The Uganda-Naperville Connection

I have to admit, I'm a little dubious about most of the claims of modern technology. Machines can't do what a few minutes of face to face, heart to heart connection can.

Yet... there are times when technology does seem to make things possible that even a few short years ago would have never happened. When I started working at World Harvest, I started reading the blogs of our missionaries. Each entry is kind of like a "from the battlefield" report on how the kingdom is advancing around the world. Over time, I've passed along some of those stories to others, and in turn, they have also passed them along.

So imagine my surprise when Amy Pasqualini (on staff at NPC in the Children's Ministries department) wrote to say she'd had enough, was going to do something about it. Amy had been reading the blog of our team leader's in Uganda, as they noted the low supplies of HIV retro-viral drugs. So Amy took it upon herself to write letters to a few news outlets asking if they would consider highlighting the plight of rural Ugandans. And lo and behold... one of them did!

So the follow story appeared in Friday's Naperville Sun newspaper. Thanks to Amy, for making an effort when it seemed futile, and thanks to Drs. Scott and Jennifer Myhre for their ongoing love for all things Uganda.

You can read the Sun article here.

You can read the original blog entry from the Myhre's here.

Reading a blog isn't same thing as being there... but it does give you a front row seat to the ways in which our world is broken, and how Christ is coming to heal, redeem and make all things new.

And as a techno-skeptic, it has also reminded how grateful I am for all of the ways that all of you are interwoven in my life... even if at times it has to be through blogs and e-mails instead of face to face.

Even My Vomit is More Righteous Than Yours

Unbelief is an odd thing. It doesn't always look like I think it does.

Popular culture would have us believe that unbelief looks like a perpetual "dim night" of the soul where nothing is clear, nothing understood, nothing worth believing or living any more than anything else. And to be sure, there are some of us, who have stood with clenched fist, or searching, plaintive cry listening for an answer or response when none seems forthcoming. Or even worse, we've seen the best answers that can be marshaled and found them wanting.

I'd like to tell you that this is what my unbelief looks like too, if for no other reason than these versions of it seem understandable, "normal" if you will. But I was again reminded this weekend that I have a deep seated, flesh-driven sense that there is something other than Jesus, and his ways and his cross, which will make me feel full and content and free.

After what had been a pretty busy, but satisfying, weekend I was ready for a little down time. As I've grown older and busier, I've discovered an almost manic need for the opportunity to withdraw from human contact for a few hours a week. My shriveled soul needs space, silence, and solitude if it is to re-hydrate and be fit for human companionship.

So you can imagine where my heart started heading when 10 minutes into my peaceful reading session, there was a wail and then insistent crying from Parker who was tucked in downstairs on the sofa. A little further investigation revealed that he had thrown up all over himself, the sofa, his blankets and his pillows. And in that moment, seeing a vomit covered child, a vomit stained sofa, and my little boy who was scared and feeling unwell, I did what came naturally... I freaked out. By the time Jennifer came inside, Parker was standing in the kitchen dripping slime on the floor, saying over and over, "I didn't mean to do it, daddy. I didn't mean to." Yes, just another normal Sabbath day afternoon at the Knaak household.

At the time all the tears and apologies didn't do anything to quell my anger. After cleanliness and order had been restored by She Who Must Be Obeyed, we conducted our usual parental after action report.

"Patric!! What were you thinking. How could you yell at him just because he threw up?! He's just a little boy." (note from Jennifer: I don't remember saying it just like this.  Maybe it was the H.S. getting to him?  ;-)

"Yes, but you're missing the point."

"What point? I think when you have a five year old, covered in his own puke and a grown man freaking out, we've moved well beyond the normal situations where there is a point to be had."

"You're not listening to me. I wasn't yelling at him because he threw up! I was yelling at him because he didn't get up and go to the bathroom to throw up. Or at least get up off the sofa and get onto the kitchen tile. I would have even settled for any movement toward an appropriate venue. Don't roll your eyes at me! Over the last year, when he puked in our bed, did I complain? No. When he puked in his bed, did I complain? No. When he puked on me, and then you, and then me again, did I complain? No! I was calm. I helped clean up. But I've told him time and time again, 'Parker, when you are feeling like you might get ill, you need to immediately get up and go to the bathroom, or at least a garbage can.' He knows better than this! He did this out of pure carelessness. I think he knew what was going to happen, and just didn't bother to get up."

