Mistaken Identity by Lorraine Triggs

"You look Russian," our missionary friend Cindy assured me as we climbed up the stairs from a Metro station near Red Square. "Just don't smile." It was 1993—still the early years of the fall of communism—and we were headed to two different protest rallies on opposite sides of Red Square. We had heard news about the two events on the same day that Russia's Parliament was trying to remove the president and go back to the way things were.

One was a pro-communist rally; the other a pro-democracy rally. All this on my first trip to Moscow. For someone who apsired in some ways to journalism, this was a dream come true. Some missionaries were afraid and were staying huddled in their apartments. We, perhaps stupidly, wanted to run right to the rallies where the news was, where history was happening.

Okay, I look Russian and I won't smile, I told myself as we arrived at the pro-communist rally first. I thought about the woman on the tram earlier in our trip who started talking to me in Russian. As long as I stayed mute, I could be mistaken for a Russian citizen.

The first rally was eerily silent. Protestors were mainly pensioners in dark winter coats and Russian hats. No one talked or milled about. The red and gold hammer and sickle flag was carried by more than one protestor. Men wore military medals on their coats. There weren't thousands of people, but they were all standing as if in formation, facing a lone man who was shouting his anti-deomcracry speech through a portable speaker.

We walked behind the protestors without a word, on our way to the other rally. We reached a street where we saw a row of Russian soldiers on horseback, Moscow police, police cars and whole bank of ambulances. They were primed for violence.

"Oh, look," Cindy said, "Lorraine's jacket is the exact color of the new Russian flag." The blue color was not welcome in this all-red rally where people were angry and longing for a return to the past. And Cindy was right--the blue of my jacket was the exact shade of blue on the new flag.

So would those people think I was Russian, but the wrong kind of Russian?

Thank you very much, Cindy. I just wanted to get safely by the pro-Soviet soldiers and the armed police. Why do you think I wasn't smiling or talking. Fine with me if you mistake me for a Russian citizen and not an American.

We crossed Red Square, quiet and pensive. When we finally reached the pro-democracy rally, nothing could have been more different. For starters, the crowd was huge and milled about, talking and laughing. No people in formation or angry speeches screamed. There were children with their parents, students and all people of all ages. Ice cream vendors were selling ice cream. Street musicians were playing music. Jugglers. It was like a carnival. I breathed a sigh of relief that I could smile and talk again, and shake off my mistaken identity.

I felt free to be myself.

And I think in some ways, the same feeling was true at that time for a lot of other people coming out of the spell of the Soviet Union. They weren't Communists anymore. They weren't Soviet. Some could whisper a confession of identity, like the dear friend who travelled with us and whispered that her mother was a Jew, something she could not openly admit for years. I hugged her because we shared that same heritage with our mothers. Finally, she could admit who she was. But more important than that bond was the most important bond: we were both followers of Jesus Christ.

It's a little bittersweet to look back at this point with all that's happening with Russia and Ukraine and America and the rest of the world.

The danger with mistaken identities is believing that they are the real deal. We can even fall for it ourselves. We can define ourselves by our politics, the bloggers we follow or don't follow, our successes or failures. It's so easy to let those little bits define us—our genetics, our politics, our careers, skin color, gender, academic studies, bank accounts, the cars we drive; there are so many ways for us to create mistaken identities. Those things are not who we really are. 

Think about the Apostle Peter on what was probably the worse night of his life—his denial of Jesus. Try as he might, there was no mistaken identity for Peter as he huddled around the fire. A servant girl and two other people knew that Peter had been with Jesus. 

Being with Jesus is what defined Peter, even at his lowest point, even when, scared, he denied it. And it is what needs to define us as children of God at our lowest or highest points. Let's work at letting people see us for who we really are, and let's be who we are—children of the living God, which is the very best identity that any of us could aspire to.

As Mothers Love by Wallace Alcorn

My mother was, I suppose it could be put, an ordinary woman. She never graduated from high school (indeed, never allowed to do so), and she had no profession or trade or even what might have been considered an occupation—unless it was housewife and mother of two boys.

