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April 14, 2018

Missing Hymn

The faded blue hymn books lay beneath the baby-grand piano at the sanctuary front, heaped up in two stacks. Their pages were left unopened most of the year – melodies resting muted inside the hard-bound covers – like eager choir members, mouths duct-taped shut. The images linger with me now, as though only five years – not fifty-five – have stolen past.

During my adolescent days I mused now and then over the peculiar ritual of the song books. I’m glad they’re around, but why do they most of the time just sit there, stacked up, hardly ever touched?

“Today, let’s use the song books”. The pastor’s voice was wistful.

Thus, on a random Sunday morning twice or so a year, out the faded books would come. A pair of youngsters were beckoned and the hymnals would get passed along church rows. Shortly the piano’s intro to the tune, “In the Garden“ sounded, followed by “Rock of Ages” or “I’ll Fly Away”. A song penned by a beloved sightless composer named Fanny Crosby, often made the list.

A film of dust had collected on the topmost volumes, as a number of months had passed since the pages last saw daylight.

In those days of the 50’s I hadn’t yet surmised that the faded blue books had become a kind of sentimental relic in our church. The stack of these aged and more formal kind of songs – hymns – remained too near the heart of older believers to see the church completely part with them. Yet, by some undefined standard, it seemed the music in the old blue books lacked a revivalist flavor – of the sort which had recently captured imaginations and vocal chords. The spiritual songs. These were freshly-composed choruses, gaining increased use among independent Pentecostals identified with something called the Latter Rain Movement.

With a musical heritage marked by informal gospel choruses, I grew fond of many of the tunes. Finding myself at times, along with others, immersed in a rich, palpable presence – God’s presence – where sustained, worshipful singing found deep-hearted expression. Such gatherings often left many worshippers reluctant to leave, well after the final dismissal prayer.

Still, as years moved on, an undefined something in the realm of lyric and melody seemed missing. Like an absent-without-leave musical expression specially-tailored to the heart of God-seekers. Then my wife and I moved to Lima, New York in our missionary-candidate season. We stepped into a chapel service at Elim Bible Institute – in the I. Q. Spencer Tabernacle, named for the institute’s founder. That was where it happened.

My soul getting highjacked by the Redemption Hymnal.

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018

Sing Oh Sing

“Good morning everyone. Let’s stand, shall we? There now, please open to. . .”

David Edward’s Welsh accent met the ear of Southerners like a tugboat whistle would a native Inlander. We took up our hymn books – Redemption Songs.

Easy to spot – nearly impossible in fact, to miss – the treasured little hardback, was drawn from clever book pouches fitted to the backside of sanctuary pews across the Tabernacle.

Hymns spanning centuries – their greater numbers sung by European worshippers rather than North American Yanks were enclosed in sturdy little, deep red hard-backs. They featured no musical notes, only hymn lyrics – some inspired this century, many earlier on – numbering near a thousand in all. Of this grand host of songs I had heard just a tiny fraction. Distinguished, endearing Professor Edwards continued.

“We want to lay aside the morning’s cares, and those of the evening to come. The Lord is here, meeting with us”, he stated with believable conviction. “Such a good and great and worthy Father.”

It was David Edwards himself who had introduced Redemption Songs to the Elim campus.

“His Spirit meets with us gathered now”, Edwards concluded. “Let’s worship him.”

The very first stanzas in a growing parade of lyrics – winsome and wise, deep and lofty – drew me in.

From O for a Thousand Tongues to O Worship the King, to Love Divine All Love Excelling. . .

Penned by past-slave-trader to fine-art composer, their enduring melodies rallied anew. The humble artists proved themselves masters of prose. And cadence. And holiness. Havergal, Spafford and Newton, Cowper, Scriven and Wesley – opening to us their seasoned wines.

Stepping afterwards from the hillside chapel in the modest New York hamlet, I sensed an inner beckoning. An invitation to drink deeply, richly, joyfully. From sacred, deeper-than-deep fountains of ancient truth. Set to music.

I somehow, in the moment, had the presence of mind to respond to the welcome, and not look back.

