Missions Blog 1.0

I Want it Now

2011-08-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

14 August 2011

I Want it Now

What if God’s will is greater than your comfort?

Could you really handle it? If His plan is bigger than you being comfortable or happy right now, will you still follow Him? What if every time you turn everything completely over to Him, the worst possible outcome you could have imagined is exactly what seems to happen? Would you still trust Him?

The problem with God is that He has a plan that’s bigger than all of us. “My thoughts are not your thoughts, and my ways are not your ways!” He declares. And sometimes, we will HATE the way He’s doing things. We will be sure that He is completely wrong. But can we trust Him anyway?

Or, if we can learn to trust Him, to truly give Him total control, can we still hope, even when He seems to be destroying all our hopes and dreams? Can you still follow? Can you still trust? Can you still hope?

Will you still love Him?

Sometimes, God wants to do a real miracle in your life; sometimes, He want to show just how big He is. Is your life about showing that to the world? It might mean that you have to fall further than you’re worst nightmares…

I Am Awake

2011-02-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

9 February 2011

I am Awake

Chapter 1

I see a child clutching the body of a woman—his mother. He’d awoken to the sounds of her being drug out of the house and beaten. Now, he’s soaked with her blood. She won’t wake up. The 7 year old now knows why daddy didn’t come home last night. He won’t be coming home. It wouldn’t matter anyway. The house is on fire. His older sister is being raped as he cries over his mother’s corpse. Her screams draw his attention. Filled with rage, he runs over and begins to punch the man with all his 7-year-old strength. He takes the rifle off his sister’s throat and swings it into the boy’s face.

He wakes up to see his sister being drug away and thrown into the back of a truck. He runs toward her, his world bursting with pain from where the rifle had struck his head. He reaches the truck just as it pulls away. He manages to jump on. The driver accelerates and yanks the wheel hard left, slinging the boy off and into a brick wall. His two younger sisters, ages 5 and 3, scream in the background as his world goes black again.

He crawls back to his mother’s body, where the girls lie whimpering. His 6-month-old brother screams from his sling on mum’s chest. He realizes he must now become the man for his family.

Chapter 2

The sound of gunfire wakes me from my dream. I takes me a moment to realize that it is not a part of my dream. It is from this world—the world of my adulthood, not my childhood. In the 25 years since the day I watched my mother be butchered and my sister taken away into sexual slavery, the older of my two remaining sisters and my brother have both lost their lives. No. Had their lives stolen from them. Ripped away. Kamilah died in crossfire returning from the market one day. Kalal had joined a terrorist group, determined to avenge the injustices done to his family through violence. His head was taken from him.

I rise from bed quickly. Like every morning, I feel the emptiness of the other side of my mat. My baby girl cries from her crib, and my older two begin to whine from their own straw mat. This is our home: a room, with a bucket in the corner (our toilet), a cardboard box (our table) with a bowl (our drinking water) and a glass of rice water (our food for the day) on it, our two mats, and a second cardboard box for my daughter’s crib. We have the clothes on our back and a toothbrush. We do have one small luxury item: a rearview mirror from the army truck that provided my razor—a piece of the steel frame that I removed from my leg when a bomb turned it into shrapnel.

I only have to shave one side of my face; the right side was blown apart in the bombing that took my wife from me.

I work with my younger sister, gathering bits of rusty metal, bullets, small rocks—anything that will serve the rebels in making their bombs. At night, we siphon fuel from parked cars. Often, we find ourselves in groups of 10 or 15, canvassing the landfills. Always the distracted type, I find myself away from the rest of the group as I hear engines pull up on the other side of a trash heap. Gunfire is followed by screaming, my sister’s voice clearly distinguishable among the rest. I run around the corner and duck behind the remnants of a sofa—no doubt once belonging to some rich foreigner. They’ve all gone, their houses burnt down by the rebels. But it’s not the rebels this time. The government soldiers have come to punish us for aiding the rebels. Three men already lie dead on the ground, another moaning in anguish, 4 bleeding holes in his stomach. He’s put out of his misery. More accurately, the soldiers silence the obnoxious shrieks of pain. One woman makes a run for it and is shot in the back.

The children who have been conscripted, averaging 10 years of age, are called forward. Each is ordered to take out his field knife. I know what is next.

Chapter 3

I watched my cousin do it to his own father. The most ruthless in slitting their victim’s throat will be awarded with alcohol, heroin, and a woman for the night. Our upstanding army.

As the knife rips into my sister’s flesh, I wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Blood drips from the nail marks in my hands. Today is the day. I’ve been saving since the day she died. I finally have enough—more than enough, actually, because I know they will raise the price. The problem is the walk there. It’s a 40km trek to the wharf. There’s a government check point for vehicles every 5km, and rebels hiding in the bush. I must sneak, with my baby girl, 6-year-old boy, and 9-year-old daughter, to the sea. Walking along the coast is suicide, as is rafting. The ocean road is hopeless, and the bush inland is psychotic. Our only hope is the 20 meter width of dunes between the ocean road and the beach.

It has been an exhausting but uneventful 15km. The baby has let out the occasional whimper—it’s the hardest thing having to gag your own son through his cries—and my son has done his best to squelch his sneezing fits. He has both allergies and a cold. Suddenly, my daughter is struck by a snake and lets out a yelp. A 5-man sentry on the beach immediately begins firing. Thinking the soldiers are firing on them, a contingent of rebels begins firing back from the bush. An incredible stroke of bad luck put the beach sentry, the rebels, AND a road block in the same place as the snake. The panicked road block begins firing in all directions. We are caught in the crossfire, and the soldiers are closing in. We duck and run for all our life, me dragging my two older children along as their younger sister bounces against my chest in her sling, screaming at the top of her lungs.

When we finally stop running, it is eerily silent. Something is wrong with this silence. Suddenly, I realize the problem. My daughter is no longer crying. In fact, she makes no sound at all. I close my eyes, knowing the worst but unwilling to face it. I slowly look down, opening them. Blood soaks my shirt, just like my mother’s did so many years ago. But this time, the warm life flows from my child, and she grows cold. I continue walking with her lifeless body held against me.

39.5km down. I can see the wharf just before us, the stingy old fishing boat the most beautiful sight of my life. It is the symbol of a hope of freedom. The tears, still wet on my cheeks for my baby girl, begin to flow again as that hope fills my soul. It is overpowering. We begin to run. So excited of the future that lies ahead. My boy runs ahead, my girl beside and just behind me. As we run, the ground leaves my feet as a shock of sound and heat and light blasts me forward and left. Even as I hit the ground I scream my daughter’s name. I look and feel for her, but I am blinded from the flash. As things slowly come into focused, I see her standing there, in shock, with a hole in her side. The blood loss is incredible.

Chapter 4

I awake to the sound of my own screaming. I’m stowed below deck in a fishing vessel, my lifeless child against my chest, my dying child in my lap. I stroke her blood-matted hair, feeling her shallow breathing against my thigh. I have never felt her heart beat so hard or so slow. Suddenly, I realize it is her last breaths. I turn her eyes to mine. “I’m scared daddy. I love you!” “I love you too baby. Goodnight.” The sobs come slowly this time.

