Last night in our last chapel visit of the mission trip, our
youth pastor used the term, “real life” when describing what we would be coming
home to. I’ve heard this expression on
every spiritual retreat and mission trip, and I think unintentionally it tells
us to expect our lives to become mundane once we return from the mountaintop.
While it wasn’t used in a negative connotation, I believe that we, as broken
individuals, sometimes revert to the everyday life we live as some form of
trial. Can we stay on the mountain top? Is it even realistic to think so?
When I came off my Emmaus walk years ago, I remember coming
home to my wife who had quite a week with the kids, her mom and everything in
between. Here I was, mentally exhausted but
ready to lay a gauntlet of Jesus’s love.
I went to work the next day, and while I was exuberantly excited, I felt
stymied somewhat because I couldn’t just pick up my fifth graders and give them
a huge hug. “Real life” for me meant God
was going to blast open the gifts I had—a sense of humor, friendship and personality—without
ever necessarily saying the word “Jesus” in every conversation.
Last summer was a summer of mountain top experiences. I had served on the Oklahoma tornado efforts. The trip solidified the notion that God does
not need to bring us to our knees with a disaster to find our salvation. It’s what comes next, the healing, the restoration
of both self and home. On both that trip
and in Arkansas, I worked with teams from Missouri, Tennessee and Oregon. There were vans lined up at the mission
control, each group in matching t-shirt.
There were Baptists, Methodists, Catholics and Presbyterians. None of the doctrinal differences seemed to
matter because we were all focused on one singular mission.
Most notably, what I didn’t see also cemented the notion
that to follow Jesus means that everyone benefits, not just you. There were no vans from the Central Ohio Atheists
Club, no t-shirt that read “Team Wiccan.”
On the fence outside of Plaza Elementary, there were no signed mementos
from The Georgia Islamic Society or from Buddhists International. Not only are there no regrets for following
Jesus but when we are called to live His dream for us, it benefits those that
truly need help.
This trip was especially emotional considering we were directly
working alongside a youth group from Louisiana.
The group of 12 students was led by our former youth pastor and his
wife. There were still wounds in our
church, saintly scars, from their move.
Rumors persist in church like viruses, and they run more rampant in a
group of Christians because we stand so publically righteous. It seemed each day there was a new reason for
their departure. Was it church
infighting? Was it from a lack of
creative control? At that time, our
church hired a new executive pastor and we, as a church, had been going through
various changes that didn’t sit well with the congregation old guard. He was the likely culprit for every change
and church schedule disruption. We all
needed a face to blame for the hurt we were facing.
Old members of the congregation had been moving from church
as well. Was it all a coincidence? I think as church members we feel two
emotions when someone decides to move their membership. What have I done wrong or Who made them leave. Since we love a good story of brokenness we
don’t come to realize that leaving a church doesn’t mean it reflects badly on
us. Some people switch churches every
couple of years. Some move. Many feel they aren’t “being fed” which is a
backhanded way of saying they are too lazy to serve or get involved.
Even this trip had plenty of background noise. Were we not going to Arkansas because we
might see our old youth pastor there?
Were we only going because of their involvement? This was a gut check to me as well. Was I attending this trip because I would get
a chance to see old friends or was the call to serve strong enough to draw me,
even if I was going with total strangers?
The first day or so, sitting all together, somewhat awkward, I had this
feeling there was a faction of congregation members back home ready to pounce
on us for working alongside them. I felt
like the love I wanted to share was somehow only permitted for Methodists,
specifically Methodists that were stamped, approved and background checked.
By the end of their stay (they left a few days prior to us),
we all felt like family. It was so hard
saying goodbye to my friends, old and new.
Heaven was being denied to me once again. I was like Moses looking down upon the Promised
Land, denied entry, only to watch his loved ones populate the land. I was bummed that day forward. Bummed because my selfishness wanted to keep
all the people that I love close to me. Bummed
because someone back home would object to the grouped mission trip. Bummed because I had to go back to “real
life.”
So what is “real life”?
I compartmentalize so many parts of my life, and it felt like even more
so this year I kept people at a distance.
Work was demanding, church leadership was demanding, coaching was
demanding. But had I made it that way
because of my lack of faith or were they truly that demanding? The couple we helped on our last day surely
had more demanding issues. Their log
home had been completely obliterated.
Only a gazebo was left standing, directly behind their property, and the
single-wide trailer that housed another family member. Their property sat on the top of a hill, and
you could see the skeletal remains of the new school in Vilonia that was to open
in the fall. The metal beams were clawed
over the now defunct main hallway, walls were folding over like some tremendous
weight had befallen them. Windows sat ghostly
open. According to Gary (the homeowner),
the desks and building supplies had all been purchased. Seventy new teacher contracts were signed,
and among them were probably teachers who had ended contracts with other
schools. Perhaps they had moved to
commute closer to their new job. The
contractor was one month away from fulfilling their obligation, only now having
to rebuild on its own.
What was demanding on Gary and Karen Seeds that day? Wondering where the communion elements were
located for church service this Sunday.
Their church, the Vilionia Methodist Church, had also been damaged. Their new Life Center, two months brand new,
demolished. Apparently, someone had
placed those elements in a black bag which was now resting in “Pod 1, Pod 2 or
Pod 3,” Gary said. It brought a chuckle
to some of us. Your house is gone and
the one this you’re looking for is buried in a storage pod.
We were able to talk with the Seeds’ family that final work
day. We learned of how they met back in
Danville, Illinois (apparently he thought she was another girlfriend of his
when he got into her car to “cruise” the block and the rest was history). Karen was an ice cream maker—“my freezer is somewhere
in that field ahead,” she pointed—and Gary was a retired railroad
engineer.
Our “real life” is the life we live now, in the mission
field or in our workplaces, our homes and at church. We make it real by being authentic. Sometimes it means you’re open to be hurt, by
friends who leave momentarily, or for the heartache you see in others. But that’s what God calls us to do. He wants us to live a “real life” that surrounds
itself, consumes itself, with love. When
you live a life of love there is risk involved.
It’s a demanding risk, but so is love.
I’m looking forward to “real life” again.
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