The Dying Church

Even before I moved to Europe eight years ago, I had heard talk of how the Church there (and filtering into the US) was dying. Atheism and Islam were taking over, and the large cathedrals were now sitting empty. Once there, I witnessed this for myself. There's something haunting about walking into a massive sanctuary that you know was once filled with worship to the Creator, its dramatic stain glass masterpieces displaying this truth, only to now be a tourist attraction filled with cameras and art enthusiasts. 

But is the Church in fact dead in Europe? I know firsthand that the answer is no. Many of my friends and coworkers can boldly testify to movement of the Holy Spirit and churches growing. 

After living in Eastern Europe for three years and now having spent an additional month there helping with the refugee crisis, there is a strong passion and prayer filling my thoughts at present. If only God would be delighted in using this massive migration of hurting, needy, desperate, searching people to awaken His Bride to be and do what He's called Her to be and do! Life should drip from Her lips. Joy should be shouted from Her doors. Hope should be broadcast from Her all words. Peace should be exampled in the streets. Love should fill Her actions. What an opportunity to arise, to minister, to reach out, to care, to help, and to be Jesus! 

During my month of working in the refugee camp in Serbia, out of the hundreds of volunteers and workers surrounding me, only a handful of them were believers. People are being raised up to help. There is compassion and care being administered. But those things can only go so far when the real needs aren't being met. If the heart isn't ultimately being addressed, what good is a pair of new shoes, hot soup, or information given in the long run? As the chaos filling Europe depicts, there aren't many answers to be had as to what should be done moving forward. My prayer is that the Church would stand up and be the solution! The nations we've so long prayed for are at Their very doorstep, hurting, seeking, and needy... May We do something! Oh, Jesus, awaken Your Bride to take action! 

Windows into a Refugee Soul (pt 2)

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He quietly interrupted my coworker and I while we were standing in the courtyard talking. "Excuse me, do you have information about where we are going and when?" I explained a few things and then ran off to get a pamphlet about their journey in his own language. We stood talking so long that we eventually moved into the warm tent to sit down. He was on his way to Germany from Afghanistan with his mother and sister. He sadly explained that his father was part of the Taliban, so that was why he wasn't with them. Things had become really difficult after America left. "There are no jobs or opportunities for even the people in the city now. There is no one in power that we can trust." And he went on to tell some stories that depicted these things. His eyes grew very sad as he explained that his father was now trying to marry his 27 year old sister to another man in the Taliban. He had taken his mother and sister and fled, not knowing what would happen or where they would go. The bus engines fired up, and I sadly watched him rush away, back to the two women he loved greatly and was trying to protect.

After meeting his request to help him find a doctor, we began to talk again when he found me outside cleaning. He'd spent three years translating for the US army when they were occupying Afghanistan. He'd become quite close to many soldiers and many of his fellow translator friends now lived in The States. We both got teary eyed as he explained how the Taliban had kidnapped his brother and held him, ultimately taking his life. On top of that, life was very hard in his country. There were no jobs, no opportunities, no one he could trust. His wife had remained behind in Afghanistan as he bravely sought to pave the way to a better life in Germany... maybe the US. In spite of years of hearing about my country, he eagerly, with eyes full of hope, asked me: "What is it like in America?" Taking a deep breath, trying earnestly to not crush the expectation that filled him, I simply said it would be different for him than for myself, but that he had a good chance finding work since he knew English. A few other men began to surround us, watching and listening, each with their own set of quiet hopes and dreams. My heart felt overwhelmed, and I uttered the only words that made any sense in that moment: "I will pray for you!"

