poverty – Karla Jo Wasion

a deep drink from the humility well and keeping the realms straight

poor “The Spirit of the Lord God is on Me, because the Lord has anointed Me to bring good news to the poor.” – Luke 4:18 / Isaiah 61:1

Yesterday, I spent a good part of my day drinking deep. Sitting right here, in my favorite spot, listening to worship music and reading scripture. I happened on Isaiah 61 and I heard Him whisper something. It was faint, but I heard it.

The Gospel is only good news to the poor.

And just like that, He cracked open my heart and I saw how deprived of poverty it had become, how much self-sufficiency was being masked by spiritual maturity. I saw and I wept.

Because spiritual poverty is what makes the good news good.

Twenty-seven years have passed since Jesus found me (I did not find Him. He was never lost.) and here is the truth that I am prone to forgetting…I am still as poor today as I was that first day.

Because twenty-seven years later, I still can’t do one thing to be right with God on my own. I still can’t earn His grace, or cover my own sin. I have not arrived. My hands are still empty. I am impoverished to the core of me. I can’t even obey Him without Him. I just start thinking I can. And when self-sufficiency rises up under the mask of maturity, bad things happen.

accusation My finger starts to point at other people. People who are poor like me, but for some reason, they should know better. A harshness slips in and quietly asks compassion to leave. Grace becomes a given to me, but not from me. Rules become far more important than people, love is something that must be earned, and God is pleased with me but not with you.

When I forget that I am poor, it breathes life into the Pharisee in me.

And then God invited me to drink humility in deep. To drink in good news that is still good.

To consider my own poverty again. To find grace amazing still. To remember that I am a saint, chosen, sanctified by God, redeemed by Christ, part of the family of God, gifted by the Holy Spirit, befriended by Jesus and loved by the Father, and that I am poor. I have no righteousness of my own. I have nothing in me with which to earn eternity.

Before the spirits of darkness, I have authority. I am to give no ground, make no compromise, wielding the sword of the Spirit without mercy. Before the enemy of my soul, I must remember who I am because of Christ.

But not so before men. In earthly realms I am to be clothed in humility, full of compassion, honoring others above myself, turning my cheek, loving those who would do me harm. Before men, I must remember who I would be without Christ. I must remember that I am poor.

Beloved, do not confuse the realms you walk in.

it was just two cents but it moved His heart

“Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a few cents. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” Mark 12:41-44

Oh woman, did you even know that your two cents mattered?

Once again Jesus has all but stopped my heart with who He is. He sat down to watch and then with His crazy, upside down kind of love He showed her off to His disciples. Showed off the one who gave the least, while others were giving the most. God made much of a poor woman and her pennies.

We all feel poor with no more than pennies, really.

(But if grace were pennies we could buy the world.)

And here is what I want to know. When she opened her hand and let her pennies fall, did she know it mattered?

And it led me to the real question hidden in my heart.

And so for days this widow with her pennies has been following me around until I finally saw what He wanted me to see. I saw Him sit down to watch, and I saw that it was the giving of all she had that moved His heart.

And I knew my heart had been asking the wrong question. It is not ‘do I matter?’.

What matters to You?

It is the giving of everything, everything I have to live on. That matters to Him. That moves Him. When all I have is two pennies of hope at the moment, I can give it away and move the heart of God.

Because I get poor in hope sometimes, don’t you?

I can be so very poverty stricken in patience, in love. “…but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.”

Every drop we pour out from our places of poverty matters to Him.

Every word written in the middle of the night because all we have are these words. Words that leave us vulnerable and exposed, and when we are done it feels like all we’ve given is two cents, buried under the wealth that others have given. But because it was all we had and we offered it up, it mattered to Him.

(I have to believe the words matter to Him, or they don’t matter at all.)

I may not move you. And if I matter to you, believe me I am grateful. But I have to wrestle that need to the ground and pin it tight.

Because what matters to Him has to matter more. Moving His heart must consume me more than moving yours.

Her pennies made no difference in anyone’s life, but they were all she had so she gave them up and it moved Jesus.

And it reminds me of another woman.

“A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.

…Then He turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss,but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown.” Luke 7:37-48

Tears and perfume. Her love and her worship. It made no difference to anyone there, but it was all she had to give, so she gave it, and it moved His heart.

