I first encountered Hans when he was preaching in his previous church. Ours was not a love at first sight. I was, however, given "an understanding at first hearing."
I love learning from him then, and I love learning from him now. Hans has a way of explaining complicated things, making them simple and accessible. He is clear and logical and precise, skills that do not come naturally for me. And now that we are married, I have the benefit of knowing that he teaches me because he loves me.
Hans is currently teaching Christian apologetics in his Sunday school
class. He kindly gives his wife summaries of his lessons every now and
then, because I am usually with the boys when he is teaching.
A few Sundays ago, I asked Hans what is the use of Christian apolegetics. Does it do any lasting good to be able to defend the truth of the Gospel or the reliability of Scripture? All this talk about evidence and presuppositions — do people actually come to faith by being proven that they have been wrong all their lives?
I came across the testimony of Nabeel Qureshi today. Nabeel grew up in the United States, in an extremely devout Muslim home. His mother came from a long line of missionaries of Islam and he was taught to be an ambassador for Islam from a young age. But Christ revealed himself to Nabeel and his life in Christ revives a desire in me to better explain and defend my faith. He reminds me why the Gospel is worth dying for.
In his testimony, Nabeel talks about his best friend David. He was the first person who provided some answers to Nabeel's attacks against Christianity. David's response was unexpected and his friendship was genuine. "From that point on, we did everything together... In that context of friendship, I know that he is going to take a bullet for me if the time ever arises, and I would do the same for him. So when he shares the Gospel with me, and when he tries to tear down my faith, I know he is doing it because he loves me."
Theirs was a love that was truly tolerant.
Tim Keller said in a sermon, “Truth without love is imperious
self-righteousness. Love without truth is cowardly self-indulgence.” Christian apologetics is a useful tool, but only when it comes from mouths that speak the truth with love, and from hearts that are ever so aware of the grace and forgiveness in Jesus Christ.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Friday, February 21, 2014
Four shining faces
The year was 2005. I was a second year graduate student, and homeless. To make a long story short, the Lord provided a home for me with an international community of missionaries and church leaders on furlough. I am still drinking from the deep well of friendships I was given that year.
In that community lived four Burmese pastors. If you were driving by, you might think these pastors were gardeners, or janitors. They were outside raking leaves in the fall, shoveling snow in the winter, planting flowers in the spring. Digging ditches, anything really. If help was needed — they were there. They inspired (obnoxious) neighbors (me) to throw open their windows and shout out friendly greetings.
In a community of red and yellow, black and white, my Southeast Asian features looked like theirs. Once in a while, my Malaysian accent would even creep up on me when they were around. They spoke to me like a daughter.
One of the perks of community living was our weekly shopping trip together. One Friday, while we were waiting for the others, I asked one of the Burmese pastors about life in Myanmar. Pastor Bo Tha was the oldest, and the tallest, of the four. Dark and thin, he was a quiet man with kind eyes.
He showed me a picture of his family. I counted the children in his photo. With his wife (a.k.a. the Burmese Superwoman), they had three biological children and adopted five more. In addition, his family regularly cared for at least four to five orphans from his tribe whose parents were killed because of the persecution against Christians in Myanmar.
I asked him what was his monthly income (apparently, I was obnoxious when I asked questions as well). He thought for a moment and answered, "Ten dollars." I probably responded with some outrageous exclamation.
Their tribes lived in the mountains, so they mainly traveled on foot. On Sunday mornings, they climbed many hills, some for many hours, in order to gather for worship. Even now, I think of my Burmese brothers and sisters when I sit in my warm car, my children strapped to their carseats, while my husband drives us to church. All the while, we are in no danger of being decimated by fire or gunshots — at least not for our faith.
When I saw them for the last time, the four pastors invited me to their home. They apologized for not being able to attend our wedding. I did not hide my disappointment. I pleaded for them to stay. They needed to go to New York City, they explained, to preach to the Burmese there.
One of them took out a red envelope. I started weeping and shaking my head. They insisted, the way only a father can insist upon his daughter. He placed it firmly in my hand, "For you and Hans, from the four of us."