Her father wouldn’t allow her to attend the Milwaukee’s Girls Technical High School longer than what it took to learn to cook and sew, and then she had to go out and work until she had her own family to care for. (This did not, however, keep her from becoming the academic advocate for her younger sisters who did graduate.) She dropped out of the workforce to raise her boys and returned to help in the war effort, and then continued so she could pay her boys’ college tuitions.

Mom was ordinary in the sense of being-in-the-order-of motherness. One of her sisters told me, “Your mother is one bundle of love,” which is pretty good coming from a kid sister. 

  She was of a background where you restrained direct expressions of love to children lest they get big headed or become spoiled. You just love (active verb here), and they’ll know. But every now and then someone would tell me with understanding amusement that Mom would say, “I never graduated from high school, but both my sons are Ph.D.s!”

When I tried to tell her I loved her, she would give me a gentle shove and mutter, “Oh, go on now.”

She came to worry I had become a professional student and would never marry. Once, while ironing my shirts, she looked at me and said softly but most earnestly, “Wallace, I hope you marry a girl who will let me love her.”

Not, mind you: “whom I can love” or “who will love me”—but “who will let me love her.” That Mom would love whomever I marry was never an issue. This determined love was born within her about the time I was, and she nurtured it within for twenty-eight years until it finally burst out as confession, which I took as mandate precisely because I loved her. The least I could do was to present her with a daughter to love.

When I found Ann Carmichael, I arranged with a friend to buy rings and send them by air express to me in a Grand Rapids seminary. My father returned from work to find my mother packing an overnight bag, and he asked where she was going. Without pausing or looking up, she said, “To meet my new daughter.” She had scooped up the rings and was going to deliver them to me herself.

I asked Mom to stay out of sight long enough for me to put the engagement ring on Ann’s finger—and then present her to Mom as her new daughter. It was love, sight unseen and unquestioned. I didn’t meet Ann’s mum (like Ann, British-born) until after we were married, because she had left her parents in Ghana in order to finish high school in Florida. I later learned that she had assured her mum that I would be a good husband “because he is so sweet to his mother.” Of course.

The last time I saw Mom was in an Indiana hospital. Both our daughter and my nephew’s wife were expecting babies, and Mom had been looking forward to the arrivals of two great-grandchildren. But she knew this would be it.

With contented joy, she let go and said, “Tell the little ones I love them.”

Be Strange by Lorraine Triggs

My mother delighted my sisters and me with her creative spin on the English language. By far, the expression we loved the best and repeated the most was "Shut the rain, the windows are coming in." She would shout this to us whenever a summer storm blew in. We dutiful daughters would then run through the house and close the windows.

The runner-up to "shut the rain, the windows are coming in" happened one evening as we said good-bye to company who had come for dinner. At my mother's house, guests neither arrived nor departed without a fuss being made over them, and that evening was no different. As our family friends walked down the front walk, my mother called out, "Be strange!" (a rather loose translation of "Don't be a stranger.")

For weeks on end, her dutiful daughters repeated to each other, "Be strange," as if any of us needed encouragement in that direction. 

Actually, my mother had no idea that she had uttered a profound biblical truth. She didn't have time for heady talk about a Scripture passage. If the Word said to practice hospitality, then she would do just that. It didn't matter who you were or what you did for a living, the door to our home was open. In retrospect, I am sure we entertained angels disguised as strangers.

That brings us back to the profound truth that as followers of Jesus we are strangers in this world, but we don't treat other people as strangers. We love them. And that's strange, especially in our insular society and partisan world.

Our band of followers includes the likes of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob who "acknowledged that that they were strangers and exiles on earth" (see Hebrews 11:13) and being strangers who didn't realize that they were paid an amazing compliment, "of whom the world was not worthy." (Hebrews 11:38)

The Apostles and church fathers didn't have time to squawk about first ammendment rights or call a center for law and justice to defend them. Those things didn't exist back then. They were preoccuppied with faithfully following Jesus, taking the gospel to all nations, ending up hiding in caves or being sawed in two, telling a jailer about Jesus or praying to be faithful when they faced the jaws of a lion or a gladiator's sword. 

