First Day Fears and Lessons From My Daughter

I quit my job in January. Currently I have two things keeping me afloat, but I don’t know if either of them are long term solutions. Both potentially could be, but I’m not sure I’m interested in either one for the long term. One is working at a church to help them with their international missions connections. This church wants to set up new partnerships and I can probably help with that process.

The other job is a sales gig for a big manufacturing company about an hour from here. There is a part of me that believes I should probably be pretty good at sales. And there is another part of me that is terrified because I have no idea what I’m doing and will probably panic and fail.

When my eldest daughter started first grade (and her first time in school) in August of this year, I watched her walk in to the school slightly terrified and having no idea what was actually happening. She wasn’t sure where to go, how she should act, if she should talk to people and ask directions or try to get there on her own, and she didn’t know what to do once she got there. I kept telling her she’s awesome and she would do fine. And she did. But it was kind of sad to watch her walk in the building with so little confidence.

That was six months ago. She’s still not 100% confortable with school, but she knows where she’s going. She knows people there, knows how to act, knows what questions to ask, understands why she’s lining up, and even what’s next on the schedule. The first week she cried in the library time because she didn’t understand what she was supposed to do. Too much pressure.

It’s not like the teachers expect her to know how to act, she was just too uncomfortable to admit she didn’t get it. I think she figured there would be some kind of penalty for not knowing everything.

Well, here I am. Walking in to sales for the first time. Slightly terrified and having no idea what is actually happening. I’m not sure where to go, how I should act, or even if I should talk to people and ask directions or try to get things done on my own. I think I’ll probably figure it out, but I’m afraid of stumbling on the way. Being afraid is probably an appropriate reaction. In six months (if I’m still doing this), I’ll probably be much more comfortable, having an idea of where to go and how to get there.

I’m afraid there will be some kind of penalty for telling people I’m new to this or that I have no idea what I’m doing or how I’m supposed to do it. The problem is, I’m so new to it that everyone will be able to tell just by looking at me. Just like my daugther was the only one in her first grade class who hadn’t been to kindergarden, I’ll be the only guy doing sales at this scale who has literally never made a sales pitch—not about sheet metal products anyhow. I’ll be standing there just looking around and wondering where I’m supposed to be.

As I write this out, I’m pretty darn pleased with my daugther. She’s only six, and she walked in to that situation terrified, but knowing this was what she had to do. She went after it until she became comfortable. She was stressed about it at times, and I don’t blame her—it’s hard to not even know what you don’t know.

Now it’s time to lean on the Lord. I would much rather go do something I already know how to do. I want to enter a field as an expert. The problem is, the only place I can do that is in the mission field in China. I can literally go nowhere else and be an expert in any other field. Some of my skills will certainly transfer over, but I’m going to have to be okay with that being the best I can hope for.

It would be a lot easier if I knew this was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Or even just the next two years of my life. I should be thrilled, however, as this is the kind of opportunity where I can give it a good English try. If I fail, everyone will be just fine. Myself included. If I succeed, well then hey, cool.

Here’s to trying to follow the example of my daugther, to walk in, terrified, but without hesitation. I used to feel so sad for her being overwhelmed and afraid of school, now I’m just proud of her for being an example to her daddy.

I'm a Better Missionary Than You

Somewhere today a missionary (or a million of them) is going to wake up feeling insufficient. They’ll wonder if what they’re doing is good enough, brave enough, or enough sacrifice for the Kingdom and the King. They’ll wonder if what they’re doing actually matters or if there is somewhere else they’re supposed to be and something else they should be doing. Part of the problem is there is always a more impressive missionary out there.

Whether it’s a good thing or not, and it’s not, ministers often rank each other on some sort of imaginary scale. The guy who runs the slides for the music on Sunday mornings feels superior to the guy sweeping the church hallways the Saturday before, but he feels inferior to the worship pastor. The worship pastor in turn feels inferior to the adult pastor, who feels inferior to the administrative pastor, who feels inferior to the speaking pastor. The speaking pastor is almost the pinnacle. But every speaking pastor feels inferior to the other speaking pastors at the churches bigger than their own.