I was attending divinity school at the time, but my Burmese pastors taught me more about God than some of the professors who held scores of degrees, published books, and read the Bible in several languages. I remember watching them when they sang hymns to the Lord. Somehow, their faces shone. They saw beyond what meets my eyes. They knew their Lord, and walked with him.
John Owen, in Overcoming Sin andTemptation, explains,
I found the red envelope today.
In it, I found all that they placed in my hand, many years ago. It holds their happiness, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, the hope they had for the people of Myanmar, the love they had for the orphans, and their allegiance to their God.
Their $40 feeds us still.
In that community lived four Burmese pastors. If you were driving by, you might think these pastors were gardeners, or janitors. They were outside raking leaves in the fall, shoveling snow in the winter, planting flowers in the spring. Digging ditches, anything really. If help was needed — they were there. They inspired (obnoxious) neighbors (me) to throw open their windows and shout out friendly greetings.
In a community of red and yellow, black and white, my Southeast Asian features looked like theirs. Once in a while, my Malaysian accent would even creep up on me when they were around. They spoke to me like a daughter.
One of the perks of community living was our weekly shopping trip together. One Friday, while we were waiting for the others, I asked one of the Burmese pastors about life in Myanmar. Pastor Bo Tha was the oldest, and the tallest, of the four. Dark and thin, he was a quiet man with kind eyes.
He showed me a picture of his family. I counted the children in his photo. With his wife (a.k.a. the Burmese Superwoman), they had three biological children and adopted five more. In addition, his family regularly cared for at least four to five orphans from his tribe whose parents were killed because of the persecution against Christians in Myanmar.
I asked him what was his monthly income (apparently, I was obnoxious when I asked questions as well). He thought for a moment and answered, "Ten dollars." I probably responded with some outrageous exclamation.
Their tribes lived in the mountains, so they mainly traveled on foot. On Sunday mornings, they climbed many hills, some for many hours, in order to gather for worship. Even now, I think of my Burmese brothers and sisters when I sit in my warm car, my children strapped to their carseats, while my husband drives us to church. All the while, we are in no danger of being decimated by fire or gunshots — at least not for our faith.
When I saw them for the last time, the four pastors invited me to their home. They apologized for not being able to attend our wedding. I did not hide my disappointment. I pleaded for them to stay. They needed to go to New York City, they explained, to preach to the Burmese there.
One of them took out a red envelope. I started weeping and shaking my head. They insisted, the way only a father can insist upon his daughter. He placed it firmly in my hand, "For you and Hans, from the four of us."
I was attending divinity school at the time, but my Burmese pastors taught me more about God than some of the professors who held scores of degrees, published books, and read the Bible in several languages. I remember watching them when they sang hymns to the Lord. Somehow, their faces shone. They saw beyond what meets my eyes. They knew their Lord, and walked with him.
John Owen, in Overcoming Sin andTemptation, explains,
The difference between believers and unbelievers as to knowledge is not so much in the matter of their knowledge as in the manner of knowing. Unbelievers, some of them, may know more and be able to say more of God, his perfections, and his will, than many believers; but they know nothing as they ought, nothing in a right manner, nothing spiritually and savingly, nothing with a holy, heavenly light. The excellency of a believer is, not that he has a large apprehension of things, but that what he does apprehend, which perhaps may be very little, he sees it in the light of the Spirit of God, in a saving, soul-transforming light; and this is that which gives us communion with God, and not prying thoughts or curious-raised notions (chapter 12).
I found the red envelope today.
In it, I found all that they placed in my hand, many years ago. It holds their happiness, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, the hope they had for the people of Myanmar, the love they had for the orphans, and their allegiance to their God.
Their $40 feeds us still.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
I did not see this coming
I slouch.
I learned to slouch a long time ago in a land far away, where I was always one of the tallest girls in my grade. Where teachers were required to measure the weight of every student — in front of the entire class. Where I my mom's friends regularly exclaimed, "She is so big. She is so stout. What do you feed her?!"
Little girls do not want to be called burly.
In my daydreams, I was a tiny little thing with long hair down to my waist (I had bowl-cut hair). If I could just hide my height a little, if I could just look a little smaller, a little less stout, perhaps I could be beautiful.
I slouched through my childhood. I slouched through my tween and teens. Even after coming to America, where I was no longer considered tall or burly, I continued to slouch.
