Justice Served Fresh

I've always had a soft spot for the marginalized and the oppressed. Since having moved to Africa, injustice hits me that much harder, because I encounter it so frequently. Almost daily, I see a number of things that just make me want to scream:Boys are "taken in" by schools and sent out to beg. If they accept my bread for themselves instead of money for the mosques, they may be beaten. A man takes another wife without informing his first (or second or third) wife. These women are beaten for being less-than-obedient. An orphaned family member is treated like a servant because she has nowhere else to go. Government officials fill their pockets with aid money. A woman selling water gets mobbed because a generous person bought water "for everyone" without thinking that there wasn't actually enough for everyone. 

And these are just the few stories I hear.The list goes on, but it's not limited to the third world. We shudder from stories we hear of the West: a man who shoots school children, people trampled in shopping malls, murder "justified" for one reason or another, etc. Does it ever stop? Living here (and really anywhere if you look deep enough) can quickly make you one of two extremes: furious or apathetic. Admittedly, I've been both.

All the hurt drove me to the Word of God for answers. This year, I'm reading through the Bible and focusing on God's perspective on the matter of right, wrong, and justice. I mean, if it breaks my heart, how can God stand it? He hears the hidden tears of victims every day. I just hear emotionlessly recounted stories. Their blood cries out to Him directly. I often have no clue. 

From what I've seen, it all boils down to love. I should've seen that coming. After all, God is love, right?. But to dig a bit deeper, I've seen true depth in His justice. No one can ever claim that God is apathetic to right and wrong. He hears, He cares deeply, and He acts with a vengeance against wrong. He establishes laws to protect the poor, the slaves, the unloved, and even the land. Truly, injustice in the Old Testament seems to merit death, exile, or intense punishment. As bystanders, most of us would heartily agree. You can't just let people get away with these things!

So, what about today? Why hasn't God just zapped the modern slave traders, the oppressors, the murderers? I think the better question is this: do we really want Him to? Are you really just a bystander? Have you ever taken advantage of someone? said an unkind word? lusted after someone? let your selfishness hurt someone? hated someone? Have you ever been too proud to even apologize for these things?

Then, the question is this: why hasn't God zapped you and me?

There it is, again: Love. 

"But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us." (Rom 5:8)

God was in the ultimate conflict. He is the perfect judge who loves and values all people. He cares infinitely about the person you're slandering, hating, and using. We are an unjust, evil lot, and He really should destroy us. But he cares about us. Conflict. How can He let us get away with all we do to one another? It's not right!In the Old Testament, He allowed scapegoats... Literally. Purified goats to take on the His people's sin. They were killed or exiled after taking on the people's sins. Wrong is serious. There must be restitution. These goats were punished, and justice was served. But was that enough? The people had to continually slaughter these animals. How could dead goats ever change dead hearts? 

Enter, Jesus, Father God incarnate. He lived the perfect life. He stepped into the darkest parts of our world and personally experienced great injustices. He met needs in His life, and He solved The Conflict with His death. He is the scapegoat for all humanity. He overcame death to prove His legitimacy and to show that with Him we can overcome. If we let Him be our scapegoat, He goes one further. More than just die for our injustices, He also promises to change our hearts. Good deeds may be nice, but they don't change who we are. At the end of the day, we're all unjust people. There are no innocent juries, no bystanders. In Christ, God gives us the power to become what we could never be: just with God and one another. 

So, for me living life, justice means listening to the Father's example of love. It means caring about people enough to stand up for what's right while simultaneously bringing the wrong-doers to restoration. That's a God-sized task.

That's not my name

*insert Ting Ting's song*

They call me Mariam...

They call me Reese...

They call me Stan...

They call me Dot...

...that's not my name.

That's not my name.

That's not my name.

That's not my.... name.

Ridiculous songs aside, it's a funny on-going discussion in Team BK as to whether or not names important. As one who easily forgets people's names, I wish they weren't. I mean, I remember people's words and life stories with no problems. So, if I forget someone's name but can tell you all about them, it's no big deal, right? Unfortunately, It seems that I'm the only one with that opinion. I may feel no need to defend the correct pronunciation of my name, but others really get angry about it. So what if Burkinabé give me a new name? If it's easier for them to remember and shout at me in the market, that's cool with me.