Chapter 5

I wake slowly. The terror of sleep is something I’ve come to accept. I embrace it each night, entering it fully. I wake each day just to see you, my son. Today is the day. They are sending us back.

You should know, my son, that I would have brought us here through the proper channels if I could have. It was the work of my life to get you and your sisters here. That they did not make it is something that I will never forgive myself for, whether I could have helped it or not. The dream of my children growing up safely consumed me. The staff of this processing center tell me that if only I had done it the right way, we could have stayed. They have denied my search for asylum because I do not know the information they need, because they do not believe my story, because they do not know the danger they send us to. I tell you, my son, even if I had known the proper steps, even if I could access the paperwork, even if I could read, even if I could write, even if I had found the means to post the request, your government would have killed me for trying to leave. Treason, punishable by death. And I would have left you to the life I lived before you.

If I return, they will kill me. And you will still return to the life I lived before you. But they will not send you alone. Upon a little child without a family, they will have mercy.

I find the irony unbearable, that this place is called Christmas Island. But finally, I can give you a Christmas present. I have never been able to buy you any presents, let alone a proper meal or scrap of clothing. But today I give you the greatest present I have to offer. I give you my life.

I do not do this because I am afraid. I don’t do this because I’m selfish. I don’t do it to escape the nightmares, images that neither leave me in the light or in the dark, with my eyes open or closed, sleeping or awake—a running film behind everything I see, through everything I do, that takes my focus off the world. Except for when I look at you. You make the world calm. You make the world right. You are my world. I will give the world for you. I would brave a thousand lifetimes of the terror and horror of those nightmares for you. It would be my joy and my honor to live them for you, just to be with you.

But this is goodbye, son. This is to make hope become joy. Have faith my son. Keep my love in your heart. Never forget the value of the freedom I give you. Live each day of this new life fully. Drain every drop of vibrance, vitality, beauty and joy from each moment. I love you. Goodnight.

Chapter 6

In my eyes are flashing the last image I had of my father. He lies in a pool of his own blood at the foot of the processing center. The image was burned onto my 7-year-old brain. They would not let me run to him or hold him. My last look at my father was had straining against the arms of Australian police securing a suicide scene. Slowly I open my eyes. Birds are chirping outside of my home, just South of Sydney. It is a beautiful sunny day. And I am free.

Some people say of my father (inasmuch as they say it about the asylum seekers intercepted on Christmas island; my father is of no note or significance to any Australian citizen, and his memory has faded from every mind but this one, as any record of his existence has faded from every logbook and document, in both this country and the one of our birth) that his death was a political move. Some people say it was self-centeredness; that he simply wanted wealth beyond measure, and believed that he wouldn’t have to work for it here. They say that if he had been willing to do some hard work, he would never have come in the first place. Some people say he WAS running for his life, but only because he was a criminal of the worst degree, the type we didn’t want in this country. Some people are asleep.

I remember the constant fear. I remember the gunfire alarm clock, the straw mat, the cardboard boxes, and the three sips of rice water for the day’s food. I remember the snakebite that would have taken my sister’s life if the mine hadn’t. I remember the explosion too. I remember the baby’s warm blood leaking from her body, like a leaky faucet that desperately needed fixing, but couldn’t be stopped. I remember my father’s warm tears falling onto her cold body, as if they could replace the blood flowing out. I remember the life he gave to set me free.

The words you have read in the previous chapters were the words of my father, recorded by a fellow asylum-seeker on Christmas Island. He was in need of political asylum, and therefore highly educated. The moment the last words were penned, my father leapt from the rooftop. They were given to me, but I was unable to read them for several years. I did not ask anyone to read them to me, because I knew that, at least for now, they were just for me. Still, each day that went by, I wondered how my father could leave me like that. I couldn’t understand why he would do that to me, why he would give up after all we’d lived through. I began to believe some people.

Some people say that my father was less than a man. I know better.

I am awake

A-mnesty on Both Your Houses!

2010-11-23T02:21:00.000-08:00

23 November 2010

Amnesty for my Home

Since I’ve arrived, there’s been a war on—a war that no one knows about. And it’s not hidden in secrecy from the public; no, it’s broadcast out to them daily, and it’s their ignorance that makes it hidden to them. If there is one thing I hate about the Australian culture, it’s something that the USA, at least in part, shares with them: immigration laws.

Over the course of the past few months, illegal immigrants—being smuggled in by ships from underdeveloped and war-torn countries like India, Burma (sorry if that’s politically incorrect), and various African nations—detained on places like Christmas Island in Processing Centers (like any other stock), have: threatened self-harm, threatened suicide, leaped off buildings (committing suicide), and, most recently, sewn their mouths closed. Why? Because they don’t want to go back.

The government is very even-keeled about it; if their refugee papers are legitimate, they will be allowed to stay under such a status. Seems rather reasonable.

Not really. I haven’t been around that much, and I’m not all that globally savvy, but I know enough to know that another poor black man in Africa, another homeless mother in India, and another soon-to-be casualty of a genocidal government can’t do much. And the less-than-much they have in their repertoire of skills usually does not include 1. Acquiring refugee papers 2. Reading or writing in English in order to properly fill them out 3. Reading or writing at all 4. Having a government with which they can lodge the papers, with any reasonable hope of their approval 5. Knowing how to properly lodge them, of the means to mail them out 6. Holding any freedom to leave the country they desire to flee because their life is in danger.

Any government that thinks people are sowing their mouths shut and killing themselves because they do not wish to fill out the proper paperwork…doesn’t deserve to be governing a nation conceived in liberty (well, that goes for the US; Australia was conceived in incarceration), or at least over a nation of free people. And my heart aches for the poor people who have been lulled asleep by this government; lulled into thinking that this is right. Lulled into believing that a person so oppressed, fleeing for their lives, would have the capability or means to play the game of proper procedure.

Get real people; saying that people are killing themselves just because they don’t like their country (and not because their country is out for their heads) is like saying the disciples sacrificed their lives for their practical joke of moving Jesus’ body. I don’t think so. They saw a risen, holy Lord, and these cowardice kids became mighty warriors and martyrs for the sake of the Kingdom of God. A kingdom whose laws include loosening the chains of injustice; seeking justice for the oppressed and defending the fatherless and the widow.

And in case any US Americans are wondering how this applies to us, perhaps you should look up the stats on how many human beings die each year trying to cross the deserts separating us from Mexico. Many of them are trying to save the lives of loved ones.

To put it simply, if we shall continue to claim that all men are created equal, and that they are entitled to certain rights, without alienation—life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness—if we shall claim that this nation was conceived in the goal of such liberty for all mankind, than our doors must always be open to those that are hurting, destitute, and without help.

But, if we are willing to throw those claims aside; to agree that upon such principles was our nation founded, but those are not the foundations upon which we have established ourselves today; if we will say that all United States citizens are created equal, and to them alone we will extend certain unalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, then I will be satisfied with our current dealings with our conniving little refugees for daring to share in the wealth of our lands.