When I walk in to a room of pastors they’re all looking around and sizing each other up. It’s like a Jr. High dance where every girl is trying to figure out where they fit in the ranks of the prettiest. In such places I’m the weird looking guy who clearly doesn’t know how to dress well enough to be speaking in front of a large crowd. This knocks me down a few rungs, and certainly I can tell by initial interactions with people, before they know who I am and what I do, that this is the way I’m percieved. Clearly I am not a dynamic pastor speaking in front of thousands every Sunday morning. On the other hand, I can play the missionary card and see some immediate change of heart. Sometimes it’s like a trump card, the pastor all of sudden feels humbled, like he’s playing junior varsity. And other times it’s the opposite, real ministers are folks with the social skills to survive in their home culture. And it’s true, I’m probably a missionary at least in part because I’m very socially awkward. And then there are always some folks that have no box to put me in and simply move on without acknowledging my presence.

I’m not saying I’m above this behavior, if anything I’m always curious where I fall in these hierarchys. Nonetheless, we are all very aware this behavior is foolish. The Lord isn’t ranking us on awesomeness so he can line us up in heaven and show us who we were better than and who we were inferior to. Hudson Taylor and Spurgeon aren’t benchmarks by which we will someday measure ourselves and find out if we’re among the “elite”. But observing the behavior of ministers, you certainly wouldn’t be able to tell we think otherwise.

In a local church, the greater the percieved influence, the greater the minister.

In the mission field it’s different from the local church. It isn’t how many people you’re speaking in front of, because numbers are much harder to measure than location. Therefore for missions it’s the greater the percieved difficulty of the work, the greater the missionary.

So we, embarrassingly, have a similar hierarchy. The missionary from Dallas to Houston is inferior to the one from New York to the American Indian reservation. Again, we all know this is utter foolishness, but you can tell by our behavior and treatment of each other that we all sort of, nonetheless, believe this.

Then the missionary to Italy is inferior to the one to Serbia. Saying I’m a missionary to China still often times garners immense respect. This is most obvious when you look at missions finances. Western Europe is one of the places in the world most in need of the gospel, but because of percieved ease of life, no one wants to support missionaries to go there. Very few churches have said they’re partnering with France because people don’t get excited about missions efforts there. China increasingly is a comfortable place to live, but because of percieved difficulty, it’s way easier to raise support to go there. I have internet on my phone, I ride an air conditioned subway around town and can afford heat. I can have McDonald’s for breakfast, and as of recently, I can even buy pants at the Gap. But people don’t know this of China, or don’t think it’s relavent enough to overshadow how difficult they percieve it to be.

Therefore if you’re a prospective missionary, China is a little higher up on your list of possible places.

Say you decide to join an organization and move to China. One day you arrive in Beijing and the missionaries remind you that Beijing has international hospitals and Burger King. “Real missionaries are in West China,” they’ll say. So you learn some Chinese and move West only to be asked by other missionaries which of the five most common Tibetan languages you’re studying. Apparently the real missionaries live in Western China just so they can prepare to one day head to Tibet. But be careful, because Lahsa is way too comfortable, and once there, you’ll be convinced the real missionaries live in mud huts on the border of China and Nepal near Mount Everest ministering to a people group which commicates through a complex language of only six noises—two of which are grunts. Their only currency is unwrapped Twinkies from the seventies smuggled through India and your foreign money is no good here so you’ll need to herd cattle for a few years before you aquire enough Twinkies to buy your hand-made tent, wool blankets, and food. This of course, all will happen in your night-time-sleeping hours because during the day you’re doing ministry. No foreigner has ever lived there more than two weeks without being martyred by way of cannibalization. But it’s worth it, because now, you are a “real missionary”.

There is always a tougher missionary. Always.

Interestingly enough this doesn’t stop people from trying to be the toughest. And for most, there is a minimum threshold which they feel they need to cross before they’re worth something in the Kingdom of God.

“We’re miserable here,” I told a friend after a few months of living in a place which turned out to be much harder than I anticipated, “how are you guys doing it? Do you or your wife have any real community? How is she handling it?” This friend looked at me like I was missing the whole point.

“A missionary is supposed to suffer,” he said, “are you reading your Bible enough?”

Well. Good luck with that.

I’m not saying we should all go to comfortable places, I’m just saying if your goal is to suffer I can introduce you to a place with less foreign influence. I can find you a harder language to learn with pictographic writing where no one has ever even attempted a Bible translation. I can find you an even more muslim nation, or at least a neighborhood with more strict muslim customs. I can find you a place with food so awful you won’t eat for a month just to make yourself hungry enough to be able to get down (and keep down) the maggots and tree-grubs.

