I’d
always planned to chase the American Dream—I’d marry a guy who’d earn more
money next year than this year. And more money each year after that. And we’d
get a bigger, nicer house every so often. And increasingly nice furniture and
carpets. New cars, too.
And
I expected we’d continue our pursuit of happiness—which the Declaration of
Independence says is our right. I assumed gaining more and better possessions would
lead to that happiness.
Abundance.
Upward mobility. Living the good life. During my lifetime, the American Dream
has been so pervasive in our values, assumptions, and expectations that we have
allowed it to be a comfortable, acceptable part of Christianity.
In
my circles, including my church circles, that was the thing to do—that was the
way we lived—so when I was a kid and a young wife and mother, I assumed all of
that would be mine. I never questioned those goals. I never questioned my
motives for pursuing them.
What
a shock it would have been for me if, back then, I had read David Wilkinson’s
words in The Prayer of Jabez: “Do we really understand how far the American
Dream is from God’s dream for us? We’re steeped in a culture that worships
freedom, independence, personal rights, and the pursuit of pleasure.”
And
then God sent me to Lomalinda in rural Colombia.
Lomalindians thought little of North America’s material
trappings. For the most part, they had freed themselves, choosing to be satisfied
with skimpy physical creature comforts, willing to overlook inconveniences.
I sensed no competition to outdo each other in
vehicles, possessions, houses, or décor. They built homes where marriages and
children could thrive, where they spent fun times with friends-that-became-like-family.
If they’d ever craved a big income, a fancy house,
and early retirement, they’d set aside those dreams. They lived at peace with
themselves.
Our
population included charming, good-looking men and lovely, capable ladies. Most
folks were clean and attractive but had little concern about the latest
clothing trends. People returning from furlough brought back the latest
fashions and hairdos, but the materialism frenzy did not flame throughout the
community.
People
worked hard—sometimes too hard. They showed kindness and gentleness and
generosity.
They
enjoyed playing volleyball and softball and taking motorbike trips and singing
and playing instruments.
They also
cried together and prayed together and rejoiced together and grieved together
and cheered each other on.
God had
sent our family to live with some three hundred colleagues who, I would soon
learn, served Him with zeal. It’s not that they talked about God all the time
or spoke in hallowed tones or prayed a lot in public.
No, they
were ordinary souls who chose a humble lifestyle so they could live a radical faith,
despite consequences that would come their way.
“While
Christians choose to spend their lives
fulfilling
the American dream
instead of
giving their lives to proclaiming the kingdom of God,
literally
billions in need of the gospel remain in the dark.”
(David Platt, Radical,
published in 2010)
Half a
century or so before Platt penned those words,
the
Lomalinda bunch had begun addressing those needs
by
translating the Bible, and doing so much more,
for some of
those billions.
Lomalindians
knew from experience
the meaning
and implications of Platt’s words.
Now,
looking back, I don’t hesitate to call them
spiritual
giants,
choice
saints.
But I didn’t
recognize that in the beginning.
They were camouflaged
as regular folks.
Saints. What are saints?
In the Bible, saints are described as God’s
faithful servants, consecrated people, and those who worship Him (2 Samuel 2:9,
Psalm 50:5).
Henri Nouwen describes saints as “people ‘set
apart’ by God to be light in the darkness. . . . What makes them saints is
their clear and unwavering focus on God and God’s people.”
Set apart, indeed.
And yet, Nouwen says, “Although we tend to think
about saints as holy and pious, and picture them with halos above their heads
and ecstatic gazes, true saints are . . . men and women like us, who live
ordinary lives and struggle with ordinary problems. . . .”
“Most of their lives are remarkably similar to our
own.” (Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey)
“Remarkably similar to our own,” he said. That’s
what I meant when I wrote that Lomalinda’s people “were camouflaged as regular
folks.” (From Chapter 10, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir)
God handed me countless blessings when He sent me
to Lomalinda to work alongside choice saints.
He gave me a chance to sit around their dinner
tables and to invite them to gather around our family’s table.
He gave me an opportunity to laugh with them, cry
with them, pray with them.
In the commissary, I shopped alongside saints.
Some of Lomalinda’s saints worked as my kids’
teachers.
Saints piloted our fleet of small planes.
Saints staffed our clinic, our offices, and our
childcare so moms could work during morning hours.
And then Henri Nouwen turns the focus away from the
saints and instead forces us to look at ourselves: “The saints are our brothers
and sisters, calling us to become like them.”
While I agree with Nouwen’s statement, I have a
hunch genuine saints are not aware they’re calling us to become like them. Lomalinda’s
people never even hinted that they were inviting me to be more like them.
After all, each of us—even a choice saint—is a
recipient of God’s grace, His favor, His loving blessings we don’t deserve and
can’t earn. Grace is a gift He gives us as we slog along on our daily journeys
through ups and downs, failures and successes.
God was handing me one gift after another
and, among the finest, were and still are
His grace and His saints in Lomalinda.