At this point in our conversation, Jennifer started looking at me like I had just thrown up all over the sofa. Seeing the sickness of my soul had elicited the same response from her that seeing the sickness of Parker's body had--it was really really sad, and really, really gross.

When I was talking about the event with some people at work this week, I started to see a little more of what Jennifer was seeing. It's true, I wasn't actually mad at Parker because he threw up--what kind of parent would get mad about that! I was mad that he didn't throw up the right way.

In my warped little head, things had followed this path--I had talked to Parker, lectured him, cleaned up his mistakes many, many times before, and thought that I had finally drilled it into his head--at the first sign of an upset stomach, immediately head for bathroom (or at least a hard, tiled surface). I don't have an iron stomach, so the sight that greeted me on Sunday afternoon would have likely stunned me even under the best of circumstances. But my anger really stemmed from the fact that Parker hadn't followed the rules, and now I was going to have to give up my peaceful afternoon and clean vomit chunks out of the sofa and living room carpet. Parker had failed to live up to my "vomit righteousness" rules, and so I did a nutty.

You'd be forgiven if you thought that we had gotten to the bottom of my sin here. Let's be honest, how much worse can it get than yelling at a sick child because he has failed to live up to your standards of "vomit righteousness"? Well... at least a little worse.

You see, this is what my unbelief looks like. It is an unbelief that whispers to me that even though Christ has given me everything I could ever need, it's not enough. It is an unbelief that is so deep, so insidiously intwined in my soul, that it needs to create rules, which when obeyed, will make me feel more righteous than other people. It's an unbelief that will cling to anything to help me prove to others that I'm better than they are. I've got "washing the car correctly righteousness" and "don't stand there with the door to the fridge open righteousness" and "how come I'm the only one who mows the lawn around here righteousness" and evidently I've also go "throwing up correctly righteousness." When any of these laws are violated, or challenged, or trampled, I can then see how much I rely on my efforts to make me a good decent person, instead of the righteousness and new identity that comes from Christ, and to which I have no claim, other than that it has been given to me freely as God's child.

In the clear light of day, with no bodily function emergencies, I can see how poor and weak this is. Who in their right mind would ever choose their own rules and expectations--with their enslaving desires and miserly rewards--over the freedom and joy of loving someone else through the power of the gospel? But that's part of what unbelief is... we are not in our right minds.

I'd like to tell you that I made all of this up. I wish that this was a hypothetical illustration to demonstrate how desperately our hearts will cling to the things that are "not-Jesus" in order to uphold our illusions of control or comfort. It would be great to finish by saying that now that I've seen the errors of my way, I'll never, ever, ever do that again. But it's just not true.

What is true, is that Jesus has come (and will continue to come!!) to me to lift me out of the vomit of my self-generated righteousness time and time again. With love and patience and tenderness, he has stepped in over and over again when my unbelief has covered me, or those that I love, with the foul taint of regurgitated sin. My heart is so desperate to prove itself good, and so mistrustful of what Jesus has already given to me, that I unintentionally make up rules that I think will generate a little bit of righteousness that I can claim as my own. And then I heap contempt and scorn on those who fail to meet those same standards and earn a little bit of righteousness of their own... even when they are little boys, with upset stomachs, who tried their best not to make a mess.

I don't now what your unbelief looks like. It may be clean and cool and detached. It may have elements of true searching and honest seeking, desperate to find better answers that have been so far offered. But I'd bet that somewhere down deep, there is a little bit of a desire to be "right" on your own terms, instead of forgiven on someone else's terms--even when that someone else is Jesus. I'm right there with you, on that one.

My unbelief is messy. It stinks. It splatters all over everyone in ways that have to be cleaned up, time and time again. When I move away from utter reliance on the One Who Was Pierced for Me, even for just a moment, my heart creates dumb-ass categories like "vomit righteousness" to try and cover the inadequacies that I know are there, and that I know that can't fix. Smelling the odor of my unbelief is also what causes my heart to long for a righteousness not of my own that comes through the law (and the laws I create for others), but one that comes from Christ alone.

Blessed are the Car Washers

On Memorial Day, "the man" and I decided to tackle a little much needed maintenance work and wash my terribly dirty car. Now, I've partnered with Parker enough to know that when a five-year-old "helps" the total time of any project increases by about 150%. I also know that I'm pretty prone to getting "frustrated" (read... so caught up in my own agenda that I lose patience and inevitably end up violating Ephesians 6:4 regarding fathers exasperating their children). So I had promised myself that this time it would be different. This time it would just be me and the man, hanging out, doing our thing.    Yah, right!

