Thoughts after Europe

In the last couple of weeks, I have seen Corinth and Athens and Jerusalem. I have thought of Paul's struggles and suffering in those places. I can always encourage myself with the prospect of going back to America, where we are free and comfortable. But Paul didn't have any place like that. In most cities the Jews were waiting for him, breathing out threats and slaughter.

Our last day in Greece, I swam in a deep part of the Aegean Sea. I don't like deep, murky water. I thought of Paul who was shipwrecked three times and spent a night and a day in the deep. Are others ministers of Christ? Paul was more--in labors more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequently, near death more often. Paul was the greatest missionary.

But after all the adventure and suffering and heroism, Paul says, "If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness." We should boast gladly of our weaknesses. Jim Cymbala writes in his book Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire, "That evening, when I was at my lowest, I discovered an astonishing truth: God is attracted to weakness. He can't resist those who humbly and honestly admit how desperately they need him." And people aren't put off by honesty either, because "Whoever gives an honest answer kisses the lips" (Proverbs 24:26).

Two thoughts about Europe:

From England to Norway to Greece, immigrants from the third world are piling into Europe. They come to make a better life for themselves. And on one hand, I support them. I myself am the descendent of many poor immigrants. And with Europe's dwindling birth rates, foreigners fill the gaps. They bring good food and color and variety to the drab corners of Europe.

But on the other hand, a begrudging voice (I ashamed to write it) within me says, "Why don't those Pakistanis stay in their own country and improve things there, rather than escaping to Europe, bringing their Islam and all its problems?" I am not racist. It's my question of fairness, "Why do they get to take part in something that they don't deserve--the prosperity and opportunity of Europe? It rightfully belongs to the Englishman and the Norwegian."

But who am I to judge who is worthy and what is fair? Certainly, I am not. It's all grace--grace that I am a child of America and my bread and my opportunities are plenteous and grace that the Pakistani gets to come to Britain. God said to Israel (and I see why): "The stranger shall be as a native of the land. There shall be one law for the native and for the stranger who sojourns among you. You shall remember that you were a slave in Egypt and the LORD you God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to do this" (Exodus 12:48, 49; Deuteronomy 24:18).

Second thought: How can Europe continue its peace and prosperity with an upcoming generation that is so undisciplined and self-indulgent? My European peers don't value the same things as their parents and their grandparents. I can't see how Europe will avoid being undone if they continue to forget God and fail to train their children. It only takes one or two generations to spoil greatness, and Europe was great. My generation loves fun and pleasure too much. How can a nation stand on the shoulders of a bunch of softies? The children of my generation are like seed sown in stony places, where there is no depth of soil. The seed springs up, but it has no depth of soil. When the sun rises, the sprouts are scorched. Because they have no root, they wither away.
Sam

Color-Man, 29 June, Gilead

Tonight, I am at Gilead Camp on the heights of Gilead above the mountains of western Jordan. This is a Christian summer camp for Jordanian high-schoolers. Sixteen and seventeen year-olds have gathered here this weekend for drum and drama lessons, games and fun, and seminars about sex and security and God's love.

You have to be a certain kind of person to be a youth director, and it's the same guy in Jordan as it is in America. America leads the pack for evangelical Christian camps. Twila Paris and Darlene Zschech are in the vanguard of worship songs right after the motivational speaker and the reckless, frivolous youth group games.

The big octopus of American culture has wrapped its lanky tentacles around the kids at this camp in Jordan. "My name is Samuel," I told a group of guys. "All right, Samuel L. Jackson," the chorus replied. They watch our movies, buy our style of clothes, listen to Tupak and say that truth is relative. American Christians could do more good for the world if we worked to renew our own culture. But how is American culture so successfully sweeping Jordan? Two girls told me they liked our culture because American guys treat girls much better than Arab guys. Certainly, our culture is glamorous and appeals to human nature.

Worst of all, it breeds discontentment and self-consciousness. Boys and girls pull at their shirts and their pants, when they stand up, making sure that they are just how they want them. They change their way of talking and walking to give just the right impression. Each of them thinks that everyone else is looking at them. In the end, I think MTV will have more effect on weakening Islam, softening its sharp edges, than anything else. But which is the lesser evil?

Sam

Action-Man, 29 June, the Dead Sea, Jordan

Today we descended through desert wadis and dunes to the Dead Sea. My ears popped as we dropped from the heights of Mt. Nebo, where Moses looked out over the Promised Land before his death. Deuteronomy says the Lord showed him, among other things, "Judah…to the western sea." That's a miracle. The Mediterranean lies at least a hundred miles to the west. From our vantage point, we could barely see Israel in the haze. But I pictured the sky clearing before Moses, his eyes being given super-human sight for those last few moments, piercing through the land even to the Great Sea. What a bittersweet moment! Having seen the Promised Land, he was not allowed in. His tomb lies in the valley of Moab, but to this day it remains hidden.

The salt sea lies at the foot of Mt. Nebo. Even from a distance it looked still, stagnant. Reaching the shore, we waded through shallow water, thick like mercury. We were thankful to have no fresh cuts, knowing the salt would burn, burn. As the shallow shelf dropped off, we bobbed to the surface of the water, effortlessly. We floated about, tasting the thick salt on our lips if we happened to kick up some water. When we finally got out, a white glaze of salt was caked on our skin. You could have eaten us with a fork.

