ICOM, or How a Two-Day Conference Might Have Changed the Course of My Life

I just returned from a trip to Indianapolis to the International Conference on Missions.  It was a short two-day trip, and we only caught a couple main sessions and a few workshops, but my two days in Indy made a deeper impact than I imagined they could.  I went there expecting to get a lot of information thrown at me, to take a lot of notes, and to have intellectual fodder for the next week or two.  I came back with plenty of notes, but few of them were of the outline type.  Instead, my notebook (and whatever scraps of paper I had with me at the time) is filled with notes to myself, what if statements, questions and challenges that struck me deeply, evidences of my heart being really truly moved.  God opened my eyes to things and put me in conversations that I didn't expect and that may have a greater influence than I realize now.  And, to be honest, I didn't really expect that kind of an impact from a two-day foray into the world of the missionary.

My expectations were low enough that I almost didn't go.  I had friends coming to WMU from the east side of the state, there were real, home-cooked dinners and football games planned for the whole of the weekend, there was a race at the University (and after my first 5K a month ago, I've been looking forward to the next one); and if I hadn't signed up for the Conference before I'd heard about all of that, I probably wouldn't have gone.  A week ago I almost decided that the measly $10 investment wasn't worth keeping myself from old friends and a weekend without stress or obligation and that I would skip it entirely.  Thank God I didn't let that thinking keep me away.

I honestly think that the spiritual forces of darkness that Paul talks about wanted to keep us away from Indy. Our GPS went haywire on our way down, putting us on pseudo-highways the whole way, and the coolant in the van got so hot that we had to stop and get it checked out.  There was talk of turning around before Mechanic Tim said the car would be fine as long as we kept an eye on the temperature, and all the while I secretly hoped that we would.  We eventually moved on, only after stopping at Chick-Fil-A.  (My first Chick-Fil-A sandwich in over a year was a truly beautiful thing, and I splurged more than I should have.  But if a past employee who had a meal every time he went in to work still likes the food, the splurge must have been worth it.)  We prayed, and we made it safely, but I have a hunch that all of our setbacks weren't entirely coincidental.

The conference wasn't simply some spiritual high, either.  It's been a while since I've had that kind of experience, anyway, but I remember how it feels.  The lightness of being and the Spirit-led (or, perhaps, emotionally-driven-but-more-or-less-unsubstantiated) worship wasn't what characterized the weekend for me.  There was no real mountaintop here.  There was a weight, a gravity, a realization of the darker parts of humanity and of the need for change, for a passionate pursuit of justice and love for all people; there was a new, heavy understanding of what it might mean to follow Jesus in my own life, that I cannot waste my time in the frills of life when there are more real things to deal with; there was a feeling that my life might actually be of use in a deeper purpose, that I might be especially suited for something that I had hardly put thought into before and that a commitment to such a purpose would require sacrifice but lead to more good than I could ever have otherwise.  It was not a weekend to make me look past my own shortcomings and to understand God's love for me, though these are good and admirable things.  And, though maybe I'm speaking too soon, I don't think it was one to be experienced and then soon left to fade into distant memory. If I don't wrestle with this weekend for some time, I will be doing it a terrible injustice.

Nor was it a Conference at which I enjoyed every moment.  To be honest--and my apologies to anyone that might have been involved and to anyone who ever has been, is, or will be involved in something like it--I couldn't stand the worship.  Not because they were bad songs (they were probably more solid lyrically than any that would have been sung at a similar conference elsewhere) or because the leaders were terrible musicians (they had obviously put a lot of effort, practice, and polish into the songs they played), but because it all seemed so terribly manufactured.  And because the whole thing sounded as if it had come from a quarter-century ago.  Between the plastered-on smiles, the extremely white choir, clapping and swaying in unison, and the instrumentation that sounded as if it was taken directly from a bad church choir accompaniment track, I was lost from the first chorus.  The whole first night I couldn't hardly make myself sing along (let alone clap at the end of a song), and I struggled through much of the next morning.  When the music brings to mind big hair-dos, sequins, and Sandi Patti cassettes, I think it's time to ditch the trumpets and six of the lead vocalists and stop being so distracting.  But perhaps this is just me trying to recover from too many listens of "We Shall Behold Him" in the car as a child.