If a person had no access to the Bible throughout all his lifetime – but owned the collection of Charles Wesley’s Hymns alone, he would have all that is needed for salvation’s offer, the way of living fully in Christ and the eternal hope of heaven. – Geoffrey Hawksley, Missionary. British Assembly of God

April 25, 2018

Mind The Step

Growing in Christlikeness takes brains.

Not brilliance. Not genius. The Christian Faith isn’t privately reserved for Nobel Prize recipients in science and medicine. Indeed, any trusting, open-hearted child may drink deep of the waters of salvation.

But serious Jesus-followers setting out to grow as his disciples are not ones to check their brains at the door. To them, good sense reflected by sound thinking is essential – a no-brainer, you might say.

Unfolding the topography map (Google Earth wouldn’t debut for another decade) I was soon taken by the stunning landscape spread out before me. Even when merely displayed on landscape parchment, the vast range of Kili’s expanse – her ravines etching wrinkles across her ancient face – captivated me.

The mountain’s greens, from rich shadows to hues showcasing rain forests and highland grasses drew me in. Into dreaming. And more than that. To thinking.

How often do we give it consideration, this quality of thought. Its power and its necessity. The uniquely human capacity to consider, to surmise and decide – that is, to use our brain?

Before any venture can get underway – from the Wright brothers winged launch into North Carolina skies to the designing and building of India’s dazzling Taj Mahal to putting together the kids lunch bag for school – the mind must stir.

Surveying Kilimanjaro’s image that morning, my mind did that. It stirred. And a dream was born.

I would set out to climb this mountain. . . and do it with my kids. At the very least, I could try. But there would be a needed sequence about such a heady vision. Some mental pacings must precede the actual ones. Before the climb could ever begin, I must further engage my mind. Questions asked. Mysteries uncovered.

When is the best season of year for such thing? – Which route promises the best chance of success? – Supplies – what equipment, survival gear and food stuff do we gather If my two teens and me are to set foot on Africa’s legendary rooftop? – What will it all cost? (this was a Biggie)

Does this make any sense? Could we actually achieve it? Thoughts. These demanded logic, rationale, kinds of things I’m not so famous for. Still, the thinking part, I came to realize, was indispensable to a happy, adventurous – and completed – climb.

I got encouraged, enthused actually. The task would be daunting, but it was reachable. . . I felt certain. I had lived at the foot of this glorious giant long enough to learn some secrets, catch some glimpses of the possibilities.

Thinking had been happening a while.

So simple strategies began playing in my head – vague and ill-defined at first – of taking on this vast, snow-crowned volcano.

I peered again at Kili’s image lying there atop our dining table, the table itself crafted of timber harvested from other African slopes – Kenya’s Mount Elgon.

On and on I continued thinking. . . and on.

Trekking a mountain to her summit may be much like walking with Christ, I mused. One [sensible] step at a time.

April 26, 2018April 26, 2018

A Time To Laugh

“Autumn! Get those pants back up, right this minute!”

When eight pre-school children of four young missionary couples (two M.K.s per household) suddenly go quiet in their outdoor play, the concern of parents increases by degree. First, an observation by a mom whose voice barely masks a growing angst.

“Anyone notice the kids aren’t making any noise?”

From here all the earlier conversation, random banter, interchanges of whatever among the parents, trails off. Anxious thoughts roll in, We’re in Black Mamba country. . . What if they’ve wandered off down by the trees and. . .

In this instance, as it turned out, we didn’t need to worry of strayed children.

Little Autumn’s father had stepped across the living room in which we adults had all been relaxing. Peering out an elevated window, he spotted the little ones. Our children stood in a circle beneath a Frangipani tree at the house’s edge, surveying from a distance curiosities of the human anatomy.

Parents, especially the moms, sprang for the outside doors. They had, just prior to the alarming shout, entered into a quietly reverent prayer time. So much for that. . .

In days following, the mommies and daddies regaled one another with their reactions and those of their urchins.

“Mark, did you lower your pants out there before the others?”