Somehow we forget that we don’t earn more in God’s Kingdom by way of suffering. It’s true some of us will be called to tough places where the primary food source is turtle toes, and we hate turtle toes—not to mention we find the harvesting process painfully monotonous. But most of us will go places and survive in places where the Lord causes something about the local culture to revive our spirits and encourage us. He will often give us a unique love for the place, even if we hate living there. We are not however, better missionaries the more miserable we are.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us are actually in the field because we’re called to be, or because we’re really trying to work off some of our old High School sins, and we think two more years in that awful place might be enough to earn our salvation. Hopefully this isn’t true, but it sure seems like a good number of us are merit driven individuals completely rejecting the gospel truths we make a living of proclaiming.

If Christ really is sufficient, and really doesn’t need us, then why do we rank each other in our heads like seventh graders at a cheerleading competition? I think it’s because so many missionaries aren’t where we are because of calling, but because of a profound sense of insufficiency. This isn’t to say God can’t use our insecurities for His glory. Of course He can. It is to say, spewing our insecurities all over one another every time we gather together is probably not building the Church.

Likewise, imagining ourselves in our heads as being people worthy of great honor because of the sacrifices we perceive ourselves having made is not doing us much good. Storing up pride for ourselves in our heads is not the same thing as storing up treasure for ourselves in heaven.

The Lord calls whom he calls to go the places he calls them, and we’re not greater because we stand in front of a church of more people. We’re not greater because we planted more churches in more cities in India than any other foreigner since Thomas. We’re not worthy because we don’t buy a heater for our cement house in Siberia. We’re not worthy because our language is better than anyone else on our team. We’re not worth something because we went further than anyone else dared go before us.

We’re of worth because of the blood Jesus poured out for us in the profound sacrifice of the cross. We cannot die on the mission field for our own salvation. Jesus died already for us and anything more we do in ministry or the mission field ought to be out of an overflow of a love for Him. Not because we believe it makes us more awesome. Not because we want to be the prettiest cheerleader. I wish I didn’t have to preach the gospel to gospel preachers, but the truth is that we forget it as easy as those around us. The problem is, they will never understand the gospel if we don’t live it. And if we’re in the field out of a profound sense of self-salvation-by-way-of-suffering, our disciples will never see Jesus.

Christ, and Him crucified. That’s all that really matters. Your spider-ridden mud hut does not.

Speak Wisdom and Justice

I’ve come to the conclusion that my role in the Kingdom of God is to speak. The problem with being called to speak is that it’s one of the easiest things to abuse, esepcially when you think the Lord has called you to do it. I’ve had a friend who told me their job was to speak in to my life, to sharpen me, to make me more like God. It doesn’t sound bad on the surface, but it ended up meaning this friend is constantly looking for things in my life in which he can give input. Any action is presumed to represent character flaws, and then something which can be fixed.

Thank you very much, but I’d much rather just have a friend. Someone who would speak in to my life, and just be with me. Don’t get me wrong, there are times where our friends approrpiately need to rebuke us, but I don’t want a friend who sees himself as my “rebuker” full time. That’s just depressing.


Over the years a few verses have stuck out to me regarding this calling to speak. First of all, and perhaps most difficult to hear, was James 1:26 which tells me that if I do not bridle my tongue, my religion is worthless. I read this verse the day before I got on a plane to go give input to my organization’s leaders. That was a bummer. I realized I needed to bite my tongue rather than give overwhelming feedback. My opinions are, unfortunately, not inspired. They’re just my opinions.

Learning to bite my tongue is definitely the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Although, I can’t say it’s something I’ve learned very well yet.

More recently I’ve been thinking a bit about Psalm 37:30, which says the mouth of the rightous is to utter wisdom and speak justice. God loves wisdom and justice, and wants us to proclaim those things. The problem is I love respect, honor, and money, and it’s easy for my words to proclaim such things rather than what they should be proclaiming.

There are many ways in which being Christ-like is difficult, but attempting to control your tongue is basically impossible (James 3:8), though that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

Personally, I find it exhausting to always try and control the words I’m speaking.

Then again, being Christ-like in any way should, by it’s very definition, be impossible. And that’s why we need the Gospel and the Holy Spirit.

I hope I can hold my tongue whenever possible so as to be heard when necessary. I pray my tongue can be used for the glory of the Lord, and for the edificaiton of His Church, and not my ego.

Farewell Trip

I recently got on a plane and flew back to China to shut everything down. Nearly ten years living as a missionary in one place, it’s every bit as difficult to leave as you might imagine. I’ve wondered what kind of job I’ll be able to get after having been nothing but a missionary since college, and I have yet to figure it out. I’ve been thinking I’d love to do something which would send me to China a few times each year, but then, on the plane back I questioned that thinking. Fifteen hours on a cramped airplane followed by two more flights can put things in to perspective, and I wrestle with wanting to have China as part of my life, and fighting insanity on trips that long.