So, hear my thoughts: What is a name, really? Is it just some words my parents gave to distinguish me from other kids in a crowd? Does it prophesy my destiny?

Shouldn't I still be the same person, even if you forget my name? Does it change who I am to call me by something else? I mean, call a chair: a chair, sigilan dò, une chaise, or whatever you choose. You're still going to sit in it all the same.

As I've been reading through and studying the book of Daniel, this idea really stuck out in light of our running discussion. To set the scene, the Israelites are in Babylonian exile. From among a bright, young group of people we see four Jews that really stuck out: Haananiah, Mishael, Azariah, and Daniel.

As they entered their new home, the Babylonians tried to redefine them. In fact, Shadrach, Meshack and Abed-Nego are probably better cemented in history by their Babylonian names. However, we don't see it changing who the Lord had made them. In spite of the fact that Babylonians called them stuff like "Belonging to Aku" or "Servant of Nego," these youths didn't change. In the integrity of their lifestyles, they proved that they still owned their true names:
-"God is my judge"
-"God has been gracious"
-"Who is who God is?"
-"God has helped"

So, it's encouraging to me regardless of what people or culture may say that you are, you don't have to play into that identity. In Christ, God has called you His child, righteous, and loved. That's quite the name.


" The one who is victorious I will make a pillar in the temple of my God. Never again will they leave it. I will write on them the name of my God and the name of the city of my God, the new Jerusalem, which is coming down out of heaven from my God; and I will also write on them my new name."

-Rev 3:12

Legalism, the Gospel, and Disordered Eating

I wrote down my story quite a while back, but have yet to do anything with it. It's a bit long, I know, but it's my life. Wherever you may find yourself, today, I hope that it can give you hope and encouragement. For those of you who don't really like to read, I made a recording just for you. If you have any questions, feel free to comment or shoot me an email: 

             As one who became a Christian at a relatively early age, I sort of envied people who have the dramatic conversion stories. The ones which make a person just throw up their fists and say, “Right on, God!” I’m telling you now, as one who’s seen some scary places of bondage: never envy someone else’s story. The Lord has allowed you to walk through the things you have for a reason. I would never change my past, but walking through these places is not something I would advise. Learning God’s principles by listening to what Christ has said is really ideal. Unfortunately, I tend to run my own way full-throttle.

I am writing because I do not want to begin to justify enslavement to food and health as “a phase” that I could have gotten through myself. I tried. In fact, the more I tried to control my situation, the worse it became. If there is anything that I want you to get from this it is to turn to Jesus with your wounds, right away. Don’t pick at them until you’re bleeding out. Without a doubt, the Father heals the hurting. He binds up the brokenhearted. So, why not go to Him first? He created you. He knows how you really work. He knows exactly what is or is not wrong with you. He has infinite power to remedy. Why can’t we just trust Him to do what He has said? He has always proved Himself in the past, hasn’t He?!

This is just one example of God’s faithfulness. To begin, I must say, my intent was good. I wanted to honor God with my body. I wanted Christ to be my sole sufficiency, but somehow this desire was twisted to a crippling self-reliance. Satan used his half-truths to reel me far away from the truth and from God who loves me.

a healthy 120lbs

I remember where it all started. One day, my friends and I were eating pizza, and I started feeling sick. A gross feeling of fullness and a loss of self-control washed over me, and I hated it. I remembered several verses about gluttony, and how the Lord warned against it. True, I wanted to please the Lord, but I think I was much more concerned about my pride and my self-control than the fact that I had sinned against Holy God.

Honestly, I had been listening to the world a lot, too. I had heard a lot about families in Africa who eat only one time per day. From the internet, I was bombarded with how much exercise everyone should get each day, how little people should eat, and how to never finish a meal. Finally, the dining halls kept assuring me that the best way to eat was to eat a lot of stuff with essentially no calories at all. Combine all of this counsel from everywhere but the Lord, and this is a recipe for disaster!

