The Unheard Voices

‘To the far recesses of Lebanon’

2012-07-13T16:56:00.001-04:00

Standing in the guest lobby of a hostel overlooking Beirut while trying to jam the ten Arabic New Testaments and assorted More Than a Carpenter booklets and DVDs our leader had just said we each needed to carry into the already overloaded pack that I would tote for the next two weeks over some of the toughest terrain in the Middle East, I started to wonder what I was getting myself into. And it wasn't just the overloaded pack, the rough terrain, or even the fact that I was getting sick that bothered me.

When I applied to do an internship with the regional communication team of an international missions organization in the Middle East, I expected it to be just that––a comm. internship. Getting course credit, understanding Arab culture and politics, and having a grand old adventure were at the top of my priority list.
That’s not to say that serving the Kingdom of God and bringing hope to the lost––the things that I felt motivated most of the other students in the program I went through–– weren't important to me. They were important, but I wouldn't be honest if I said they were what drove me. And to be even more honest, I was afraid of them.

It was summer of 2011, and while going to live in Beirut, one of the most volatile cities in the world’s most unstable region in the middle of the Arab Spring uprisings with a civil war next door in Syria somehow didn’t scare me at all, but the idea of evangelism did. So sitting in my room that April filling out visa applications, pricing equipment and checking flight schedules, I was looking forward to a summer that I hoped would involve a lot of work, a lot of adventure, and very little of the activities normally associated with a missions organization.

When I walked out of security at Rafic Hariri International in Beirut and met the people I would be living with on and off for the summer, things looked good. I spent the next month doing exactly what I had dreamed of: traveling through Jordan and Lebanon, working with a film crew, meeting people from all over the world, and getting to be part reporter, part photographer, part professional tourist, all while working on documentary films about the region.

This went on without a hitch up until two and a half weeks before my date to fly home. But those remaining two weeks turned out to be some of the most most challenging and most intimidating of my life. I was about to join a group of missionaries hiking the northern half of the Lebanon Mountain Trail.

I had just returned from a weeklong trip through the Jordanian desert––a story for another day––and was honestly still exhausted from the experience. I tried to put on my best face though as I met the nine or ten other people I knew I would be getting to know very well for the next two weeks. And I couldn’t help but wonder what those weeks would hold.

The Lebanon Mountain Trail is set up so that hikers start at the north end of the country, just a few miles from the Syrian Border and hike south from village to village staying at a local guest house every night. This provided a great opportunity, as many of the villages, whether Sunni Muslim or Maronite Catholic, had likely never been visited by evangelicals before, but that didn’t make me feel any better about it personally. Handing out tracks to Muslims and Catholics wasn't an activity I had ever really imagined myself engaged in. It was one of those moments when I found myself stepping back and saying: “Okay, are you really about to do this?”

That morning we drove to a village in the far north of the country––so close to Syria that my cell phone switched over to roaming. Early the next day, after a breakfast of apricot jam, Lebanese bread, and Labneh, a sour yogurt spread, we shouldered our packs and headed out into the wilderness.

While my pack may have been full of Bibles, I was still thinking of the documentary I was supposed to produce about the trek as my main responsibility. Thus, I took lots of footage and photos (probably too many considering that it was only the first day of two weeks).

One photo was of an old Arab goat herder we met while scrambling along the side of a ridge. After I snapped the photo and thanked him in Arabic, one of my leaders, Kristine [pseudonym] suggested I give him one of the New Testaments. I did. He thanked me, and that was that. That afternoon was passed through another village and I gave DVDs to several young boys who were excitedly following us as we passed through their village and up the next mountain.

Certainly I lacked the language skill to communicate anything meaningful to them in a conversation (Kristine was hopefully able to do that) but it still surprised me. There was no pain or awkwardness (at least not any that my limited cultural perception was able to pick up) in the interaction we had. They even seemed to appreciate it.

In the end, sharing the New Testaments ended up being the least difficult part of the adventure––that award was split between spending a day hiking straight up an almost vertical ridge, being lost in a cave, everyone getting sick from the food and water (multiple times) and the general lack of a trail on what was misleadingly referred to as the Lebanon Mountain Trail.

Despite the hardships, it was a great adventure. Something I would do again in a heartbeat. I made great friends from all over the world. I lived more immersed in another culture than I ever had before. I saw some of the most beautiful places and beautiful people that I have in my life. And I faced a life-long fear of doing something that is probably the most important thing you can do.

It’s a strange and mysterious world, and God works through it all in strange and mysterious ways.

Meet Me in the Middle...East.

2012-04-09T01:28:00.001-04:00

In the summer of 2011, I had the privilege of going to the Middle East for a summer internship with an Iraqi church for two months. It was a strenuous experience for me as I experienced a culture that was far outside the paradigm of my home culture. I had gone through an entire semester of studying and researching middle-eastern culture, but no amount of reading can ever come close to preparing one for the real thing. Experience truly is the best teacher. Up until this point I had very little experience with Arabs or Muslims, and I was a little nervous about being a American Christian in a Muslim, Arab nation.