Kingdom Work

Working with Parker is always a picture for me of what my "kingdom work" looks like from God's perspective. In his own way, Parker was extremely dedicated to the car washing enterprise... he was just set on doing it his own way. Water was sprayed everywhere, clean brushes and sponges were cast aside in the dirt in the pursuit of other things that caught his attention, some parts of the car were washed over and over while others seemed obliviously overlooked, and clean parts were dirtied more than dirty parts were cleaned. And up to this point, Parker was having a ball!

"Accomplishing the mission" was clearly a distant 83rd priority compared to enjoying an afternoon with me and doing something together. He wasn't worried about outcomes, or procedures or if he was doing everything right. He wasn't uptight about whether or not he was fulfilling his life's calling or stewarding his gifts well. He wasn't trying to establish his own righteousness, or build his reputation, or prove to other people that all of his years of training and education made him a superb car washer. He didn't have any worries that if he didn't use just the right amount of soap, or clean every corner perfectly that maybe his dad would love him a little less.  In fact there is no amount of expertise, experience, or skill that he was bringing to the job that I actually needed to get the car clean.  He just wanted to be with me. He just wanted to be with dad, doing something together, content to let me set the agenda.

And if I didn't work at World Harvest, this is probably where I'd let the story finish. But by now you know it doesn't end here, don't you?

Temper

About 10 minutes into our project, my "there is one, and only one right way, to do something"-righteousness began to emerge. After all, what's the point of taking the time to wash the car if you aren't going to do it well? And what kind of father would I be if I didn't teach Parker the right way (my way!) to do things? Answer: I'd be the kind of father that didn't exasperate my child over inane issues.

So within 30 seconds of me starting to show the lad proper washing technique, it all started to go wrong....

"Hey, sport! How about if you stand over here and spray this direction. That way we won't get the parts we've already washed dirty."

"Ok, now. We need to be careful. You just got daddy all wet, and we are spraying dirty suds back onto the clean parts of the car."

"Parker Thomas!! Didn't you hear what I just said?!! Get that brush off the paint, and back on the dirty wheels!"

(as I am pulling him by the arm way from the car)

"Parker Thomas Graeme Knaak!! We just cleaned that door! Do you see what you did! Do you see the mess that you've just made! Now daddy is going have to wash this all over again! Why don't you listen. Now sit there and think about what you did."

Repentance and Death

Another vow broken. Another instance of my sin-stained heart leaking all over my loved ones. Another opportunity to be "the good dad" missed. In a little over 6 minutes, Parker had gone from son to slave and he knew it.  What started out as joy and fun and being together turned into drudgery and shame and work.

And to tell you the truth, I was a lot more upset about his inability to meet the demands of my law that I was about my murderous, shaming parenting style. Until, I saw him slowly walking away, with his head downcast. Fifteen minutes ago he couldn't contain his joy. Now he looked like I had run over his stuffed dog with the lawn mower.  But did I go over there and take time out to talk to him and bring him back into relationship.  Sadly, no.  Why, you may ask?  Because I had a car to wash, or rewash as the case may be.

A little latter when we were inside I asked if we could talk.  He didn't really want to, but he agreed.  When I asked him how he thought the car washing went, he didn't say anything for a long time.  And then one, giant tear slowly formed and slid down his smooth little cheek.  That one tear was the distilled essence of my sin, not so subtly taken out on my child.

We spent a good little while talking.  ("Dad, why do you talk to me like that.  It's just rude!") And in the end I did my best to explain how my "frustration" with him indicated just how much daddy needs Jesus.  Ten years of theological higher education doesn't really prepare you for the intensity of seeing your cold-hearted idolatry trample on your little boy's heart.  I thought that I was trying to teach him how to wash a car properly.  It turns out that he was teaching me just how much Jesus had to pay in order to set me free from my sins.  I wanted him to learn how a good dad can have fun with his son.  Jesus wanted him to learn how a needy dad can model repentance.  A child's tears were the reminder that I needed to again come to grips with the fact that the blood which dripped from royal veins was shed as the only restorative capable of penetrating my sin-blackened heart.

One of the best things about having a younger child is that, much like pets and mothers, they don't hold a grudge very long.  In a little bit, we were rolling around on the floor wrestling and giggling.  All of the parenting books tell you to look for the "teachable moments" with your kids so that you can help them learn real life lessons.  None of them tell you that you are actually the one who needs to the do the learning in those moments.