Ironically, all the research and dwelling on health led me down a path straight to death. I determined that I would have a certain amount of calories a day, exercise more, and “be disciplined.” My weight was never an issue, but I wanted to live a “healthy” life and not become one who simply loses control. If only I had listened to the Lord and what He desired for my life and my body, then I would have saved myself a lot of struggle. 

-20ish lbs

After one semester of eating partial meals, jogging and dancing harder than all others in my classes, obsessively exercising whenever I could, and essentially paying penance for any sins to my new god, I had lost a lot of weight. I rationalized it saying that if all people lived “healthily,” they would be tiny, too. I enjoyed the idea of being rebellious against the overindulgence of my culture. Though I’m not sure of the exact number, I lost at least twenty pounds, dropping from a very healthy 120lbs to around 95. I was a skeleton, but I was pleased. . . kind of. . .

I began to realize how much it was consuming my thoughts, but I brushed off the voice of the Holy Spirit. As long as I thought I was in control, I didn’t care. All along, there were deadly partial truths I believed. Satan would bring to mind a verse from God’s Word out of context, and I would nod my head in agreement. “Did God really say . . . ? Surely, you will not die . . . ,” he would whisper. I longed so much to make the one true God happy, but I didn’t see I was only appeasing the god of self.

I had forgotten the most basic truth of knowing Christ: “He saved us, not on the basis of deeds which we have done in righteousness, but according to His mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Spirit” (Titus 3:5, NASB). Soon, my eating habits became a way to earn back the grace God had already given to me as His child. If only I ate well, then God would be happy. He would see just how much I was doing for Him and smile at me. Then, I would be super spiritual, gaining a couple extra gold stars in heaven. Yes, there’s no wrong in working to please God. However, my motives were completely skewed. I wanted to live radically, counter-culturally for Christ, but at heart, I was a Pharisee. I am a Pharisee more often than I would like to admit.

It wasn’t until later that I seriously thought twice about what I was doing. Many people began to comment on my weight loss, and I was scaring myself at times, too. I remember waiting in hunger pains for the time I had prescribed a snack. Once, I woke up starving in the middle of the night. I grabbed an apple and mourned over what I had become as I reluctantly bit into it. By this time, however, I didn’t know how to stop. I did not know what was normal or healthy anymore. I knew I was not where I should be with the Lord, either, so I ignored His calling to lay everything aside. I was obsessed, and it is ONLY the Lord’s doing that could have brought me out of this place. Fortunately, He never left me. Unfortunately, this struggle continues and so does this story.

As I went home, I was confronted more and more with people who kept telling me how horrific I looked. I knew, I really did, but how was I to explain what had happened? So honestly, I lied. I said that enough walking on campus and a new emphasis on eating well was what did it. Most people probably didn’t buy it, but that was the answer I gave, and it was a sort of truth. I knew I had a problem, though, so I turned to the Lord for help . . . kind of. I said that I would give my eating habits over to Him, but I kept the practice for myself. I would not completely give over the control that I thought I had. In retrospect, I have never been more out of control in my life.

But this led to a new whole new chapter of my story. I wanted to gain weight, but I was afraid. Weight, the one thing I had never previously cared about in my life, became a marker of obedience. I ate a bit more, prayed, and poured into God’s Word, but I began to exercise even more. In so doing, I was still living for the god of control.

Later, I traveled to Canada as a church intern, but my problems became worse. The family I lived with had a lot of children and a tight budget. So, I saw it as a service to this family not to be a burden in any way. I replaced my exercising time with time spent with the Lord. Still, I was not taking care of the Holy Spirit’s temple, because I refused to eat much at all.

When I returned home, I was still in this mindset. I know there are so many people in the world with nothing, and I wanted to spend myself on behalf of them. The last thing I wanted to do was eat food which could go to someone else, even if it wouldn’t. My heart was heavy for those who are hungry, and my provision for them was to not provide for myself. I felt guilty for being blessed instead of properly thanking God for the things with which He has blessed me. Now, it sounds ridiculous, but the lies we allow ourselves to believe often stretch just that far.