I am ready to straighten up.
But my back has been proven to be more stubborn than I expected. After nearly thirty years, my default position is to hunch. The habit has taken root. And roots go deep.
Charles Spurgeon is right: “The first learned is generally the last forgotten.” And I learned to hunch my back very early on. I was five, maybe six?
Hans has kindly and patiently offered his assistance, reminding me to straighten up whenever I slouch — which is all the time. Sometimes, his voice takes me back to some point of my childhood and my teenage years. I can almost feel the blood rushing into my face, the insecurity of that little girl being measured and compared. I can almost sense her fear when her thinner, smaller friends asked how much she weighed. I can almost hear Ma's Indonesian dialect, "Ling, jangan bungkuk!"(Stop slouching!)
I did not see this coming. Un-hunching my back is recalling some old forgotten fears. As it turns out, my posture is not the only thing that needs correcting.
Out of the abundance of the heart the body speaks. Slouching is not merely a bad physical habit, it came from the posture of my soul. I slouched out of fear. Fear of being a burly freak with bowl-cut hair. Fear of people's judgment. So I carried the dead weight of self-consciousness and insecurity on my shoulders.
My hunched back revealed my hunched heart. No amount of confidence can straighten it, because I am not enough, and I will never be.
I did not see this coming. Un-hunching my back brings me back once again to the foot of the cross. As it turns out, I can do nothing — not even straightening my back — apart from the Gospel.
I slouch because I forget.
I slouch when I forget his blood that was shed for me, his body bended upon that tree.
He is enough. God in human likeness, he took my guilt and shame. He took the burdens off my shoulders and replaced them with the robe of righteousness. He caused me to stand, and to pray.
Soul, stand rightly.
Stand
before the Lord
with hands lifted to the sky,
because Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.
Praise be to God.
I learned to slouch a long time ago in a land far away, where I was always one of the tallest girls in my grade. Where teachers were required to measure the weight of every student — in front of the entire class. Where I my mom's friends regularly exclaimed, "She is so big. She is so stout. What do you feed her?!"
Little girls do not want to be called burly.
In my daydreams, I was a tiny little thing with long hair down to my waist (I had bowl-cut hair). If I could just hide my height a little, if I could just look a little smaller, a little less stout, perhaps I could be beautiful.
I slouched through my childhood. I slouched through my tween and teens. Even after coming to America, where I was no longer considered tall or burly, I continued to slouch.
I am ready to straighten up.
But my back has been proven to be more stubborn than I expected. After nearly thirty years, my default position is to hunch. The habit has taken root. And roots go deep.
 |
| Three young men in the fiery furnace, praying. Catacomb of Priscilla, Rome, 3rd century. |
Charles Spurgeon is right: “The first learned is generally the last forgotten.” And I learned to hunch my back very early on. I was five, maybe six?
Hans has kindly and patiently offered his assistance, reminding me to straighten up whenever I slouch — which is all the time. Sometimes, his voice takes me back to some point of my childhood and my teenage years. I can almost feel the blood rushing into my face, the insecurity of that little girl being measured and compared. I can almost sense her fear when her thinner, smaller friends asked how much she weighed. I can almost hear Ma's Indonesian dialect, "Ling, jangan bungkuk!"(Stop slouching!)
I did not see this coming. Un-hunching my back is recalling some old forgotten fears. As it turns out, my posture is not the only thing that needs correcting.
Out of the abundance of the heart the body speaks. Slouching is not merely a bad physical habit, it came from the posture of my soul. I slouched out of fear. Fear of being a burly freak with bowl-cut hair. Fear of people's judgment. So I carried the dead weight of self-consciousness and insecurity on my shoulders.
My hunched back revealed my hunched heart. No amount of confidence can straighten it, because I am not enough, and I will never be.
 |
| The earliest representation of the crucifixion. Christ, praying. Santa Sabina, Rome, 430 A.D. |
I did not see this coming. Un-hunching my back brings me back once again to the foot of the cross. As it turns out, I can do nothing — not even straightening my back — apart from the Gospel.
I slouch because I forget.
I slouch when I forget his blood that was shed for me, his body bended upon that tree.
