but that's the kind of thing I signed up for when coming to Africa, right? But in another sense, it is the straw breaking the camel's back for me today.

In coming here, I made the conscious decision to follow the Lord whatever the cost. Of course, I didn't know what the cost was. I didn't know that in the first weeks of 2014, my partner and I would face malaria, robbery, two house floodings, a rabid dog bite, emergency medical travel, loss of friend and family.

And fleas. Everywhere.

I am not claiming we have suffered more than others; I know this has been a season of suffering for many.

I am also not looking for sympathy. I am sharing in hopes someone will find encouragement in what I have learned.

A few months ago, a sweet friend shared about a time of suffering and a song that brought her comfort: "Though You Slay Me" by Shane and Shane.

I had heard the song before, and to be honest, it sounds kind of morbid unless you have lived the truth of its words. In light of recent circumstances, it popped back into my mind. The lyrics come from the book of Job, a passage that is a familiar companion to me these days.

Job faced unspeakable loss-- of all his possessions, livestock, his children, his health. His wife advises him to curse God and die. How does he respond?

"Shall we accept good from God and not accept trouble?" (Job 2:10)

In Zambia, it is in fashion for people to pray boldly to the point of presumption, saying things like "we refuse any sickness to come upon us, we refuse anything that would cause us to fail our exams, we refuse any evil person coming into power in our country" etc.

What a contrast to Job's response.

I don't care who you are, you cannot escape hardships in this life. Whether you pray those presumptuous prayers or not, whether you are a good person or an evil person, whether you are an atheist or Christian-- no one is exempt from suffering. It's a part of life in this world.

How then can we come to terms with a God who allows his children to suffer?
Can he stop it? Yes.
Does he stop it? Not always.

We cry out, asking him why, telling him we absolutely cannot take any more.

We think God should explain himself to us.

So did Job.

And in fact, in Job's case, there was a really good story behind the loss-- if you're not familiar, check out Job 1-2.

But the main thing to be learned by reading the messy, confusing book of Job is that suffering and grief are… messy and confusing. Neatly packaged answers like "God must be punishing you for something"  or "God won't give you more than you can handle" are not only unhelpful and untrue, but they fail to grasp the complexity of suffering.

That's the mistake Job's friends made. They were so fixated on finding an answer for why God was allowing him to suffer that they came to false and hurtful conclusions. These friends who came to comfort him ended up condemning: "Is not your wickedness great? Are not your sins endless?… that is why snares are all around you… Submit to God and… in this way prosperity will come to you." (Job 22:2, 10, 21)

If someone said that to me, I would probably respond just like Job: "miserable comforters you all are!" (Job 16:1)

So at the end of the story when the Lord finally speaks, I find myself thinking, you tell 'em! Put them in their place! 

And the Lord does put them in their place.

But he also passes up the perfect opportunity to tell Job why he was suffering.

Um… God? you know that part where Satan is looking for someone to test and you SUGGEST Job because he's the most righteous man on earth? Well… did you mean to explain that back story to Job? Because I think you forgot.

Of course He didn't forget. He is God.

The grave truth is this: sometimes he doesn't want to give us the reason why we're suffering. And he is not obligated to do so.

So then the question becomes: will I serve a God I can't explain or contain? Or perhaps a better question is, if I can understand and rationalize everything my god does, is it really the LORD I am worshipping?

Our God's thoughts are so much higher than ours, we will never be able to see the whole picture. But his word gives us fragments of answers.

Suffering is universal. (John 16:33)
God does not delight in our suffering. (Lamentations 3:32-33)
Suffering has an eternal purpose. (2 Corinthians 4:17, 2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
Suffering produces fruit. (Romans 5:3-5, James 1:2-4)
Where he permits suffering, he brings healing. (Hosea 6:1, 1 Peter 5:10)
Christ suffered in order to put an end to our suffering forever. (Acts 17:2-3, Revelation 21:4)

How do we respond to that? To a God who doesn't always spare us from the inevitable hardships of life and sometimes, like in Job's case, specifically ordains or allows them? Yet because of his sovereignty, no suffering is meaningless, and there is no hurt he won't heal.

...For me, I choose to worship him.

To echo the words of Job, "Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him."

It doesn't mean I understand it. I may have no idea what good it's doing.

I remember reading The Hiding Place in middle school. Corrie Ten Boom and her sister Betsy were in a flea-infested concentration camp. Betsy thanked God for the fleas; Corrie refused to. Later they found out their guards avoided entering their room because the fleas were so bad. They turned out to be a blessing after all.

To be honest, I haven't found anything good about the fleas.

Suffering still hurts.

Yet I will praise him.

"And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you." 

