Totally Devoted

I don't talk about it a lot, but the main reason I came to Cambodia is not my love for the people, my desire to do good, or my need to live abroad. It is, in a word, obedience. I felt called to come, in a way that was undeniable and inescapable. That doesn't make a lot of sense to people who don't believe in God, and even to some who do. This idea that my life is not my own, that it belongs to Someone Else who intends to use it for a glorious purpose-- well, that's just crazy talk, isn't it?

When I thought about making this move, I also thought a lot about not moving. After all, left to myself, with no other obligations to satisfy, I would be happy to sit in a chair at the beach, working my way through a stack of novels, listening to good music and drinking coffee for most of my life. Occasionally, I would probably eat some kind of Mexican food. Nevertheless, that is not the life that God planned out for me. Instead, I am here, sometimes uncomfortable, lonely and part of something different. In the end, the desire to live rightly before God, to follow the call, and to walk in obedience overrode my selfish inclinations and fears.

It is from this position of obedience that I'm now thinking about that decision again. I don't regret it, I wouldn't change it, and I can't go back. I am already here, already changed, already moving forward. I have been, however, thinking about this idea of "obedience." In 1 Samuel, when Saul is rejected as king, Samuel says to him "Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the voice of the Lord? To obey is better than sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams" (1 Sam. 15:22). This has been a verse that I've thought about a lot over the years. I want to obey, to do right in the eyes of the Lord. I've done that in the big things (and am working on the little ones), but lately I've felt like there is something more.

As I've been praying about some things this week, God is revealing to me that straightforward obedience is not enough. Perhaps that is because, despite obeying, I have done it begrudgingly, expectantly. Although the Lord rewards obedience, it needs to be with a right attitude. Our obedience certainly opens up a host of other blessings, but we cannot obey with that as our aim. Instead, we have to obey for the sheer delight of doing what the Lord says. That, to me, is tough stuff.

When David speaks to Solomon regarding the temple, he says this: "And you, my son Solomon, acknowledge the God of your father, and serve him with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind, for the Lord searches every heart and understands every motive behind the thoughts. If you seek him, he will be found by you; but if you forsake him, he will reject you forever" (1 Chronicles 28:19). We are not to serve the Lord only in obedience, but in devotion. When Paul writes about marriage, he exalts singleness, writing, "I am saying this for your own good, not to restrict you, but that you may live in a right way in undivided devotion to the Lord"(1 Corinthians 7:35).

There is more to serving the Lord than just doing what He says because we are afraid of the consequences, seeking the blessing, or unsure of how else to live. He searches our hearts, understands every motive. Even our obedience is subject to this scrutiny. I'm not sure I understand yet what it means to be devoted to the Lord. Certainly it will take my life, most assuredly my finances, and likely some other things I am hesitant to give up. God is calling me in deeper, asking for more than mere actions done in service to Him.

Obedience provides freedom; when we are doing what is right, what God has asked from us, we can walk without guilt, without fear, without remorse. Yet, I think maybe the key is how Paul begins that phrase: not to restrict you. Obedience feels restrictive, a code of right and wrong, option A or B. Undivided devotion? In those words I sense the opening up of possibilities, an unleashing of unimaginable options. It goes beyond simply right or wrong and becomes less a choice and more a posture of the heart. Obedience will serve us, but devotion... that serves the Lord.

Holding Steady

It's a busy time for me right now. By the end of the month, we will have welcomed at least 20 visitors to World Relief Cambodia, many of whom are leaders in our partner churches, and 2 of whom are English nobility (no, I'm not joking). In the first two weeks of November, we'll have another 15 people here, and a major leadership retreat for around 80 people. I'm responsible for coordinating a lot of these visits. It's a job I enjoy. I like working with people, telling them about the work we do, dreaming about the possibilities that exist when we collaborate.

Even so, there are more items on my to-do list than hours in the day. And all of these things are work-related, apart from the regular activities that come from maintaining a life (i.e., food, laundry, connecting with friends here and abroad) and being part of a church (e.g., attending Bible study and Sunday service, praying for outreach opportunities, and working with the youth group). I'm trying not to get swamped in the wave of things, and recognizing that it's simply a season of work. There are truths to be gleaned here, in the midst of the activity, if only I can look for them.