“No mommy”, he moaned. “I tried, but I couldn’t get them to unbutton.”

Sarah, one of the other mom’s present, shared on another occasion a special nugget of wisdom. Noting the useful role humor carries in the sometimes overburdening work of international missions.

“He who laughs lasts.”

May 5, 2018May 7, 2018

Bovine Bargaining

“Thirty-eight”, the young man replied.

“Really, thirty-eight?”

“Yes”. My new friend’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Thirty-eight cows”.

How does an Oklahoma boy take in – not to mention, digest – rural Africa’s matrimony language?

“But, suppose the young man can’t come up with that many? What happens?”

“Oh, sometimes the girl’s father negotiates. . . you know, back and forth.”

“And, if they still can’t agree on a number that works?”

“Well, the young man goes away, with hopes the mzee will somehow lower the dowery. The girl’s father also hopes. . . that a more well-off suitor comes by.”

***

Among the many settings international workers encounter in their new culture is the world of matrimony.

What’s the delay?

I had grown a little impatient over the past half hour. It was wedding day. I had gotten volunteered to drive the bride and attendant from her family home – a simple dwelling well off the beaten path – to the church. A decked-out choral group waited there, watching for our arrival. The groom likewise waited. And waited.

“Brother Jerry, it seems the old man wants more cows or more money. . . or something. . . an added dowry, a sum not discussed earlier, to close the arrangement.”

As the fussing went on – a bridegroom rep laboring to cajole, allure, persuade the old man – I noticed a diesel-belching 2-ton lorry enter property. Twenty or so adults, mostly women in colorful dress. . . several men formally garmented. . . jostled about within, trying to stay upright as the truck half-circled to a stop. Because of the last-minute dowry challenge the festive mood had subsided. All appeared resigned to wait things out. Apparently the tactical game playing out wasn’t so new to the tribe. They got the picture. . . Give the old man time. He likely won’t risk losing face before the clan leaders by sticking in his heels much longer. Not for adding a mere one or two more skinny cows.

My curiosity grew. How will this turn out?

May 8, 2018May 7, 2018

Quite A Steal

I waited in the car outside while bride-to-be and her attendants did what females do in an African wedding prep-hut. Excited giggles found their way past thin walls to the outside.

Turning my attention again to the outdoor place where the feisty papa of the bride had parked himself for the verbal contest, I noticed what appeared to be an attitude shift. The gray-haired man, in his effort to extract more dowry treasures from the groom’s family, raised his hand slowly. The patriarch tilted his head downward and nodded – signaling, I thought (and hoped) a civil concession. Glancing to the east I winced. Those gathering clouds look headed our way.

An outbreak of measured laughter sounded from the gathering of elders near the old man. Then, excited jostling and laughter as the open lorry took in more eager passengers. All was good. My passenger doors swung open. The bride and three of her maids squished themselves with their bright billowing dresses into the vehicle.

Due to the drawn-out dowry bargaining, the ceremony got a late start. It was indeed rainy season and the early afternoon downpour began pounding the church’s tin roof. The volume rose, all but muting the voices of the bride and groom pledging their mutual devotion.

Africa weddings, I smiled, Nothing quite like them. Drenched celebrants – including those trying in vain with colorful umbrellas to stave off the blowing torrent – hooted and sang and celebrated on.

The deluge finally passed. Despite the wet conditions and the dowry drama, the knot had gotten tied for the couple. . . all was well.

Festivities drawn to a close, the Peugeot – her wet and weary navigator at the wheel – sloshed and slid along muddy rivulets to the main road.

Reentering our home six hours after parting for the nuptial event, I gratefully received the mug of hot chai my bride offered me at the door. Moving toward a room where dry garments awaited, I chuckled back to her as I went,

“Even at 38 cows, darlin’, you would have been a great bargain!”

May 18, 2018

To Tie A Knot

“Do you take this woman to be your wedded wife. . this man to be your wedded husband?”

What steps lead to that happy/solemn phrase, ‘I take this person to be. . ‘?