But if ALL men are created equal, we’re gonna have to start sharing…

The frustration grows…

I first heard about the sewing of the mouths (and so had a new episode of righteous anger) on my way to get tires changed on my car. I decided to read the paper while waiting, and there found an article that grabbed my attention. The title was something about an amnesty bill for houses. Turns out, while the “fake” refugees are sowing their mouths closed, the Tasmanian government has been busy passing a law for the amnesty of building structures with shoddy construction. If they don’t meet building codes, amnesty will be handed out, so no fines for the illegal construction.

Reading this with those vile people who dared to escape their deaths in their home countries on my mind, I instantly thought of Amnesty International and became infuriated at this incredible irony of blasphemous proportions. Offering amnesty to people who have risked lives by taking stupid shortcuts, but not to people who have left everything they have ever known and loved to save lives. Amnesty International is about offering true justice and freedom to those who deserve, but have it not.

On my way home to look up the definition of amnesty (to make sure my rage was justified), I grabbed a late lunch. Waiting at a cross-walk, I stood beside an unfortunate gentleman in an electric wheelchair. He mumbled something to me, which I didn’t quite understand (or maybe my subconscious assumed it had misheard). I asked him what he’d said, and the response, as I understood it, was a simple exclamation of surprise: “Black people walking down the street!”

I wasn’t angry with him. I pitied him and his ignorance, knowing that he would probably never change. No further enlightenment would fall upon his worldview, and his life would come to dust with that shadow remaining over his understanding of life. What a sad, dark, and lonelier existence to have! What a shameful way to be at your end…

The pitiful ignorance I see in people, in every land I visit…it’s detestable, although that is not the feeling it gives me. It’s more one of disappointment of this darkness that dampens the love.

“Love thy neighbor”… “Who’s my neighbor?”… “A man was traveling the road…which of these men was a neighbor to one who was robbed?”… “[Reluctantly]…the Samaritan…”.

“Go and do likewise.”

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Uncles, emails, and real stories!

2010-11-11T03:44:00.000-08:00

Burglaries & Things

Ok, so for those of you who don’t know about it, it all really starts back at the beginning of the year, when I decided to be a student missionary. By this time, my roommate Jeremy Wong’s local aunt and uncle have adopted me as nephew. They find that my family is not doing so well financially, and decide to make sure I have everything I need for my journey—clothing, luggage, a suit (they insisted), and the rest. Of particular note were the two sets of cufflinks I was given, both very special, and the Seiko timepiece, a watch which had been in his (the uncle’s) possession for over 40 years (which I didn’t find out about until after all that I’m telling you know transpired). Even without that bit of knowledge, I knew it was important, and I valued it as a small treasure of mine.

Skip forward to the end of June and I leave for Tasmania. Below is an email I sent to them this morning. To fill in the missing gap, somewhere between the beginning and end of the story you’ll find within, you need to know about something which transpired about 2 and half months into my stay here and which I just looked back and realized I’d already told you about. I returned home from speaking at a youth rally over the weekend and found my house burgled. Hey cool, I thought you had to say burglarized. Burgled really is a word! Anyway, the police came and took my statement, dusted the glass for fingerprints, and took the smashing implement (a concrete rock) away to look for skin for DNA—sweet as! Still waiting for the insurance claim—yay for ARM!

So, without further ado…the email:

I've been meaning to get a message out to you for a while. Sorry for being so remiss.

It all starts the day you responded to my email about being burglarized. Actually, it starts two weeks after I got here, before I knew much about the area--like where a jeweler might be located. I was rough-housing with a new mate of mine (foolishly without taking my wonderful Seiko watch off), when the clasp on my watch got bent out, so that it would not remain snapped when I put it on. Intending to get it fixed when I knew the area better, I laid it aside, very unhappily--I hadn't gone a day without it since my journey's outset. Disappointed, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to use my mobile phone as a timepiece.

Then my house is robbed. Shocked, I look all around the house for things that might have gone missing. Because it has been some 3 months, the watch has faded into the periphery; one of those things that you don't see anymore, but you know it's there. So you don't worry about it.

You don't worry about it, that is, until your loving and concerned uncle messages you, concerned that the most precious of the gifts he gave you to show his loving care for you were the ones that were targeted in the robbery. As he especially reminds you of the preciousness of the Seiko chronograph he entrusted to your care. The watch comes screaming to the forefront of your consciousness, ripped away from the comforts of the safe periphery, where it was still with you, safely unnoticed in the background. The idea that it, too, might have been stolen, has never crossed your mind. You cannot fathom why; of course burglars would delight in such an item!

Rushing home, you find it missing from the place you'd known all along (in your naivety) it had been safely nestled, and it's not there. Of course! Unbelieving, you decide YOU misplaced it somehow. So you tear through the house, looking in all logical, but mostly illogical locations in the house. Next you rush to your car, slamming the front door, and beginning scouring the main road for a pawn shop of some description. You roam up and down the road, anger, fear, disappointment, and guilt all simmering together into a guttural anxiety that makes your last meal feel all too close to its starting point.

So, there you have it: I go home, broken in spirit, knowing that even that special present, the burglars did not let be in peace. If only I'd fixed it! I might have--WOULD have--had it upon my wrist at the moment of misfortune. It's gone, and though the insurance claim might still replace it, it will never be replaced in our hearts and minds of sentimentality--after all, that's all that truly gives anything any REAL value, isn't it? Even the most precious of diamonds is not precious at all when it's attainment costs no real trouble or loss and its value is virtually nil in the realm of relationships.

On to the world of since then. Last week, I was off on a trip to the Northwest of Tasmania, speaking for the spiritual emphasis week at our sister Sevvie (that's how they slang Seventh-day Adventist here). Tuesday through Friday, each morning began with a talk to the secondary school (grades 7-10), moving to sport with them for the next hour, which was followed by a talk to the primary school (K-6) and sport with that group. The theme was Kung Fu, in which I used basic lessons from the realm of Martial Arts/self defense to teach valuable spiritual lessons, from not fighting on to endurance and discipline in serving God and fighting sin; from not fearing to seeking justice, rebuking the oppressor and defending the oppressed, and protecting the fatherless and the widow. I used self defense training and exercises to emphasize the points made.

Over the weekend, I went further west along the coast. There, I was the featured speaker for a youth retreat. The theme was Now or Never, so I gave them the four best reasons I could think of that their decision time was now or never: the most obvious, Baptist reminder that "You never know what will happen to you or those you care about tomorrow--or even tonight! Who promised you tomorrow?"; the exhortation that they were made for greater things than these (video games, movies, tv, fashion, money...); the reminder that Jesus' promise is that, like a thief in the night, He is coming quickly; and finally, a bringing to consciousness that we are all so very tired of the evil in this world, and the promise was when Jesus' name was spread to the ends of the earth, the end of all this junk will finally come.

Aside from the speaking, the weekend was a blast anyway! I had heaps of fun with the kids there. If you have facebook, you could find a picture of me tagged on a trampoline, doing a back flip at about 2 meters (6'8") in the air. Between the gymnastic trampolines, basketball, hammock sleeping, and karaoke, the weekend was a smashing hit.