I was plagued by the stereotypes concerning the Middle East and her inhabitants. I went expecting hatred, prejudice, persecution, and a whole lot of heat! Yeah, I was even afraid of being kidnapped or killed, but I went with the attitude that God was in control of whether I lived or died so it didn't matter as long as I could go make a difference and try to learn about these people that I knew so little about. Besides, my school wouldn't send me head on into true danger right?

My partner and I landed in Amman very late. We met up with our contact who had been in the Middle East for many years and he gave us a brief tour of the ballad (downtown) and took us to Cairo's, which is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the ballad. It was there that we had our first Arabic meal...MANSIF! (See picture right). It was really good, but on the first night their I broke the first rule of traveling abroad which is.."don't get ice". Thankfully I didn't get sick because of it!

During my time there I learned a great deal about the hardships of ministry abroad. While ministry in States can also be difficult, its difficult in a different way. Just like in America, the church abroad struggles with unity and working together to reach the lost. Everyone just has their own agenda. Therefore, even though I grew in love for people and for culture and life, I found myself discovering a new found angry. A righteous fury within my soul at the disunity and breakdown of God's holy, catholic (little "c") Church! One thing I did see about the church of the Middle East, that we in the West could benefit from, is the community that they have built within their individual churches. Even in the midst of the disunity, there was still far more unity and love for one another than can be found in the Church of the U.S. I was welcomed with open arms, and even though we were separated by language barriers, the members of the church always attempted to make my and my traveling partner feel welcome and a part of the church. The youth particularly did this well since they knew a good deal of English, as well as the international language of football (soccer for the American readers).

There are so many stories I could share, from foolish Americans coming in and attempting a foot-washing in the middle of a Sheikh's house to holding hands with an elderly religious leader as I'm led to a nearby Mosque for evening prayers. Instead I will simply say this, let God lead you and trust Him to take care of you. Do not let yourself get sucked in by stereotypes and allow yourself to show less love and compassion for someone just because of their race, nationality, gender, or even their religious affiliation. Besides, wouldn't you want someone to show you the same courtesy?

"The Heart of Africa...the Heart of a Young Missionary"

2012-04-08T23:24:00.001-04:00

As I waited for my turn to step off the plane for the first time in Africa, a woman grabbed my attention and began a conversation with me. She was a young teacher from America, traveling back to Africa for her second time, and the words she said to me that day have stuck with me even until now. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “Many things will impact your heart, but Africa will change your heart.” I knew that my lifelong passion for Africa, being fulfilled that day, was going to radically change me in a way I could not yet imagine.

I blinked, and I found myself sitting in the airport in Lusaka, Zambia three months after speaking to that young teacher. Where had the time gone? Three months was but a moment, and yet a whirlwind of experiences and sights I had never seen before. As I looked out the airport window, my traveling companion held me as I cried for what felt like an eternity. I watched my best friend from the summer leave Zambia on a plane headed for Germany. I knew her year long experience changed her too. I knew there was a high chance I might never see her again. And I also knew I was next to board a plane. How could God make me leave this place that had stolen my heart? For the first time in my life I found my heart buried away in the deep roots of Africa, and for the first time I began to feel the throbbing ache of homesickness.

What is it about Africa that changes a person heart? Is it the culture, the people, the joy, the laughing, the dancing, the mourning, the sickness, the nshima? The one thing that strikingly stands out about this far off land is the Spirit of God being so near. In my short three month stay, I have never felt closer to heaven, and closer to God’s heart. He is not a different God in Africa; however, He does show up differently. The people rely on Him, cry out to Him, trust Him, and have an undying joy for Him like I have never experienced before. God delights in His African children because they delight in Him. Even the unbelievers are hungry for His word. People desire the gospel in the far reaches of Africa.

I could tell you hundreds of stories of how God revealed Himself to me while in Africa. I could share with you details of stories like a paralyzed man being healed, a young woman hungry for the word of God, hungry prisoners who were hungrier for the gospel than their meals, brave men and women combating spiritual warfare, four hour worship services. I could tell you about the disabled people that were more competent in their faith than I. I could tell you about the orphan children that were changed because people loved them. I could tell you about the wonders of Victoria Falls, and the heartache of the starving. I could tell you all these things, but these descriptions may just sound like stories. What I want to tell you is that my God, my Love is present around the world. He is full of culture and diversity. He is eager to answer the prayers of His people. Many mornings in Africa God would wake me up fifteen minutes before my alarm to speak His love over me, and simply to talk to me. After returning to America I was hit with the hard truth. I hadn’t yet seen God. I couldn’t walk down the road and talk with Him over a cup of tea. I couldn’t pick up the phone and call Him. However, after leaving Africa that is how I felt. I was lovesick for my Romancer who felt 7,000 miles away.

Now, nearly nine months out of Africa, I desire to be standing in the place of that young American teacher…stepping off the plane for a second time. Like the young woman described…Africa changed my heart. God invaded my life there unlike He ever had before. He introduced me to His people, and He allowed me to be His hands and His feet to love the poor and the widow and the oppressed and the orphan. He allowed me to glance into His heart, and then when I thought I couldn’t bear to look into His heart anymore…He placed His heart in my hands.