Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Deciphering Missions


We arrived in Costa Rica on a Thursday, and on our very first Sunday in the country El Chupacabra was standing in a pool helping baptize some guy we'd never met before.

The Baptism just happened to be occurring on the property where we were staying for a couple of weeks before we started language school. When our family (still wide-eyed in shock after leaving the U.S.) stumbled into the celebration by accident, someone invited El Chupacabra to join right in with the dunking. It seemed like the missionaryish thing to do, so he did.


Our first ever newsletter went out with a picture of my husband up to his chest in pool water with his arm around that guy. Big smiles everywhere. In the letter, we proudly declared that God was already using us in amazing and unexpected ways. We didn't lie, of course - the newsletter was carefully worded so as not to mislead anyone into thinking we had done more than just arrive, but it was vague enough to still spark interest for would-be investors, and assure supporters that “The Wrights in Costa Rica” were a wise choice. As for the guy? We never saw him again, never knew his name, and, obviously, had nothing at all to do with his journey toward Baptism. But he sure did make great fodder for our newsletter.

That was when I learned that we would actually spend our first year in Costa Rica learning two languages – Spanish was native to our new home, and Missionary Code was native to our new role.

It's kinda scary when you think about it, but Christian Missions is a billion (that's BILLION, like, with a B!) dollar industry – with virtually no oversight, no standards of practice, and no hiring requirements. To top it off, it's shrouded in a cloud of overly spiritualized language, easily manipulated to allow people to believe that more good is coming from their missions dollars than is necessarily true.

I know this because I learned the formula for missions language early on, and I used it often to mask my own failure, laziness, and lack of desire to engage in the field.

While I was virtually paralyzed by depression and anxiety, I used Missionary Code to turn every innocuous coffee date with a friend into “discipleship time”. Hours spent circling Facebook were important to “support development”, and everyday interactions with grocery store clerks and bank tellers suddenly became meaningful when referred to as “intentional relationships”. Oh, and the things your supporters do in their time off (like running, or taking classes, or hanging out with their kids) are things you get to claim, according to Missionary Code, as work.

Applied liberally, this vague and mysterious language can make even the most worthless missionary seem as though they were plucked by God, himself, from their homeland and delivered to the mission field on the back of Balaam's ass for the betterment of the world. (What. You don't believe there are worthless missionaries out there? I know missionaries working all over the planet and every last one of them can give you an example of someone living in the field, today, who's not doing jack shit for Jesus. Some could tell you horror stories of how missionaries are mishandling their time.)

Missionary Code is like Christianese on steroids.

The thing about Missionary Code is that it magically falls under the protection of the Missionary Code. When you give it the side-eye, it automatically creates an unbreakable loop of vague and mysterious language that cannot be broken without making the inquisitive skeptic feel like a faithless douche who hates the Bible. This almost never happens, because most of the time the “I'm a missionary” statement is followed by outlandish heaps of praise and encouragement, but let me give you an example:

Random guy: “Wow, you're a missionary? That's cool. What do you do?”

Shady missionary: “Well, I partner with the local church to make disciples.”

Random guy: “Oh. How do you do that?”

Shady missionary: “I create inroads through intentional relationships.”

Random guy: “Soooo, you invite... people... to church... in another country?”

Shady missionary: “That. Plus, I initiate interest by engaging in Christ-centered dialog with locals.”

Guy: “... *blink blink*... Wait. What does that even mean?”

Shady: “It's hard to understand from a limited North American perspective, but the Holy Spirit is hard at work in Peru/Italy/Cambodia/PickACountry, and I'm merely there to be a vessel. My job is really to just stay available to the call.”

Guy: “...Aaaand you get paid for that?”

Shady: “The Lord says a worker is worth his wages.”

Guy: “Of course He does.”

Random Guy walks aways with a super unclear idea about what the missionary actually does, but has heard, in no uncertain terms, that the missionary has been “called” by God to this mysterious but important job. That's the Code at work.