Before I left, I imagined I would be in tears the whole time I was in China because I was saying goodbye. I thought I would cry uncontrollably at all the things I was giving up, all the things I was going to miss. Sadly, while I did cry, it was for much different reasons than I anticipated. There is a lot of cultural stress living in China, lots of things which make it difficult for an American, especially one with a mixed-race family. And while there were pressures wherever we lived in China (or anywhere outside of our home culture for that matter), they varied dramatically based on where in China we were living.

The last city we lived in was particularly hard on us for a number of reasons, most of which I never allowed myself to feel. I couldn’t handle the reality of the stress we were living under, so I simply ignored it. But on this trip back, to shut everything down, I was no longer under this stress and as a result I let myself experience the full weight of it. My family would no longer have to deal with this school, or that hospital experience. The lady at the grocery store who always wants to touch the kids will no longer even be in our lives. I’ll no longer be a two hour ride away from my wife and kids in a city where I have no confidence they are safe. And, in feeling all of this, I cried tears of relief. I can’t believe we lived there as long as we did. I can’t believe we survived as long as we did. The grace of the Lord in our lives is incredibly obvious when I look back on the years we spent there.

We have very little question that moving back to America at this stage in our lives is the right decision for our family. There are a million things we wont miss even a little bit, but that doesn’t mean leaving isn’t hard.

China is all I’ve known. I was 20 years old and right out of college when I moved to China. In those ten years I’ve lived in four cities, led three different teams, learned a new language, married, had kids, adopted two more, and labored alongside of some incredible people. I’m going to miss the ministry. I’m going to miss the people with whom I ministered. I’m going to miss fighting in prayer every day over such an overwhelmingly lost place.

I can stay connected in prayer, and I intend to. But it won’t be the same when I’m not prayer walking through the city. It will be different as I won’t be gazing in to the eyes of the lost every fifth step on the sidewalk, or surrounded by them on the subway. It will be different when I hear from the struggling pastors and elders about their ministry by way of email instead of over a meal. It will be different. And I’m going to miss it.

I’m thankful many friends made time to come see me on my final trip. Three even flew up from another city to come say goodbye. I finally was able to visit a restaurant built in an old bomb-shelter in the side of a mountain—one I’ve been wanting to see for nearly a year.

There were people I thought had seen no impact from our ministry who came forward and told us how we had affected their lives. There were stories of the gospel being preached in the some of the most difficult and persecuted places.

Stories which gave me great hope.

Ten Years a Missionary

Well, it’s been ten years and as of last week, I’m no longer a missionary. Well, I’ll always be a missionary, because like James Fraser said, true, lasting missionary work is done on our knees. I won’t be getting off my knees. But I will be looking elsewhere for employment.

It’s been a long complicated road to arrive at this conclusion. And there will be a lot I miss about working as a missionary in China. Hell, I’m gonna miss noodles like crazy. But, on the bright side, I can say hell whenever I want now.

Now I’m just going to be a Christian. No longer will I be a “professional Christian”. I can walk my faith, live and breathe the gospel the way I believe it should be lived and breathed. Not a whole has stood in the way of that before, but it wasn’t always easy. I have had an audience of many, not an audience of one. That’s part of the complication of living on support, which is often a huge blessing. But sometimes it’s utter foolishness. Now I’m excited to put the foolishness aside and be who I’m called to be in some secular workplace in America.

You know, assuming I can find a job.

Until then, I no longer have to binge eat donuts and burritos because I’ll be able to have them whenever I’d like.

I will, however, now have to binge eat noodles when I go back to China for a week next month to shut everything down.

China, you’ll be missed. Hopefully I can get a job that brings be back to you with some regularity. Hopefully you’ll always be a part of my life, not least in my prayers.

This is a big intimidating change. Not sure what to expect.


There’s a shocking amount of uncertainty in my life right now. Shocking because of how little there was six months ago. Shocking because I have always known who I was, where I was going, and exactly how I intended to get there.

It turns out the whole world as my apple kind of scares the hades out of me. I’d rather know exactly where I’ll be taking a bite and how, and where that will lead three years from now.

