Adult Dreams and Childish Dreams
I'm reading a really good book right now called God's Smuggler by Brother Andrew. I started it just over twelve hours ago, and I felt certain that I was probably going to finish it before I went to bed tonight. But just now, God stirred in my heart, and I feel like I ought to write down what He is saying before it flits out of my mind. Besides, it's the long weekend, and I will have time to read more tomorrow.
When I was a teenager, I read The Voice of the Martyrs and I kind of got a little bit obsessed about the Underground Church. I admired their faith, their tenacity, and how God transformed that faith in the face of adversity into something so much stronger than could ever be found in a place where Christianity was built into the culture, but stretched thin by it. Of course I knew that visiting an underground church would be dangerous, but also, I wanted to go anyhow. I was drawn to the idea of taking risks in order to help others. In reading books about the Underground Railroad, I was thrilled by how the Quakers would refuse to lie while smuggling escaped slaves, but still somehow got away with it. At the same time, I was thinking about how being a spy like in the movies would be so exciting and daring, but that a Christian could never manage to be a spy like that and keep their morals intact--until I heard about how people smuggled Bibles across the Iron Curtain. Aha! I thought, This is the Christian equivalent to being a spy! I definitely felt the pull of working in ministry in persecuted nations through my adolescence.
But as I grew up, my outlook on life grew more practical, and, well, I started to appreciate being comfortable. The thoughts about the persecuted church soon evaporated--although I was very excited to visit Our Lord in the Attic, a hidden Catholic church in Amsterdam from during the Reformation. These adolescent dreams were soon replaced with more practical dreams. Could I get a job doing what I loved, doing research in linguistics, on theoretical and comparative syntax?
Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about how, as a child, he had aspired to be a carpenter. But as he grew up, it became clear to him that God was calling him into the ministry, so he set aside his carpentry aspirations. Only much more recently, however, he is starting to see how God might have a plan for him that would involve both of these things, integrating them in a way he definitely did not expect.
God's Smuggler is about a man who worked as a missionary behind the Iron Curtain in the 50s and the 60s. He smuggled Bibles daringly, he held illegal revival meetings, and he boldly did it all without lying. As I read his story of incredible courage and faith, all of my childhood admiration for the underground church came slamming back in full force. The Iron Curtain in Europe may no longer exist, but the underground church most definitely still exists in various places of the world.
So now I am wondering if, like my carpenter-aspiring friend, whether God would combine these two interests in some incredible, unexpected way that fits me like a glove. (And before you suggest Bible translation, keep in mind that the very practical job of translating Scripture has little need for the kind of theoretical syntax that I love so much.)
This book resonates with me on more than just the underground church, too. During all his time traveling, Brother Andrew survived off of donations, which arrived at just the right time in just the right amounts. In that, I see echoes of God's provision for me, through my years in grad school (although in my case, it was less extreme). I read eagerly as he wrote about his longing for family, and how he prayed for a wife to ease his loneliness. Would God provide in this case, or would God require him to live in loneliness, with God as his main comfort? I was so eager to see God's response to Brother Andrew, since I am asking God that same question myself.
And I also read, confronted with conviction, as Brother Andrew admitted that his obedience to God was full of "Yes, but"s. I realized my prayers had a lot of "but"s in them too, and that I needed to root them out, and figure where they were coming from.
Anyhow, it's an excellent book. I urge you to read it. I can lend it to you.
And in lieu of an actual conclusion, I am just going to say: I must go, the rest of the book is calling me.
When I was a teenager, I read The Voice of the Martyrs and I kind of got a little bit obsessed about the Underground Church. I admired their faith, their tenacity, and how God transformed that faith in the face of adversity into something so much stronger than could ever be found in a place where Christianity was built into the culture, but stretched thin by it. Of course I knew that visiting an underground church would be dangerous, but also, I wanted to go anyhow. I was drawn to the idea of taking risks in order to help others. In reading books about the Underground Railroad, I was thrilled by how the Quakers would refuse to lie while smuggling escaped slaves, but still somehow got away with it. At the same time, I was thinking about how being a spy like in the movies would be so exciting and daring, but that a Christian could never manage to be a spy like that and keep their morals intact--until I heard about how people smuggled Bibles across the Iron Curtain. Aha! I thought, This is the Christian equivalent to being a spy! I definitely felt the pull of working in ministry in persecuted nations through my adolescence.
But as I grew up, my outlook on life grew more practical, and, well, I started to appreciate being comfortable. The thoughts about the persecuted church soon evaporated--although I was very excited to visit Our Lord in the Attic, a hidden Catholic church in Amsterdam from during the Reformation. These adolescent dreams were soon replaced with more practical dreams. Could I get a job doing what I loved, doing research in linguistics, on theoretical and comparative syntax?
Recently, I had a conversation with a friend about how, as a child, he had aspired to be a carpenter. But as he grew up, it became clear to him that God was calling him into the ministry, so he set aside his carpentry aspirations. Only much more recently, however, he is starting to see how God might have a plan for him that would involve both of these things, integrating them in a way he definitely did not expect.
God's Smuggler is about a man who worked as a missionary behind the Iron Curtain in the 50s and the 60s. He smuggled Bibles daringly, he held illegal revival meetings, and he boldly did it all without lying. As I read his story of incredible courage and faith, all of my childhood admiration for the underground church came slamming back in full force. The Iron Curtain in Europe may no longer exist, but the underground church most definitely still exists in various places of the world.
So now I am wondering if, like my carpenter-aspiring friend, whether God would combine these two interests in some incredible, unexpected way that fits me like a glove. (And before you suggest Bible translation, keep in mind that the very practical job of translating Scripture has little need for the kind of theoretical syntax that I love so much.)
This book resonates with me on more than just the underground church, too. During all his time traveling, Brother Andrew survived off of donations, which arrived at just the right time in just the right amounts. In that, I see echoes of God's provision for me, through my years in grad school (although in my case, it was less extreme). I read eagerly as he wrote about his longing for family, and how he prayed for a wife to ease his loneliness. Would God provide in this case, or would God require him to live in loneliness, with God as his main comfort? I was so eager to see God's response to Brother Andrew, since I am asking God that same question myself.
And I also read, confronted with conviction, as Brother Andrew admitted that his obedience to God was full of "Yes, but"s. I realized my prayers had a lot of "but"s in them too, and that I needed to root them out, and figure where they were coming from.
Anyhow, it's an excellent book. I urge you to read it. I can lend it to you.
And in lieu of an actual conclusion, I am just going to say: I must go, the rest of the book is calling me.
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