Crazy, right?!

I'm telling you all of this because there is blatant fraud going on in the world of missions and in the name of Jesus. And that bothers me. If you support a missionary, if you're a church that supports missionaries, if you're interested in becoming a missionary, you should be pushing for clarity and transparency from the Missions world. Most missionaries will be able to answer your questions without resorting to evasive language and obscure ideas. But if they can't? That should be a serious red flag and you should feel emboldened to push back until you clearly understand what they're doing with their time.

This will probably get me killed by the Knights Templar or something, but I want to decipher a little bit of the Missionary Code for you. I hope this will encourage you to ask good questions when you're contemplating partnership with a missionary or missions org.

~ If a missionary says they're “partnering with the local church” or they say they “work alongside a local church”, ask them what that means exactly. It could be anything from “I attend a local church” to “I occasionally drive past a local church on my way to the pharmacy” to “I regularly admonish the pastor of a local church for preaching too long”. Or it could mean they have a real, legit partnership, like, one that's mutual and beneficial. But I would definitely ask. (I would also ask, “If there's a local church, why do they need missionaries?” - but that's a post for another day.)

~ “I do discipleship.” is also one of those super broad statements that could mean anything from “I teach about the life of Jesus 4 times a day, 6 days a week”, to “I just live my life in an exotic locale on the church dime, hopeful that someday someone will ask me about my faith, so, technically, every person I interact with is a potential disciple.” Find out more!

~ Another one to watch out for? “I host short-term teams.” Yikes!... Just kidding. Some ministries make great use of short-term teams, while others are literally STM mills. So listen carefully, in case “I host short-term teams” really means “I go around looking for [what is oftentimes meaningless] work to let suburbanites get grimy and feel blessed.” Not good. Any time a missionary's primary role caters to short-term missions, get the low down. Find out how many other churches they're partnering with and ask what they do with each team. You might be shocked to find out that the poor little kids your church excitedly runs a Vacation Bible School for every summer actually has to sit through a half dozen VBS programs within a couple months. Trust me, it happens.

A lot of missionaries are self-motivated, innovative, disciplined, and hard-working – but, too many others are passing off purposeless days overseas as necessary and beneficial to the Kingdom of God. If you support a mission or missionaries, you have a right and a responsibility to know if they're actually engaging with the community in ways that make sense and reflect a heart for God's mission. You should know what they do, and why, and you should be able to get a pretty clear understanding of how they do it. 

Sadly, not all missionaries are good missionaries. This is a hard reality for the Church because we are absolutely terrified of hurting anyone's feelings, and we're easily held at bay by spiritual double-talk.  But, I'm telling you, this is a BIG problem and it shouldn't be ignored. Deciphering the code is the first step in helping our missionaries stay functional and accountable. 

Missions should not be a mystery. 

… ….. ….

Thoughts? 
Or, tell us about a missionary who's doing it well! 

I'm giving my shout out to Troy and Tara Livesay. A better example of hard working, local loving, kick ass missionaries cannot be found! Their work takes my breath away - 
Jesus is present with them. 

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Flabby Thighs and Flappable Confidence


I'm not fat.

Really, I'm not. At 5' 6” and about 134 pounds (yes, I just told the Internet my weight), I'm pretty much average. I'm not tiny, but my doctor says I'm pretty healthy and my husband says I'm pretty sexy, so I should be pleased.

I'm not fat.

But still... when I look in the mirror, I see a fat chick. 

It's not my fault.

When I was like 14? I walked into a room just as Pamela Anderson was making a mad dash down the beach on Baywatch (For those who don't know, Baywatch was a 90's TV show where hot people rescued ugly people from the ocean or something). As she ran through the sand - hair whipping, bronze flesh glimmering in the sun – a man in the room hissed, “That girl needs to tone up if she's gonna run in a skimpy bathing suit.” His voice was dripping with disgust.