More than I want to matter, I want to move His heart.

Sometimes that’s all we have to give, isn’t it? Our love and our worship, coming out of imperfect, messy lives. Lives that matter to Him. Lives that make a difference because He is with us in the offering of our poverty. Whether we see it or not, feel it or not, our lives do matter. We matter. The enemy may tell us otherwise, but he is lying and he knows it. Because he was there that day.

He knows Jesus didn’t die for something that didn’t matter.

remembering africa – sudan – awakened

I am prone to forgetting so I want to memorialize my very first mission trip. I want to put my memories in writing for my grandchildren and their children, but also for me. Because remembering is sweet.

(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)

Sudan – Part 2

So far, my African experience was fairly mild, I would say. Other than having to hold onto a pole so I didn’t fall into the toilet, nothing had been too difficult or inconvenient. So when we headed out to our next ‘motel’, in Juba, the capital of Southern Sudan, I wasn’t worried.

We pulled into the motel. I don’t know another word for it, so I’m just calling it what my team leader kept calling it. The motel.

All I remember thinking, with amazement, is, “This is how some people live.”

I thought that way because I didn’t realize that I wasn’t in the majority. When you are surrounded by people who live the same way you live, you lose sight of the fact that much of the world lives in poverty. Poverty that, for the most part, you do nothing about.

It’s the same with our faith. When we surround ourselves only with people who know Jesus, we don’t realize we aren’t the majority. If you do life only among the living, you rarely think about the dying, until someone forces you to think about them. Most of the world is going to an eternal death, something so many of the living do nothing about.

Lesson #1: Don't get attached to the goats. Just don't. — Lesson #1: Don’t get attached to the goats. Just don’t.

As we pull in, the motel was on my left, and a goat was on my right. Someone in the vehicle said “Oh, there’s someone’s dinner”, to which I laughed, which I thought was an entirely appropriate response to the statement. Later, the goat was gone. I almost cried.

Our motel in Juba, the capital of South Sudan.

Each room had several metal beds, and a “bathroom” (and yes…those are air quotes). The bathroom had a shower, a toilet, and a sink. And no running water.

They did have large barrels filled with water and crammed into the bathroom. If we used the toilet (as opposed to holding it for days), we had to then pour water into the toilet to make it sort of flush. But I found a far more valuable use for the water.

It was hot, as one might imagine Africa to be. Two of my teammates had gotten heat stroke. Sleeping was very difficult. But I discovered that if I took off my clothes and dunked them into the barrel of bathroom water and then put them on as I went to bed, I slept very well. My wet clothes kept me cool long enough to fall asleep.

Speaking of clothes, my suitcase never made it to Sudan. In fact, the very first time I saw my suitcase after we departed from Chicago, was at the airport in Uganda on my way back to the U.S. They had it in a huge room with hundreds of other pieces of lost luggage. So, that means I spent 21 days in Africa with only the clothes on my back, and one extra shirt (which ended up with a hole in it so I couldn’t wear it anymore). I did have a backpack with my toiletries, my bible and beef jerky in it (my alternative to ‘goat’), thank You, Jesus.

The awakening was rude but necessary. To discover how many ‘can haves’ became ‘must haves’ over the years. To realize that I need very little, but demand much, want much, take much. Awakened to the gifts of God.

To the hungry…every bite is a gift…to the thirsty, any sip To the homeless, any shelter is a gift To the dying, every breath is a gift To the lonely, the discouraged, the beaten down ones…every kind word is a gift To the naked, one set of clothes is a gift.

But to the one who has demanded much, wanted much, taken much…very little is a gift.

The passing scenes of Sudan

The road we traveled to get to Bor. Yes, I use the word 'road' loosely. — The road we traveled to get to Bor. Yes, I use the word ‘road’ loosely.

remembering africa – sudan – making room

(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)

Sudan – Part 1

After we left Uganda, we headed for Sudan, to a town called Bor. On our way, we stopped to stay in tent city. It was a ‘hotel’ made up of what looked like army tents with two cots in each tent. Quite nice, really. It was in tent city that I first came to appreciate the headlamp. The headlamp was a small flashlight that sat on your forehead, held in place by an elastic band around your head. When my team leader first stressed the importance of bringing one, I really didn’t understand why. Besides, I looked every bit as silly as I felt wearing it. But the first time I had to go to the bathroom in the dark, I discovered what really mattered. I needed that flashlight on my head because my hands would be busy holding onto the pole that would keep me from falling into the hole in the ground that was the toilet. Awesome.

