When the Mango Trees Clap Their Hands by Steve Krogh

What happens when you mix seventy exuberant, Spirit-filled Ethiopian pastors with twenty hours of Christ-centered biblical instruction? The trees of the field begin to clap their hands. Let me explain. 

Our team of five was teaching our hearts out in Awassa, Ethiopia, for several days. We rotated our “classrooms” so that each teacher had an opportunity to teach under the mango tree (everyone’s favorite), the banana tree, the chapel and the sun-baked classroom. 

We were teaching biblical theology, focusing on the “big story” of the Bible and how the various parts relate to the overall message. We had covered God’s glorious creation, our inglorious fall, God’s promise to bring a deliverer, the dramatic escape from Egypt, the star-filled blessing of Abraham, the scepter-filled blessing of Judah, the sigh-filled lament of the prophets asking, “How long until the Anointed One comes to deliver his people?”

It was now time to speak about the promised deliverer. We decided to bring all the classes together for the dramatic teaching about the coming of Christ. 

The teacher masterfully brought the strands of Scripture together to show how all that we had been studying for several days found its fulfillment in Jesus. The prophet, priest and king became our crucified, yet risen, Savior. The roomful of pastors fell strangely quiet. Not the impact we had hoped for. 

Then, one pastor slowly raised his hand and asked, “Can we give thanks to God for the sending of his Son?” The teacher nodded. Given the quietness, even solemnity, of the moment, I was expecting a brief and perhaps polite prayer. 

Instead, the class rose as one and burst into Scriptural songs of praise—arms raised high and heads tilted back and feet dancing for a solid hour. It struck me that this is what the psalmist prayed for: “But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy” (Psalm 5:11). 

Some of those pastors also went to the beloved mango tree and picked off leaves and began waving them to God in an offering of worship. Why? 

One of the visuals we hung from a clothesline each day in our class was the image of a tree, a reminder of our rebellion against God by eating of the forbidden tree and our folly of trying to manufacture a fig-leafed salvation. 

But the tree also spoke of future hope. One day the kingdom of God will grow from a tiny seed into a large tree (Matthew 13:32) and the leaves of that tree will be for the healing of the nations. (Revelations 22:2)

These dear Ethiopian pastors were celebrating that healing had come to their nation, and one day, it will fully come. We have tasted and seen that the Lord is good, but these pastors were celebrating that the full-course banquet is coming.

While our Ethiopian brothers were singing and dancing, my heart turned to the rest of the psalmist’s prayer: “But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may exult in you. For you bless the righteous, O LORD; you cover him with favor as with a shield.” (Psalm 5:11-12)

May God protect and cover his Christ-exalting, refuge-taking, mango leaf-waving believers in every corner of the world today. And then, let's get ready for the coming celebration!

Chaos Christianity by Wil Triggs

With missions festival upon us, I can’t help but think of Gökhan Talas, a Christian who is publishing a Christian magazine in Turkey. I met him at LittWorld 2015. He came to our prayer for the persecuted church group a few months back. (The picture is of Gökhan and me after the prayer group.) In anticipation of this week’s prayer meeting I asked John Maust if he had received any recent updates, so he sent me some. I’ll share a few with you now.

Gökhan describes 2016 as “a blessed, grateful, harsh and chaotic year. It was a complete disaster for our country.” As a Christian, he has never felt more of a minority than now. People are nervous, anticipating some kind of regime change in April. 

News reports have covered the struggle of Turkey in handling or not handling the flow of refugees. For his part, “We are planning to make a digital Arabic/Kurdish version of Miras magazine. This is very important for reaching the refugee society in Turkey. The government has blocked physical services to refugee camps five months ago, and most of the Christian aid organizations are under pressure. We want to share the gospel in a direct way.” 

Besides planning for this, his publishing team is also working on two book projects, developing gospel-focused seminars for the spring, continuing publication of the magazine, and Gökhan is also visiting churches in unreached areas, preaching in some of those churches and making connections for evangelism services and outreach.

“Our magazine and publication team is still in need of an office,” he reported. “We are still under the budget and praying for new possibilities.”

How does someone do all of that with no office space, in a country where everything seems to be in upheaval and his evangelical faith is greeted with hostility and violence? How do you move forward on projects and outreach with no office space or budget? 

Personally, I don’t know. It's so not me, so not United States. So foreign. But I find inspiration and encouragement that even when Gökhan is facing a chaotic country and a hostile world, he is still praying for new possibilities. As we look ahead for whatever we face today and in the days ahead, may we have that kind of faith!