Monday morning, on my way back into work--being VERY careful to ensure that I would be on time for staff worship--I think they consider me a slacker at the school here--I begin to here a flapping on the passenger side rear tire (which, remember, is the left side of the care here). No! Yup. Flattened and split tire--no good but for making cheap shoe soles anymore. Needless to say, I was late. But, I arrived to a package from my favorite adopted aunt and uncle, packed with love and goodies! On top of that, I find myself at the conference office that afternoon, encountering a package from the Student Missions office at Southern Adventist University. A double whammy of love and affection! The combination of sweet-steaming serenity and gut-wrenching nostalgia is almost overwhelming. I feel the love and miss it unbearably all at the same time.

Thank you so much for the care package. Its contents were all the more valued for the love contained in them. And, praise to Jesus, He hasn't allowed these gifts of love to be stolen either--yet :P

With love from Jesus,

     Colton Stollenmaier
     Chaplain, Hilliard Christian School
     32 Cheviot Rd.
     West Moonah, TAS 7009
     0400 640 553
     cstollenmaier@southern.edu

"Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain."     -1 Corinthians 15:58

Remembrances

2010-11-11T03:38:00.001-08:00

Remember Remember the 11^th of November

Today is Remembrance Day in Australia, remembering the fallen soldiers of Australia. The date is chosen thanks to the signing of the armistice of World War I on 11 November 1918. Standing there, I was thinking about what I would say if I were called upon to pray. Finally, I decided that they wouldn’t anyway—I’m not an Australian, and that’s appropriate. But, I figured it would have to be something like this: I stand here today feeling rather unworthy to represent the people of Australia; I’m an American. And though I feel a kind of mateship between our two peoples, I know I am not them. I share neither the history nor the heritage that binds this nation together. Yet the reason they gather today; to show silence and homage to the fallen brothers and sisters, comrades who gave their lives, is a sentiment which I can stand with them in. In my eyes at least, it seems that both their mates and my national brothers offered their lives in an invariable pursuit of the same ideals: liberty and justice for all. To this end, in the quest for the freedom of all people and in chase of global justice, we all stand here. We stand to proclaim, that for this cause, this motive and intangible entity, we too will willingly offer our lives. These qualities bid us, whether through life or death, to suffer any cost to see their advent a reality. For in this aim we find meaning and purpose. For your glory and a heart like yours, give us the strength, our Lord. Amen.

And may we never forget, in Jesus’ name.

The Show & Stuff

2010-10-20T03:58:00.003-07:00

20 October 2010

Another Month!

Lots of stuff has gone down. Moving out of my asbestos-ridden home because the building complex is being bought out (really back). Only 8 weeks left of school. I’ve been around the state, even preaching for a youth rally in the NW. I’ve worked at a tween camp (but that may have been just before the last post) and had two spiritual emphasis weeks at the school. Soon I’ll be headed out to do a spiritual emphasis week for the school in the NW, followed by a youth retreat weekend while I’m up there.

Right now, the show weekend is on. The Royal Hobart Show is basically a huge state fair (here’s nostalgia for the Cocke County Fair) with horse races mixed in. Oh, and the show bags. The show bags are their way of getting heaps of money blown on…not much. Cheap toys and candy in bags—except for the really expensive ones. Gets are crazy for them. The rides and tickets are fairly expensive from my experience, too. But, everything is here.

I know you guys have been dying for anecdotes of Aussie life, so I’ll give you a couple that are fresh on my mind to day. Cotton candy is fairy floss. Community parks are called “reserves” and are all over the place—sometimes simply patches of grass with perhaps a bench, though some are fairly nice. Makes them sound so green! I’m certain many of you have already been made aware of boots and bonnets and bins, taking out the rubbish and having a go.

In a complete turn in direction and abrupt halt in flow, while at the show today, I went to the church’s health-screening station. Met the woman who brought CHIP to Australia. She’s from the mainland. After a nice long conversation with her, she wanted to give me a book (because I’d only checked interest in spiritual development—I didn’t want flyers in addition to the updates I’d already have to all the upcoming programs) which they’d run out of, so she was hoping I might return to the show this weekend. So I let her know it’s no worries, I’m with the church; I’m a volunteer from America. So she asked what part, and I told her I was from South Carolina, and (as you get used to doing) asked her if she knew where that was. Her response was surprising to me: “Of course, I’m from America!”

I was shocked. I struggled to analyze what she’d just said, disbelieving that she’d spoken with an American accent. Turns out she’s from Kansas (I hope I got that right…), and as she was telling me so, I realized she most certainly was full American. Whoa! I haven’t even been here 4 months, and I did not recognize an American when I heard one! And for intrigue’s sake, you ought to know that she had no idea I was American either. We just stop noticing! Crazy.

Oh! That’s what else has happened since the last entry: while I was away on that youth rally speaking, my bedroom window was smashed and my house was robbed. You can check out the photos of me heartbroken (insert sarcasm emoticon) on facebook. It is quite ironic though, considering my last entry. Well, they made me realize that I did own some of the stuff—like $1000 worth. Ironically, it was the things that were gifts that I was most hurt by losing. After all that blubbering. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know about it so I could tell you not to store up for yourselves treasures on Earth, where moth and rust destroy, and thieves break in and steal. Instead, store up treasure in Heaven, where moth can’t eat up, rust can’t corrode, and thieves will never break in and steal. I know my treasure; His name is Jesus. But I hope your heart can be added to the spoils.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Birthday Thoughts & Well-wishes

2010-08-28T20:57:00.000-07:00

29 August 2010

Happy Birthday

It’s been sparse and rare lately, and for that I apologize. There are many things I could have mused and shared—should have—but many of those lessons and struggles have come and gone, and some are still works in progress. Before long, I still plan to write a part of my story. I’ll also write the story I created for a Friday night vespers program—first-person improvisation, with just a basic idea thought up in my mind beforehand. Much came as I spoke, and I realized that God was giving me the ability to do it. I was floored. In any case, though, it was a good story, and deserves to be retold, not just created once and forgotten. I also want to write about discipline—which, incidentally, is one of my coming speaking engagements. On Fire, the title will be. It’s for a youth rally.

But for today…for today, I’m not sure. Perhaps that I have, so far, had my birthday celebrated 10 different times by individuals/groups. My small group surprised me, I was sung to at the Primary School chapel, taken out for dinner by one of the school families (their son and I share the same birthday), surprised with a special card by the 2/3/4 class, a cake by the 5/6 class, a song by one of my Friday Bible Studies (Truth and Dare), a card by one of our year 10 girls, another by two girls from 2/3/4, a cake by the group I was singing with for a church program this weekend, I shared a cake with someone else for their birthday at our church luncheon, and I’m going out for dinner with the local youth tonight.

What no one here realizes is that last year, my birthday was the first day of school, and it was full-on! I had a front desk shift that started at 6am, a full day of classes mixed with work, and finished the day off with another work shift that ended at, I think, 8 that night. First day of school and three jobs. The only birthday celebration was that my sister had me over for an early dinner (I had 1 free hour that day), and we ended up arguing through it (mostly a result of my pride). Really, if nothing at all had happened for my birthday, it would have been better than last year.