I sat coloring with a noisy group of children when I heard her speak to me in English, it was flawless, and I was impressed. After a few minutes of conversing I asked where she'd learned English. She said she was only allowed to finish the 7th grade in school, but she so much wanted to learn English that she made her brother teach her everyday when he would come home from classes. She was traveling with her husband and three small children from Syria. She began to explain how some evil men had barged into their home, demanded they leave, and take nothing with them. They quickly fled to his brother's home, but that wasn't a permanent solution. Now they were on the road to Germany, traveling with a large group of women and children who'd been together with them on the raft from Turkey to Greece. She described how the one hour trip across Aegean Sea in the overcrowded boat had been terrifying, as none of them knew how to swim. Their trip had been without problems, but the following day a raft filled with 30 people went under and all drowned. Sadness filled her eyes as she described other aspects of their journey. I was able to spend two days together with this family, while they were stuck at my camp, and since the borders have been closing, chances are very high that they still have not able to make it to Germany. They, along with thousands of others, are likely stuck in limbo somewhere in a refugee camp, uncertain of what tomorrow will hold.

These stories I share because I want to give a face and a sense of connection with these people that are simply being categorized under the label of 'refugee'. Many things I heard prior to going to Serbia were not true! I want people to know and see what is true regarding this situation. I don't want people to just see the big picture, but rather enter into the ground level in an intimate and personal way. This isn't just a mass migration. These are lives, individual people with beautiful hearts, gut wrenching stories, and in need of help and hope. My wish and prayer is that maybe one somebody (or the Church as a whole) will be inspired to give, go, or pray as a result of reading through these!

The Color of My Passport

He found me in the hallway, eyes full of worry and eager searching: "I need the doctor," he said. We walked down the hall to the doctor's office, and he took his place in the long line. I went back outside to clean. A few minutes later I looked up to find him walking toward me, with his head down. "Did you see the doctor?" I asked him. His smile flashed with recognition of my face in a crowd of hundreds. "Yes, it's okay now." We started to talk, and I was quickly shocked by his impeccable English. He was from Afghanistan and had been a translator for American troops for three years. His story was a sad one, and I'll likely share it in another blog, but he said something that has plagued my heart. "All my friends are now in America through _____ program (one for translators), but I've submitted my paperwork and have heard nothing. I am going to Germany, but really I want to go to America! What is it like there?" Pictures of my city and others flashed through my mind as I considered what America was like and how I could describe it. But before I could open my mouth, thoughts of the refugee housing I'd lived in for a year came rushing forward. Curbs lined with men sitting around aimlessly, women saying even as bad as it was in Iraq it was better than being trapped in their house, children joining gangs because there were no other opportunities for them to participate in in this part of the city... "It's different for me than it would be for you there. You'd have a good chance finding a job, because you know English, but I don't know what it would be like for you!" I wanted to cry, as I have dozens of times these last weeks...

I'm surrounded by desperation, it is written on the faces of everyone around me. Their countries are at war. Their family members and friends have been murdered. They've sold all they own in this world and have spent it to come here, only pennies left. People have abused and exploited them along their journey. They are sick, tired, hungry, dirty, lonely, afraid, uncertain, worried.... all because of their passport.

Many times I have looked at my passport and wept: "Why, Jesus? I don't deserve the rights that come with being an American! I don't even understand what freedom is, because it has never been taken away from me. I don't know how to value what I have. I don't give a thought to traveling across borders, to being welcomed into homes, to doing whatever in the world I want to do when I want to do it! Why not them, Jesus? Why me, Oh Abba, why me...??"

This is probably another blogpost, but I am so embarrassed with how my country has responded to this crisis. Out of hundreds of workers here, I've met only two other Americans in my entire month here. One was living in Bosnia, working with my organization. The other stayed 2 days. Every time I'm asked where I'm from, I'm ashamed at how my government has responded to these people in dire need and pain. I look in their eyes, and I have no answers. "I don't know why you're likely going to spend the rest of your life in a refugee camp somewhere, and I'm going to go back to my safe, warm, comfortable home that I've done nothing to deserve. I don't know, and I'm so sorry!"

I had to leave to go pick up some teammates, but I so much want to go back in time and be able to tell my translator friend that he and his wife (still in Afghanistan) can come sleep in my living room, eat my food, and live a life of safety and love. I wish I could change the color of their passport to mine, but instead I'm left trusting that God knows what's best and that prayer is powerful!