He is enough. God in human likeness, he took my guilt and shame. He took the burdens off my shoulders and replaced them with the robe of righteousness. He caused me to stand, and to pray.
Soul, stand rightly.
Stand
before the Lord
with hands lifted to the sky,
because Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.
Praise be to God.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
When I can't help it
When Hans walks by my computer and sees pictures of food and recipes, he knows my mental mode: fried. As in, tired out, exhausted. One night, as I was nursing Khesed and mindlessly clicking around, a good friend posted this quote by Oscar Wilde on Facebook:
Like a splash of cold water to my sleepy soul. I needed that.
What will I be when I can't help it? This question sent shivers up my spine. What is my soul made of? What am I feeding my mind? When I am old and senile, or when the filter of my brain can no longer filter what comes out of my mouth, what kind of person would I be?
What would I love? What would I live for?
Food, apparently. Perishable and temporary. This is not good.
I quickly closed the food and wine windows on my desktop. Click. Click. Click.
Right then, something caught my eyes. Augustine spoke into my night.
Whoosh.
Like a stream of clear water to a parched soul. I needed that.
That would be nice. To love God when I can't help it.
Please help me, Lord.
Soul, eat food that is never consumed by the eating.
It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.Whoosh.
Like a splash of cold water to my sleepy soul. I needed that.
What will I be when I can't help it? This question sent shivers up my spine. What is my soul made of? What am I feeding my mind? When I am old and senile, or when the filter of my brain can no longer filter what comes out of my mouth, what kind of person would I be?
What would I love? What would I live for?
Food, apparently. Perishable and temporary. This is not good.
I quickly closed the food and wine windows on my desktop. Click. Click. Click.
Right then, something caught my eyes. Augustine spoke into my night.
But what do I love when I love my God? . . .
Not the sweet melody of harmony and song;
not the fragrance of flowers, perfumes, and spices;
not manna or honey;
not limbs such as the body delights to embrace.
It is not these that I love when I love my God.
And yet, when I love him, it is true that I love a light of a certain kind, a voice, a perfume, a food, an embrace...
when my soul is bathed in light that is not bound by space;
when it listens to sound that never dies away;
when it breathes fragrance that is not borne away on the wind;
when it tastes food that is never consumed by the eating;
when it clings to an embrace from which it is not severed by fulfillment of desire.
This is what I love when I love my God.
Augustine, Confessions (transl. Pine-Coffin), X, 6.
Whoosh.
Like a stream of clear water to a parched soul. I needed that.
That would be nice. To love God when I can't help it.
Please help me, Lord.
Soul, eat food that is never consumed by the eating.
For though we walk in the flesh, we are not waging war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds. We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.
Paul, Second Letter to the Corinthians, 10:3-5.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
A sliver of solace
The one constant thing about having three kids is how constantly I get my butt kicked. Transition from zero to one child was by far the hardest. But transition from two to three has been much harder than the transition from one to two. But seriously, I have friends who have six children and thriving. So really, I need to stop blabbering.
Quietness is a gift.
Slivers of solace tucked between other louder, distracting things. A little goes a long way. Like the Belgian dark chocolate truffle I just dropped into my hot cup of coffee. There, it rests. Quiet and wonderful. Like my Hanan. The Lord's grace and mercy, tucked between his faithfulness (Emeth) and steadfast love (Khesed).
A lot of speculations are made about the middle child. But I hope my Hanan grows to know how much he is loved and cherished.
I love his quirky ways.
How he plays with his legos. Here he is making a 10. He has since figured out ways to make 11 and 12.
How he is so keen on making sure I am happy. "Are you happy? Let me kiss you. Are you happy now?"
How he lays claims on anything medium-sized and the number two. Because he is the middle child.
For lunch today, he wanted me to cut his pizza into "medium" bites. If he wants them bigger, he would say "bigger medium." If he wants them smaller, he would say, "smaller medium." But they are all medium. Because he is medium.
He ran to me one morning, laughing and shouting, "Mommy!!! I have two problems!!! I don't have one problem or three problems. I have two problems."
How he doesn't know what the word "problem" means.
How he can't seem to talk as fast or as much as his big brother. With a sad face, he said, "I can't talk. I need new batteries."
How he named his "orange thing" Character. As in, "Character! Character! Where are you?"
How he asks for "bread with fig jam and mascarpone" for breakfast. How he loves fig macaroons.
How he says I love you. "I nove you a-not."
And how he loves chocolate. "I nove brownies a-not. Not black-nies, not red-nies, just brownies."
Quietness is a gift.
Slivers of solace tucked between other louder, distracting things. A little goes a long way. Like the Belgian dark chocolate truffle I just dropped into my hot cup of coffee. There, it rests. Quiet and wonderful. Like my Hanan. The Lord's grace and mercy, tucked between his faithfulness (Emeth) and steadfast love (Khesed).
A lot of speculations are made about the middle child. But I hope my Hanan grows to know how much he is loved and cherished.
I love his quirky ways.
How he plays with his legos. Here he is making a 10. He has since figured out ways to make 11 and 12.
How he is so keen on making sure I am happy. "Are you happy? Let me kiss you. Are you happy now?"
How he lays claims on anything medium-sized and the number two. Because he is the middle child.
For lunch today, he wanted me to cut his pizza into "medium" bites. If he wants them bigger, he would say "bigger medium." If he wants them smaller, he would say, "smaller medium." But they are all medium. Because he is medium.
He ran to me one morning, laughing and shouting, "Mommy!!! I have two problems!!! I don't have one problem or three problems. I have two problems."
How he doesn't know what the word "problem" means.
How he can't seem to talk as fast or as much as his big brother. With a sad face, he said, "I can't talk. I need new batteries."
How he named his "orange thing" Character. As in, "Character! Character! Where are you?"
How he asks for "bread with fig jam and mascarpone" for breakfast. How he loves fig macaroons.
How he says I love you. "I nove you a-not."
And how he loves chocolate. "I nove brownies a-not. Not black-nies, not red-nies, just brownies."
Friday, January 17, 2014
The way honey is to Winnie the Pooh
I am recently re-learning how to praise God. Back to the basics.
It all started when my sister Jean explained to me how praise is different from thanksgiving (thanks, Xin!). Such a curious thought.
Praise is an exercise of adoring, enjoying, and declaring the characters of God.
So, if I am adoring honey, I would say, "Hmmmm.... YUM! Honey, you are sticky and sweet. You shine like liquid amber, a luxury I can afford. You are pleasant and smooth on my tongue. You are better than sugar in my tea. You are not merely sweet, your flavor complex and floral. You possess healing power for my aching throat."
Something like that.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is an exercise of giving thanks for our experiences of God. What we have seen, heard, and tasted. We give thanks for the spoonfuls of honey, so to speak. "Thank you, honey, for the sweetness you bring to my cups of tea. Thank you for soothing my throat, and for the magic you make with lemon juice."
Adoration and thanksgiving have some overlap, to be sure, but they are distinct.
Here are some things I learned:
1. In my prayers, I give thanks a lot more than I praise. Giving thanks, while necessary and good, is not enough. Praise is motivated by the wonderfulness of the Lord, while thanksgiving is motivated by the wonderfulness that I have received and perceived. While it is good to be thankful for the spoonfuls of honey, but what of days when there is no honey to be had?
2. I then realized, I don't praise God very much. My praises to God are often embedded in the songs I sing, or the psalms I read. In other words, I do not intentionally praise God. Rarely do I break out in thoughtful, prolonged meditation about the wonderfulness of the Lord. Rarely do I stop and allow my soul to be moved by the character and person of God.
3. I must learn to praise the Lord, especially when I don't feel like it. Because my heart is crooked and deceitful, I am tempted to make my thanksgiving, my petitions, and even my repentance to be about me, for me, and because of me. Adoring him would turn my eyes to the Lord, to help me think about his faithfulness and steadfast love.
4. Praising the Lord reorients my heart, in order that my thanksgiving, petitions, and repentance would be about the Lord, for the Lord, and because of the Lord.
5. Praising God feels a little awkward at first. It feels weird to tell God things about himself that he already knows. Then again, he already knows all of my prayers even before I think to pray them. I am learning to praise the way my one-year-old is learning to stand — by doing it, with a lot of help (listening to Hans' prayers), and falling a lot.
