“If it doesn’t break your heart it isn’t love. If it doesn’t break your heart, it’s not enough.” –Switchfoot
I have something I’ve been wanting to say.
It’s about action and inaction.
It’s about criticism and self-boasting.
It’s about choosing love over hate.
Last week as social media exploded with the Invisible Children campaign, Kony 2012, I saw a funny thing begin to happen on my newsfeed: division. It seems that the IC campaign has three camps: the supporter, the critic, and the indifferent. Soon articles and blogs had been written, friends had been unfriended, Wonka jokes had ensued, and somewhere in the midst of it all the children became invisible again.
While some supporters were flawed and some critics were justified, while some sat idly by, injustice reigned.
To the supporter: you were moved, you want change, good. Now do something about it. Sacrifice, spend yourselves (Isaiah 58:10), seek justice, love mercy (Micah 6:8), educate yourself, find an organization that does the most good, and pour yourself into it. Go to Africa, go to Mississippi, go visit your neighbor, just DO something, act beyond clicking share or buying a cool shirt, and cause change.
To the critic: you’re passionate, you’re sick of campaigns without action, I like it. Now do something about it. You disagree with Invisible Children? You think we should act here first? You’re sick of people acting like activists but not acting? Show them how, lead the way. Find your passion, your niche, and fight for it. Fight for justice. Build people up, that takes far more patience and courage than sarcasm or criticism.
To the indifferent: wake up. This life is fleeting and when it’s over, as you’re drawing your last breath, you’re going to wish that you had woken up before you were dying. We belong to one another, we need one another, we need to fight for what’s important, this world needs people that have woken up, not more warm bodies.
This life, no matter what you’ve been told, is not about us. It’s not about our comfort, our feelings, or our financial lot in life. It’s about love. Our convictions may not be the same, but the commands we live under are, and the greatest of these is love.
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This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters. If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person? Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.- 1 John 3:16-18
“More than my questions about the efficacy of social actions were my questions about my own motives. Do I want social justice for the oppressed or do i just want to be known as a socially active person? I spend 95 percent of my time thinking about myself anyway. I don’t have to watch the evening news to see the world is bad, I only have to look at myself. I am not brow beating here, I am only saying that true charge , true living giving, God honoring change would have to start with the individual. I was the very problem I had been protesting. I wanted to make a sign that read “I am the problem” – Donald Miller
“We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the words and deeds of the bad people, but for the appalling silence of the good people.” MLK Jr.
“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.” – Elie Wiesel
3.15.2012
3.09.2012
Building Altars
"I like those scenes in the Bible where God stops people and asks them to build altars. You'd think he was making them do that for himself, but I don't think God really gets much from looking at a pile of rocks. Instead, I think God wanted people to build altars for their sake, something that would help them remember, something they could look back on and remember the time they were rescued, or were given grace." -Donald Miller
The Lord knew that M1 would break our hearts. He knew that leaving that place would take away our joy. So in his goodness God sent us from M1 directly to Canaan Children’s Home, and it is in this place that my heart still resides.
Canaan Children’s Home is located in the small village of Jinja, Uganda and is nestled close to beautiful Lake Victoria. On our drive to Jinja my team went on and on about the beautiful scenery of the Ugandan countryside, and I could not help but smile because it was beautiful, it looked just like East Tennessee. I felt like I had come home.
When we arrived at Canaan all of the children and staff came running, laughing and smiling towards our bus. Pastor Isaac, the director of the home, stood at the door of our bus and hugged every one of us and welcomed us home.
This warm welcome was followed by dozens and dozens more hugs and welcomes. Soon both of my hands were occupied with little brown hands and my heart was being filled back up again.
Shortly after we arrived it began to get dark and we were reluctantly pulled away from our new young friends to have dinner. Throughout dinner and our discussion following, a chorus of voices could be heard ringing out in the night. At times these voices were singing and at times they were beautifully speaking in Luganda. As many of our team members went to bed I found myself wanting to join these voices, being drawn to them.
My dear, sweet friends Nancy, Carla, and I followed the voices and came to the church on the campus of Canaan, and in this church dozens and dozens of citizens from Jinja had come to pray all night. for twelve hours.. for their community, their children, to their God.
We walked into the church and settled into the back row. It is on that hard wooden bench that my God reminded me of His love. It is on that cold concrete floor, between two friends who love me, that I wept. It is there in that small wooden church, surrounded by the forgotten, abandoned, and alone, in a country that I long for everyday, that God reminded me of the beautiful simplicity of it all. I am loved. I am to love.
I sat there and I thanked my God over and over again that he was writing the story of my life. That in this story I was able to fly halfway around the world and be encouraged by a chorus of voices I did not understand.
I was able to fly halfway around the world to meet two beautiful women, who each live a state away from me in America, and whose hearts are so aligned with mine. To be a broken mess at their feet in that church and to be prayed over, to pray over Carla’s baby boy in the Congo, to know that he will come home to his family soon.