Pamela Anderson, you guys. Pamela Anderson needed to “tone up”.

If Pamela freaking Anderson was a flabby cow in 1990, what was I to make of my own newly rounded hips and curving thighs; my freshly minted female form? If I ran on the beach, would the flapping of my soft arms and jiggling of my spongy butt make men of all ages throw up in their mouths?
Was I... gross?

All I knew was that I was no Pamela Anderson, and if she needed to “tone up”? Then I needed a Fairy God Mother and a Genie to fall in love and have a baby because it would take a Fairy God Genie to make me beautiful.

And so began the battle that rages within me still; A war between genuine health and perceived beauty. Which, for the most part, has been a losing battle.

It's funny, because I'm a pretty confident person. I don't get intimidated easily. I'm not scared of people who are smarter, richer, or more powerful than I am. I'm not afraid to speak up because there aren't very many people who make me feel insignificant. But I can crush my own spirit to a fine powder by comparing myself to other women. I can kill my own confidence in a heartbeat by coveting the smooth legs and tiny ankles of the girl next to me. I can convince myself of my own low worth in the blink of an eye, especially if that eye happens to fall on the perky boobs and glowing skin of that beeyatch I always see running so fast at the corner of Blue Ravine and East Bidwell. (I mean, seriously Lady? Why can't you go home and run slowly on a treadmill in the dark while you sip a frappuccino with whip like the rest of us?!) It's that easy for me to tear down what God has built up. I swear, the most dangerous place in the world for my body is my mind.

If self-loathing were an art form, I would be the Grand Master. Truly, I can tell you something ugly about every last inch of me ... But I won't. Not any more. At least, I'll try not to.

I've been listening to myself, lately, and I've been listening to the women around me. I've been watching this awkward balancing act we all seem so caught up in; carefully walking the tightrope between announcing our every last flaw, while simultaneously pretending not to care. (Why do we do that?)

This last year, I hit my highest weight ever, barring pregnancy. I hated what I saw in the mirror, but the horrible things I said to/about myself were, in all honesty, no different than the things I said to myself at my lowest weight ever - when my spine poked through my flesh like a dragon and clothes hung off my shoulders like wire a hanger. I know, I know.... Pamela Anderson, eat your heart out.

Now I have some kind of skin condition on my face that leaves white spots, kind of like scars, on my jaw and cheeks. It sucks. And there's nothing you can do about it. But a few months ago, when I was mad googling in hopes of a solution, I came across a pic of Victoria Beckham with the same thing going on. Later, talking to El Chupacabra about it, I was like, “There's no fix! I will be hideous forever... just like Victoria Beckham.” ...*blink blink*...

What a shame, right?

Then I got super chapped lips. They were so cracked and puffy, and when I was, again, complaining to El Chupacabra, I blurted out, “Ugh! My lips are so busted... I look like Angelina Jolie.”

Awww. Poor me.

My teeth are a wonky, like Kirsten Dunst.

My legs are built like stubby tree trunks. Feel me, Olivia Wilde?

My weight is untamable. I'm practically Tyra Banks/Jessica Simpson/Oprah Winfrey/Mariah Carey.

How will I ever survive in this lonely wilderness?!

Theodore Roosevelt said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”

And I believe he was right. I've spent too many hours comparing myself to a false sense of perfection. I've wasted too many days wishing I were someone I'm not. I've lost too many moments standing back to back against the women (both real and imagined) I thought were built better than me.

But when I stop comparing and start keeping company, I quickly find that not one of us is near perfect - and none of us is far from it. It just depends on how you look at it. If even the most elite beauties of our culture come in all shapes, colors, and (bra) sizes, then don't you and I also get to hold a place of physical beauty among women? Are we not favored, too?