We are a "peculiar people." (1 Peter 2:9, KJV) We are not a voting bloc or cultural movement or naysayers. We are more than that. We are followers of Jesus, who had "nowhere to lay his head." We are strangers en route to a better country.

So to quote my mother who has been in that better country for a few years, "Be strange."

A Servant of the High Priest by Wil Triggs

Inspired by Jeese Meekins' message at Men's Gathering on April 7, here is a post-Easter musing I wrote of what might have happened to Malchus, after his encounter with Jesus in the garden and those post-Resurrection weeks, years even, that followed...

When his grandfather came into view, Janek dropped the olive branch he was playing with and ran to greet him. “Grandpa!” he exclaimed.

Malchus caught him in his arms and pulled him up to hug him. Little Lenka, too, joined them with a circle dance of joy around them. It did Malchus’ heart good to see his son’s son and daughter.

Yatniel heard his son and daughter greeting his father before he saw them. His and Malchus’ eyes locked on one another, a mix of surprise, familiar memories, rifts of the past, joys, sorrows, all there in an instant.

These visits were not common and often unexpected. There was never really any way to know when Malchus would be freed from service with enough time for the journey and visit.

Malchus’s son and the children’s father, Yatniel was a challenge and a sort of heartache for Malchus, but a good Roman son (and Yatniel was certainly that if he were anything) would never close the door to his father. It would be a shame to do so.

So here they all were—three generations together for a meal and time together. 

It was a holiday whenever Malchus appeared. They washed, ate, reclined. It was a welcome moment of rest. 

Until Janek begged to hear the story again. It happened every time he came.

Yatniel wanted to stop him. He hated this, but he also could not deny his children this rare time with their grandfather, so Malchus would tell his story, again . . .

We came to the garden—the priests, their servants, the military, enough of us to wage a little war. There was a lot of anger, hatred even, and when we got there, only a handful of people were in the garden. What was all this—so outnumbered were the band of people there. It was baffling really.

One of us stepped forward, embraced, kissed even, the one who had been kneeling and apart from the others. Some of the military guards advanced but stopped. There was some talk and then all of us fell down.

I was right there in the middle of it with my master.

We stood up and there was a small commotion. It happened quickly. One of his band drew a blade but instead of hitting his target, in the heat and darkness of the night and the moment, he struck me.

It was a single act followed by silence. Even I did not cry out, but my ear, the blood, the pain. It did hurt. It felt like water flowing into my head, but it was blood, my own blood and it was everywhere. I could not hear from that side of my throbbing head. I clutched where my ear had been and tried to stay the flow.

With all the men in our little army, no one responded with a weapon; no one in fact did anything. If it had been the high priest, there would surely have been an intervention, but since it was only his servant, nothing happened. The only one to respond was the one who had been kissed. He came to me, held my ear in his hand, and instantly made it right. The bleeding stopped as did the pain. I could hear better than ever before.

This was not the last time I would see him, but it was the last time I saw him before he died.

Yatniel held his tongue. There weren’t very many people left who were alive back then, Yatniel told himself. His father was one of the last. Some had moved away, or run away, but time passed. Soon, they would be gone. 

These others who had begun to follow the sect, surely they would die out. The stories would slow to a trickle or evolve into fables, and that would be the end of it.

Lenka was young, maybe too young to understand, but just starting to grasp the wonder of it. 

Janek did not want his father to know, but a fire was beginning to burn in his heart, burning and warming at once, whenever Malchus got to what came next—the next time Grandpa saw Jesus, after he had died. It meant that Grandpa would see him yet again and next time, everything would be healed—everything, not just an ear.

Soon it would be time to go. Janek and Lenka threw their arms around Malchus. Janek reached up to his Grandpa’s ear to touch the reality of it all. His finger traced the path of the scar from bottom to top, perfectly healed, but still there, a mark for all to see as long as Malchus walked this earth.