But the corporate worship (well, really the whole of Friday evening's main session) was by far the least helpful for me of the weekend.  And by that, I mean that everything else was really far more valuable than I imagined it would be.  I was truly encouraged to hear a speaker say that our primary responsibility as Christians and as leaders is not to know everything there is to know or to put on the best programs, but to be close to God and to have character and passion.  I was heartbroken and convicted when I realized that I did nothing to help the cause of the less fortunate, and that millions of children are sold into slavery and prostitution every year; disturbed that the words of Isaiah echoed by Jesus and James about God's people being about justice for the oppressed and care for the weak were so ignored by American Christians and, more immediately, by me.  I was reminded over and over again to remember what the important things are: that God has redeemed his people, that we have the pleasure and responsibility to live as salt and light for him, that it is his job to convict and to judge and ours to love, that our work should be selfless and should always point to him and the saving work he did by sacrificing his Son, that sin and bondage has no hold over those that are called the sons and daughters of God.  I was reminded of the gospel in all of its elegant simplicity, and that our response to it ought to be simple and radical and beautiful.

There were a few times that I wasn't being talked at, though, and in a moment of unexpected boldness in between sessions as I walked through the many information booths, I talked to a student at the Graduate Institute of Applied Linguistics.  I think it was probably a God-ordained appointment, and though I don't know what might come of it, I know that I'm now in contact with both GIAL and Pioneer Bible Translators.  Whether or not I'll spend the rest of my life translating Bibles to unreached people groups, I can't yet say, but I know that few opportunities, perhaps none, have ever seemed such a natural fit for me as a position with Pioneer or some other translator.  Could I really use linguistics not only for a career, but as a mission?  Is there actually a way to combine a love for language with a love for people and culture and a love for God?  These are questions that I'm going to be preoccupied with for some time.  And maybe graduate school is not such an impossibility after all.

Almost everything about the weekend was fantastic.  I heard incredible talks, I traveled with some of the best people on the planet, we were hosted by one of the most wonderfully and genuinely hospitable couples I have ever met, I had one of the best Chinese meals I've ever had; but I'm coming away with more than just good memories and some thoughts to mull over.  God had a reason for getting me to Indianapolis in spite of all the obstacles, and he may just have shown me the direction of the rest of my life this weekend.  I have never been as excited about a "career" as I am right now, and whatever that means, I know that God is stirring something inside of my heart.  There are people that need to know Jesus.  There are people that need freedom from bondage and the joy and peace of Love.  And there are people here in America that need to get over themselves and their aspirations for comfort and reach for something that is greater than the dream of retiring in Florida.  Why would I not want to be a part of something bigger than khaki golf shorts and iced tea?

The recruiter for Pioneer said that by 2050, if we work tirelessly, it is possible for almost every people group in the world to have the word of God, the gospel, the hope of salvation, available in print in their own language.  How wonderful would it be to be a part of that?

A Week of Extremes, or What Happens When So Much Has Happened That You Can't Think Straight Anymore

I have lived a lot of weeks thus far--about 1150 of them, if I've counted correctly--but I don't think hardly any of them have been as full and eventful as this one has.  And while I don't think I'm quite ready yet to divulge all of the details (nor do I have the time), I have to at least say that I am wonderfully blessed.  If every week could be this meaningful, I don't think I would lack anything.

Not that it has always been fun, and certainly not easy.  At times I wondered if I would make it to the next day without something going terribly wrong.  Between my own thoughts and feelings, all too often horribly misguided and destructive, and the physical welfare of other people that was seriously threatened (I had my first ride in an ambulance this week!), I wasn't sure everything would come out clean on the other end of things.  I can safely say, however, that there has not been a dull moment.

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A few bullet-points:

I tried a new sport this week.  Curling is about the last thing I expected to be doing for class credit, but things worked out beautifully and this last Monday I delivered my first stones.  (Er, that is, I sent them down the ice.  I only just realized how easily curling could be mistaken for having serious kidney problems.)  Let me tell you, curling is way more difficult and exhausting than those Canadians make it look.  I will never watch the winter Olympics the same way again.

Last Saturday I found a new favorite band.  If any of you Michiganders get the chance to see Doug Mains and the City Folk in concert, do yourself a favor and go.  Chances are good that it will be a free show, but if you have to pay, I cannot tell you how worth it it will be.  These guys blew my mind.  You can find them on Spotify (though, as soon as I get the chance, I'm thinking that I'm going to buy their album, even if I do usually impress my Dutch friends with my frugality), but listening to the recording is nothing like hearing it live.  I almost had to leave the room to compose myself; I didn't think I could handle another 40 minutes of that level of excitement and beauty without giving myself a break.  Somehow I managed to get through it.

Kindred spirits can be found by unlikely means, and life-changing conversations can begin in unlikely places. Waiting to pick up a latte at the counter whilst surrounded by strangers is perhaps not the most convenient of times to tell someone the deepest secrets of your soul; but there's no sense trying to run from real connections, which so often turn into beautiful friendships.  One moment of vulnerability led to an hour-plus conversation that was still far too short and a near-constant flow of messages and e-mails, and a long-time acquaintance quickly became what may be a friend I will treasure for years, if not a lifetime.

