Our American Cake by Jim Reapsome

We reprint this piece in anticipation of July 4 and in memory of its author, Jim Reapsome, who died earlier this week. Jim was a long-time member of College Church, award-winning journalist, missiologist, pastor and beloved husband to Martha. May it serve as a sort of swan song from a leader in Christian missions and journalism. Though written many years ago, the truths of our Christian identity still apply.

The staff of a seminary in Africa threw a big graduation ceremony and party. Government ministers and foreign ambassadors came to the event. One of the American missionary wives baked a chocolate cake. An African who had been to the U.S. tasted her cake and said to her husband, "I tasted something American about it in the very first mouthful."

Write that down as another new slant on cultural sensitivity. Apparently our missionaries even taste American. If our cakes have that unmistakable American taste, what about our gospel, our programs, our way of doing things? No matter how hard we try, we cannot shed our Americanism like a snake sheds its skin.

However, we say that our gospel is transcultural. It's universally applicable. It fits any people, anywhere, any time. Jesus said people everywhere must hear his good news. He did not limit  his mission to one people, language, religion, or culture.

Therefore, Christians continually fight to take America out of their cake. Their fight rages not only in Africa but in the United States, where the gospel makes little sense because of the inroads of popular culture and biblical illiteracy. We cannot assume that anyone knows anything about simple Bible stories, let alone the reason why Jesus came, died, and rose again.

For example, I listened to a sermon that included repeated references to "the old man," without any explanatory comments. I began to think about the multitude of meanings the old man could possibly have in that audience. We have to make sure our biblical and cultural terms really mean something in today's world.

Of course, we cannot remove basic Christian ideas from our language. We cannot risk stripping the gospel of its deep-seated theology about sin, salvation, and judgment. We face the difficult task of taking things that are hard to understand and making them understandable, whether in Africa or the U.S. But before we try to do it in Africa, we should have some success doing it in America.

We can never take America out of our cake, but in our presence and in our proclamation we must bend over backwards to avoid the smell of America. For thing, America smells bad in many parts of the world because of the sensual, materialistic culture we have exported. It's even worse because this bad odor emanates from a country that is part Christendom.

Therefore, as gospel messengers we live so that people can distinguish our lifestyles from what they see and read about. We are sorely tested to follow a different standard, one set by Jesus, not by our culture.

Jesus said that he lives in us so that people will get some idea of who he is and why he came. People want to see Jesus. They may not understand our theology at first, but if they see Jesus in us we will have ample opportunities to tell them why we love and serve him.

When I was a kid, growing up in Hershey, PA, I loved to tour the chocolate factory and watch those giant granite rollers smashing through huge vats of milk chocolate. Back and forth, back and forth, they relentlessly made sure Hersheys was the smoothest chocolate on the market. The presence of tiny bits of granite never inhibited my consumption of Hershey bars.

For sure, some of America will always be in our gospel cakes. That's okay. People will eat them if they taste our integrity, love, understanding, acceptance, and patience. Our job is to see that the taste overrules any foreign elements in our cakes.

From Final Analysis: A Decade of Commentary on the Church and World Missions by Jim Reapsome, published by EMIS a division of the Billy Graham Center. Copyright 1999

In The Beginning by Alyssa Carlburg

In song, Aslan bade the Land of Narnia give birth

To creatures and wonders beyond the mind's girth.

Each person and beast was given place in the realm

To fight against Evil with the Lion at the helm.

And after giving their lives to achieve victory,

They found true Life in Aslan's own Country.

 

Middle Earth, too, was crafted in melody and song

By Eru Ilúvatar and his angelic throng. 

And though Melkor sought to subdue it with his dark trill,

Eru only used these notes to realize his own mighty will.

Great wisdom and power were given to the Elves,

But to Men, Eru gave the gift of eternity with himself.

 

Our own Earth was called into being by God's voice,

And whether or not to listen is our greatest choice.

Aslan and Eru are mere shadows of our King,

Who will neither withhold or deny us any good thing.

His love and everlasting Kingdom will meet every desire

As we worship our Triune Lord in the Heavenly choir.

 

With their myths, Lewis and Tolkien show us the way

To see God's majesty and beauty in our lives each day.

For in their worlds, our minds are inspired by joy and calamity,

But these are mere stories, and how much greater is our reality!

Like Aslan and Eru, Christ's voice leads us along,

And it is our joy to respond in worship, and in song.