Drew

Action-Man, 28 June, Amman, Jordan

Sam and I have just settled into our spacious flat in Amman. I think back to my senior year, studying into the early hours of the morning, and consider these nights a blessing. It is early yet, but I may go to bed if I choose. Often, though, we stay up, eating through books, writing, and reviewing our day. They are nights free of care and full of hope.

This morning, we toured Trans World Radio with our friend Rania. The organization broadcasts Christian programs in hundreds of languages. Their base in the Arab world is right here in Amman, where Rania works in administration. However, they are forced to broadcast out of Europe on medium-wave frequency—from Cyprus and Monaco. The Jordanian government won't allow a Christian organization to put up a radio tower. The radio business seems daunting to me in the first place—the endless preparation, recording, editing. Add to this a need for a covert presence in the Muslim world, and you have the daily task of those here at TWR.

Later, we caught a bus to the American Hospital in Mafraq. Mafraq lies an hour north of Amman, through the hot sand dunes. In the 1950's, our Aunt Collyn worked as a nurse in a hospital outside of Bethlehem. They treated tuberculosis and other lung diseases in those days. Since then, the hospital has moved across Jordan, growing into its location in Mafraq. They still primarily treat chest ailments, but have expanded their service to cover other healthcare as well. They see a thousand patients in a month from all parts of the Arab world. No patient leaves the exam room without the opportunity to take a free Bible and some Christian literature. The American hospital, like TWR in Amman, is a strong presence of Christianity in the Middle East. It's a city on a hill, a lamp on a stand—carefully treading the line between obeying the government and boldly proclaiming the gospel.

Drew

Action-Man, 28 June, Mafraq, Jordan

Amman must be named for the "children of Ammon" in the Old Testament. Most of Jordan's population lives in Amman. Jordan doesn't have many big cities. East Amman is developing and moderate, but west Amman is rich and Western. Last night, three Jordanian girls took us to the Mecca Mall and other hotspots. Girls with cell phones, girls with money, girls with cars—these are the things a young traveler looks for. They drove us past towering hotels and tall new bridges.

We sleep in a guest house near first circle, Jabal Amman. Amman is built on seven hills, and jabal is the Arabic word for hill. First circle is the first of eight circles on circle street. In the valley below, white stone houses are built on the many slopes of the city. I see row after row of houses, each row higher than the row before—flat roofs and plain white walls. Valleys of houses rise and fall and dwellers reach them by dusty trails, narrow roads and concrete paths of innumerable stairs.

Now I am on a bus to Mafraq. I am three seats behind the driver. Ahead of me, on both sides of the aisle, are a dozen men, each with slacks and a button-down shirt. Their necks bear the tropic tawn. Each of them looks fresh from the barber. The barber must have paid special attention to the back of their heads on that line of hair from the middle of the nape to the ear.

Drew is reading Plato. He has pulled aside the thick gray drapery from the window to let in the breeze and sunlight. The bus driver has flipped on the bus speakers and a man is chanting prayers in Arabic to Allah. Could the words of those prayers be words of love to Allah? I don't think so. Islam is a religion of bondage not love. We are in the middle of the Muslim empire, where mosques appear at every corner, as often as churches and cathedrals in Christian Europe of old.

Sam

Action-Man, 26 June, Jordan border

I am writing in the dark in the backseat of a taxi. Our driver has the same name as the handsome King Abdullah of Jordan. There are no lights in this backseat and few lamps on the roadside. As I write in the dark, I remember that dying Russian sailor aboard the Mersk submarine a few years ago. He jotted a final love letter to his wife from a dark, damp cell. The submarine sank and the sailor died, but we have his note.

Drew is struggling to communicate even simple phrases to the driver. Our road to Amman from the Israel-Jordan border is smooth. That to me is a sign of a pretty good national infrastructure, at least. West Africa had such bad roads that now I am sensitive to those things. Beyond the road, the land looks like West Africa. I see cinder-block buildings, unfinished and sparse. Some have concrete porches and closed garage doors. Behind those doors is the merchants' stuff. I see trash and rubble and lots of people. African cities, too, teem with people at nighttime. But it is the smells most of all that remind me of Africa--burnt things that shouldn't be burning, the fruit and oil of tropical trees, the drone of evening insects in the weeds.

Now we approach a military checkpoint. Drew has been courageous and diligent tonight. I admire him for it. Amman is 60 km away.

Sam

Action-Man, 26 June, Galilee

I am in seat 37-38 on the 10:30 bus from Jerusalem to Tiberias in Galilee. A troop of Israeli soldiers boarded the bus ahead of us and took all the window seats. The soldier next to me has arms like a hairy garment, red all over. He has a big round watch on his left hand. He is asleep and his beret is tucked in his shoulder strap. A black rifle is set between his legs and leans on his right shoulder. Twice I offered my seat to this fair lady standing in the aisle in front of me. Twice she refused.

An American girl named Ginga, an Andrea Ratzloff Kaufmann connection, met us at our hotel this morning and led us to the bus station. Plenty of Americans are in Jerusalem. I see them struggling with vendors and kids on the street. Shopkeepers flatter and click at them and coerce. I remember my feverish groping for words in Africa. I know the fear of being cheated and the hesitation to give too much ground. I know the physical encroachment. We Americans don't want to be pushed around, but we also want to be nice.

All Israel lives in a heightened terror alert perpetually." Our neighbors just don't like us," the woman in the aisle told me. There is no peace for the Jews. Meanwhile, the bus continues, soldiers debark, and Israel goes on with normal life.

Sam