Gökhan’s update ends with words of thanks and gratitude and says everything they do depends on God’s purposes and the prayers and support of his people.

Watch the short video I made at LIttWorld where Gökhan talks about his magazine and pray with me for him and his heart for the people of Turkey.

Fingerprints: Ours and God's by Wil Triggs

It’s been more than 22 years since Lorraine and I got fingerprinted. We weren’t caught in some kind of crime—we were in the process of becoming foster parents with an eye toward adopting. It’s standard procedure, or at least it was back then. Once you go through everything it takes to get approved for adoption, it all makes sense and seems fine. But back then, it seemed like a lot of paperwork and red tape.

We were rushing to jump through all the hoops we needed to jump through in time for the birth of a baby who turned out not to be our child after all (another story). But our social worker urged us to get the fingerprinting done as soon as possible. The fastest and best path toward getting this taken care of was to go to downtown Rockford and have the fingerprinting there. 

That seemed like a long way to go. We were nervous. But we made the appointment and went. The officer was friendly, kind and efficient. We talked with him, thanked him and went on our way. That was one item we could check off our list. 

Just few days ago, the officer who took our fingerprints all those years ago emailed me.

“I was the Illinois State Police fingerprint technician who fingerprinted you and your wife for an adoption. I think that was well over 20 years ago,” wrote Officer William Reeves, who now works as a fingerprint specialist with the Fairfax County Police Department in Fairfax, Virginia. “My wife and I attended College Church for several years before moving to the east coast.  We also adopted two girls through Sunny Ridge Family Center. They are now 20 and almost 18. My 20-year-old is a junior at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg (VA). My 18-year-old graduates high school in June and is trying to decide which college to attend. She’s been accepted at about four or five universities.”

He also made some interesting observations that seems to fit with Orphan Sunday tomorrow.

"I was older when I married," he said. "and we knew from the onset due to some health issues, that we would have to consider the adoption route to become parents. We were comfortable with that realization from the start. We attended meetings and adoption support groups. I did meet once with Pastor Hughes to discuss our options and to see if my motivations to adopt were in the right place. To clarify, some people want to adopt to save a child or save the world. I met a number of them when the state police took over the fingerprinting project for the Illinois DCFS for a few years. Some folks couldn’t wait to save a child. I was concerned about false altruism. And, as I discussed this with Kent, he stated somewhat emphatically that to want to be a parent was the greatest of altruisms."

Both of Bill's daughters were born in China, and in our email exchange he recalled a woman coming up to him when he was with his two daughters and asked if his wife was Asian. Bill said no, his wife is Irish. The woman got this puzzled and embarrassed look and walked off.

Bill then went on to say some kind things about the College Church website and to ask for some resources in his church’s search for a new pastor.

It was great to hear from him and to help in a small way in his current church’s search for a new pastor. Whatever help I provided, I wouldn’t have been able to if we hadn’t made that trip to Rockford 20+ years ago. This was more than just an item to check off our list of things to do because God was doing so much more.

God’s fingerprints are all over us. He touches us and uses us in ways we would never dream. He makes connections between us and other people that we can’t imagine. So now, more than 20 years later, I’m reconnected with the man who fingerprinted us for our adoption so long ago. As adoptive parents, it’s good to hear from him. As Christians, it’s great to hear of his walk with God and his new church. But it’s really God’s work—not Bill’s or mine. Fingerprints.

Think about that today. Think about that with the grocery clerk. The person who cuts your hair. The parent you’re standing next to at the indoor soccer game. Or that baby thousands of miles away or in Wheaton who won't look like you, but is waiting for a family to welcome him or her.

Every encounter is more sacred than we realize.

Comfort in Smallness by Rachel Rim

At the end of C.S. Lewis’ Perelandra the protagonist Ransom considers everything that might have happened had he failed in his mission to save the planet. The god-like creature Malacandra notices his wonder and says, of all possible encouragements, “Take comfort, small one, in your smallness.”

There’s a similar moment at the end of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Gandalf tells an astonished Bilbo who has just returned from his adventure, "You are a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all!"

At first glance, there is nothing comforting about Malacandra’s and Gandalf’s words. They aren’t just counter-cultural, they’re counter-human. In a big and often frightening world, loneliness and invisibility are two of the most devastating ailments of the human condition. We don’t want to know we’re small—we ache to know that we matter.  