Instead I’m chasing away questions I’m unwilling to ask because I’m too overwhelmed by the ones I can’t answer. They pile up and I shove them under a rug and yell loudly at myself, “This isn’t a midlife crisis!” Hoping if I say it loudly enough I’ll grow to believe it myself. I beg myself to believe what I teach—what I believe—that God is in control and somehow has a place for this. There is a road yet ahead. Not just a cliff.

And hopefully there will be very few casualties on said road. I’m not sure I can handle it any other way. My hopes are fading with my burning desires. Desires burning to ash. Not desires not burning inside of me.

Infrequent Opportunity

Preaching this Sunday on a topic of sound theological basis, but with lots of complex explaining needing to be done to fit in with different eschatological views. Hope I can skirt the right issues, and address the right ones. Landing where the Lord is honored, and His Kingdom is grasped better by those who hear.

It’s interesting to only have infrequent opportunity to speak on whatever topic I’d like. I speak a lot, but seldom do I get to choose to share what’s on my heart. In these situations I feel the need to jam a lot in, and hopefully allow my passion for the topic to not overshadow the scripture it’s founded on.

Turning Over a New Stone

This week, namely yesterday, marked a new stone turned over. I tried something I’ve wanted to try my hand at for years and put myself out there in a new, scary, and strange way. Maybe I’ll be shut down, and try to tell myself I never really wanted it anyhow. Maybe I’ll be well received and panic and run. But turning over new stones is always scary. What if there’s something new under this one?

I’ve had a lot on my plate for some time now and I am acutely aware of my inability to sort through even knowing what I desire. I feel like the Lord has me on a precipice and is threatening to push me over. Not to kill me, mind you, just to make fall briefly into my discomfort zone.

It’s fascinating to watch theology I’ve had all my life be challenged by the reality of having to face the situation. I can believe I’ll behave one way, but I’m watching my doubts and fears respond in whole new ways. Especially as I attempt to consider my family and their needs and desires.

I’ve watched pastors and other believers whom I’ve counseled deal with similar situations and I always thought them so weak for not knowing what they want. And now I have no idea what I want. I figured if ever in this situation I would be clear about what I wanted, or at least the Lord’s will, and then I would pursue that boldly. “Like a man,” if you will. But now? Well, now I know to compassion on those in these situations. To love them, encourage them, and help them when they fail. Even when they fail to pursue what I think they want. Because apparently sometimes, we genuinely don’t know.

Here’s to hoping this stone only has bugs and dirt I’m familiar with on the other side. Or else something fascinating I can’t look away from. I’m fine with either one.

Missionary Tenure

Growing up I always assumed that the word tenure came from an old English word meaning 10 years. I’ve since looked it up and found the two have nothing in common. Nonetheless, tenure for a missionary seems to come at or around the ten year mark.

Tenure for a missionary is like tenure for a professor in the sense that getting tenure means you’re arriving at a kind of ensured longevity. But tenure is different from teaching because in teaching you get tenure for great teaching, research, or published scholarly articles. And as a missionary you get tenure for being broken down and wiped out, eventually staying in the field as just a shadow of what you once were. When the missionary gets tenure it means he finally lays himself down and really learns a slow dependance on the Lord.

You can tell the missionaries with tenure because the young and new missionaries all think of them as lazy, sometimes wondering why they are still around. Conversely the tenured missionary has patience for the young kid with an insatiable “go-get-em” attitude because he’s been there.

No one gets to tenure just by learning from the older generation. They have to get there the hard way—through long years of work and consistent failures from trying to operat without the Spirit.

Tenure is a good thing, the Lord can use the tenured differently because they’ve given up on doing things by their own strength.

The Documentary Hypothesis (JEDP) as applied to a Nigerian e-mail request for money transfer

I've recently been thinking about Biblical criticism and found that I could apply what I've learned to an email I recently received requesting my help for a transaction of a large sum of money. I was really quite shocked to find that not one, but probably as many as four people or groups of people helped to compose this email to me.

My breakdown of the text is based largely on who is the master (or the most important person) of the email at the time. I have broken this down into four parts the "Sir," the "Help," the "I," and the "They." At four different times this email was edited by people who leaned towards thinking a different audience was the master of the email

You will see by notes below just how clear these different authors were. And I hope my point will become clear to you as you read through these notes.

From: DR. RAYMOND OHIRO [D_ohiro@annmaiLcom]
Subject: Immediate Response

(S) - Here you can see the first master of the email. The composers of this first part considered the master (the main subject) of the email to be the person they were writing to. This letter is addressed to "Sir" because it made the recipient very comfortable in believing this was going to be about him.

