Chapter 39 It's Really Not Abundance at All

The second Bush is about to finish his second term and there is much talk of his replacement.

And those who are limitless in number, but limited in power, are blaming the limited in number who are limitless in power. Right about now there’s a question as to who can best manage this conundrum, and the well being of a country that has known wealth and freedom quite abundantly, but one which needs to heal from the self-inflicted, festering wounds of greed and gluttony.

So, as we look upon a feast that has been spread upon our table, it’s this very issue of wealth and abundance that has a way of nauseating the noblest of notions – those of the fat and the healthy; the lean and the hungry. For if abundance cannot flow outward abundantly, it’s really not abundance at all.

One side will argue that the table’s bounty should be shared with the masses, not only in our house, but among tables in other houses far and wide – that all should come and sit and eat until they are full. Others who have worked hard for the harvest, as well as those who have become heir to it, together with those in power over them, well, they all are justifying their righteous anger at the expense of a few who will not work, and therefore should not inherit the right to have their hunger satiated.

Nonetheless, for one who has been fed and sustained and relatively privileged for years, my voice is strong and healthy and heard. In a world where blessing provides a feast that is large enough for all to eat, the evil opposing it creates an insatiable appetite in the gorged to remain so; and the din and frenzy of my efforts and maybe yours drowns out the cries of the weak, the very ones who grow weaker by the day for they have gone quite a while without sustenance.

Much like the animal kingdom, a very twisted circle of life provides for the survival of the fittest.

But, wait – isn’t there another Kingdom, one which is steadily being ushered in? Those of us who claim an inheritance to this Kingdom mustn’t allow the feast to spoil while the entangled and entrenched argue their position; no, we must quietly take our ration, that which has been given us, and lean close with an ear to hear the whispering of the underserved.

And then share our portion with them.

It is a decision to re-distribute, one that is not forced upon us, but made by us and only us. And with our other ear we listen to the passion of those in power, so as to make a wise decision on a leader who will affect change and respond and allow our voice – and that of the weak – to be heard at the proper time.

If you and I would share from our plate, then I wonder if it would become contagious? Another group may witness it and soon share from their plate, and then, whoever is in power or authority over us (or anyone for that matter) will watch as a groundswell reverberating from a different circle of life emerges, one which ripples and resounds and creates a beautiful sound to the ear of the One who provided the feast in the first place.

And abundance will flow abundantly.

A Horrific Mess that is Me (redux)

I am tired.

I should daily die but, instead, every other day perhaps, I grasp and claw and fight my way into my will of living, the very resolve that is manmade, centric focused, self-fulfilling.

As I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him, for I watch as the chapters of my story reach their glorious heights only when this author realizes quite shockingly that he is not the Author. Surprisingly, He does a much better job than someone such as I, with my feeble existence, my limited tolerance, my pathetic shell.

Even as I write this, I plead for something, anything to help me describe Him. My mind bounces this way and that as I cower at the thought of Him. My writing is sporadic, stunted, all over the place, yet nowhere as I try to capture Him, as I search to contain Him.

As I get out my bucket and shovel and begin to work on my sand castle, He forms a mountain with His bare hands. While I retrieve my crayons and my construction paper, He sweeps His fingers across the sky and makes a prism of color unlike any other. While I blow my hot air, He breathes into the wind and engulfs me into His embrace. While I puff on my horn and beat my drums, He summons nature to cascade and ripple and resound with the harmony of the ages.

He shocks me, beckons me, and pulls me by the ear. He embraces me, taps me on the shoulder, smacks me on the butt to get in the game. He will place His hand on the small of my back, or turn me to face Him. He will stand in front of me, beside me, shield me, and nurture me.

He’ll even get out of my way.

He gives me a free will to sin and so I do. But as one sin falls on top of another and they multiply and grow arms and legs and tentacles He never stops taking me back. I am wounded, limping for a lifetime, but there He is, down the road, on one knee, weeping as I run toward Him. He’s so happy that I’m back. I run so fast to Him that I knock Him over when I get there, and we laugh.

His lap is imminently ready to be crawled into, His chest large and comfortable to lay my head. He sits at my table, occupies my grief, and circumvents my catastrophes.

But I can’t mistake this God for any other. No, I dare not try because He will deafen with thunder and He will rebuild kingdoms and He will not trifle with sin. His is a mighty fist attached to a muscular arm that keeps this planet in motion. I shudder at the reality that He is.

Capture Him if we must in the landscape of our minds, but no frame can contain Him.

His love is overwhelming, nearly as vast as He is. He prepares and executes a cosmic change in plans and summons His own beautiful Son to walk this earth and to fix a horrible mess that is you. A horrific mess that is me.

Then He turns His back on him. He rejects him; His first and only born just for me. His beloved Son just for you.

So, as I write this, I am tired, but oh, how awestruck I should be! I was not meant to prop myself up, to cling to artificiality, to pigeonhole my way. I was not designed to muscle out of this box.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made and I must—yes, today I must—find my weakness made strong in all that He is.

Chapter 38 Insert your City

And so it is that I imagine a rogue military unit sweeping in from Ohio and occupying Fort Wayne (insert your city here). They seize control of the city in every way possible. Laws are ignored. The federal government looks the other way. Soon, the leaders of this unit give instructions to start "cleansing" the area of Hoosiers and anyone who is not a native Buckeye. Men are killed, women are raped, and children witness it all.

Somehow, I make it out alive with my family.

In an utter state of confusion and desperation, we depart with others en masse (and by foot) to Canada where we're sequestered in a camp with only the shirts on our collective backs. One week there turns into a month, and then a month into a year. We spend ten years in this camp, and only the lucky among us eventually get a ticket out.

Again, I'm blessed, because my family is intact, and all at once we're sent to Bolivia to start a new life without fear of persecution. They explain that we'll be safe in Bolivia, and that it will be a place of refuge for us.

But we can never return to Fort Wayne.

We try to explain to the Bolivians that we're legal and we're in their country for a reason but the Bolivians don't understand people from Fort Wayne and many of them want us to leave. We don’t look like them. We don't talk like them. We're straining their system.

Yet we're all human, aren't we?

So, we do the best we can in a new culture and a strange land. Our college degrees mean nothing here but we try to get jobs and learn their language and customs, while still trying to preserve some of ours.

It’s not easy, but at least it’s better than what’s happening back in Fort Wayne.


Sound too crazy to believe? Try telling that to a refugee.


As you may or may not know, when an individual receives the designation of refugee, he or she is given the gift of life. This may sound a little extreme, but we're not dealing with some casual term. Rather, to be named a refugee is to receive a title of huge significance, granted by the U.N. High Commission to a relatively small group of people who have fled an oppressive government, war, genocide or some other unrest in their country. By contrast to the potential death sentence one might be under by staying (or by being forced to return to the place from which they fled), to become a refugee is to be granted life. As wonderful as that is, though, a new life still comes at a cost -- for those who receive this status can never return to the world they once knew. You may think that's not so bad considering what they're leaving behind, and that's true to a certain extent. It doesn't make it any easier, though. Most people love their homeland, despite the circumstances causing them to leave. Somehow in the midst of all of this, they have to find their way.

I say all of this simply to point out that refugees are among us. The world is growing increasingly flat. The mission field is no longer a distant option that draws near only through missionary furloughs and Sunday night slide presentations. We are all human. Make a friend in a refugee and offer a helping hand. Be welcoming. Before long he or she won't be a refugee anymore, but rather, your friend.

And, if you ever wonder what it's like to be a refugee, read the above story again, and simply insert your city.