"What's Lost Is Nothing to What's found": A Year of Remembering to Remember by Rachel Rin

One year ago this Friday, one of the most impactful people I’ve ever known passed away from unexpected heart failure and a city of two million erupted in fire. I learned of the Paris terrorist attacks as I walked numbly through Wheaton’s campus trying to process the death of Roger Lundin, which is why it took me a few minutes to realize that my sister was at that very moment on her way to see the Eiffel Tower. After getting hold of her and hearing that she was safe (albeit frightened) in her hotel room, I went home. Drained by the emotions of the day, I climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling. It felt much darker inside me than out.   

November 13, 2015 taught me how instantaneously a day can go from being inconspicuous to staggeringly memorable. I did not wake up that Friday morning expecting a beloved professor to pass away—particularly not three days after another professor in the department had passed away from cancer. As Paris reeled from the attacks and the rest of the world blamed each other for blaming each other, my own grief felt not trivialized but accentuated. 

When I reflect on the year-long journey this day commemorates, I realize that November 13, 2015 also taught me something more lasting than grief: it taught me remembrance. With the death of Roger Lundin came the instant transformation of a word from being just a combination of letters to being emblematic of an entire person.

 “῾The clover, remembered by the cow, is better than enameled Realms of notability,’” Roger Lundin would quote Emily Dickinson, and then chuckle as he told us the story of how a student corrected him in class with the observation that a cow remembers a clover by literally re-membering it, digesting it, thus opening for Roger a profound way of thinking about the gospel. “Christ remembers us,” he’d say as he sat atop his desk, a position from which he frequently taught. “A crucified and risen Christ is a Christ who re-members us, piecing us back together in his mercy.”

I think often about remembrance these days. I think about how a God who re-members means that you and I are capable of profound acts of love. It means that we are not limited to our longing—or perhaps, that our longing is itself a powerful act of love. It means that when I picture a six-foot-six professor lying on the classroom floor, covering his laughter with his hands because Mark Twain is just that much of a riot, or else reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem about Christ as the “Tender Pioneer” to a room of students aching to believe in such divine tenderness, I am not simply indulging in nostalgia; I am, in fact, participating in resurrection, resurrection that is a foretaste of what is to come.

As I write these words, I am listening to one of Roger Lundin’s old sermons, archived by his church from when he used to guest-speak. As much as I gratefully gather his words of wisdom, I find myself even more grateful for the audio itself, for the ability to hear the voice of someone who is no longer physically present. I’ve never realized so profoundly how you can hear a smile in a person’s voice. I replay certain sentences again and again, smiling at the smile.

“῾What’s lost is nothing to what’s found,’” he quotes in his sermon, and I pause my typing to let him speak: “And all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” 

Putting a Face on the Persecuted

Does prayer for persecuted Christians far away really make a difference? A direct and immediate impact on those who suffer would be hard to prove. We do know, however, that some Iranians upon release from their ordeal of an Iranian imprisonment have spoken of sensing at times a “wind” of the Spirit that gave them new hope amid their suffering. 

Recently the College Church Friday prayer time for persecuted Christians has been following the challenges facing “Siamak,” a businessman from a closed country whom I met in a small Istanbul hotel over two years ago. Siamak had heard me talking with another hotel guest and concluded that I must be a follower of Jesus. After breakfast as I went out the entrance way for the day Siamak followed me a short distance and stopped me to ask if I could teach him something about the Christian way. That evening we met in his hotel room for a lengthy and serious discussion and met again briefly the next evening before he left for his home country. 

Months later we began regular reading and discussion of Bible passages on Skype. By the end of the year, first, Siamak and then his wife were able to make the profession of Romans 10:9-10 that the risen Jesus is Lord. But then came long periods of communication breakdown and only brief email exchanges. Questions came to mind: Was his faith genuine? Had he put it aside encountering rejection and threats? Or had he been incarcerated? 

Our Friday prayer group began to pray for Siamak by name. We were encouraged that a Skype chat occurred in which he said he and his wife were continuing to read a copy of the New Testament they had gotten hold of. Just two weeks ago, Siamak again Skyped to say he and his wife had been hosting a reading of the Gospel of Matthew with three of their friends. But Saturday, October 29, he phoned to say he had been summoned by the police for extensive interrogation about his activities. I again assured him a group of Christians was praying for him every Friday at noon. Then Thursday this week he emailed that his brother had learned of his summons and commitment to Christ and was putting great pressure on the two of them. Gladly, the next day, an hour before our prayer meeting, he emailed that he and the circle of friends had met the same day for their regular gathering at a neutral place since their home was now being watched. Indeed, his faith is genuine! 