Uganda tent city — Salvation. I think I was overwhelmed by the beauty of this moment.

It was in tent city that I would meet a most beautiful girl from Kenya (I can’t for the life of me remember her name). She worked at tent city and was our hostess, more or less. She liked us and hung around our team a lot. She told me she missed Kenya. She missed her home and her family. I don’t know what brought her to Sudan, but I got the impression she couldn’t afford to leave. The day before we left, she was sitting with us in the meal tent and someone led her, weeping, to Jesus. Later, she came to a couple of us, with her small bible, and asked if we would show her what to do. We showed her where she should begin reading and we prayed for her. My heart has always remembered her, even if my mind cannot recall her name.

Once lost, now found, in a tent in Sudan.

Our first night in tent city, our team sat at an outdoor table by a group of trees, planning and yawning. There was a group of people not far from us, sitting around talking. One of them was a young man who, upon realizing we were American, came over to us to say hello. His story was stunning. He was one of the Lost Boys of Sudan and was among those who had been allowed to resettle in the United States. Almost all of his family members had been killed in the war, and his village had been destroyed. He was one of the boys who escaped on foot into the bush, finally ending up in Kenya. After relocating to the U.S., he finished his schooling and got a good job. But Sudan was his home, and he had returned because he wanted to rebuild his village and look for members of his family. That day was his first day back in Sudan since fleeing for his life.

It is these things, these stories of people longing for their home, that pushed against the walls of my heart, trying to make room for something bigger than my own life. There is something so powerful about ‘home’, that a lost boy from poverty would grow into a man surrounded by wealth, and return to poverty, because it’s home, and it matters to him. And a girl from Kenya so lonely you could see it on her face, and for whatever reason, she was there, in Sudan in a tent city, when a group of missionaries needed a place to stay. To be present at that moment that had been arranged by God, watching a young woman cry as Jesus entered her heart, was so surreal to me. I don’t think it was that I suddenly felt very small so much as it was that the moment seemed suddenly so very big. As though nothing else in all the earth mattered at that moment, except that God had arranged a meeting.

As all of this comes to me at this moment, I know what I want…what I’ve been wanting since I returned. I want something to push against my heart. Something bigger than me and my life to push its way in. I want moments that are so much bigger than me, moments where nothing else matters except what God is doing.

Sudan's poverty was a shock to senses that had never seen anything like it. — Sudan’s poverty was a shock to senses that had never seen anything like it.

Soldiers in the streets...a reminder. — Soldiers in the streets…a reminder.

remembering africa – uganda and leaving normal

(Ignore the dates on the photos. They were all taken in March, 2007.)

Uganda

In March of 2007, I took my first mission trip. A small team from my church went to Uganda and Sudan. Our purpose was to bring encouragement and support to a group of pastors and their wives. They would be traveling, many of them from very great distances and on foot, to the location of the retreats we were hosting. For most of them, it’s their first time being together as pastors. The majority of them are very isolated from the rest of the Church, because of the great distances and obstacles they would need to overcome in order to come together.

Suitcase ripped at O’Hare Airport. Team Leader pulled out his duct tape and went to work on it. That suitcase still has the duct tape on it six years later. Makes me smile when I see it. I wonder if Americans are the only ones who believe duct tape can fix anything, so we carry it everywhere.

I don't care for fish. But I was in England, so on that day, I loved it! — I don’t care for fish. But I was in England, so on that day, I loved it!

First stop was London for a two-hour layover. Enough time to go out for fish and chips and my first peek at England. It wasn’t nearly enough. I hope I can go back there someday and really have a good look around.

Finally boarded the plane to Entebbe, Uganda. It was now late, and everyone settled down to try to sleep. It was the first and only time that grief welled up and almost became too much for me. I cried quietly, but deeply, with my head under a blanket on the dark plane heading to Africa. I felt like I had taken a giant leap down the rabbit hole, and nothing felt normal anymore.