I’m not writing about this to brag or anything, it’s just that…I’ve been wondering what it is that I can learn from this. First off, I was expecting this to be a lonely year, but it hasn’t been at all! And in that, I suppose, I’m offering everyone back home, those who missed me and felt my absence on a day that they figured should have been celebrating my life a little, some comfort. I was well taken care of. They’ve treated me far better than I ever could have imagined. But the question remains: Why?

Sure, they could just be ultra-friendly people, and their kindness surpasses the hospitality of the Jews the way our righteousness is meant to surpass the righteousness of the Pharisees. Maybe they’re just that awesome. I’ll give them a little credit.

But I don’t think the back-home folk are any worse.

So, when you’re doing a science experiment, you’ve got to figure out what the variables are. Well, the other side of the planet…nah, we turn 360 every 24 hours. The opposite hemisphere—well, that just means it’s cold instead of hot here, and while I grant that many people are irritable in the heat, the States are pretty well taken care of in the A/C department. And cold weather often makes people more, yup you guessed it, cold. And no, we haven’t been snuggling ‘round the fireplace, bundled up and sipping cuppas while the Holiday music tickles our spines.

The only thing I can think of…is me. Have I become a better person? Is there less self and more selflessness? Am I a good friend now? Is pride losing the battle to humility? Could it be that my abrasiveness is being sanded smooth by the Chief Cornerstone? What’s going on?

Because when I think about it, I see plenty that I’m doing wrong. I can end the day full of regrets. But when God helps me to look past all the failures, there are things going on in my life that remind of one of those people—you know, those people that you think are how Christians maybe oughta be. The rare ones.

Bringing people to church with them ones. Simple little encouragements toward God ones. And don’t, PLEASE don’t, think I’m trying to brag about what I’ve been doing. When I stand against the mark I’ve set for myself—His name is Jesus—I’m not even sure my arrow is hitting the target, let alone nearing the bull’s eye. But I’m not really sure who this guy is…is he different than the one who left? Is it totally context? I am who I am because I am where I am? Or is it just a couple of things that happen to make me look better? No different, just a couple of nice and pretty actions?

Or is the love being shown to me suggesting that maybe I really am a more love-deserving person than I used to be? Is it that it was the rarity that I was invited to do stuff before becuase I wasn’t out there making everyone else feel loved? Am I now? Or is everyone just nice because they feel bad because I’m on the other side of the planet and I’m their charity case?

When it comes down to it, it doesn’t really matter. The end of it all is twofold: one, be happy and thankful for the incredible amount of blessings you could count in your life if you knew how to count blessings (start with your big toenail and work from there). Two, live worthy of love, but never forget that even as long as we’re growing in love, we’ll still never be worthy of Love. But that’s ok; it’s a gift anyway.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Tonight, At Least

2010-08-10T03:58:00.000-07:00

10 August 2010

Tonight, At Least

Lord, tonight, at least, I’ll get it right. Before I lay down to sleep, weary from another unfinished day, I’ll take just this moment to do a thing worthwhile. I come before You now, as I should ever be, with all my heart. I give You, at least, this moment. Tonight I say I love You. In this moment, I say You’re my everything. For this short time together, I commit to You everything that I am. Lord, tonight, at least, I’ll live for you—if only as I sleep. And so I’ll wake, by Your grace, and I have hope, at least, for tomorrow.

Here For...

2010-07-20T03:23:00.000-07:00

20 July 2010

Well Done (Insert Sarcasm)

I was talking to a couple of students in my office today. One was an Adventist, the other was not even a church-goer—which is a recurring pattern I've been seeing. And it is beautiful. It's rather awesome how God has worked to merge lives together. The deep truth now, though, is that this can either be the sealing of two or the undoing of a pair. Depending upon their decisions and interactions, and how resolute the cedar of Lebanon is—how near the water, how deeply its roots dispersed through and into the earth—there could well be two souls out of the Kingdom, rather than one added. Pray, readers, that those on God's side will hear His whisperings and learn to live in His love, so that their friend will become their compatriot, and both will come Home.

The non-Adventist friend of mine was saying something to the effect of “Yeah, I don't get why you pastors do that. Why would you go so far away—from where they don't even have Vegemite—not even getting paid, to the complete other side of the world to do this?” I began to sputter some kind of answer, trying to get somewhere about how I ended up there instead of like some third world type place, and I guess I was going to go from there to how God called me, and maybe I was thinking about going on to “saving souls” or some rubbish like that, but it ended up being drowned out and skipped around, and diversion took the whole question, the whole moment away.

Peter counsels us to be ready at every moment to give a reason for the hope we have (1 Peter 3:15). This was one of those moments that people who are passionate about Jesus crave like Adventists crave haystacks. It was the perfect opportunity, THE reason I am here in Tasmania, and I had no response. I HAD NO RESPONSE?!!! This is the thing I live for! Hello, His name is JESUS!

In the end, I'm thankful I went tongue-tied and lip-flop like I'd just gotten dental work done. Why? Because the next words of that statement Peter makes go like this “with gentleness and respect.” I figure I would have done one of the following if God had let me go on:
1. Disrespected the student, making it sound like I was better than him.
2. Become another cliché and “yeah, whatever” pastor who lost any chance of touching him
3. The portrait of Jesus would have suffered another blurring—and we already do enough damage to the picture He's painting when we try to pick up the brush!

There was another one, but I forgot. But the real thing is this: what am I doing here if I don't even know how to answer that question? It really made me start thinking about where I am spiritually, and I think I'm a fish living in a centimeter of water—it's not really working. How hard is it to say “Jesus”? All I had to do was start there and the rest would have come:

“It's Jesus, man. Maybe you haven't gotten a good look at what it looks like when people really get a good look at what Jesus did for us, a good feel for what His love is like. But let me tell you, when you have felt it, and you really get an idea of who this Jesus really is, it changes you. And all you want to do is whatever He asks. And you want other people to know the love He has for them. So when He calls you to go somewhere, you go. The money doesn't matter—I was going to go to a place with no running water or electricity. I would've been drinking rain water and eating rice! But I don't care where I end up or what food I do or don't have. I just want to tell people about Jesus. And wherever He ends up thinking I should be, that's where I'm going.”

I had no idea what I was going to write there. I just started with “It's Jesus, man.” But if that had been all I said, it would have been the right answer. The example of Jesus is always the right answer.

Then I started thinking a little bit more. And I began to wonder whether the question really was so easy to answer. “Why AM I here?” What am I doing? Obviously, I have already forgotten. I have the right answer, “Jesus,” and that's the reason I'm hanging out with the kids and trying to make the spiritual components better—but is it just a cliché to me? Does it mean anything in my heart? Does it really mean anything when I wake up in the morning? When I'm playing with the kids? When I'm having a conversation with them? When I get home in the evenings and choose what to do with the hours I have left?