Now, my problem was that I wore my mistakes every day. I hated hugs that I once loved, because they were usually followed by a remark about the feel of my bones. I hated a kind hand on my back, where my spine and ribs protruded. I thought everyone knew my issues without me even saying a word, and I hated it. I wore the truth like a scarlet letter. Never before had I loathed my appearance so much. Ironically, my attempts to be healthy and strong only made me weaker.

Even more ironically, I let people’s opinion lead me into the very thing I hated the most from the beginning: gluttony. Every time someone would poke or prod at my skeletal figure, I became anxious. Once again, I did not trust the Lord to allow me to gain weight naturally, so I would eat myself sick to prove them wrong. Afterwards, I would pay penance to the health god I had constructed by eating less later or exercising more. Discrediting God’s faithfulness in my struggle and His unyielding grace through it all, I was a Pharisee, following my laws and missing God’s plan. I am a Pharisee more than I like to admit.

Forgetting the two laws that Jesus declared as the core of everything, I did not love the one, true God with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. I was not putting others before myself. I was attempting to somehow merit the grace that I did nothing to gain in the first place. If only I could ______ enough, then God would be pleased with me.

What I failed to see that He was ALREADY PLEASED WITH ME!!! All God wants is for me to love Him, following Him with all my might (Deuteronomy 6:5, 10:12, 11:1, Leviticus 18:30, Micah 6:8, Joshua 23:11). Yes, God is holy. He is just and righteous and worthy of great fear, but He is also loving and infinitely gracious. He doesn’t leave us alone to live this life, either. As Christians, we’re not only given a new nature, a clean slate, a relationship with the Father, but also we have the Holy Spirit. He guides us in God’s will every day if we would only listen to Him!

One huge thing the Lord taught me through this struggle is the fact that I am not above any sin. It is only by His grace that I am alive, today. It is only by His grace that I am made right with God. Those of us blessed to come to know Him at a young age should rejoice in it and thank Him every day that we did not have to learn many things the hard way. All people have the same sinful nature, and it is ONLY by the grace of God that I am not the serial killer, the glutton, the adulteress, or the thief that I declare I would never become. That’s the beauty of the Church: we’re just a bunch of patched us misfits for God’s glory. I am no better than the next person, and I have seen that. Humanly, I am no different than those who don’t know Him, except for the fact that the Holy Spirit finally made His truth click in my mind. Praise Him for it!

Like I said, it's been quite some time since this has been fresh, but the healing process still isn’t easy. I have to continually pray for guidance, because I don’t even know how to live. I cannot understand the one crucial thing that everyone can do: to eat normally. The only way I have found to live (in general, but especially with this) is to give it over to Christ, to trust my identity in Him. He will take care of me. Control and weight is no longer my focus. I’ve got a race to run. 

present day

Christmas in September?

Ever packed up an Operation Christmas child box? Many people have, but few have been able to see the results. Our church building is relatively empty. There's just a djembe, some wooden benches, and a podium to fill the space. Add some concrete walls and a dirt floor, and it's not much to look at. So, it was easy to notice a Samaritans Purse box in the corner of the church this Sunday. It was a box left from last Christmas. However, I didn't know that there were still six gift boxes to be distributed. My brothers and sisters had saved them for nine months.

Now, it was time to open them and distribute. But how do you give a gift meant for six children to thirty or more?

Check out the video I made to find out 

All in all, it was an awesome experience, and I'm so glad to have been a part. 

Language, Round Two: Still up and Fighting

Right off the bat, our team liked the new program a lot more than the old method. It required a bit of working with our teacher(s), but it was definitely worth it. One teacher completely understood, while the other was a bit resistant to repeat and to let us simply listen. Day one, he made one of us cry, one of us very confused, and the other wanting to punch him. After working with both (and having to go back to just one instructor), we've finally got the process down.

As the designated language nerd, I spend class time mentally playing with sentences, since the program doesn't allow us to talk right away. Then, Amanda just shakes her head and tells me I'm enjoying this too much. Now, we have a good 300-400 words under our belt. To give you an idea of things we have learned (and just for some entertainment) here are a few things we could say:

     I am riding my tiger to the market to greet my friend Umu.