Lessons from Trash

A group of us sat around a circular table chatting after a simple meal together. We had few things in common with each other, representing nations spread all across the globe. The two things we did have in common were loving Jesus and having spent time cleaning rubbish at the nearby refugee camp. Laughter began to circulate as crazy stories were shared: things we'd clean, people who'd helped us, what we'd seen, etc. I know it sounds absurd, but it was an incredibly bonding time together.

The leader of our group shared how a few weeks prior he'd spent the day cleaning disgusting filth, only to be invited to preach at a nearby church the following morning. From a position of lowliness to a place revered in a matter of hours! As he was preparing to preach, the thought came to his mind that very few people are in this position. Powerful lessons had been gained from the humility of cleaning another person's filth. Perhaps more street sweepers should be given a chance to preach?! But then another thought entered his mind: "Perhaps the other way would be more accurate: more pastors should occasionally take a position of street sweepers!"

I've found it interesting that when I'm serving tea and soup in the tent or playing with children, people from other organizations or even the refugees approach me and are interested in conversing. I'm from America, I've studied at a university, I've worked various jobs, traveled, and I have a family they'd like to hear more about. But when I don the gloves, grab the dust pan and broom, it is like I become an entirely different person! Most people don't acknowledge me, eye contact is avoided, and few words are spoken. I have become the lowest of the low at the camp in that moment. At times my pride has been insulted, and I am angry that I'm treated differently- don't they know who I am!? But most of the time I like to try to redeem the humanity of a person of lowly stature. I greet them, I smile, I am funny, and I watch how their demeanor changes. It's also fun to use my low position to elevate others in similar places. The porta-potty cleaners have become my friends that I'm always excited to see. Neither have their teeth or any sense of propriety, but they light up when they see me now. Most people don't acknowledge them or even look their way. It's almost like we are afraid of what is unclean, as if it will contaminate us or our reputation. We spend so much time trying to climb up, that to look down would harm something about us.

When I think about Christ, I think the picture of becoming a trash cleaner in a refugee camp fits His leaving heaven quite well! The things I've seen and had to do are unmentionable in most circles, but how much more Christ in all His glory, perfection, and holiness to come to our vile, filthy, sin-ridden planet to live among us in suffering, lack, and brokenness!! He chose humility not just at the cross, but actually with His entire 33 years among humanity. My mind can't wrap around this very well!

As we wrapped up our discussion at the table that evening, the leader stated that rubbish cleaning has been one of the most powerful times of worship for him. In fact, the song: "Here I am to worship, here I am to bow down..." plays on repeat in his head. What a picture of worship: bowing down to clean the filth of another... A sweet picture of Christ! May we all have chances to be more like Him in His humility.

Windows into a Refugee Soul

I'm currently living in Šid, Serbia for a month to help with the thousands of refugees that are crossing the border on their way to Western Europe. Every day I get the opportunity to love and serve them in various ways. My favorite has been listening to their stories verbally and nonverbally. I'd like to share a few with you.

She was a little girl of about 10 years of age. I first noticed the large tears rolling down her cheeks. Next I took in the fact that her grandfather had her by one elbow and was pulling her across the room toward me; her sleeve pushed halfway up her arm. As she got closer, I noticed the large blisters and the red skin from the third degree burn spanning the circumference of her wrist. One word was said: "Doctor?" I put my arm around her shoulders and led her to the onsite doctor's office. I will not go into how much I disagreed with the doctor's methods, but he was far from gentle. As he stuck a needle into each blister half a dozen times, the little girl didn't even shed many tears or utter a single noise. As he pushed and prodded the water to escape through the tiny holes, I held her close, knowing if I was in that chair I would've been holding back screams and wanting to punch the doctor. She barely even flinched through it all. When I took her back to her mother, her mom didn't even once ask how her daughter was, but rather, upon seeing her, told her to go get something for her little brother. This family is from Afghanistan, a place wrought with pain and suffering. Why coddle your child when they will be growing up in the midst of horrific difficulty? A third degree burn is nothing to someone living in a war torn country and now a refugee!