To be honest, where I've been lately, who I've been lately, I don't know why I'm here. With the life I've been living, the passion I haven't had, it's pretty pointless. I'm not really sure why I'm living—I don't think it's been for God.

I'm tired of random Christ encounters. I want to fall down at His feet in awe every morning. I want to hear His whispers of love and guidance every moment. I want to think with His mind, feel with His heart, and see the world through His eyes every minute. I want to keep Him on my mind, and seek to know Him in every decision. “Trust in the LORD with all your heart; lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways know Him, and He will make your paths straight.” More on that verse later.

Last Thought

In the end, I'm glad the moment came and made me think, but I shouldn't have ever needed it. I should've been ready for it. Will I get a second chance at that one? God I hope so! But if He doesn't manage to give me another shot, what can I do about it now? Live a better life now, that's what. Ask the right questions. Live with my heart wide open.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Pushover

2010-07-15T03:40:00.000-07:00

15 July 2010

Tender Heart

“Love does not rejoice in evil”

I cried today over a story of a man dying in his mid 50s. Just a little anecdote; no significance or relationship to me, no special heaviness or spiritual emphasis. It wasn't said what disease he was dying from. It didn't need to be. The unnamed and silent killer is always assumed: cancer.

The human heart holds a special hate for cancer. The reason is fairly simple: it's everything that isn't meant to be in the experience of humanity.

God never wanted us to experience evil. He wanted to keep the knowledge of good vs. evil from being a part of the world we knew. We said no. We said we'd like to be our own judge, and thus our own God, and thus our own life force. But this can only lead to mutation, degeneration, and death.

Cancer is the gravest analogy, the foulest irony, the most bitter object lesson. It reveals sin all to perfectly. In many respects, it should be considered an autoimmune disease; it is defeat by your own body. Your own cells become useless masses of tissue—not really even life; kind of what we say fetuses are when we rip them up and suck them out. And so they keep on growing and reproducing, until they interfere with your body's functioning. They're the thorns that grow up and choke out the life before it can grow to its fullness.

The worst is when it is malignant. That's when pieces break off and migrate to other places, where they can start a whole new infection. The spread of disease—the spread of sin in your life. You can see now why leukemia is such a horrific form of cancer.

Now plenty of medical professionals could come in and tell me “Well, that's not entirely true” or “There's way more kinds of cancer,” but the point is the same. And the points I've made are true to at least a layman's level.

I'm not going to explain out this analogy terribly much. Some things you won't get until way later. Some things you'll probably get that I didn't. But I leave it to you to consider how much like sin cancer is—what an analogy and irony and object lesson it is.

I heard mention of a study recently of at least a form of cancer that was contagious. I'm not sure if it was just one form or a study suggesting “turns out you CAN catch it!” And I don't care. I'm just angry. That was the only way the analogy was incomplete. That was the only need of HIV; the infection that we spread through our idolatry, which then makes us kill ourselves, or at least our every defense from even the slightest evil.

Getting Softer

“Love hopes all things”

I'd had tears in my eyes just before this story, this time for a glory moment. A little boy and girl were in a boat that flipped upstream of Niagara Falls. The little boy was saved just feet from the tumultuous cloudy mist of incredible force that pummels the rocky scape below. First thing out of her mouth to her savior—the only man who cared to take action as the rest of the world looked on at this exciting spectacle—was a question: “Where's my brother.” The man looks up and then whispers in the girl's ear, and her hands cling together over her heart. He had seen the boy being sloshed and smashed upon the rocks and through the waves. He was far from rescue and far too close to the edge.

The words the man had whispered? “You need to say a little prayer for your brother.”

And the dark cloud of death, at the last moment when all hope was lost, became the sweet caress of a soft mist, floating him down to the bottom, where he would be rescued. All of his wounds and scars came from the raging rapids before his fall. All of them came from the tumbling and turning he'd done up before the great plunge. No harm at all was done by the drop itself.

Draw your own analogies, because there are plenty. But don't miss the big idea: it was a miracle.

And it glorified God.

Oh yeah

“Love bears all things”

What I was really wanting to say this time around was simply this: I'm not claiming to be super-spiritual or have any rights to say I'm closer to God than anyone else.

But I know I hunger and thirst for righteousness. So I know I'll be filled.

Because I hunger, because I thirst—because I yearn and burn and seek and deeply desire and dig my nails in and claw—I know that God will make me a righteous man, though at present all I know is my weakness. And so I know that He is changing me.

And the evidence for me is this: in a world that tells us to grow colder and more familiar with pain and sickness and death, it grows stranger to my eyes. Though I have watched enough filthy entertainment and killed thousands in bloody games of war and violence to numb my affections, and though my heart has been turned to stone by abuse and let-down and sickening travesties, though the scar tissue has grown thick and the callous deep from the rough familiarity with sin, yet am I unfamiliar. Each new knell of the death bell hurts more than the last. Each new story of pain cuts with lighter and still lighter blows. I'm changing. I'm growing soft. And He's to blame.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Just Plain Wrong

2010-07-11T05:56:00.000-07:00

11 July 2010

So Wrong

I think one of the greatest things in life is not the times I've been write, but the overwhelming majority of the time that I've been wrong. I can't think of any sweeter medicine than realizing “wow, I was SO wrong” so many times. And that medicine is certain to have effect.

Really, by simply making that statement you're undoing it. But, like salvation, blazing the trail of brokenness takes more than just confession. The bush is heavy there, and the work is tough. Self-seeking is one of those things that is so innate in us that its roots are often deeper than we've ever looked before. Yet this too holds its own reward. You rarely learn so much about yourself as when you prayerfully delve into the depths of your own soul. There, where bone and marrow merge inconspicuously, God brings His light. And with the light of His presence, the scalpel of His word can be wielded. It's time for surgery.

The blade begins to slice through death and decay. Bone and marrow find their meeting place, and all the empty holes and infectious abscesses are revealed. It's amazing how much you never knew had found its way into your very identity. Your character was being altered without any consciousness on your part. You thought you were perfectly healthy. It turns out that was only because you had no idea what health really feels like.

I once had a friend who had mononucleosis for weeks without knowing it. They thought the way they were feeling was perfectly fine; they'd been sick for so long that they thought it was the norm. It wasn't until the sickness was finally alleviated that they learned how life was meant to feel.

In the same way, we all live in shadows. At worst, we are the characters of Plato's philosophy, chained to a pole in a cave, seeing only shadows of images of life. How painful it is to be drug into the sun! But what liberation can be found there! At best, we have been rescued from darkness, and are walking in His marvelous light. With myopia. And the less you think your vision is off, the more terribly you need eye surgery.

I'm stumbling through my bright new world with a pair of lenses that are probably built for someone who's in need of just the slightest aid in their vision, when images are far and small—and I'm legally blind.

So how wrong do you find yourself? How short-sighted are you? Maybe it's time for a checkup.

It's Getting Better...

The crazy thing is, your err might be in the very light of truth; you may well be drawing your conclusions from the truth of the new life in Christ you have been born into. The problem is that you have no idea how bad your eyes are. You've been living in a cave all your life, and your eyes have gone bad. And if a man's eyes are bad, his whole body is full of darkness—and how great is that darkness!