 

Song of My Sister by Virginia Hughes

Mary carries me across the river.

Mary and Virginia

Mary and Virginia

She carries me

home from church.

She is my third mother, 

on a team of three women,

made of Mother and my two older sisters.

Mary explains about boys

and changes that will come.

She knits scarves of many colors

to warm the cold winters when we move from the tropics to the bitter Midwest winters.

My bedroom is drab until she gives me curtains and matching bedspread in a pattern of bright blue ponds hopping with green, smiling frogs.

She teaches me how to clean house and babysit with thorough finesse; passing down odd jobs so I learn the dignity of work and earn money to buy elephant bell-bottomed jeans at the Bargain Center.

Wanting so desperately to be in love, during college, Mary wills her way into a young man’s heart and they wed. He welcomes her devotion, and then resents her. He does not love her as she longs. Their life twists into cords of strangling suffocation as the decades pass.

Mary carries me again helping plan my wedding as my adult life is just beginning.

Her husband goes into the night at odd hours, and her diaries clang with worry and jealousy over women she suspects he entertains. Her mind screams into the emptiness, why is he leaving? When will he return? She rocks their young sons to sleep. She finds love notes signed with flirting hearts and flowers in his closeted, tweed pockets.

Throughout her turmoil, Mary keeps an open house inviting us all for the holidays for years and years where we feast together enjoying warmth of family. The bubbling tension between her and her husband melds a crazy blend of beauty, delicious food, decorations, awkwardness and tears.

In this fertile soil where mostly misery grows between them, Mary begins to weave, sew and explore her own artful pursuits. Her home gleams with creative ingenuity. The air fills with aromatic recipes of tender roasts, and baked desserts as she plays the consummate host. She pushes her husband forward into many a juried art show, insisting he complete art projects that land him coveted art fellowships and national acclaim. She quietly frames his art, handling the business side of things, paying bills and collecting payments for his artwork.

Then comes news that Mary has terrible lung cancer. It is so advanced that surgery will not help her. Her husband dotes on her, willing her to live. He begs forgiveness, and clears the space between them. They suddenly become the fantastic, golden couple she always knew they could be.  He is all hers those last few weeks.

Where oh death is thy sting?

Inflamed in the deathbed of my beloved sister.

Even knowing her death is swallowed up in victory, I struggle on this side of heaven.

Why her?

Death looks for blame.

Why does she hide the shadow on her lung detected two years earlier?

She knows; for a long time, she knows. Why does she give up so soon? Is it soon though? She has been miserable and eaten up for years.

Why does this husband pay attention now so very late?  

He breaks, and we are there for him. Maybe not so much for him anymore as for our dear grown nephews standing in military dress blues drowning in waves of tears as they memorialize their mother.

I do not want a heart of stone. It takes more than resistance to make that a reality. Paper covers rock in the game, “Rock, paper, scissors.” I need God’s blanket of grace to cover me completely lest I harden.

Soon after Mary’s death, our brother-in-law is engaged, and in a blink, the newlyweds stand declaring their undying love in the same church; on the same spot by the altar where my sister’s casket rested, and my brother-in-law draped himself weeping, one year before.

I struggle to forgive when I would rather forget. I don’t want a root of bitterness to grow in my fragile, mourning heart. I go numb. What is a root of numbness compared to one of bitterness? It may indeed be worse. After the wedding, I avoid, avoid, avoid. I don’t want to see him happily getting on with life. I miss my sister. Why did she die and now he’s so happy with this other woman? The smiling faces of congratulations clash in cacophony. Thankfully, we don’t live in the same town or state. Our paths needn’t cross. But family ties pull us together.

I’m planning a family gathering and I leave my brother-in-law and his new wife off the list.

It is for my sister. Is it? What would she want me to do to honor her memory? She and he reconciled and had their best few weeks right before she died. She forgave.

I read about doing unto others, and how I am to forgive others as God has forgiven me. I cannot imagine a life where I exist feeling unforgiven by God. I need forgiveness like water, air, and the God particle that holds my flesh together may well be his spirit of forgiveness. I think of Corrie ten Boom and the families of Christian martyrs, and scores of others who have forgiven much greater wrongs.

It is a small gesture, but I invite my brother-in-law and his wife to the family gathering. 

Forgive me my debts as I forgive my debtors

As Mary carries me across the river.

Virginia and her siblings

Virginia and her siblings