Life outside the U.S. stretched my thinking on several fronts. This was one. Musings stirred about cultural traditions, about courtship and marriage – some fun and romantic-like, others less so but interesting the same. Musings on how such things play out mong a people different from my own.

“Well, you know”, the dark-skinned gentleman whose head often wagged slightly sideways to signal agreement, offered, “it is like this. . .”

The pleasant sing-song introduction came from an Indian gent I was getting to know. I nodded, coaxing him on in his response to my question.

“You know, we in India and other places come to marriage differently than is done in the West. And, though modern times bring some change, customs to do with the marital union – we hold them quite dear.”

Interesting.

“Can I ask you, Vinay, did your grandparents decide how your own mother and father were to meet and marry? Your father’s parents, for instance, was it they who selected who the girl would be for him?”

And so the visit went.

Before my chat with Vinay, I had already been hearing that much of the world – most of the world – goes about romance and marriage in ways I could think are very weird. Like everyone else, I interpreted most all things through my own American-tinted cultural lens.

“They played a big role, yes”, Vinay replied. “And so did my mother’s family – with long visits over tea and step-by-step discussions – continuing forward right up to their marriage union.

“After all, marrying is not about falling in love. It is about giving thought to life as a whole, which usually does include marrying someone. “

I nodded, implying I understood. But I didn’t really, not quite.

“Young people in the West follow feelings, they go with their senses. A couple “fall in love”, and they marry. In our tradition we find it better to wed a person the family determines – in their best judgment – to be a decent match. The process moves forward. Eventually, the couple marry. The two then “grow into loving” one another. . . Yes, it usually comes. The pair grow to love each other over time. It is the way with our people.

I wondered. These worlds of romance and courtship and marriage. West and East. Could there be a middle ground?

I still wonder.

May 26, 2018

Arrangement

My bride-to-be nearly drowned. She was young at the time, just hours old.

“Mr and Mrs. Barnes, the risks are high. To our knowledge no baby has made it through long-term. But the surgery is the only chance your little girl has.”

Earl and Mary had little time to think it over. A surgical team gathered and a T. E. Fistula repair was scheduled. The life of Alice Ann Barnes – her full body weight shy of five pounds – hung in the balance.

T.E. stood for Tracheosophageol. Sadly, the baby’s esophagus and trachea were defective at birth. Designed to transport her mother’s milk into her stomach, Ann’s esophagus mingled with her air-tube. Thus, any nutrition-rich fluids were sent to her lungs, not her stomach. In 1949 the field of medicine had its limits. Without corrective surgery, death by drowning or malnutrition would likely result.

Anesthetics were administered, their effects carefully watched. The surgeon’s knife found entrance into little Ann’s back. The procedure was underway.

Hours passed as anxious parents waited.

“Her vitals are steady.” Intensive care nurses – hours into post-op – kept a close watch on little Ann. Some likely prayed.

December, 1967. The former pediatrics patient – poised, lovely in her white gown – moved along the church sanctuary’s center aisle and to her waiting groom.

***

Our courtship, Ann’s and mine, had largely played out by long distance – spanning twelve hundred miles and two-and-a-half years. First by old-fashioned letters. Then with my Oklahoma-to-Montana phone calls.

The marriage wasn’t arranged by third-party players, but neither did we magically fall in love. We grew toward one another through the modest media of stationery paper and ballpoint ink, radial-dial phones with long-distance lines transporting two distinctly different accents – one from just south of Canada, the other a stone’s throw from Texas.

We had survived, each of us, our childhood crises of health. To one day embark, united, on a journey unlike any we could have dreamed.

An arranged marriage, one might say. By providence.

June 1, 2018June 2, 2018

Learning Curve

It’s unnerving getting interrupted when giving a public talk – more-so when demons are involved.

Through our Kenya and Tanzania years I grew thankful for the wisdom and courage of African servants of Jesus. Many challenged me in positive ways – not so much by direct words, but by life-example – in things like discernment and spiritual authority.

Scenario: How do you counsel the second wife of an unbelieving polygamous husband who has come to faith in Christ?