I don't think God wants me to hate my container - or anybody else's, for that matter - and I don't think He wants me to love it too much. It is, after all, just the wrapping paper for the gift that lies inside. But I believe God wants me to be gentle with myself. He wants me to be kind. He wants me to respect His miraculous creation.

And I haven't been doing any of that.

Comparison stole my Joy. And now I'm taking it back.

I've found myself in such good company, it's almost easy... 

...       .....       ...

Whose beautiful company do you keep?

Got a booty like Jennifer Lopez? Racked like a Kardashian? Round like Rebel Wilson? Stick skinny ala Kiera Knightly? Horse teeth like a Hathaway? All beautiful...

... just like YOU. 

Friday, April 26, 2013

I Survived Women's Retreat!


At the end of every Women's Retreat, they should hand out t-shirts that say “I survived Women's Retreat!” ...That shit is intense.

I'm still recovering.

There were parts that I loved (the view, the speaker, the roommates) and parts that I hated (the food, the craft, the bed, the awkward intersection of women with 23 cats and women with 23 tattoos). Overall, I'm glad I went. It wasn't, like, AMAZING, but it was good.

All I knew, as we drove up Highway 50 toward the retreat center, was that I had five room mates (!) and a head cold. I kept thinking, “This could be bad... This could be really bad...” But, then I learned (through a series of squeally, chickish, emoji-filled texts) that one of the roomies had to bail at the very last minute and one of my favorite friends was taking her place. This may not be true, but it felt a little bit like God was sending me a partner in crime, a fellow cynic with Liz Lemon social skills and moves like Jagger. It gave me a sigh of relief. “Ok. This could be good...”

Everything else went exactly as expected. Though the cafeteria food was super disappointing, the speaker was kickass, the view was incredible, the lady singing was... lady singing. The weather did not disappoint.

Not gonna lie; there were some lows.

Like I said, the food was bad, our bed was hand crafted in Satan's den, my face was filled with snot, and there was a scavenger hunt – not making that up. Oh, and? I had to make a paper doll – TOTALLY NOT MAKING THAT UP. Normally, I would say, “Yeaaaah. I'm not doing that.”, but it was a team thing, so if even one person on your team was one of those competitive, paper-doll-making, social butterfly freak shows, you had to participate. Otherwise, you're the a-hole who ruined so-and-so's Women's Retreat. I did not want to be that a-hole. And, to be totally fair, some of the women really, really, really loved making their paper dolls. Like, really. 

And I get that just because I hate something with a venomous passion doesn't mean that it's not really filling somebody else's tank. I get that. I do. To each her own... paper doll.

And there were some highlights, but I can't really talk about any of them. It's one of those "What happens at Women's Retreat stays at Women's Retreat" situations. Ya know?

So let's put it this way; I cannot confirm nor deny that coffee turned to wine as we gingerly made our way to the water to sit under the stars after curfew.

I cannot confirm nor deny that the speaker may have dropped a contextually relevant and totally necessary “F” bomb.

I cannot confirm nor deny that chicks fart, you guys. 

I cannot confirm nor deny the weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that may or may not have happened behind closed doors.

I cannot confirm nor deny the laying of hands, the uttering of prayers, the presence of a great God – Merciful and Loving – weaving strangers into friends and friends into sisters and sisters into the living, breathing Bride of Christ.

Can't confirm or deny any of it. I can only say there were highlights. 

Perhaps the highestlights. 



I'm not sure what's higher than a highlight... Heaven comes to mind. And so, for moments here and there, between bad breakfasts and good speaking, after paper dolls and before moonlit skies, through wine and words and so much laughter, and right beside the broken hearted, I did, to my own surprise, find a bit of Heaven at the annual Women's Retreat thingy. I really did.

At Women's Retreat, I looked into a fiery sunset and found a thirsty soul, I drank from the water of the Word, and then I came home, refreshed.


And I could be wrong, but I think that was the whole idea...





.....          ....        .....

By show of hands, who here is in need of a bit of Soul refreshing?