I would date this probably sometime in early 1995 back when people had just discovered email and used it primarily to learn more about others than to share about themselves.

Good day to you. You were introduced to us in confidence through the Chamber of Commerce, Foreign Trade Section. The reason for this letter is that your help is being sought in order to facilitate and successfully complete a profitable venture that is of immense benefit to you, and us the originators within a stipulated time frame.

(H) Help is how we will refer to the second writer of this email. Likely sometime around the dot-com crash of 2000 this letter was found and then revised with the master (or focus) of the email no longer being the recipient of the email but rather the urgent need for help. This was characteristic of the time and people's lack of money.
I am Dr.Raymond Ohiro, a director with the Department of Petroleum Resources (DPR) and the Secretary of the Contract Award and Monitoring Committee (CAMC) of the Department of Petroleum Resources (DPR). This profitable venture involves the sum of US$15,600,OOO.00 (Fifteen million Six hundred thousand United States Dollars) which is presently in an account of the DPR with the Apex Bank in Nigeria, the Central Bank. We need your help as a foreigner to help transfer this sum of US$15.6M (Fifteen million Six hundred thousand United sates dollars).

(I)I is the third person or group to edit this email. This must have been at least 10 years after the original was written as the focus is now completely removed from the "Sir" at the begging of the email and at this point the "I" believes they can be more persuasive if more is offered about them, then asked of the recipient.

Notice the continuing pleas for help throughout this part of the email... clearly added at a later date when 15 million would have been a more reasonable sum (than back in 95 when probably the number would have been closer to 10 million to be a believable sum).
(T) "They" is the fourth and final person/group to edit this email before it was mailed off to my inbox. This group is set apart from the previous I because the email loses it's personal tone of a dealing between two people and shifts to a transaction between one individual me-- the recipient -- and they a group now seen clearly in the word "we." We cannot make this transfer on our own or in our names for the fact that we are civil servants (still in active service). But you as a foreigner can assist us in the sense that the money to be transferred will be paid to you as a contract entitlement for a purported contract executed for my government. The money in question is ready for transfer into an overseas account which we expect you to provide. We have agreed that the money will be shared according to the ratio stated below;a) 20% of the money will go to you for acting as the beneficiary of the fund.b) 70% to us originators (which if possible we may enter into a partnership with you)c) 10% for any expenses that both parties may incur in the course of this transaction

We will require from you: a) Name and address of Company or Beneficiary. b) Details of the account which you are the only signatory that the money will be transferred into. The above requirements is to legalize the claim for payment and transfer of the money to your account. Be informed that the reason we are sending you this letter is because we know that the only way to succeed is to seek the help of a foreigner. Your professional status is not a matter of hindrance in this transaction. Please, your assistance is highly solicited. We have no doubts at aIl that this money will be released and transferred if we get the necessary foreign partner to assist us in this deal. Therefore, when the business is successfully concluded we shall through the same connections withdraw all documents used from all the concerned government ministries for 100% security. All expenses regarding the opening of an account if not already in existence shall be borne by you, all expenses are however reimbursable on the conclusion of this business transaction. It is of high hope that you will consider this humble request and respond positively. If you are still in doubt after the receipt of this letter, please do not hesitate to contact and ask any question(s) that may hinder your decision on this matter. If in the alternative you are indisposed, please an acknowledgment of the receipt of this letter will be appreciated stating such. For more details on this transaction, you can call me on my telephone number +234-1-774-4594. The telephone line be busy, please keep on trying till you get through. While awaiting your early response, thank you in anticipation of your most valued assistance. Yours faithfully, Dr. Raymond Ohiro (MNIM) P.S. PLEASE TREAT AS URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL

The constant ebb and flow of good/poor English can easily be explained by the lack of unity with the original writers.

Just to conclude... The original "S" text was written sometime around 1995 (using the best estimates of my understanding of the language and the culture at the time), the first major modification -- "H" -- being being made sometime around the turn of the millennium.

"I" would have rewritten and added their text sometime around 2005.

It is my best guess that "T" brought the whole text together into a sort of combination I like to call S. H. I. T. probably around the end of 2007.

At this point I intend to respond to this email as quickly as possible and I hope to receive my 20% of the 15 million by the end of the month. I hope that my brief adaptation of the JEDP hypothesis to this Nigerian letter shed at least a little light on how you approach the documents of importance in your life.

