I imagine there are correlation statistics of third step adherence to relapse potential. But I digress.
Besides, what if He wants me to go be a missionary in Africa or something? You just can't trust somebody who had His only child punished and killed in exchange for the crimes of a bunch of people who probably won't believe it happened anyway.
****************************************
A few years ago, I got my hypersensitive feelings all in a knot during a discussion about mission work. "We're all on a mission", said I, to the group of Christian women with whom I'd retreated for the weekend. The issue in question was: what constitutes "mission" work?
A couple of my fellow retreatees, who have devoted large chunks of their lives to domestic and overseas missions through both short-term physical service and ongoing financial support, were all noisy and passionate about Jesus' specificity in Matthew 28: "Therefore, go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."
Well...ok then. That's what he said; and since I do believe that business about this guy being God's Son and that he died for me and was subsequently resurrected, I take him at his word. Go. Make disciples. Teach them to obey what he said - and since everything he said was out of love and concern for mankind, it makes sense that he wants people to hear about it.
Go.
All nations.
Go.
**************************************
But I didn't want to go, so I didn't. I am adept at the art of rationalization, and I've made all kinds of things fit the challenge of the Great Commission.
We sponsor a couple of World Vision kids in Africa, and we are faithful to our pledge to our church (and some of that money is used for mission work, so that counts, right?) The Mister used to go on Saturday mornings in Knoxville to make pancakes for the homeless ministry downtown, so I think we get to count that on our list of things we've done as mission work.
(What's that you ask? Well, no, I didn't go make pancakes myself, but I watched the kids while he went, so I should get half-credit for the sacrifice.)
I have led a women's Sunday School class for four years, and I make sure that the Boy and the Girl are plugged in with the church youth group, and we even ponied up for the Boy to do an inner-city home repair mission trip to Pittsburgh this past summer. Since he is the fruit of my womb, I took partial credit for that, too.
See, God? I'm doing my part here, to make disciples and to teach people your word. Just please don't make me go anywhere, especially somewhere hot. I'm not good at being hot.
This is what I've told myself and my Creator for years and years and years.
He thinks I'm a riot.
He had a different plan.
*****************************************
And so it was that I found myself standing amid piles of duffel bags, supplies and luggage on the sidewalk outside of the Managua airport a few Saturday nights ago. The Boy and I had accompanied ten of our friends from our church for a week-long mission trip to rural Nicaragua. We were waiting for the microbus that had been arranged to drive us the additional two hours northwest to Chinandega.
Yes - I was tired and it was hot and humid and potentially stormy, and the "crummy me" inside of me downshifted into crabby mode. What had I been thinking? What was I doing here with these good people, going to do good things? I am not a good person by nature, you see. I play one at work and church and sometimes in public but there is something dark and angry in me...and sometimes it tells me I don't belong with good people.
But there was no turning back, so I chided Crummy Me for being a pill and worked up some artificial enthusiasm for the bus ride ahead, into the unknown.
More mission memories forthcoming.
Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, International Terminal - 8/31/13
No comments:
Post a Comment