I sat drinking apple juice in the nearby petrol station on a much needed break. As I finished, my thoughts turned back to the tasks awaiting me outside. Slowly I started the walk back into the camp when I noticed a woman a few years younger than myself sitting behind a light pole weeping. Her head covering hid much of her face, but I could tell something was very wrong as I took a seat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't speak English, so there was no response to my or my coworker's inquiries. She gingerly touched the side of her face, and I noticed a massive welt partially hidden by her head scarf. All of the sudden two people walked up and explained in Serbian that she had just been shoved down in the middle of the street by her husband. He then proceeded to beat her, punching her repeatedly in the face. We tried to take her to the doctor or seek help of another sort, but she just kept responding: "No, no, no..." with fear in her eyes. To be seen with us or anyone else was to likely invoke another beating from her husband that I am sure was lurking somewhere nearby. Her name and the fact that she is pregnant haunt my thoughts. She represents to me thousands of women worldwide who have no voice, no rights, and seemingly no hope.

The trip from Syria to Germany is a difficult and dangerous one, so I am always surprised when I see someone with a disability or ailment coming through the camp. One small boy in particular caught my eye. He was young, but likely older than he looked. His head was misshapen and very large. First glance revealed that his legs didn't work properly, and his body was smaller than it should've been. He was seated in the middle of the table with his father sitting next to him. People openly stared, but no one had wanted to be seated at the table with them. I eagerly walked over and began to engage the little boy in trying to get him to throw a mandarin to me like a baseball. No words came out of his mouth, just clicks of the tongue and motioning with his eyes that detailed his thoughts. The father spoke no English, but through hand motions and mutual words (family, doctor, Syria) I pieced their story together.  His wife was still in Syria with seven of their eight children. This was his youngest son. The doctor in Syria could do nothing to help this little guy and recommended they go to Germany to get medical help. There was a new tumor growing on the back of the boy's head, and fear shone out of the dad's eyes as he showed it to me. There is a common thought expressed by many organizations at the camp that a lot of the refugees don't take care much for their children. Babies get left behind in the beds when the buses go in the middle of the night. Small children play for hours with us in the tent, and we never once see a parent checking in on them. But as I looked at the relationship between this father and son, tears sprung into my eyes. This little boy had nothing to offer his dad, he couldn't even talk with him or know what was going on. But just like the Good Shepherd leaving the 99 to search for the 1 sheep, this father left his family and risked his life and spent all his finances on the hope of some medical help. The love I saw shining in their eyes when they looked at each other took my breath away. I don't know what the outcome will be, but my earnest hope and prayer is that Love will win!

I've found that I look much younger than I in fact am. After explaining to two 17 year old boys that I could potentially be their mother, they then invited me to sit down with their "family" at their table. Both of these boys were traveling alone, their family all back in Syria. They'd met up with each other and this other family along the way and had adopted each other. I would've never been able to tell that they weren't blood related. Having been through such horrors together, the bond between them was strong. As one boy translated, they began to ask me dozens of questions, eager to know all about this crazy American who'd come to Serbia to help. As I mentioned the death of my mother earlier this year, the boy translating got very quiet and serious. In what was the most sincere sympathy I've ever experienced he looked me in the eye and grieved with me. I was a bit shocked. How could a teenage boy understand loss so well? But as I looked at him, I thought about the war and how he'd just left his family and all that was familiar in hopes of a better life. It is I who has much to learn from these amazing people I meet every day!

I've joked that if I was a refugee I'd be dead by now. Upon arriving here I fell severely ill with what I have witnessed is a common sickness among the refugees. Words can't describe how awful I felt! I can't imagine walking in the snow with little clothing on while being so sick. I can't fathom caring for children when I have no way to provide even their basic needs. I can't picture how I'd keep going when I've not had a bed or shower in over a month. However, I've never once heard any of them complain! As they share their stories the difficulties aren't highlighted nor is sympathy sought. They even try to give to me out of their nothingness. They struggle to communicate thankfulness in their broken English. And every day I walk away humbled... If the tables were turned, I can only imagine I'd be barely making it, completely self-absorbed. But these people, the thousands of faces burned into my memory, are beautiful, and truly I wish I could be more like them!