I am learning that their words, however, are a salve rather than a wound. Or, perhaps more accurately, they are a wound meant to heal. I worry constantly—about where I’ll be five years from now; about the weakness of my faith and the prevalence of my doubt; about my place in a world that I find at once beautiful and terrifying. And to take comfort in my smallness is to realize that I am indeed far smaller than I can understand, far too small to warrant such anxiety. My doubts will not damn the world, nor my faith save it. And my experiences of this world, the ones I’d never want to repeat and the ones that make life worth repeating, are only tiny pieces of the vast narrative of history that God has lowered himself into.

Take comfort, small one, in your smallness. You cannot bear the weight of your own self-perception. You do not need to be big. The biggest one of all became small so you do not have to be big.

The most comforting moments of my life have been moments that reminded me of my smallness: attending World Relief’s refugee talk with a thousand other people; leading a small group and praying for their broken families, their deep loneliness; coaching Special Olympics with some of the most beautiful people I have ever been privileged to know. Yes, thank goodness, I am only a very small fellow in a wide world after all.

There is another story about smallness that I’ve been thinking about, and it’s not from 20th century Englishmen but from a first century Jew. The smallest, most destitute person in Scripture is arguably someone who didn’t exist—Lazarus, in Jesus’ parable of the rich man and Lazarus. Jesus describes Lazarus in Luke 16 as a man so impoverished that he begged at the rich man’s table and even dogs came and licked at the sores on his skin—you don’t get any smaller than that. And yet, Lazarus is the only person in a parable that Jesus named. I find this subtle fact profoundly beautiful. When describing the most poverty-stricken, forgotten, invisible person he’d ever conjured in his imagination, Jesus went out of the way to give him the dignity of a name.

You are small. I am small. We are Lazaruses with the additional disadvantage that most times, we don’t even recognize our own poverty. But as it turns out, our smallness is indeed something to draw deep comfort from. It frees us from a weight we cannot bear. It reminds us of a larger narrative. And when we feel most poor, forgotten and invisible, it tenderly privileges us with a name. 

Pure Joy by Lisa Kern

“Why do you want to go?” the STAMP committee asked me.

My answer wasn’t exactly about God’s clear and present calling as much as it was about a sense of duty. A “whatever–your–hand–finds–to–do” burden that drives most of my waking hours. I can’t even watch TV without crocheting or looking up recipes on my phone or doing light exercises.

It's just the way I’m wired, so I answered the question, “I’ve done this kind of trip before (as in 21 years ago). I’m capable of doing this again. It needs to be done. Someone has to do it. I’ll do it.” I did wonder, before God in prayer, if something else was going on. With my constant need to be productive with every moment of God’s gift of time, was this trip just feeding my own addiction to productivity rather than God really wanting me to do this?

Suffice to say, I was accepted, along with my husband who led the team (which included two other area churches), to serve in Thailand, taking care of 80 third-cultural kids—ranging from babies to teenagers—as their parents attended a week-long conference that included training and much-needed rest and recreation. So, my willingness combined with the STAMP committee’s acceptance, I counted my application as God approved. Not a very spiritual measuring tool I guess, but we don’t all get burning bushes, you know. 

What can I say that would compel you to apply for one of the short-term missions trips? That it keeps you busy? That you have a skill they need and you just should go? Yes to all that, but that sounds rather sterile. There must be more compelling reasons to apply.

As it turned out, there were more compelling reasons for me as well. I did get to check off wiping noses and bottoms and consoling some pretty inconsolable (at first) babies and blowing about a thousand bubbles and singing "Father Abraham" till I hear it in my sleep two weeks later. All tasks that needed to be done; all checked off. And my deep-rooted sense of duty notwithstanding, I was blessed. Blessed beyond measure.

My mom used to come back from serving in a nursing home ministry and cry with both joy and some unrealistic guilt about getting so much out of it when she was the one who went to serve. She seemed to think serving should be hard—more of a sacrifice than plain joy. And that's my compelling reason to you. You will experience just plain joy.

You will go to serve and there will be parts that will be extremely hard, but you will be blessed. You may have to give up work days, raise support, maybe get a babysitter or a vaccine or two. You may have to buy Airborne and Zicam for the plane. But the needs are great, and I know some of you who are reading this are qualified to do the work.