On March 20, 2007, the day before I left for this trip, my mother died very unexpectedly. She lived in another state, so I was not with her when she died in the middle of a very routine blood transfusion. The news was devastating, and I had no idea if I was supposed to go to Africa or cancel my trip. About an hour after I had gotten the news, I called my dad. Some of his first words to me were “Go to Africa. Your mom was praying for your trip and was excited for you to go.” He held off on her memorial until my return three weeks later, and I left for Africa the following morning. Other than on the plane to Uganda, I did not grieve or cry for my mother until I returned home. I believe God’s grace surrounded me the whole time, and protected my mind and my heart from the fullness of the pain of my loss. It only occurred to me just recently what kind of sacrifice that was for my Dad to tell me to go, and to hold off my mom’s funeral until I returned. Three weeks without closure for his loss. Three weeks of waiting for the healing to even be able to begin. Three weeks of anticipating feeling fresh pain over his wife’s death. Such selflessness in the midst of such pain. Thank you, Dad.

Landing in Entebbe — My team leader disembarking the plane in Entebbe.

Eight hours later we arrived in Entebbe, Uganda. I remember the smell when I got off the plane. It was the smell of dirt. Very earthy, hot dirt. Not a bad smell, just very foreign to my senses. And I remember the flight attendant standing on the tarmac to greet us when we came down the steps. She was dressed in a crisp uniform and was smiling at me. She looked professional. She fit my picture of normal.

Later, as I traveled through the overwhelming pain and poverty of Uganda and Sudan, the image of that flight attendant would continue to come back to me. Because it was deceiving. Most of the women I saw over the three weeks did not smile much, and nothing about their lives fit into my ‘normal’. I would learn that many of them had suffered atrocities that I had no grid for. I had no place to put the things I heard from these women. Their stores assaulted everything “normal” in me.

This deception is not contained to Africa, or to third world countries. It is everywhere, including here. In any city, any neighborhood, you could walk past someone every day who fits your picture of normal, but if you heard their story, it would feel like something in you was being assaulted. Things they are suffering or have suffered that you have no grid for, no place to put their pain so that it makes sense to you. All of humanity is broken, in pain, and in need of Jesus. We can’t just walk past what appears normal.

My hut in Jinja. I shared it with a rather large black spider that lived in the shower.

From Entebbe, we traveled to Jinja, Uganda, to a resort near Lake Victoria. We were hosting a church leader’s retreat, a first time experience for most, if not all, of these men and their wives. The “resort rooms” were small, thatch-roofed huts. They were clean and really rather nice. I shared mine with a large spider.

I'm telling you, it was a tough audience. — I’m telling you, it was a tough audience.

It was here, in Jinja where I met a woman from Sudan who told me her story of having to run from her village with her small children. Her husband had gone to find work, and while he was away, the war came to her village. She and other villagers, mostly women and children, ran for their lives. She described the fear of trying to stay hidden while foraging food and water for her little ones. She and her husband were finally reunited at a refugee camp in Uganda. They were hoping to be able to return to Sudan soon. I could tell that talking to me was difficult for her, and I soon discovered that talking to me was difficult for almost all of the women I encountered in both Uganda and Sudan. In their minds, how could I possibly relate to anything they would tell me? With my life of privilege and normalcy, how could I ever understand the suffering that filled their everyday lives? What was normal to them would be shocking to me, perhaps repulsive.

On an earthly level, they would be right on some counts. But the Holy Spirit closes all gaps, does away with ‘normal’ and levels every playing field. I did not need to relate to their lives in order to love them, to lay hands on them and pray for God’s healing in deep places, to feel overwhelming compassion and at the same time admiration for them. They had no idea that when I listened to their stories, I no longer felt strong. Their strength to endure made me realize my own weakness in the face of anything that deviated from my ‘normal’. But witnessing their love of God and their commitment to Him, even after all they had gone through, felt holy to me. Yes, in the natural, I led a privileged life by comparison. One I took for granted. But the real privilege was stepping out of my normal and into theirs, if only for a brief few days. Because it allowed God to re-define normal for me.

The Gospel is only good news to the poor.

Share this:

Share this:

The passing scenes of Sudan

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: