One by one I’m closing out the details of my life… saying goodbye to precious people, once again preparing to spend great lengths of time on anti-malarial medication… my heart is both under attack and in desperate anticipation… I’m dreaming of Africa – of hot wind and the grit of sand in my teeth… I’m thinking of the unparalleled feeling of novelty and excitement when I step off a plane into a new place…
It sounds like I’m getting ready to go on a mission trip.
As I’ve visited and reflected one thought has struck me. There are two very distinct versions of Christianity and I witness both in people I know. There is one version of Christianity that is very good – good church attendance, good deeds, good prayer life, good theology, good fellowship. There is nothing overtly amiss in this practice of Christianity. But there is something intentionally escapist. There is a neglect of radical sacrifice; of violence, of death to self. Sometimes I say to myself, “I wish I could be a good Christian.” Those who know me know that I don’t fit the stereotype well. I wish I could go through life and think God is good and do enough and be satisfied.
But I can’t.
And this is why: I’m a haunted woman.
I’m haunted by the faces I can put on poverty; of the names I can put on suffering and martyrdom; of the sallow cheeks, the dry and cracked skin, the embrace, the hot breath, the flowing blood, the hate-filled eyes… these are not abstractions to me. I am haunted by the reality of the lost and dying and I cannot ignore the responsibility that this knowledge gives me.
And this is why I will go and I will live and I will die for this cause. This is why I will forego other dreams, alternative life-plans, ambitions, goals… I surrender them. Because those concepts are people and those people mean too much.
That’s why I can’t just be good.
“…the kingdom heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.” (Matt. 11:12, KJV)