Begin by recognizing something incomparable about God. His steadfast love and his faithfulness, for example. Or his patience and mercy, perhaps. Or the way he forgives. Allow ourselves to be moved by these thoughts. Out of this adoration, renew our allegiance and devotion to this God. Remembering and reciting scripture helps a lot.
6. Praise is a great offense and defense against my tendency to worry and freak out. I am no football fan (I know, what a great way to win the hearts of you who love football). But I do remember Hans saying that a good defense is the best offense. Or, was it a good offense is the best defense? Anyway, I clearly have no idea what I am talking about.
7. Praising God is a command. It is therefore our duty. Like all of God's commands, they are the way of grace. Praise is to our souls the way bread is to the famished, water to the thirsty, freedom to the slaves, honey to Winnie the Pooh.
Listen with me the praises of Habakkuk,
It all started when my sister Jean explained to me how praise is different from thanksgiving (thanks, Xin!). Such a curious thought.
Praise is an exercise of adoring, enjoying, and declaring the characters of God.
So, if I am adoring honey, I would say, "Hmmmm.... YUM! Honey, you are sticky and sweet. You shine like liquid amber, a luxury I can afford. You are pleasant and smooth on my tongue. You are better than sugar in my tea. You are not merely sweet, your flavor complex and floral. You possess healing power for my aching throat."
Something like that.
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is an exercise of giving thanks for our experiences of God. What we have seen, heard, and tasted. We give thanks for the spoonfuls of honey, so to speak. "Thank you, honey, for the sweetness you bring to my cups of tea. Thank you for soothing my throat, and for the magic you make with lemon juice."
Adoration and thanksgiving have some overlap, to be sure, but they are distinct.
Here are some things I learned:
1. In my prayers, I give thanks a lot more than I praise. Giving thanks, while necessary and good, is not enough. Praise is motivated by the wonderfulness of the Lord, while thanksgiving is motivated by the wonderfulness that I have received and perceived. While it is good to be thankful for the spoonfuls of honey, but what of days when there is no honey to be had?
2. I then realized, I don't praise God very much. My praises to God are often embedded in the songs I sing, or the psalms I read. In other words, I do not intentionally praise God. Rarely do I break out in thoughtful, prolonged meditation about the wonderfulness of the Lord. Rarely do I stop and allow my soul to be moved by the character and person of God.
3. I must learn to praise the Lord, especially when I don't feel like it. Because my heart is crooked and deceitful, I am tempted to make my thanksgiving, my petitions, and even my repentance to be about me, for me, and because of me. Adoring him would turn my eyes to the Lord, to help me think about his faithfulness and steadfast love.
4. Praising the Lord reorients my heart, in order that my thanksgiving, petitions, and repentance would be about the Lord, for the Lord, and because of the Lord.
5. Praising God feels a little awkward at first. It feels weird to tell God things about himself that he already knows. Then again, he already knows all of my prayers even before I think to pray them. I am learning to praise the way my one-year-old is learning to stand — by doing it, with a lot of help (listening to Hans' prayers), and falling a lot.
Begin by recognizing something incomparable about God. His steadfast love and his faithfulness, for example. Or his patience and mercy, perhaps. Or the way he forgives. Allow ourselves to be moved by these thoughts. Out of this adoration, renew our allegiance and devotion to this God. Remembering and reciting scripture helps a lot.
6. Praise is a great offense and defense against my tendency to worry and freak out. I am no football fan (I know, what a great way to win the hearts of you who love football). But I do remember Hans saying that a good defense is the best offense. Or, was it a good offense is the best defense? Anyway, I clearly have no idea what I am talking about.
7. Praising God is a command. It is therefore our duty. Like all of God's commands, they are the way of grace. Praise is to our souls the way bread is to the famished, water to the thirsty, freedom to the slaves, honey to Winnie the Pooh.
Listen with me the praises of Habakkuk,
(Habakkuk 3:17-19)Though the fig tree should not blossom,nor fruit be on the vines,the produce of the olive failand the fields yield no food,the flock be cut off from the foldand there be no herd in the stalls,yet I will rejoice in the Lord;I will take joy in the God of my salvation.God, the Lord, is my strength;he makes my feet like the deer's;
he makes me tread on my high places.
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