You could go to Arizona to work on the roof of a radio station that broadcasts God’s love over the border. How many people might not get to hear the Word if that roof gives out? Can you help fix a roof? Or you could go and help build new school buildings for at-risk kids in Haiti, or engage Vietnamese Christians in evangelistic conversations at English language camps and cultural education excursions (in other words, talk), or build security walls and help in day camps for at-risk kids in Dominican Republic, or love on and serve through the distribution of clothes, food and the gospel to the refugees in Greece. Or, if you’re an outdoor-loving college- age student or a hiking enthusiast regardless of age who's willing to help other students practice their English language skills and open gospel doors as you hike the mountains of Romania, you qualify.

Yes, there is sacrifice. We've been back for ten days and are still resetting our internal clocks so we stop falling asleep at 8 p.m. only to wake up at 3 a.m. Someone told me that we still have about four more days before we even out. Was it worth it? It was so worth it.

If we didn’t go, topping off the child to adult ratio to exactly the numbers required by our short-term rule, missionaries with children would have had to sit out the retreat, missing out on worship, seminars and rest. And they seriously needed that rest.

I would have missed the great privilege of hearing amazing stories of triumph, hardship, heartache and perseverance to stay true to God’s calling and gospel sharing in some of the most difficult places on earth from women who are just like me—except for the fact that my life is easy. I don’t have to wear a burka. I can get any food I want, drive anywhere I want, sing Fernando Ortega songs right out loud with my windows open—any time I want.

Yet these women and I were able to sit around a table with yarn and fabric and adult coloring books (I did crafts with some of the women in the afternoons as well as baby duty) and talk about life and struggles and relationships. Aside from those hard differences, we were friends, sharing and praying and crying together like biological sisters, like true sisters in Christ. They needed that and it turned out, so did I. They were so happy to have a chance to pray, color, sew, crochet, worship, play games, get much needed counseling care and share meals with their peers. And if our team wasn't there to take care of their kids, it couldn’t have happened.

Yes, you may return a bit haggard from the trip but small price to pay for the pure joy of knowing you were able to make a difference. I am fulfilled.

Should I Stay or Should I Go by Jennifer Miller

I can give you all sorts of reasons to only give that STAMP 2017 brochure a passing glance.

The trips are for people with summers off or whose kids are out of the house or who are young and full of energy or who aren’t scraping to make ends meet or who are already connected to the missions department and know the missionaries personally.

I get all that. Last summer I said good-bye to my three- and one-year-old sons and boarded a plane for a country I had never visited to work with people who didn't share my culture or mother tongue. Even as I was sitting on the plane I wondered, “Is this the right choice? Is this the right time? I am going to wake up each day with only a faint idea of what I would be doing.” Not exactly the most encouraging way to begin a missions trip as I sort of counted the cost—both financial and personal—of my short-term missions trip.

I discovered that it was so worth it.

During the College Church trip to the Island of Lesvos, Greece, last summer, the Lord performed a priceless work in my heart. As we walked into the refugee camp for the first time, my first impression was the lack of accommodations. I knew that refugee camps weren’t fancy, but I expected people would at least have a cot to sleep on.

In truth, many did have cots, but as we first walked into the camp, the main path was littered with cardboard that people used as a layer between themselves and the harsh gravel as they slept on the ground in makeshift tents of blankets, tarps and cardboard.

As you can imagine, I came home from this trip different. God broadened my understanding for the plight of the refugee as well as the residents of the countries receiving refugees. I came back burdened to pray for the lost. Suddenly, my complaints that seemed legitimate only weeks before vanished into thankfulness.  

The Bible teaches that evil cannot triumph over God’s great redemption plans. I believed that truth for years, but last summer I saw it come to life in the faces of new believers at the camp. So how does that work itself out in a refugee camp? The more I learned the reasons that caused people to leave their countries, the more complicated, complex and bewildering a solution seemed to be. My mind searched for a way to fix the problem, but God was working through it.

One day, I sat on a bench by a gate and listened to a man who had escaped ISIS in Iraq. He recalled how he had always desired to know who God was, and it was at the camp, through conversations and friendships with some of the relief workers, he came to know God in the person of Jesus. He described his journey as a refugee as painfully awful but also a wonderful gift of the Lord drawing him to himself. I glimpsed the glory of the truth I so easily believed magnified in the face and voice of this new believer.

Now don’t get me wrong, there may be legitimate reasons not to go on a short-term missions trip this year. God does not call everyone to every trip every year. But don’t count yourself out just yet. Consider and pray if this is something God has for you. Not doing so might mean missing out on some beautiful blessings from the Lord.

To help nudge you along the way, here is where you can apply to the 2017 STAMP trips, including a return trip to this refugee camp. Application deadline is February 5.