A hurricane battered the east coast, changing the lives of millions and scaring the pants off of millions more.  While all we felt in Kalamazoo was a little wind and rain (itself remarkable--when is the last time we felt the effects of a hurricane in Michigan!?), New York was hammered, and friends were put in danger.  Luckily, nothing serious happened with anyone I knew, but it still provided a scare.  And speaking of scares...

Halloween this year was a little different than most, and instead of going trick-or-treating, a couple friends and I went Christmas caroling.  Well, we got some candy, too, but we were altogether much cheerier than the ghosts and witches we passed on the road.  Yes, we got a few funny looks... but "the best way to spread Christmas cheer/Is singing loud for all to hear."  Even on Halloween.

*   *   *

I haven't even divulged the best parts of the week--two-hour conversations on facebook too late at night, giving my testimony in front of my English class--and if I decide they are shareable, I will eventually get to it.  They deserve more time than the quick bullet-point list here, anyway.

I don't know what next week will look like; but if it's anything like this one, I'm in for a heck of a November.

Cliché, or How the Internet Mocked My Inspiration

Two hours ago, I slumped lazily in a chair, unable to wrench myself away from the enveloping cushions in order to make the 15-minute trek back to my bed.  Now, when I know full well that I ought to be waking up in 7 hours, I can't seem to tear myself from a keyboard that in any other context would probably be considered a dreaded instrument of "work."  If I could explain to you the paradox that is the writers mind, I would.

Not that I really consider myself to be a "writer."  I never have been one in the past, and most of my writing--that is, practically all of it, besides the odd birthday poem or journal entry--has been school-mandated and academically focused.  True, I have been a full-time English student for almost five years now, and I've always been told that I'm fairly decent at what I do, but it was never because I was interesting, or remarkable, or--God forbid, the term I've shunned for all these years--creative, whatever they might have said.  I could analyze a novel, but there was no way I could write it, just like I could sing an aria but couldn't have come up with the story behind it.

I don't know if the appearance of a blog is an attempt to change this--or, better yet, if it's an admission of change.  I still don't think I'm a writer in the strictest literary sense, but, for some reason, I'm up writing when  by all accounts I ought to be unconscious.

I was reading from an old book of children's literature when I got the idea for the title.  This was an old book, mind you, not just I-found-it-on-my-parents'-bookshelf old, but rescued-from-an-antique-shop old.  While this fact may not add anything to my story except to demonstrate to you my hipsterish aspirations and somewhat-whimsical-if-pretentious delight in very old things, for some reason I want you to know that it was no mere web page or classroom anthology, but a real book with real pages that I was really flipping through.  And as I flipped through those real pages with their musty old-book smell, I found "The Walrus and the Carpenter."  And because I still haven't grown out of Lewis Carroll (and I doubt I ever will), I read it.  I'd been toying with the idea of creating a blog for a couple of weeks, but I had no title; but as I read about how the Walrus told the Oysters that they would talk "of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--/Of cabbages--and kings--" I thought that I had finally stumbled upon one.  Since Of Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax didn't seem to have the same ring to it as Of Cabbages and Kings, I went with the latter.

Well, I'm not the only fan of Carroll out there, apparently.  After I'd scribbled my title on a corner of a recently-returned and yet already coffee-stained assignment sitting, neglected, on my desk, I came back to it this evening (that is, this morning, far later than any reasonable person would think about starting a blog) with the intentions of finally gracing the internet with my inspiration of a title.  Of Cabbages and Kings, I typed, with the glow of having thought myself truly clever.  But as I typed the same into the next box for a blogger.com domain name, the little box stubbornly showed me a small red X.  I looked woefully at the screen for a moment, and after several seconds of waiting for the X to change to a beautiful little blue check mark, I decided to try again.  No variation of the title proved unique; even all of the inventive acronyms I could think of elicited the same red X, except for one that would probably get me fired from most schools if the administration found it.  I was forced to use my name; naturally, I had to use my middle initial to make even that work.

27 times.  Googling my title came up with no fewer than 27 blogs titled Of Cabbages and Kings.  An odd choice, in all reality, given that the Walrus's conversation ended up with the mass genocide of an entire clan of pearl-producing aquatic creatures and that most bloggers are really pretty predictable in the topics they discuss and the way they discuss them.  But, gosh darn it, it was my idea, lovingly ripped from none other than the pen of Hodgson himself!  And so I decided to use it anyway, and if people think I'm a cliche literary fool for it, so be it.

I am not usually a writer; but when I am (I drink Dos Equis) I will use this blog bearing my name and perhaps the most overused literary quote in all of blogdom.  So, if you feel like joining me in this conversation that may very well go anywhere (and, let's be honest, that's simply the blogger's way of excusing himself to only ever write about his own life), please do, because otherwise it's going to be a very boring conversation. Hopefully you will fare better than did the Oysters.