I was able to fly halfway around the world and be a part of the church, the beautiful bride of Christ.
My heart and spirit were broken in a beautiful way in that church. I begged God over and over again to only let that brokenness be mended by him, for my heart to be shaped by his heart.
I walked out the door of that church, I breathed in that cool African night air, and I exhaled thankfulness. As I turned the corner of that church that will always stand as an altar in my life, I saw the sweet face that would help reshape my heart.
There was my sweet Hellen, sitting at the base of an open window to the church, holding a hymnal, and singing it is well with my soul.
When she saw me she lit up and said, “You come, you sit with us.” I smiled and I said, “Of course.”
I sat between Hellen and Gloria, they held my hands, and we just listened to the beautiful voices pouring out of that window. Soon we built a pallet on the grass, I laid down in the middle of it, Hellen tucked my feet in, and then the girls laid on each side, wrapped their arms around me, put their heads on my shoulders and promptly went to sleep.
I laid their, full heart bursting, and looked at that beautiful night sky, (occasionally looking over my shoulder for black mambas, king cobras, or anacondas), I prayed for those beautiful girls resting, safely, on my chest, and knew that the day I had just experienced, the injustice I saw, the joy flowing despite that injustice, the freedom given me in the back of that church, and the innocence and love surrounding me on that dusty African ground would forever be an altar in my life.
Then I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and let beautiful Ugandan voices sing me to sleep.
The Lord knew that M1 would break our hearts. He knew that leaving that place would take away our joy. So in his goodness God sent us from M1 directly to Canaan Children’s Home, and it is in this place that my heart still resides.
Canaan Children’s Home is located in the small village of Jinja, Uganda and is nestled close to beautiful Lake Victoria. On our drive to Jinja my team went on and on about the beautiful scenery of the Ugandan countryside, and I could not help but smile because it was beautiful, it looked just like East Tennessee. I felt like I had come home.
When we arrived at Canaan all of the children and staff came running, laughing and smiling towards our bus. Pastor Isaac, the director of the home, stood at the door of our bus and hugged every one of us and welcomed us home.
This warm welcome was followed by dozens and dozens more hugs and welcomes. Soon both of my hands were occupied with little brown hands and my heart was being filled back up again.
Shortly after we arrived it began to get dark and we were reluctantly pulled away from our new young friends to have dinner. Throughout dinner and our discussion following, a chorus of voices could be heard ringing out in the night. At times these voices were singing and at times they were beautifully speaking in Luganda. As many of our team members went to bed I found myself wanting to join these voices, being drawn to them.
My dear, sweet friends Nancy, Carla, and I followed the voices and came to the church on the campus of Canaan, and in this church dozens and dozens of citizens from Jinja had come to pray all night. for twelve hours.. for their community, their children, to their God.
We walked into the church and settled into the back row. It is on that hard wooden bench that my God reminded me of His love. It is on that cold concrete floor, between two friends who love me, that I wept. It is there in that small wooden church, surrounded by the forgotten, abandoned, and alone, in a country that I long for everyday, that God reminded me of the beautiful simplicity of it all. I am loved. I am to love.
I sat there and I thanked my God over and over again that he was writing the story of my life. That in this story I was able to fly halfway around the world and be encouraged by a chorus of voices I did not understand.
I was able to fly halfway around the world to meet two beautiful women, who each live a state away from me in America, and whose hearts are so aligned with mine. To be a broken mess at their feet in that church and to be prayed over, to pray over Carla’s baby boy in the Congo, to know that he will come home to his family soon.
I was able to fly halfway around the world and be a part of the church, the beautiful bride of Christ.
My heart and spirit were broken in a beautiful way in that church. I begged God over and over again to only let that brokenness be mended by him, for my heart to be shaped by his heart.
I walked out the door of that church, I breathed in that cool African night air, and I exhaled thankfulness. As I turned the corner of that church that will always stand as an altar in my life, I saw the sweet face that would help reshape my heart.
There was my sweet Hellen, sitting at the base of an open window to the church, holding a hymnal, and singing it is well with my soul.
When she saw me she lit up and said, “You come, you sit with us.” I smiled and I said, “Of course.”
I sat between Hellen and Gloria, they held my hands, and we just listened to the beautiful voices pouring out of that window. Soon we built a pallet on the grass, I laid down in the middle of it, Hellen tucked my feet in, and then the girls laid on each side, wrapped their arms around me, put their heads on my shoulders and promptly went to sleep.
I laid their, full heart bursting, and looked at that beautiful night sky, (occasionally looking over my shoulder for black mambas, king cobras, or anacondas), I prayed for those beautiful girls resting, safely, on my chest, and knew that the day I had just experienced, the injustice I saw, the joy flowing despite that injustice, the freedom given me in the back of that church, and the innocence and love surrounding me on that dusty African ground would forever be an altar in my life.
Then I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and let beautiful Ugandan voices sing me to sleep.
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