Once Upon a Time by Pat Cirrincione

Stories often begin with “Once upon a time.” King Solomon wrote, “Everything has its time.”

There are books written about time and space. Our watches and clocks and phones keep us attuned to time. As I thought about this word, two thoughts kept resounding in my brain: time before the Holy Spirit was in my life and time after the Holy Spirit came into my life, two rather profound moments—one unrefined, one becoming refined.

Time was, before the Holy Spirit came into my life, that I ran things my way. I made all the decisions—what to do, how to do it, when to do it, where to do it and why! I was in charge. (Although in the 1960s, I did get rid of my watch for a year and kind of drifted through time.)

My time was explicitly scheduled, orderly and organized, except my time for God. I would try to make time for him on Sunday mornings and attend church, but once our children began playing sports, there wasn’t even time for that. I prayed, when my time allowed, but time passed, and with it, any time I had with the Savior.

I took what spare time I had to read romance novels as I sipped a cup of gourmet coffee, with no thought to the time I was wasting. I was so caught up in my family, the world and climbing the corporate ladder that it felt as if I were always running around in time! I prayed when I could, but never picked up the most important book in my library—the Bible.

But then, God decided that he had had enough of my nonsense and took a firm hand on how I was managing what was really his time! 

In the nick of time, God gave me a choice—him or the world—which, oddly enough, became an easy choice. Him, the God-Man I had known all of my life but kept putting on hold.

Though totally unaware of it, God had been quietly and gently leading me to his time, a time to study and learn about the Creator, to do what he wanted, to spend time with him. After all, he created time to be used for his glory.

So, once upon a time, there was this creature of God’s whom he loved so much, and now, she spends a lot of time talking to her Creator each day, appreciating the gift of his salvation. 

Lately I’ve been reading Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, an observation by Solomon about time, and my question is what are we doing with the time God has given us? Take it from someone who is a reader; read his Word. It’s filled with so many genres: mystery, poetry, music, humor, to name a few. Take time to get to know God this year before time runs out on you. 

Nita's Smile by Cheryce Berg

Cancer is ravaging Nita Martindale’s mortal body, but not her soul, or that of her husband’s, Wayne. Their souls are intact—more than intact—as they rest in God’s steadfast love.

It started with a suggestion from one neighbor to another—sing to Nita said the one neighbor who is also Nita’s hospice nurse. The other neighbor, a follower of Jesus, had the inspiration to sing hymns, not only to encourage Wayne and Nita, but also to show Christ’s love to neighbors they had been praying would come to him. Out went texts, Facebook posts and emails . . .

She smiles the whole time. She smiles and sings. Her smile is alight with hope as she gazes on us from her front stoop, backlit by the warmth of her home.

In Christ alone my hope is found; He is my light, my strength, my song.

We shiver and sing in the January wind, standing on the frozen grass.

This cornerstone, this solid ground, Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.

I glance around, surrounded by this ragtag crowd whose voices warm the cold air. Neighbors, co-laborers, pastors, friends. All united in love for her. I wonder if all standing there know the only One who can comfort.

What heights of love, what depths of peace, When fears are stilled, when strivings cease! My comforter, my all in all—Here in the love of Christ I stand.

Nita’s face is alive with the knowledge of her Savior and his power over sin and death.  

In Christ alone, Who took on flesh, Fullness of God in helpless babe! This gift of love and righteousness, Scorned by the ones He came to save. Till on that cross as Jesus died, The wrath of God was satisfied; For every sin on Him was laid—here in the death of Christ I live.

She knows without a doubt that she belongs to Christ, and her faith is a testimony to us as we sing. She sees victory over death on the road ahead.

There in the ground His body lay, Light of the world by darkness slain; Then bursting forth in glorious day, Up from the grace He rose again!  And as He stands in victory, Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me; For I am His and He is mine—Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

She is flanked on either side by those who love her best, her husband and daughter. They hang a warm coat on her thin shoulders, wrap their arms around her and watch her closely.  They sing, too, but their lips tremble. Hers keep smiling.  

No guilt in life, no fear in death—This is the pow’r of Christ in me; From life’s first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny.

Our words swell as the power of Christ flows through them, reminding us where our hope lies. Reminding us there is nothing to fear when we belong to him. Telling us that even cancer cannot pluck us from his hand. Promising that someday he will call us home.

No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man, Can ever pluck me from His hand; Till He returns or calls me home—Here in the pow’r of Christ I’ll stand.

We sing for Nita Martindale, and she smiles.