In many ways, it is a strange feeling to be so busy. Cambodia, after all, is a pretty laid back place. I think my first year here was really not about "productivity" but instead about being grounded here, learning what it felt like to walk around in this culture, and finding my bearings. Now that I'm more settled, I can actually start to "do" more. It's tempting to start to measure my success here by what is accomplished rather than what I've learned. Despite having a to-do list, I struggle to remind myself that this work, my life, is an exercise not in removing things, but in building a Kingdom-- one that will endure.

One of my favorite quotations has seemed more relevant this month. Richard Foster wrote:

"We may not see the end from the beginning, but we keep on doing what we know to do. We pray, we listen, we worship, we carry out the duty of the present moment."

While I want that time to reflect, to process, to learn, I'm sensing that this is a time to keep moving. Booking hotel rooms and planning meals does not seem to be filled with eternal significance. Yet, in the doing, the serving, the obedience, there is purpose. So I will carry out in the present moment what is required, and do it joyfully and wholeheartedly-- for the most part.

Pchum Ben

It was a holiday in Cambodia last week, called Pchum Ben. It's a big deal in Cambo, especially for the majority Buddhist population. It's a sobering time for Christians, but, apparently a lot of fun for at least one village. If only I'd known about this, I would have used my own water buffalo ride as practice!

The Pchum Ben holiday began in ancient times— it was even celebrated at the time of the Angkorian empire. During this fifteen day lunar festival, Cambodians gather at temples to honor their ancestors. With a prevailing belief in Buddhist teachings (though strongly animistic in their practice), many Cambodians believe in the concept of reincarnation. While many people are recreated into the human or animal world after death, those who have bad karma are condemned to live in the spiritual world— a type of earthbound purgatory. The Pchum Ben festival takes place during a time of the year when these spirit ancestors are believed to be roaming the Earth. It is a time for their living relatives to gather in remembrance and also to offer food to these tortured souls. Additionally, it is a time for those who are alive to meditate and pray to reduce the bad karma of the spirits and help them escape the misery of the spirit world through reincarnation.

For modern Cambodians, the festival takes place over fifteen days, and the final day is the most significant. Prior to this last day, families are scheduled to “host” a service at the temple for their ancestors. Family members gather at the temple, recording an “invitation” list of relatives who must be remembered. It is believed that unless they are invited, spirits cannot receive the offerings. Families prepare special food for their ancestors, and also leave bai ben (sticky rice balls) in the shaded areas of the temple for those who have been forgotten or who no longer have living relatives to offer sacrifices for them. The monks prepare the ceremonial reading and burning of the invitation list— as a notification to the spirits of where to find their relatives. Then the monks lead the family in chants, meditations, and prayers for their relatives. The ceremony is an opportunity for the living relatives to earn merit for those who are deceased.

On the fifteenth day, the temples play host to a large communal feast, as everyone is invited to the temple to participate in the ceremony for their ancestors. It is also a significant day in that the most miserable of the souls, priads, are only able to receive prayers, food, and be reunited with living relatives during this day (traditionally the darkest day). On the final days of the Pchum Ben festival, temples are crowded with people who are sacrificing and praying. Additionally, many disabled or homeless individuals gather near the temples to receive money or offerings— it is seen as a way to make merit to give money or food to them.

For Cambodian Christians, this festival can be a time of difficulty. If their families continue to celebrate the holiday, there can be great pressure to participate and offer to the spirits. This is a time when they need encouragement to stand firm in their faith. As the Psalmist said, “Into your hands I commit my spirit; redeem me, O Lord, the God of truth. I hate those who cling to worthless idols; I trust in the Lord. I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul” (Psalm 31: 5-7). Pray for our brothers and sisters in the faith to remain true to the only Lord, Jesus Christ.

Part of this post appeared in our WR bimonthly partnership newsletter. If you'd like to receive newsletter updates via email, please click here.