     I am taking my rabbit. à I am setting my rabbit on fire. (unfortunately similar statements)

     I drive my iron horse (AKA bicycle) to the village.

     The old man kicks the cow. The cow bites the old man’s elbow. He headbutts the cow.

     I park my car on a goat.

     I am combing the lion’s mane. I braid the lion’s hair. He has a big head.  

     Karissa is thinking about boys. (This was actually our teacher's suggestion)

All in all, it's been fun learning, but I'm ready to be able to talk freely in their first language, instead of a foreign language for the both of us. That will make drinking tea for three hours that much more enjoyable. 

Lost in Translation

For the past week and a half, Team BK (that would be my coworkers and me) has been delving into language learning. We have a tutor who comes to our compound to teach. However, since the strongest language we have in common with our teacher is my French, a lot is lost in translation. Even after a couple hours of study, my brain is the consistency of jello from attempting to filter through three languages simultaneously. So, classes haven't quite gone as we had hoped. 

Here's a little snapshot of class: 

Formal class: 

Our teacher: (insert Jula word) ...  (give meaning in French)
Me: (discuss meaning in French)

Our teacher: (gives another variant of the original word and explains why one would use it.)

Me: (more discussion in French)

Me: (relay word to teammates, slipping into French mid-sentence)

Team BK: (forgets original word)

After class, we would attempt to practice with locals. This idea would be a great one... if we were in the city where we will be living. However, in the capital, the language we're learning isn't really spoken by the majority. In fact, there are over 60 languages spoken in the country, which makes finding Jula speakers a bit more difficult. 

This is typically how it went:

Street practice:
Vendor: (greets in Mòoré, Fulfuldé, etc.)
Team BK: (looks elsewhere)
Fruit lady: (greets in Jula)
Team BK: (broken greetings)

Fruit lady: (continues in Jula)
Team BK: (blank stares) 

Fortunately, we were trained in a newer language learning approach this weekend. In this system, class wouldn’t need to be translated, taking away the frustration of the team in having to wait on me and my frustration of double translation. Lord willing, we'll be able to pick up a bit more this way. It would be nice to actually talk to people eventually...

Home, Sweet, Sahel

I live here?!

The past month or so has been a time of redefining what the term home means. I landed in the Sahel of Africa in May, travelled down to my city for a week, and got back on a plane to head for more training in Zambia. When the plane landed, I learned how diverse Africa really is. 

To show what I mean here are some comparisons. Let's just assume I live in the dustier of the two pictures:  

 

I must admit, visiting Zambia almost made me jealous. The air is clean and dust-free. The people smile and greet me in English. The climate is pleasant, and the stars are ridiculously beautiful.

After a while, though, I found myself wanting to get back to my African home. I wanted to get started learning a language that’s useful for my people group, learning the specifics of West African culture, and building actual friendships instead of one-conversation relationships. I wanted to plant some roots where I will actually be living for the next two years.

However, there was a kink in my plans. During our bush camp experience, we found out that our team’s supervisor was diagnosed with melanoma. It was a question mark as to whether or not Melissa and Shad, who had taken us in as a part of their family and made us feel like home in our city, would be around. On top of possibly losing a large chunk of our family/team, we weren’t going to be able to go back to our city for a month.

Thus, I (internally) pouted for a bit, mourning a loss of direction and home. Where am I supposed to belong on this big, spinning ball of dirt? In a lot of ways, I never really felt like a “normal” American growing up. I think hamburgers are decent, but I could live without them. I studied French in college. I am kind of a hippie more often than not. For sure, I’m no African, either. Nor am I much of anything else. So, what am I?

I landed on this truth: regardless of my location, I am, at best, a foreigner in life. It’s good, though. In Christ, I am free to be undefined. I can be homeless, in a sense. Christ came to break down divisions, making new life and redefining home for me. So, my home is now wherever the Lord puts me for a time. Bigger than that, God has made His home inside of me, so my way of classifying myself doesn't really matter that much any more. It’s a pretty awesome concept, when you think about it. 

“For Christ himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, by setting aside in his flesh the law with its commands and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit. Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household.”