Does praying for those being persecuted make a difference? Siamak would say it does. Join us in prayer for the man I call Siamak. Our Lord knows Siamak by his real name and the names of those who meet with him. 

Glenn Deckert

Even though I've never met Siamak, I pray for him, and I am thankful when Glenn tells our Friday group of how God is working in his life. Then there are the other Christ followers that we pray for—some by first name or just an initial, others are not identified at all—and we may never hear updates about them, but know deep in our hearts that the world is not worthy of them. This Sunday evening, we will have a time of prayer for the persecuted church. Also, we will always make room for you at the table at the Friday prayer group for the persecuted church.

Gone Visiting

In September, cross-cultural worker Katherine came back to the States to celebrate her brother's wedding, totally unaware that she would end up staying to attend her mother's funeral, who died unexpectedly while Katherine was home. Though her grief was fresh, Katherine returned to her work and asked her teammates if she could tag along as they paid visits to friends and their families in refugee camps. In Katherine's words, "God gave us good times, and I thought I'd share two story snapshots."

Fall Pickles and Baby Eggplants
Katherine recalls one visit, where she and her teammates joined the women in the kitchen, "the matriarch, her daughter, a few daughters-in-law and granddaughters were all there. Together, we finished making the last of the fall pickles as well as baby eggplants stuffed with walnuts, red peppers and garlic. As we worked, the matriarch told us, 'Last year, I didn't do any canning or make any pickles. I thought we would go back to Syria and have to leave everything here. This year, my kids, everyone insisted that I make them.'"

This matriarch and her fellow Syrians are, as Katherine describes, "weighing how much to commit to their new lives. Should they plan to go back or would it be better to settle here? Keep praying that families here would find both work and education for their children, a fair wage for their work and to be able to live in greater peace and security."

A Near Miss
A few days later, both Katherine and her teammate were exhausted and thought about postponing their visits that day, but then went ahead anyway. Relates Katherine, "When we arrived, we found that the couple who had invited us, also invited some of their neighbors and relatives—all waiting for us. And they were waiting to read with us and were upset that we hadn't come sooner." 

The wife, Shahida, and her husband and the others who were there read the Creation story. They were amazed at how much they understood and at how much they discovered about who God is. "We asked how they wanted to apply or obey the passage they just read," Katherine says, "and they all wanted to read more. Shahida said she wanted to tell others what she had learned. God's Word spoke so clearly to them."

Katherine and her teammate left their house in the camp, dumbstruck at how they almost missed this joyful visit, but looked forward to the next study. "Please pray for Shahida, her husband and everyone who was there," encourages Katherine. "Pray that their hunger for the Word would grow and that they would become disciples."

Beloved Combo

By Lois Krogh

This last August, within two weeks of each other, the two pastors who officiated at our
wedding thirty-five years ago died and met the Chief Shepherd face to face. I am sure they
heard, “Well done, good and faithful servants.”

Both men energetically loved the Lord, his Word, his church and the lost outside the
church. They were men full of faith who cared personally about everyone they met. Both
pushed themselves to follow hard after Christ.

But, oh, how they were different! After our wedding ceremony, a friend from work asked
me where I found the “Mutt and Jeff combo” to officiate the wedding.

First, their physical appearances were strikingly different. One short and genteel; one tall and stocky. One with hair well-groomed. The other with an ever present buzz—probably self-administered. Their personalities were also different. One had a sharp mind and wit and was well-mannered. The other was intense, direct and unceremonious.

One loved skiing. The other basketball and mountain climbing. One preferred nice resorts. The other a campsite. One drove new cars, fast! The other drove a beat-up Volkswagen van and always at five miles below the speed limit.

Both were used by God to lay a foundation for my faith. Both took that role seriously.
From both, I learned to honor the Word of God, to study it systematically and apply it to my life and culture. From both I learned to serve God wholeheartedly. In hindsight I can see that the flaws of both men were also part of what God is using to mature my faith.

I am thankful God loves his church so much that he gives each local church a pastor.
They may be different in upbringing, education and experiences. They may be different in
personalities and skills. But they all serve the Chief Shepherd by teaching and loving and
leading his sheep.

There is something full-circle about Lois' musing. On October 16, she and her husband, Steve, will be comissioned as College Church missionaries with Training Leaders International,  training and equipping local pastors worldwide.