Moving Forward

Well, it had to happen sometime. Despite being fashion-forward and not a little funky, the Pink Helmet was retired a few weeks ago. The visor had been a little mangled for quite awhile, and instead of replacing it a second time in only 3 weeks, I opted to get something a bit more safe. After watching a woman fall off a motorbike and scrape her face on the pavement, I suddenly became very interested in having full face protection (including chin and jaw).

Despite the plethora of options available, I have chosen a standard issue black motorcycle helmet. It's basic, it's a little boring, but it's also been great. The Pink Helmet, may it rest in peace, has been relegated to emergency and guest use only. If you come for a visit... you might even get to borrow it.

In other transportation news, my motorbike has seen some improvement. The Phnom Penh traffic police have been cracking down on motos without mirrors (accounting for about 50% of all motos in PP). I was pulled over and had to pay $1. I quickly realized that simply putting the mirrors onto the motorbike would save me a lot of trouble, so $1.50 later, I now have two mirrors. Although they are absolutely no help at all in traffic, they are successfully helping me avoid the traffic police.

In other news, we now have several new American neighbors and are busy dreaming up ways we can challenge our Khmer neighbors in sporting competitions. Suggestions are welcome. Finally, the event we all feared would take place finally has. On Saturday, despite having been up and down the stairs to our apartment for a year, I took my first tumble (down the first six stairs). It was highly embarrassing, highly painful, and I'm not looking to repeat the experience. A few bruises and some shaken confidence are the outcomes of the fall. Thankfully, none of our new neighbors were home to witness this (although the landlady and her nephew came running out-- the stairs are metal, and I wasn't quiet during my rapid descent). We're thinking of installing a harness to prevent future incidents.

Water Buffalo

One of the iconic images of Cambodia is a kid sitting on top of a water buffalo. It's adorable. Every time I visit the provinces with our WR translator, Engchy, I ask if I can ride one. Each time, he suggests that I jump up on some random animal we pass while driving. That's hardly something I would feel comfortable doing.

This afternoon, we visited a church training on HIV/AIDS. When one of our staff mentioned that I wanted to ride a water buffalo, the pastor went to find one of his own animals out in the rice fields. Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on it!

Celebrity Culture

I hear from a lot of people that I meet that I'm pretty special, unique, or rare. Sometimes this has to do with the fact that I live in a different part of the world. Occasionally it's because of something I've said or done. Once in awhile it's due to my sense of humor. These kind of comments always make me feel a bit encouraged. After all, it's very American (or Western) to want to stand out, to be an individual, to be known. Isn't that why we revere our celebrities and send paparazzi after Ordinary Joes and Janes... they can play a convincing character, or have some unique backstory. We are captivated with people who stand out.

I am happy to report that in Cambodia, the same thing is true. People who stand out are the recipients of lots of undue attention. Guess who stands out the most? That's right... girls with brown hair, blue eyes, and white skin. No matter where I go, someone is bound to stare. A couple of weeks ago, I almost ran over a man who was standing in the middle of the road, staring at me driving my motorbike. People remember me after minor interactions; my neighbors have a fascination with my comings and goings. At first, it was overwhelming, now it's expected, and it's always, always, nervewracking. You can practice this at home by having someone watch your every move. Not someone you know and like, but someone you barely know and can't communicate with. See how much you like it, and how your behavior starts to change.

Most recently, the staring has escalated to an entirely new level. Deanna and I decided that for reasons of health, the environment, and our general enjoyment, we should purchase bicycles. I haven't owned a bicycle since my last year in college... 5 years ago. So I was a little rusty at the bike riding, but soon got the hang of it again ("it's like riding a bike" is not just a saying, I suppose). There are many, many Cambodians who ride bicycles. Hundreds of kids cycle to the school next door in the mornings and evenings. People ride up and down our street selling various things on their bikes. A bicycle, we assumed, is no big deal to Cambodians. Apparently, this is only partly true.

Construction workers have paused in their labor to watch us ride by. Children have stared in astonishment as we've passed. Moto drivers have snappy comments to toss at us. Suddenly, we are a bike-riding spectacle. I've been considering selling tickets, and am wondering if the addition of some sort of firework would increase or decrease the attention. I should be clear that these bikes, for as great as they are, are not flashy. Run of the mill, silver, with a basket on the front. Just like nearly every other bike in Cambodia. So I can only assume that they are staring at the bicycle riders. I am thinking of learning to say in Khmer, "It's only a bicycle!" Then again, that seems a little rude.

I was hoping that there might be some sort of spiritual parallel here, about being examples of our faith even when we do something simple. Or maybe it's that people should see the way we act and be captivated by the way our love for Christ is exemplified in these actions. Yet, as much as I want the staring and the noticing to have a deeper meaning, I also want it to stop. Perhaps I am a reluctant example, an unwilling spectacle and I need to get over it. On the other hand, I am simply a person, no different than the people I ride by, trying to do something as normal as go to work. I am not really that special, unique or rare; at least, not when I'm riding a bike. Then again, maybe I just need a celebrity friend to teach me how to cope with my fame.

Beauty/Ashes

I’ve been watching the plants in my apartment die slowly for the past few weeks. They started off well enough, really beautiful, making everything look cozy. Deanna and I painted pots in different colors, rearranged places for our plants to live, and were thrilled with the way everything looked. However, they went the way of many of my previous plants, succumbing to my incredible inability to keep things alive. True confession: I have a black thumb. The ones we’ve saved from their sad fate (and some that haven’t been saved) have been relocated to the front porch, where we were hoping direct sunlight and more rain would enliven them. It’s still touch and go.

Sometimes I feel like these plants trace the development of so many other things in my life. Relationships I’ve neglected are turning brown and fading quickly. And then there are those that I care about, but require me to rely on a tricky cocktail of fertilizer, sunlight, and weather to keep flowering. The orchids (and these friendships) sometimes require more effort than I’m capable to provide.

It’s not just people that I’m reminded of when I think about my struggling garden. When I’ve been looking around Cambodia lately, I’m seeing the same things. My priorities are shifting and rearranging as I’ve been here for a time. I want more depth in my friendships here, less of a social group and more of a community. My passions for certain solutions are fading as I’m exposed to weeds like corruption and fatalism.

Watching the death of my plants, of my relationships, of my worldviews, I’ve realized why it is that only a few of these things are still living. I’m a person who likes to see results—I appreciate when I can look around and feel like I’ve accomplished something (you should see how satisfied I am when the dishes are done). It’s the plants, the people, the ideals that survive which claim my attention and my care. I’m not interested in bringing something dead back to life. I want to bask in the glory of my success.

Here is where the big and scary change comes in. I want to leave things for dead in my life; my plants, my passion, my friendships. Yet the God I serve is one who restores life from what is dead. Right now, as I’ve looked around at my dead plants, I’ve also found that upon second inspection, some are still alive. I’m finding that even when I’ve killed something off, through my lack of communication—even inattention—relationships (and plants) are flourishing, blooming when I least expect it. Things I prayed about ages ago and buried are suddenly answered. More interesting is the transformation when this happens. I used to think it was creative solutions and large-scale efforts that would make things better. Instead, springing up is a desire to see the local church equipped and mobilized to create true change, lasting change.

In many respects, death and restoration are the story of this place. Cambodia is a country entrenched in death and mourning; for 30 years people have lamented the Pol Pot regime and genocide, and struggled through a civil war, poverty, and disease. Yet out of that time, out of the destruction, there is new life coming; the Church is growing, and little by little, hope is blossoming here.

It’s no coincidence to me that in this season of restoration—of relationships, of purpose—God is reminding me of the passage I spent so much time praying about before I moved to Cambodia. “…provide for those who grieve in Zion— to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor” (Isaiah 61:3). We are no longer those who grieve, surrounded by death. I don’t have to live amongst ashes, in mourning; God wants to provide beauty and joy instead. He wants us to be plants, too, sturdy, righteous oak trees, a statement for all about how Christ has brought us—and all of the things we left for dead—back to life.