Such tricky problems, I discovered, don’t get easily fixed through pat answers by well-meaning outsiders. Put another way, simple solutions do not fare well in the world of the complex. Cultural divides compound things. Reconciling family traditions to the Way of Jesus demands patience, grace and wisdom. What a relief discovering I served among church leaders who – though some lacked greatly in overall Bible knowledge – understood how to rightly address baffling questions that I and my fellow expats were, frankly, clueless about.

***

“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.” (as usual, few people can distill a truth better than C.S. Lewis)

What’s with all the screaming?

The lake region was a magnet to demons, or so it appeared. Generations of witchcraft practice seemed to fling regional doors open to dark displays of the invisible underworld.

Taking my place behind a simple wooden pulpit I rested my Bible there and surveyed the gathering. A light lake breeze made its way inland now and then to blunt the oppressive mid-day heat. It was District Convention time and congregations from the area had set up makeshift shelters of straw to shield from the sun’s brutal rays. Three days of teaching, of celebrating, of praying and of feasting were getting underway.

I had barely begun my message when a clearly troubled woman rose in the audience. Her first cries were soft but quickly became louder. A rhythmic chant followed, growing more shrill, more distressing by the moment. Soon she seemed out of control. . . or under the control of some alien influence.

Without my uttering a word or signaling for any help, two tribal gentlemen moved quickly to the woman’s side. Addressing her in moderate but deliberate tones, the men succeeded in relocating her to a space a short distance from our gathering. I learned later on that these intervening men had experience in exorcising bad spirits from the demonically-troubled.

My audience seemed unrattled by the interruption and I resumed preaching. Several minutes of my early remarks from scripture were only slightly muffled by shouts from the deliverance quarters, “Come out of her. Out in Jesus’ Name!” All the while the poor woman’s unnatural voice ebbed and flowed with irregular volume. At last all went silent. Soon the freed lady re-entered the meeting and conducted herself in a perfectly civil manner.

Again I thanked God it was they – the wise and Spirit-equipped Africans – who answered the call to such crises, and to puzzlements “beyond our pay grade”. Gaining appreciation that useful missionaries. . . if they are anything. . . are observers. Learners.

Thank you, Lord. And help us.

July 3, 2018July 2, 2018

Prized Care

The mission pastor once asked my wife to preach for an upcoming Sunday service. But only once.

William Moseti, a man of little schooling, yet displaying qualities people admire in a leader. Kindness, humility, wisdom, a warm-hearted chuckle behind a ready smile. Pastor Moseti had assigned our firstborn child a nickname.

Two-year-old Julie, abounding in energy, woke up each morning with a zest for life. In her often-excited moments, she could get loud and, to Pastor William, the label, “Duka-la-kelele” (the noise store) fit perfectly. Some weeks went by.

“Mama Julie”, Pastor William greeted Ann as they crossed paths on the mission station, “you must give the sermon this Sunday at the church.”

Most of us remember times when we wished we had thought of the just-right response to a remark.

“Sure, Pastor”, Ann smiled. “I’ll be glad to. . . but only if you will watch Duka-la-kelele for me while I speak.” When service time came, William happily took up his preaching spot at the mission pulpit.

Tending to the cares of little ones under their charge, young mothers across the globe rival the world’s strongest endurance athletes. In addition to making do with rationed bathing water during dry seasons while attending to cloth-diapered babies, Ann rushed to the aid of each child wherever a crisis, big or small, broke out.

When toddler Scott got suddenly run over by a motorcycle steered by a Biker-wannabe. . . her teenaged boyfriend the self-appointed driving coach.
When five-year-old Amy careened to the gravelly playground face-first from a towering sliding board’s highest perch, leaving her poor face battered and momentarily rearranged.
Through a long night vigil at Julie’s bedside during an especially painful ear infection.

Our family’s bouts with everything from food poisoning to parasites to malaria – and any number of other afflictions – were regularly met with Ann’s prompt, skilled, and prayerful action. A pithy verse from a book of poetry beckons a response we gratefully offer,

“Honor her for all that her hands have done,
let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”

Proverbs 31.31