Light Side of a Dark Narrative

by Lindsay Callaway

Most of us would agree that the narrative we envision for our lives is not always the one that gets written. Last year, Desiring God posted an article by Paul Maxwell titled, “When Your Twenties Are Darker than You Expected." Lindsay never imagined that she would be identifying with a narrative darker than she expected.

I had just gotten married the summer before, and my husband, Adam, and I moved to a different state for his job. He was pursuing ministry after spending a year and a half of his post-college years in the business world, and I was going to be his newly graduated, Bible degree-holding, ministry wife.

Marriage felt natural to me, and moving to a new city promised adventure and opportunity to “cleave to one another” in an isolated context. But moving to a new city, starting a new job, attending a new church—everything we were told in premarital counseling (short of getting a dog) not to do the first year of marriage—exposed where I had rooted my identity a little too deeply.

Soon after our move, the reality of unemployment reared its ugly head. After several interviews, disappointing news, a short stint at a hair salon and 100 resumés later, I landed a job as a doctor's assistant in a chiropractic office. The doctor hired me because he had heard of Wheaton College, not because I knew a tibia from a fibula.

Plus, I had just come from working as a ministry associate at College Church with refugees and immigrants, being poured into by staff and encouraged to leverage my gifts for the cause of the foreign born. Now, working in a secular environment in which I had no training or interest, I quickly experienced frustration and felt unfulfilled in my work. But at a painstakingly slow pace, I began to learn that ministry did not have to be professional in order for it to honor God.

I learned this by literally bending over dry and brittle feet, administering treatments to aching muscles and tired bodies, all evoking images of Jesus in John 13. When my position evolved into directing a weight management program, I began to minister to men and women who would weep over the emotional and spiritual baggage they attached to their weight and self-image. Then came this humbling realization—much of my value as a Christian had been tied up in the work I was doing in the name of Christ, rather than simply resting in my value found in the person of Christ.

Finding Christ at work didn’t make my job any easier, but it helped me find purpose while I was there.

That year also marked the first time in many years that I didn't actively participate in ministry. It proved to be an important time of re‐evaluating priorities. I was used to listing off an impressive list of church-involvement, but at this new church, I was a nobody.

Replying to my email in which I outlined fustrations and despondency, a college professor suggested I treat the season as incubation. “This is where you find narrative in the world,” he replied. As my narrative began to yield gaps and inconsistencies as the plot twisted and turned, I wondered if my ministry work had become more about me and what people saw me doing than about Christ and his work in and through me.

The year came to a close, and Adam and I began to think and pray about our next steps. It became clear that vocational ministry was the calling on my husband's life, and we returned to Illinois to attend divinity school.

We were glad to reconnect with friends and family, but we began to frustrate each other with conflicting accounts of our year away. He returned with an experience that affirmed a life calling; I struggled to recount a positive memory. The best advice we received to facilitate closure from that year was this: Allow yourselves to have different narratives.

It sounded simple. But we were so preoccupied with letting our own version of the story dominate the narrative, that it ceased to acknowledge our joint experience. When we started to give each other the space to speak of the year candidly, we actually felt more freedom to extend grace to the other person’s perspective: he, in being more willing to acknowledge my struggles; and me, more open to the confirmation he received from it. 

Returning to Wheaton and College Church was comforting and off-putting at the same time. I didn’t feel like the same person who left. I was a little more broken. A little more jaded. A little more suspicious. The narrative I had cultivated in my first year of marriage was a little darker than I expected. 

But that doesn’t change anything about the God that I serve. Unlike my narrative, his narrative doesn’t change, nor does his character. In fact, where his grand narrative becomes the most dark and bleak is exactly where the most light breaks in. That is the hope we cling to in the bleakness. That is the true light in the true darkness. That is our ultimate narrative. And thankfully, we know how it ends. 

Clouds of Harvest: Joe Bayly

by Wil Triggs

I love fall, but I get a little wistful at the season. I have a lot of memories of coming to Wheaton for the first time in late summer and trying to get my bearings. Looking back, I associate a lot of the season with people who are gone now. One of those people is Joe Bayly.

It’s strange to think that so many people at College Church don’t remember Joe Bayly or realize that he and his family went to church here.

That just doesn’t seem right.

So even if you have no idea who Joe Bayly is/was, indulge me—remember him with me.

To borrow a title from something he wrote, how shall we remember Joe?

Growing up in California, I had heard of Chicago, but never of Wheaton or Wheaton College. After I got serious about my faith, I decided to go to Biola College—and one of the first chapels I attended featured a reader's theater of “How Silently, How Silently,” a story Joe wrote about Jesus coming to a town at Christmas and not exactly finding open arms of welcome.
 

