The Missionary

Since our time in Zimbabwe (or "Zim" as I'll call it), I've had a few months to reflect on what I saw, experienced and learned there.  I was expecting the disparities in health, wealth, and modern technology.  And for good reason.  We saw countless people who were starving, dying of AIDS, or with unmet basic, human needs.  Access to power, water and sewage systems were inconsistent, negatively impacting commerce and societal order.  We saw a corrupted government that exploited and harmed its vulnerable population.  The conditions under which Zimbabwean people live are unheard of here. 

What surprised me though, were the similarities between rural western Kansas and rural Zimbabwe.  I am in no way suggesting that we resemble a developing country.  If anything, the safety and community focus of these small American towns make them some of the most comfortable places to live.  I just believe we share some similar challenges, access to health care for instance.  The circumstances just differ.  For us, it's a heart patient traveling 2 1/2 hours by ambulance to the nearest heart center in Wichita, hoping to make it in time to save her life.  For the people in Zim, it's one bare-footed man pushing his broken-footed friend in a wheelbarrow for three full days to the nearest hospital, hoping they will make it in time to save his limb, if they make it at all.  The two needs are similar; they just appear different on the surface.  

One thing is certain to me: the same solution works on both sides of the world, and in any other setting for that matter, whether urban or rural. Mission-minded believers immersing themselves in their communities to share the love best described in the Gospel of Jesus Christ to anyone and everyone they encounter is the best societal medicine.  Most people will eventually be open to receiving genuine love and concern from others if that love is authentic.  And we're all called to be missionaries, every one of us who subscribes to the Gospel.  But it’s tougher than it looks. 

When we arrived in Africa, a long term American missionary to Zimbabwe described the process of "integration with impact" in a four-phase process.  Her analogy intrigued me because it very much mirrored my experiences moving from Dallas, Texas to Ashland, Kansas (pop. 900), having never lived in a community smaller than 250,000 people.  Mostly, I found it comforting to know that my experiences, both positive and negative, were part of this natural process.  And for all the happiness and suffering my wife and I have experienced in the last two years, the greatest benefit is a constant reliance on God.  I am reminded of a greeting by Zimbabwean farmer when we first arrived in Africa.  He said with a smile, "Ah.  You in West are challenged because you must choose to rely on God.  We rely on Him every day to meet our every need."

My recent journal entry…

The Missionary

I'm a white, privileged, suburban American.  My life's a right, not a privilege.  I don't know about my heritage.  My mom used to tell me, "Eat your green beans.  There's starving kids in Africa, and you have it easy."  I have friends in my world who make me absolutely crazy, crazy enough to get six shots, and leave my shop, and fly across the continents to try to help the least of these.  What I don't yet know, is I'm about to be floored, by what missionaries call phases 1, 2, 3, and 4.

Phase 1.  I love this place.  It's different in a good way.  There's so much here to see, and touch and hear; every day's a new day.  The smells are new too.  Maybe not too cool.  Pew.  This food looks nutritious.  What kind of dark meat is this?  I guess it doesn't matter.  It can't make me any fatter.  You're all skinny around here.  Here's some clothes; here's a dollar; here's some food and fresh water.  How could your needs ever bother me?  You can't help your poverty.  I have medicine for any ailment; just meet my Jesus. 

Phase 2.  I hate this place.  Everybody stinks here.  The B.O. will knock your socks off.  Can you not just wash your hot spots?  That dark meat?  It's goat, or dog, or anything but beef or hog.  What good is it to dump my time and checks into a bottomless pit?  You can't elect a government!  You starve!  You're sick!  You're poor, 'cause you don't get it!  You're blind, but you refuse to see the need to see any further than your next meal! 

It's hot, and stinky.  I don't know what's going on.  These moms, are freaky.  They're breast feeding right in front of me.  Breast feeding?!  Are you kidding me?!  In public?!  What is this?!  We've got folks, exposed, in front of other folks.  Isn't that their business? 

I'm wasting my time, and wasting folks’ money.  What I wouldn't mind is some steak for my tummy and a break from this ugliness.  I might just, come back some day, when you agree to do things the western way. 

Phase 3.  I've been here five years and I'm through with my tears.  More love, less fear.  Understanding overcomes me as the love of Christ becomes my creed.  I see the need to stop the greed that seeping in from where I'm from that binds and chains the needy.  You buy the lie, defy basic needs for things unclean, the four evil C's: cash, clothes, cars and cell phones.  Hell knows its eternal grip on those who sell their souls for cheap trinkets. 

We know the same Jesus, but you know Him differently.  The Jesus with me is a friend or a buddy.  We use Him as a shrink or a genie back home.  Here, He is your home, your provider for basic needs and things unseen.  I need that freedom inside me. 

My way is not the right way, not always anyway.  I see beauty in your simplicity, though I won’t lose my identity.  I am still an American.  But maybe that smell?  [sniff]  Well maybe it’s me sometimes too. 

Phase 4.  [sniff]  Yep.  It’s definitely me, all the time.  I find myself being critical of my people back home.  You see, that’s not home for me anymore for I’ve been gone for too long.  They’ve ignored the things that money can’t buy and put everything else on Mastercard.  That is hard for me to swallow when surrounded by orphaned children with hollow bellies and yellow fever and fever from malaria and areas without clean water.  No longer can I sit by while generations die from preventive illnesses.  But not even my love for these people can make me one of them for I am not from their tribe.  I hail to the line of Judah and this world is not my home.  Not alone, I toil daily, just awaiting my departure.

God of mercy, Lord of life, bring me please to phase 5.  I am tired of the lies and deceit and sickness and heat and feelings of grief and oppression.  Let me join the poor, the wounded, the widow and the foreigner in my need for thee.  If there is nothing left for me here, take me home.