18 years ago my toddler son was trying to make sense of being home in America for the first time in his little memory. Everything was new to him. He had arrived on the mission field of Indonesia when he was just 6 weeks old. His first words were a mix of Indonesian and English.
Furlough (a missionary’s “home” assignment for the purpose of reconnecting with family and supporters) was hard on our tribe of little boys. “Home” to them was the little jungle town they were growing up in. In their limited world, our white skin was the minority. Our world was majority people of color. Our church in Indonesia was a sea of ebony dancing their hearts out before Jesus, tears running down their faces as they called out for revival in their land wracked with tribal violence.
Our Sundays in America were so different.
We walked into yet another church service of faces unknown to my sons, I was especially tuned in to their overwhelmed feelings on this particular Sunday. In this church there were only a few people of color in the congregation. After the service I watched my three year old son Adam spot a large man of color in the foyer and his shy little countenance lit up like Christmas. His chin lifted and he set out on his toddler legs to be in this man’s presence which represented safety to him. He turned playfully in close proximity to the familiarness and feeling of “normalness” this man carried for my son. This man did not know what to do with the sudden attention of this little one.
If only he had known what he represented to my boys. He was safety, familiar, kindness, “home”.
I should have told him.
I watched my son register that this man did not know him, that this man did not react to his blonde head of hair like the other colored men of his childhood world had, mussing up his straw like hair with their big strong hands.
I watched that day, watched the sunset of innocence start to set in little Adam’s mind. No longer did a certain color of skin guarantee a certain degree of relationship. I felt the iron weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. I was raising four very white men. Their interpretation of the world, and the color of people’s skin, would be largely formed by me for at least the next decade of their lives. They would learn subconsciously how to believe based on my ever so subtle actions, not to mention my out loud processing and decisions. One of the heaviest weights of being a mother is the 18 year journey of creating glasses for her children to interpret the world through. God help us.
This Sunday I wake up in America again, an America burning with the wrong fire. For 49 days now I have set my eyes on tomorrow’s date. Pentecost Sunday. 50 days after Easter. So many of us have been asking God to pour out His Holy Spirit on us like He did in the book of Acts.
(Background…on this day nearly 2000 years ago, the people had gathered to celebrate Shavuot, a feast commemorating God writing His commandments on tablets of stone on Mt Sinai. When Jesus walked victoriously out of the grave His radical plan of redemption began unfolding. Of utmost importance to Him was stripping off the outer forms and requirements of the LAW and instead writing His instructions for life on the flesh of our hearts. His blood was the endless ink. His Holy Spirit IN US. He told His disciples to wait and pray as they gathered for Shavuot. They did. The Holy Spirit fell on them in what appeared to be fire resting on their heads, the rest of the story is even more incredible, read it in Acts 2.)
Long story short, a city “caught on fire” with the presence of God among them, in them, each of them carrying the fire of the Spirit of God. No longer was the LAW an outside force imposed on them. SUDDENLY it was a living God burning them up from the inside and pouring out of their mouths making them appear so overwhelmed they were mistaken for drunken men.
The Holy Spirit fire, chapter by chapter began burning away every single division among us.
Black, white, young, old, man, woman.
The news last night pushed a collective anguished groan out of the American lung. What has happened? A 49 day prayer vigil for FRESH FIRE to fall on all of us….only to wake up to fires consuming building after building in city after city. The very people entrusted with the upholding of the law of the land left standing immobilized by unprecedented circumstances.
RIGHT WEEKEND
WRONG FIRE
On that day of Pentecost 2000 some years ago, men of many races, color, and language had come to the city to celebrate the Feast. When the Holy Spirit fell in that city, EACH RACE, EACH LANGUAGE, EACH ETHNIC GROUP heard their “own tongues speaking of the mighty deeds of God”. (Acts 2:12)
Dear ones, while I am so grateful for the laws and those that seek justly to uphold them, for freedom of speech and the other foundations we are teetering on, we have tumbled past the fence.
We are burning with a pain that handcuffs and jail bars and courtrooms and social media posts cannot resolve.
We need tomorrow. “And when the day of Pentecost had come, THEY WERE ALL TOGETHER IN ONE PLACE” (Acts 2:1)
A virus has prevented us from gathering all together in our “one place” buildings.
Our ONE PLACE has been redefined.
So here we are.
Day 49.
Our collective hearts gathered.
We are black, we are white, we are so many colors. We are angry, we are grieved, we are afraid, we are faith filled, we are hopeful, we are longing. We are not the best versions of ourselves by a very long stretch. We are every rag tag version of THE ONES YOU DIED FOR.
Fall again on us.
Consume our structures of pain and racism and anger and misunderstanding with THE FIRE of YOUR PRESENCE.
Come fall on us again.