A Gift of Goodness by Wallace Alcorn

College graduation not only awarded me a degree, but also a draft notice. One summer during this involuntary service, I took leave to work as a counselor at our church’s annual Bible camp in Wisconsin. That weeklong event had been formative for me as I was growing up, and I wanted to pay back by working for those who followed. At the time, the bank and I owned an old, tired car—the only kind a recent college graduate now army private could afford. It was also the very kind a kid in my situation could not afford. Managing the minimum down payment and monthly thereafter with otherwise unnecessary interest rates left nothing for repairs of all that kept breaking.

While away at camp, the universal joint went out in the car. It had to be repaired immediately so I could get back at the end of my leave and not be charged with AWOL. I had enough cash to buy gas but not repairs. My pastor lent me the money and I had it fixed.

I suppose it took me two or three months to scrape together enough from a private’s pay to settle the loan. I had to forego things, but I did so eagerly. I surprised myself as to just how eager I was to make repayment and how satisfied upon reaching my goal. Although I respected my pastor and loved him, repaying him became unaccountably important to me.

I sent him a check, which he promptly returned. Written across was “voided.” I remember the attached note and will always remember the exact words: “It is a gift, and a gift it will remain.” End of matter.

I had presumed it was merely a loan, because the car was my problem, and there was no reason for him to give any money to me. My father had always worried that the church didn’t pay the pastor enough, and I presumed that, like me, he had none to spare. Yet, I knew immediately what Pastor meant. Although he didn’t use the words in this brief note, I could hear him saying what I had already heard, “It pleases me to do this.”

Not just that he was willing, but that he wanted to do it. It wasn't just being “happy;” he found joy in its doing. I stared at the voided check thinking about its meaning. There was something here I didn’t quite grasp. Well, here I am telling you about it. And that was sixty-four years ago. 

My pastor wasn’t the greatest preacher I’ve ever heard, but he was a good man. Goodness was part of his very being. 

Although I still had a lot to learn about life, even then I recognized this much. It would have been a moral offense for me to try to push repayment on him. This would have reduced the act to a commercial transaction when it was, in fact, an act of love in goodness and generosity.  

Not the end of the story, it was several years later I finally recognized why it had been so terribly important to me to save enough to send to my pastor. However, even at the time I had understood enough about my motivation to know my thought had not been repayment of a debt, getting it off my mind, or settling an account. If this were so, I wouldn’t be remembering it now. There was more.

Pastor’s goodness did something for me, but it also did something to me.

I’ve since learned the New Testament word for “goodness,” agathos (as in the fruit of the Spirit, Gal. 5:22), is an inner quality that unselfconsciously and by its very nature expresses itself outwardly—a generosity that springs from the heart that is itself kind. 

My pastor was a good man, and doing goodness pleased him. That’s just the way it is.

Looking for Grace in All the Wrong Places by Lorraine Triggs

A Friday or two ago, I woke up in a grumpy mood. My mother would have said that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Whatever side of the bed, it did nothing to improve my mood.

I groused my way through my Bible study and decided that my funk would only disappear if God showed me his grace in a huge, spectacular way—a really big answer to prayer. Yep, that would be the only way I could see his grace and hand in my life today. This did nothing to improve my mood either.

When it was time for my prayer group for the persecuted church, I now could add guilt for whining to my bad mood. I took a seat next to Jim. Jim is elderly, a widower of almost two years. He is humble and passionate about the persecuted church. I had no idea that I had just sat down next to grace.

We finished praying and Jim mentioned that he enjoyed the article I wrote in Connections about my young adult son. I thanked him and was about to give a ready reply, when Jim said that his 38-year-old grandson lives with him. "He's a heroin addict," Jim said. "I'm glad his grandmother isn't alive to see this." 

This kind, gentle man added rather causually, "He'll probably be on methadone the rest of his life." Then came Jim's graced words, "His story isn't finished yet, like your son's story. God is still working." My grumpy mood dissipated when confronted with this bright display of God's grace. My soul was jolted off my mood onto the God of grace himself, who enables us to draw near and bring with us the big and little cares of ourselves and the hopes and hurts of one another.

In his poem "As Kingfishers Catch Fire," Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote:

I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

The morning began with me looking for grace in all the wrong places, and ended when I saw God's grace on his terms and, oh, so lovely, in his people.

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.