This is why, each time you read the same passage of scripture, you can find something different—something deeper and novel. It's because you've gotten a new pair of glasses since then, and taken another dose of medicine. The light is going deeper, the blade is cutting further. And as your wrongs are revealed and your health returns, you see better and still better. And life feels better and still better.

In this manner, we come to maturity in faith—a maturity that condemns our immaturity. You see, now that we can see more clearly the beauty around us, we can also see our stark contrast with it. And so, day by day, we recognize further our desperate need of God and His detergent to wash us clean. It only comes in one scent—and at first, it's never pleasant. It only comes in one color—and at first, everything looks red. But the aroma that soon fills our nostrils, and the purity that follows the cleansing, is more wondrous than anything we've ever known. Each time, we receive a deeper clean than we've ever experienced, so it never loses its excitement or novelty.

But despite the incredible new purity we receive, the very cleansing sharpens our sight, and so we see all the more our depravity. We are desperate for God and His love to cover us. So you see, the closer you draw to God, the more you recognize your desperate state, the incredible extent of your wrongness, and your total need of eye surgery.

There's something that you need to understand; all this time, we've been thinking, as far as the eyes go, that we've only got problems with short-sightedness and blurred vision (there's a whole lot of gray in our lives [that's something for another time])—just a pair of glasses can correct that! But the truth is, there's something far more grave than that going on; we've got cataracts.

The scales on our eyes threaten all hope of vision, and just living life here on earth tends to make them grow. But Jesus is the Great Physician, and time with Him makes those scales flake off, bit by bit. And when the log in our eyes begins to be chipped away, we can see clearly the reality of the speck in our neighbor's eye; it's true nature, it's true size in the grand scheme, and it's true relevance. And to think, we wanted to try to perform surgery for that! Us, with no medical license, extreme myopia, and cataracts. What a disaster that would have been! How blind we could have made them. It's a good thing no one in Christian churches tries to take out the flaws they see in others...

But as we begin to get a clearer perspective—on us, the Truth, and others—we can begin to point others to the Physician's tender care. We all need Him (although telling someone that can be the exact wrong thing to say, ladies and gentlemen), and a simple introduction is all that is necessary. In the light of His glory, they'll see their need. In the light of your glory, they'll see your need. Luckily, Jesus offers to shine through you while He's making you like Him.

The most wicked heart is mine
When drawn so close to thine

My blinded eyes have light enough to see
The chief of sinners, dining there with thee

What health, what joy, what all-surpassing peace
Is mine to find when humbled at your feet

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Emptiness Stew

2010-07-06T01:50:00.000-07:00

6 July 2010

Loneliness

I've just finished my first cooked dinner in my new home for the next 12 months. I moved in yesterday, but I had to go grocery shopping and to a church board meeting. This is my first night truly alone.

I'm far too objective about my feelings; I try to assess how I'm feeling. I'm analyzing my loneliness and considering the implications for myself—personality and future—and how I can generalize those implications to general humanity. More than that though, I'm embracing the loneliness. Gladly.

No facebook. No television running. No texting new friends or finding something to do. This is good. Feeling that raw gnawing feeling in the gut that never really leaves.

“What about God?” is on auto-response, I know. And yes, there is an enrapture of love and peace when I'm spending time with Him here, living on my own. He is so sweet ('tis so sweet to trust in Jesus...). But my God is not a crutch. Even in His presence, even when He is my all in all, it's there. A little loneliness that just can't be kicked. And there's something beautiful about it. It's embracing the dependency of humanity. It's recognizing the brilliant blend of frailty and strength. It's sharing in the daily trod of my millions of brothers and sisters living in a full and busy world but who, inside, are filled with nothing.

It's amazing, we can do everything to ignore it, to suppress the discomfort and drown it out, but there isn't a single pain killer in the loneliness line. Praise God that we can never escape our need of others, our need of Him, and most of all our need of something more than this life; a new life to come.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

First From Tasmania

2010-06-25T06:07:00.000-07:00

25 June 2010
Inspiration Source: Cross-cultural Servanthood by Duane Elmer

Do Not Judge, Lest Ye be a Counselor

It takes the average person less than 5 seconds to decide whether they want to have a relationship with someone. By then, they have already stuffed that individual into a schema; one of millions of little boxes we form in our mind into which we place everything we know. There's a red pen box (which itself can be related to many other boxes; the school box, the teaching box, the anger or failure box, etc.), and that is inside the pen box, which is inside the writing utensil box, which is inside the writing box, and on it goes. There are certain things we know about the items in our boxes. If something comes up that doesn't fit, we have two options; make a new box, or change the one we have.

But most people choose a third box: they just pretend the difference was never there. This way, they can keep their boxes just the way they are. And thus stereotypes are born.

One thing needs to be understood here; everyone has schemas. Even the tribal man who has never heard of anything even relatively what we would consider modern. And they serve us well. Don't hate the schemas. Hate the tendency to ignore what doesn't fit. There's a flip side to that, as well; don't hate people who stereotype you; it's all they know (they've only got their boxes to work with). And some people stereotype you incorrectly simply because they have not encountered something different. Once you show them, they'll change their schemas.

Even once you know someone intimately, personally, and uniquely though, they will still have their schemas. Mom has her own little box, with many other boxes interconnected. And here's what I'm wanting to get at: successful professional counselors are those who are exceptionally good at figuring out what box a person fits into. They have a grand repertoire of schemas available to them, and they have a keen sense of hints at which ones a person belongs to. We pay them to stereotype us.

Disclaimer: this is not an argument against counselors. I personally greatly appreciate the work good counselors do (although I consider good counselors to be on the endangered species list). It is simply a thought, with the conclusions up to you.

And you know, I might add that this box issue is the same stumbling block for every religion and denomination; we ignore the things that break our arguments; those things that don't fit in with what we believe. God help us.

Unity

“Accept one another...just as Christ accepted you...so that the Gentiles may glorify God for His mercy...[and] hope in Him.” Romans 15:7, 9, 12

A few points to note: (1) being accepting of one another within the church and of those who don't believe or behave as we suppose they ought brings glory to God. (2) It causes the nonbelievers to come to glorify Him for His mercy. If they have to glorify God for His mercy that we can accept one another and get along, it means that a.) we can only be unified by an act of God and b.) we must accept one another as Christ accepts us; in ways that we don't deserve. We don't deserve acceptance. That is why accepting one another is a demonstration of His mercy. (3) If others see that God is so merciful, and so powerful as to help us do such a thing, they will be willing to place their hope in Him.

Humanity

“Is that a prostitute?” “No. That's not a prostitute. That's a person, in prostitution.”

I read a story in this book of a man who gave his life to try to save a group of horrid epileptics—the kind who, at that time, had no real kind of life. To add to some of the conversation of my last post, let me ask you this: would you give your life for an invalid to live? What if they wouldn't get better? What if they didn't even ever become saved?

Would Jesus give His life for an invalid?

How about another question: Would Jesus give His life for a cripple so marred they hardly resemble their Father anymore?