Beer and the Resurrection

Years ago I lamented that I could find no good spiritual parallels for beer. Well good people, I’m glad to say my theology has evolved (joke in there somewhere) and I’ve done it. My reading and pondering lately have all been in the realm of eschatology and the resurrection. Thus…

Beer is an excellent example of the transformation we undergo in resurrection.

Bland wort (the syrup made from soaking grains which is later fermented in to glory) turns to glorious deliciousness through the wonders of yeast. Likewise, we are bland (even bad) fallen in nature until we are, through the work of Christ, resurrected in to our heavenly nature. Beer is imperfect, and we are imperfect. But we are citizens of heaven invading earth. Beer is a product of heaven invading earth.

And then there is the hops. What was for a long time considered nothing more than a bitter worthless weed becomes the foundation of flavor which makes beer so good. It’s like the sins and wounds of our past. Those bitter parts of our history now gives us our unique flavor. Our greatest help to believers often comes from our greatest wounds. Resurrection turns the bitterness of our sins and wounds to mere testimony of the glory of the Lord. We use those things to bless, encourage, and empathize with others.

Yeast is the Spirit at work within us, transforming our nature in to something perfect.

Beer. The resurrection. Awesome.

Of Significance

As secure of a person as I feel I am, I think I am surprised at how much I nonetheless wrestle with significance. Am I doing what I’m supposed to be doing? Am I a faithful enough missionary? Will my work have a lasting impact? Will anyone care or remember me? Do I even want to be remembered?

What if I made more money elsewhere, would I then have a greater impact on the Kingdom? Do I spend enough time in prayer to be doing to real lasting work? If I had to leave tomorrow would anything I’ve built last long enough to accomplish the Lord’s purposes?

And this last question brings to light my misunderstanding. I know without question I have built nothing of value in my own strength. The Lord either builds through me or none of it does matter.

Yes, probably sometimes I build things which will not survive the refiners fire when Jesus returns. But if I’m depending on the Spirit of the Lord, which I am so terribly inadequate at, and if I preach His word, He WILL accomplish His purposes in and through me. My significance comes not from of what I’ve done. But from of what I’ve allowed Him to do in and through me. I am of significance because I am a child of God. My work matters because I have tried to do it by His strength and not my own. My work will survive the refiners fire when it is actually revealed to have always been His work.

I write this to preach it to myself. Because I too often forget it.

Most Shocking to Me Daily Is

There are people in this world with a tolerance for monotony I cannot help but quietly envy.

Insider Movements are Bad Mothers-in-Law

If you accept the imagery of marriage being a picture of Christ and His Church, then insider movements are the bride trying to bring her mother along to the marriage. There is leaving and cleaving in marriage, there should be leaving and cleaving when you become a believer (become a member of the Church) and you cling to Christ.

Anything else isn’t asking for a successful marriage; too much baggage is being brought along for it to have any hope of working.

An Empty Box of Chocolates

In my younger years I was not, what most would call, suave. In fact while there were lots of examples of this, perhaps the most telling situation was when, in seventh grade, I asked an eight grade girl to be my girlfriend. She took three days to think it through, which in itself probably should have given me pause. Then one day right after the bell rang, she pulled me in to the hallway and said “no” in front of all my peers. That wasn’t that big of a deal in itself I suppose, even George Clooney was probably rejected once or twice in his life. But I was not rejected once. I was rejected about eleven times. By the same girl. You might wonder why I kept asking her the same question. Because something told me she regretted her decision. The first time she was just confused. The tenth time she just hadn’t come around yet.

Like I said, suave.

Well the months passed. And actually my interest did eventually fade from that girl to one of her best friends. They ran in a pack of three. There was Sarah, who had shut me down countless times. There was another girl of some unusual descent with an epic nose and an even worse name—Camel. You can’t make this up. She was actually named after the animal with a hump perfectly descriptive of the one on her nose. And then finally, to protect her identity, let’s call this new focus of my attention Mary. Mary was blonde, cute, and funny. When one of my friend’s told me she was too much of a “Barbie” I didn’t understand how that could possibly be a problem. The whole world complains Barbie is a standard no one can possibly live up to, and here Mary’s being accused of being like Barbie as though it’s a bad thing? Clearly my friend was an idiot.

I liked Mary but, being the mature seventh grader that I was, I had no idea how to show it. Shyness was not something I struggled with, and this is probably all the more reason why I utterly lacked suaveness. Valentines Day came along and one of my friends, Reed, came to school with a large heart-shaped box of chocolates. His mother had given him this as a gift, and by the end of first period he had already eaten the last of the chocolates. Now my school was small, and I had made a fool of myself on more than one occasion, but I decided it would be amusing for me to take this box and ask girls if they would be my valentine.