It was the first time I had ever seen a reader’s theater and the first time I had ever encountered a Christian story that was so funny and contemporary and right. It made me want to do reader’s theater and it made me want to write. I ended up doing a lot of both.

I went to the college bookstore and found Joe’s books. I read stories and psalms right there in the store and wondered how there could be a Christian voice like this from a guy so funny, honest, simple and complex at the same time. I prayed, asking God to let me meet him.
 

I had no idea that God would move me here and put me in Joe’s church or the Adult Community he taught. And when I moved here, one of the first families to invite me to their home for a dinner was the Baylys—Joe, Mary Lou, David and Nathan.

Looking back, here are some things I remember and celebrate about Joe Bayly.

•Good Priorities. When I met Joe, I expected a little more artiness. There was none of that. He was a solid, genuine and serious Christian. His art and craft didn’t take the place of God, which it tended to do for me when I was first aspiring to be a good writer.

•An Open Home. Joe and Mary Lou were always ready to add another place at their table. The food always tasted great. They opened their home to singles during holidays. In a community like ours, where schedules and lives tend to be plannedout, I felt like I could always stop by and be welcomed.
 

•Some Dissent it OK. The Bayly table was about more than eating. We talked. If you were quiet, Joe or someone else might call on you to find out what you thought. Everyone didn’t automatically agree—most often there were at least two perspectives on whatever was being discussed. Debate was welcome, but it was always in the context of respect and love.

•A Great Wife Covers a Multitude of… Mary Lou was amazing. Always there, but rarely in the forefront, making everything just happen. They were a team in every way—one that Lorraine and I aspire to be like.

•Keep Writing—the only advice I ever got from Joe on writing were these two words. I saw the discipline and focus in his ministry life and care for other people as well.

If you have someone like Joe in your life, or if you have an especially fond memory of Joe or someone like him, email (wtriggs@college-church.org) and let me know.

A Skewed Perspective

by Lorraine Triggs

My oldest sister and I decided to play Hangman while we waited for our mom's flight to arrive. Out came the paper and we drew the rudimentary gallows (even as adults, we still included the hook in our games). Underneath, my sister drew seven blank lines.

Going for the vowels I chose A and E. She filled in the first blank with A and the last with E.

No clue.

I kept guessing, sometimes right, mostly wrong. I had no idea what the word was, and my hangman was quickly filling in.

I finally gave up and my sister completed the word:

A-N-T-I-Q-U-E

I stared at it and announced, "An-ti-que? There's no such word as an-ti-que" with a stress on the last of my three-syllable pronunciation.

"It's antique," she replied as only older sibs can.

Duh. I wasn't a little kid playing Hangman. I knew the word "antique"—I love antiques—but I couldn't see the word for the life of me, only the individual letters.

My perspective on life can be a lot like that game of Hangman. I am so focused on the individual parts of my life, whether the good or bad pieces, that I don't see God's good hand at work in it at all. I don't see the word for all the letters.

About two years ago, my husband, Wil, and I were asked if we wanted to be small group leaders. Naturally, I said . . . "No! I don't want to."

I had some pretty solid reasons: I already had my Women's Bible Study small group, I really couldn't afford another night out, especially working full time, and what about that book Crazy Busy that Pastor Josh Stringer kept talking about?

Then the real reason surfaced. Years ago, when I first came to church, I was all excited to join a small group. The husband and wife invited my flatmate and me to dinner, but they didn't want me in their group. They only had room for my friend. Small groups represented one thing to me—rejection.

Did I want to be in a small group? Absolutely not. Would I anyway?

Well, when I confessed this hurt to Wil, my wise and kind husband understood my reluctance and had some interesting things to say about the people who didn't have room to put me in their small group. We used to call these "life groups," which might feel a little bit like a "life sentence" in jail, if you end up in a bad group. Wil assured me that the new life group concept was different. "Let's try it for a couple of years," he said. So I said yes.

Well, we're starting our third year as small group leaders, and had I stayed focused on my good reasons for saying no, I would have missed out on God's good hand in placing Chris, Tom, Steve, Lois, Mary, Kathy, Mark, Julia, Jim, Terri, Rick and Laura in my life. I would have missed out on the joys and sorrows that we've shared. I wouldn't have seen God's good hand writing in day-to-day living ...

G-R-A-C-E,

L-O-V-E,

F-O-R-G-I-V-E-N-E-S-S,

S-A-L-V-A-T-I-O-N.

It's a humbling and glorious reality to know that my bits and pieces are not the most important things in the universe and that God has invited me to come and see with him, and them, and you.