Get the picture?

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

Destiny

2010-06-15T20:35:00.000-07:00

15 June 2010

Destiny

I’ve been thinking about that word a bit. I’m not doing any word study to see where we get it from, although I can guess: “Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going? What is the meaning of life?” the great universals. Obviously somebody wanted an answer, and destiny brings direction, meaning and purpose to life. So do I believe in destiny? I believe God has a plan. I believe Moses could have said no in the desert even after all his excuses had run dry.

Is there a destiny for me? You bet there is. Can I make my own destiny? Absolutely.

The topic floods me with passion, courage, a feeling of meaning and greatness. Every boy hopes for it. Few make it a reality. The heroes of old really were heroes. We’re just afraid to believe it’s true, so we live vicariously through the actors on the screens. But why not?

I can’t think of greatness anymore without thinking of servanthood. We know that all heroes pursue the task before them with reckless abandon, at any cost. So how far are you willing to go for one soul?

I’ll put it this way: Jesus was ready to give everything for just one soul to even have the option of salvation. Jesus. God with us. And we talk big game about ready to give our lives, but do we mean it? I mean, if your life chalked up to giving some serial rapist & killer a second chance at life—which he might not take—would you be ok with that? Would that be a purpose filled life? Are you alright with that destiny?

A missionary goes to a village. He preaches an evangelistic series, during which he does visitation and helps with the needs of the community. The normal scenario says that if, out of that village of 150, 15 people are saved, it is a great success. He praises God, performs the baptisms or sets up the Bible studies, and goes home, to accolades of success. His new flock has been established, the church is grown.

But say that missionary is Jesus. 149 get to hear the gospel. The last one? He’s a shepherd, and he was away driving his herd to market, over the mountains. Jesus? He follows. All the way. The people try to warn Him of the robbers and murderers along the pass, but He goes anyway. He gets robbed, beaten, and His leg is broken along the way. Still He chases after that man until He finds Him, just to offer to share the sweet sweet story with him. The man denies. But Jesus leaves an extra Bible with the village for Him anyway.

Do you really get what it means for Jesus to go after the one lost sheep? This is what it looks like for the missionary with the heart of the Lion of the tribe of Judah: the church people of the village are being harassed for their faith. The persecution is hard, and has even cost lives. Our model says “how horrible” and prays for them, for God to perform a miracle. But this missionary heard God when He said “You are my miracle.” He goes to protect his family; the people God put under his care. He’ll die before harm comes to them.

How far will you go to tell one person that they are loved, and that they have been forgiven? A you ready for epic hero-level stuff?

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?

Humble Pie--My Favorite

2010-06-15T20:31:00.000-07:00

15 June 2010

Bridge Builder?

The tone of the blog below on building relationships makes me wonder if I actually know even the first thing about relationships. It goes something like this: the great missionary—that is, the one who excels and receives the world’s praise—tells the people they come to “this is how you need me to help you” while the humble servant of Christ—that is, the man or woman of true greatness—asks “how can I help you?” Good luck me.

Pre-departure post 1: The Bridge

2010-06-13T19:33:00.000-07:00

3 June 2010

I’m a sucker for organization. It makes me happy. But when it comes to journaling, it’s hard to differentiate (this will be my personal journal, this will be my plans for the ministry I’m working with, this will be my public blog, etc.). So, I’m just going to write whatever whenever—then cut and paste when I want to share stuff. Chances are, most of the things will be of some use one way or another—whether it’s anecdotal, relational identification, or ministry enlightenment. So, it may well be that I share the majority, if not all, of my inspirational and not-so-inspirational thoughts. Take what you will, leave other bits, and laugh at the rest—I won’t be offended, I promise.

In any case, today I need to write about some thoughts related to one of my main responsibilities at Hilliard (the Christian school in Tasmania for which I will be working as chaplain for 12 months-ish). In addition to caring for the spiritual life of the church, they want me to create a bridge between the school and the church. I’ve been thinking about that a lot in the past day or so.

13 June 2010

See this is why being home is so bad for me! No proper schedule, too many other people not following schedules, and nothing gets done. So much I was supposed to do by way of writing and reading has not yet been accomplished! Anyway, the bridge:

The fundamental problem with bridge-building is people don’t realize that if they want a bridge, I’m going to need supplies. The usual response is “Well, we don’t have money, but we can try to take a monthly offering for the ministry project.” The problem is, money is not the mortar we need for this bridge. Love is.

The thing is, the bridge they’re wanting me to build, if they want it to be functional, uses the members of the church as the material and relationships as the bond, or glue, or nails, or rope, or whatever the bridge may look like in your imagination. It’s going to cost a whole lot more than money.

The real question I face is not “can it be done?” or “am I able?” It is “are the ready? Do they really want this; are they truly willing? Do they know the cost?” And it will cost. Love. Time. Heartache. Their lives. You cannot convince a youth of their value if you don’t value them. “Value them how much?” you might ask. How much do you have? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s96UBETEFcc Will an “I’ll take it” be drawn from your lips?

Chuck Bomar’s Seven (7) Points for Building Those Bridges, from College Ministry 101

1. Redefine church: I’m about to make a simple statement that all of us know to be true: the church is not the building; it’s the relationships. It’s not the programs, it’s the people. It’s not an institution, it’s a movement. Yeah, yeah, I know. But that’s the problem. You know it like a cliché. The underlying, ingrained understanding of church is still pervasive in us all.

How would you define your church? Most of the time we don’t talk about the people. We talk about the service, the music, the sermons. Brothers and sisters, I could be the greatest evangelist since Paul—even better—and my church would be a rotting waste pit if this is how my church was viewed.

The reason this is so important is that it defines what it means to bring the youth back into the church. In the old model (and many of our broken psyches) it means to get them to attend a weekly service or a youth group. In the new model, it means creating meaningful and positive relationships with them—relationships that take time and effort from those in the church who love them. And that definition makes every difference.

2. Ignore numbers: This is a tough one. It means not determining success by how many people show up for events. Is one saved? That was more than enough for our Savior.

3. Lead through service: Is your goal to be the greatest or to be great? Are you ready to be a servant for the ones you want to win? Do you want to be a soul-winner or one who seeks and saves the lost—in the dirt and filth, on your hands and knees?

4. Foster unity: especially cross-generationally, and with no motives. No relationship with reasons other than “I love you.” This unity, regardless of productivity, is what makes relationships authentic and teams strong. It is then that they will be successful.

5. Cultivate mentorships: They are the bridge itself. Make them happen.

6. Focus on the new members: A warning for the natural process of continuing to strengthen relationships with those who came in early and stayed with it. Problem is, they’ll graduate; they’ll leave and move on. And if you haven’t been creating relationships with the beginning end, there won’t be a graduating end for very long.

7. Believe in the ministry: Believe in what God has called you to. Have great faith and great expectations. Believe in them and believe in what you are doing. Most of all, believe in the power of God and His total control. The youth can tell ;)

-Colton J. Stollenmaier, M.I.A.

~While we were still sinners, He endured the shame; how can I ever be ashamed?