Most, upon seeing me on my knee proposing something with no meaning at all, simply giggled and walked away, knowing I was an idiot. But eventually I did make my way to Mary. While my heart was much more a flutter at the time, I was going through the same routine I had hundreds of times. In retrospect it’s hard to know what I was thinking, perhaps I was preparing myself for a life in sales and wanted to get used to rejection. It’s difficult to understand the motivations of pubescent boys. Even though I was one—this specific one. I remember that entire stage of life through a hormonal blur of self consciousness.

So there I am, on Valentines day, at the top of the stairs to the Jr. High School floor. I was facing south with my back to the stairs and I caught Mary as she was closing her locker door. The air was dry. I had my shirt tucked in. The mole on her right cheek was particularly cute that day.

I lowered myself to one knee and asked Mary to be my valentine. She turned bright and clasped her hands behind her back as she swayed slightly back and forth. I was scared—probably sweating in some new places. She then smiled and said, “Yes.”

Time freezes sometimes. But it’s different than in the movies. In the movies when time freezes the camera pans around the room and shows you the face everyone is making right after an explosion or something. In real life, when time freezes, you simply get to live the most painful moments of your life for much longer than a moment. I had long enough in my head to process the fact that this girl, the girl I wanted more desperately than anything at the time to like me, was making a gesture which suggested she in fact did like me. And I had an empty box of chocolates. Empty.

Reed’s mom had given them to him, not me. And I definitely was not competent enough to be giving a real box of chocolates to Mary. What was I thinking putting myself in this situation?

I knew I couldn’t stand there forever, though that was probably already how long I had waited. I had to say something. So I mustered all my intellect, had a meeting in my brain and “It’s empty,” was all I managed to mutter.

Mary walked past me and down the steps. I stood staring at the wall in disbelief until disbelief turned to devastation. Unfortunately however, this is not the end of the story.

A few weeks later, our school, like many before it, decided to add to our already socially awkward lives by offering a free Post-Valentine-Gram mailing service, or something with an equally terrible name. This little excercise was easy, the student council set up boxes thoughout the halls which we could fill with notes to whomever we wanted and in a few weeks, right before a school dance, the notes would be delivered during homeroom to whomever we wanted in our school.

This was my chance at redemption. I could taste it as I tucked my hands under my pillow in bed at night. I knew my poetic mind could come up with something to win Mary over. Her expression of vulnerability would not forever be lost to the nether of Jr. High, I would swoop in, save her by asking her to a dance (a move I could actually back up), and this would become something we would both laugh about in our fifties. Just me and my barbie.

Thus began a long tortuous process of writing poetry, prose, or more likely, just complete sentences to win over Mary. I experimented with everything. But at this point in life the only thing I knew how to write was book reviews and reasons why marijuana was bad. School was preparing me for academic and perhaps professional life, but was clearly coming up short on helping me with reality. While I don’t have the letter in my possession any longer (I’m sure it’s still tucked away somewhere in Mary’s special drawer of prized possessions), I can say with some confidence that it said something like this:

Dear Mary, Roses are red. Violets may be as well, I’m a little color blind. There’s a dance coming up which I hope you’re not entirely unaware of because I’d really like you to come with me, if you wouldn’t be embarrassed to do so. Not that you should be embarrassed, I’m not saying that, I’m just saying if you wanted to, and it happened to work out that your parent’s aren’t opposed to you going to dances or anything…. well. Would you come to the dance with me?

Yours, The only guy who ever gave you an empty box of chocolates.

This was it. I had done it. This was going to work. It had to work. It was going to be a week until it was delivered and it was all I could think about. I thought about it when I put my books in my locker after class and while I was trying to engage my friends in conversation at lunch.

And finally the day came. I didn’t know when in the day it would happen until a bunch of student council folks showed up in my homeroom class and starting handing out notes. She was there right across the room from me. She was handed what was definitely my note and I was going to get to see her face as she read it.

She opened it, her eyes moved back and forth the way they should. She stopped. And then she didn’t look up and look at me. Instead she handed the note to her friend next to her for consultation. But they looked bewildered. Did she really not know who had given her an empty box of chocolates?

Just as I was contemplating what I could have done wrong a note landed on my desk. A note asking me to the dance. And it was from Camel.

I’ll save you the details about the smoothness with which I responded to this quandary but suffice it to say Mary and I were never an item.