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.


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From: DR. RAYMOND OHIRO [D_ohiro@annmaiLcom]
Subject: Immediate Response
BOARD OF TRUSTEE, DEPARTMENT OF PETROLEUM RESOURCES DPR Building, Victoria-Island, Lagos.FROM THE OFFICE OF: DR. RAYMOND OHIRO (MNIM) TELEPHONE NUMBER: +234-1-774-4594 DIRECT AMERICAN INTERNET FAX NUMBER: 1 775 535 4598 Dear Sir,

(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.

BUSINESS PROPOSAL: TRANSFER OF US$15.6M (FIFTEEN MILLION SIX HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS). BUSINESS INVESTMENTS PARTNERSHIP.
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
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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.