1 Peter 5:10

Missionary to the Pharisees

2.1.14

There are many things to love about Zambia. I love the genuine hospitality and welcoming smiles, the beautiful harmony of fiercely confident voices rising together in chorus, and even the children who innocently yell out "mzungu!!" when I drive by.

But there is one thing about this culture that frustrates me, makes me throw up my hands and cry out to the Lord.

No one believes they are lost.

Not one.

I suppose few people in any country would use the word "lost" to describe themselves, but however they verbalize it, they know. 

I hear the stories of my friends serving in other countries...

In Southeast Asia, missionaries ask people, "how much of this [the gospel] do you believe?" Forty percent, fifty percent, sixty percent. However little or much these people accept, at least they are honest about it.

In post-modern Europe, young people don't see a need for God in their lives.

In the Muslim world, people actually dream of Jesus Christ reaching out his hands to them. They know the consequences of turning to him, and they count the cost. 

The lostness in these corners of the world breaks my heart. I am not implying that it's easy ministering in those places; in fact I know it's downright hard. But I see a glimmer of hope in the fact that at the very least they are HONEST about where they stand in relationship to Jesus Christ. 

In Zambia, "lost" always refers to someone else. 

"There are those lost people in Somalia, but me, I am a Christian."

"I am a Christian...

...because I preach/ go to church/ sing in the choir." (because of my works)

...because Zambia is a Christian nation." (by proxy)

...because I'm not Muslim." (by default)

...because God blesses me." (because I hope to get something out of it)

These are the words I hear day after day and it wears on my heart, it keeps me awake, it steals my peace. I explain how being a Christian means following Christ, accepting his grace and our complete inability to earn his favor. They flash their beautiful smiles and nod in agreement, and then repeat their list of works, as if we are referring to the same gospel.

Their brand of Christianity is so often a thin façade for African Traditional Religion, where one hopes to obtain favor of the gods through sacrifices and rituals and consulting witch doctors. Only now the rituals are church uniforms or prescriptive prayers, and the witch doctors are false prophets.

And sometimes I just sit and cry, because there is nothing I can do to convince them that their gospel is not Christ's gospel. I can go around and around in circles with them, but only the Holy Spirit can penetrate hearts.

Sometimes I wish I could trade places with my friends serving in "more lost" parts of the world. 

Sometimes I feel like less of a missionary because Wikipedia claims that 87% of Zambia is Christian. 

Sometimes I wrestle and ask God "Why do you have me here, a missionary among Pharisees?"

And then I remember. 

"And the Lord said:

"BECAUSE this people draw near with their mouth

and honor me with their lips

while their hearts are far from me,

and their fear of me is but a commandment taught by men,

THEREFORE, BEHOLD, I WILL AGAIN DO WONDERFUL THINGS WITH THIS PEOPLE,

with wonder upon wonder; 

and the wisdom of their wise men shall perish,

and the discernment of their discerning men shall be hidden."

Isaiah 29:13-14

Pray with me that this precious promise would be just as true for the people of Zambia as it was for the people of Israel. May He do wonderful things among this people.

Heartbreak

1.11.14

I think all my transitioning has taught me to cling to a calling and not a country, a promise and not a place. So I don't often allow my mind to wander to thoughts of tearful goodbyes. Until something prompts it.

Before youth meeting, Kayla and I were talking to Cleopas. He is a CBU student, a hilarious guy that we don't get to spend nearly enough time with. As we were talking, the topic of travel came up. 

"You guys are going back to the US in October?" he asked.

"Yes," we responded casually. It is no secret when we are leaving; we talk about it openly with the students.

"For how long?" he asked.

Neither Kayla nor I could speak. We were stunned. We thought we had been careful to let everyone know that October was the end of our term. Permanently.

We didn't know what to say. But the silence spoke for us.

Cleopas' grin faded. "Oh. I see," he said quietly. 

Those words stabbed my heart as few things have since coming here. I couldn't shake them off, and they came back to me the next day.

I was sitting in church. Wezious squirmed in my lap, never still for a moment, her scratchy cornrow braids on my chest, back and forth. Her warm breath on my neck. 

She grabs my hand to hold hers and help her trace, because last week I showed her how to write her name. She turns around and flashes a grin at me, whispering much too loud in my ear, "That says Wezious!!" 

I nod and blink back tears. 

She doesn't know.

She doesn't know that Auntie Alyssa won't always live in the big house next door, that we won't always swing in the hammock together, that she won't always be able to fall asleep and snore in my lap every Sunday in church. There is no way for me to communicate that to her, and I'm not sure I would if I could. Her face would look too much like Cleopas' did yesterday. 

Heartbreak.

It's not a word I use too often here, nor an emotion I feel too often. But today I felt it.