Malawi Adventure: They Drive on the Wrong Side of the Road

The steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car. And, Oh my, they drive on the wrong side of thle road! They speak  Chichewa. Thank goodness, they also speak English! The men (yes, the men!) are very animated when they sing. They sing loud and  clap and dance and laugh. They skip and hop and pump their arms. (Men in the United States do this particular gesture--arm pumping--but usually for very different reasons.) Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore!

Such are some of the most obvious differences I have encountered here in Lilongwe, Malawi. But capturing my attention far more are the ways that we are the same. Parents are tired in Malawi just like in the United States. They are tired from lack of sleep but they are also tired from the serious challenges of being a mom or a dad. Teachers in Malawi have enormous jobs because they not only teach, they also parent, and counsel, and care for students whose home lives are far from nurturing. People are hungry for meaning and significance in their lives beyond a job well done. They long to make a difference in the lives of others and they struggle with how to do this when the circumstances are very serious and very complicated. My very limited and new understanding is that, at least proportionately, the complexity of the struggle of the people of Malawi is far greater than where I come from. And though with much less resources they are working hard to make a difference.

The Malawians I am coming to know who are in full time ministry struggle as I do to balance work and home. Just like me, they have a heart to train others to multiply the fruit of the work. But it is sometimes a challenge to find others who have the desire and, usually more frequently, the time to be trained. FTS like San Clemente Pres is working to reach out and stretch the impact of their ministry and are not satisfied with being a holy huddle. FTS is definitely a community for the community! And, most amazing of all, because it confirms why God's wise and wonderful and humorous plan has me here, the staff and volunteers of FTS are at a place where they want to go deeper. They want to grow in their love and trust of God so that they are able to live every day more faithfully what they are teaching and preaching and reaching out to others with. They want fresh hope in order to offer real hope to others. They do not want to rest on what they have done in the past or what they are currently doing very well. They want to be grounded deeper spiritually in order to go out faithfully wider. All these things we have in common.

Continents apart, times zones away I am seeing with my own eyes that God is indeed at work powerfully in every place doing the same thing he does in every place--bringing his kingdom to earth one person at a time, one act of love at a time, one word of hope at a time, one generous gift at a time. I am quite sure that after seeing what I have seen here in Lilongwe, I will be better equipped to see what I need to see in San Clemente. The stark differences as well as the clear commonalities are improving my vision. Louise drives on the wrong side of the road and the Lord gets her safely where she is going anyway! What an amazing God we serve!

Baptism in ICU

The call came from the chaplain of a local hospital. A female patient in her seventies in ICU, likely in her final days, wanted to be baptized. The chaplain’s faith tradition only allowed for baptism by immersion. He called me knowing that my tradition allowed sprinkling. Would I be willing to perform the baptism? Wow! A lot of questions flooded my mind.

I agreed to visit the woman and her family at the hospital that afternoon and talk to them, and from that to determine if it was something I could do. Paramount among all the questions running through my mind was the primary question for all followers of Christ, not just pastors—is this something God is calling me to do?

Somewhere in all the questions swirling in my heart and mind I remembered a story I had heard many years ago about a pastor in Paris being asked by Camus if he would baptize him. Yes, Albert Camus, the famous existentialist philosopher and atheist, in a private conversation asked Howard Mumma, a Methodist minister, if he would baptize him. The pastor and Camus had talked about faith and Christianity through the course of several summers when Mumma served as guest pastor at the American Church in Paris. Camus came to a place where he said, “I am ready, I want this.” “This” being forgiveness of sin and the promise of eternal life and the symbol of baptism to mark it. Mumma, though thrilled with Camus’ expression of faith, had a problem. Camus did not want to be baptized publicly. He wanted it to be a private affair between him and the pastor. Mumma explained this was not possible, that baptism, besides being a symbol of personal faith, was equally an act of becoming part of the company of believers—the church. Camus was not ready to embrace this. He did not want the church. He wanted salvation and baptism.

In his book, Albert Camus and the Minister, Mumma describes the agony of this dilemma he faced. But his conscience would not allow him to baptize Camus privately, and Camus insisted it be only between him and the minister. Mumma declined to do so but encouraged Camus to continue his studies and his journey of faith. Mumma returned to America and assured Camus that they would talk again when he returned to France the next year. Tragedy struck. Camus was killed in a car accident before Mumma returned.

Mumma now had to revisit his response to Camus’ request. You can read all about it in his book. But this is the story that immediately came to mind when I received the call to baptize this woman in ICU. What did I need to know and do in order to, in good conscience and in keeping with my ordination vows, be able to say yes to this woman? What was God calling me to do in these circumstances? Of course I had to get to the hospital and find out the circumstances.

I went to the hospital knowing I was entering very sacred space. Hospital rooms always are. (Actually, by God’s omnipresence all space is sacred. But we are not always aware of it or attentive to it. It is hard not to be attentive to the sacred in a hospital room where death is lurking.) The circumstances were complex and formidable. First the woman was on a respirator. She could not talk. While not in pain, she was heavily medicated. Consequently her ability to attend to conversation was very limited. But it was clear that she could hear, and she could understand and respond by nodding her head or closing her eyes. She could only express her faith and her desire to be baptized by these subtle physical cues. Her domestic partner of 26 years was by her bedside along with a sister and a brother-in-law. Her partner explained that this desire to be baptized was a longstanding one. The partner had promised she would help the dying woman find a way to be baptized. How was I to know how much of this “desire” was the dying woman’s to be baptized and how much was her partner’s desire to make good on a promise? As I have had time to think about it more, I am not sure it matters. I asked questions of the family, trying to determine how this dying woman got to the place she was. What had prevented her from being baptized all these years? They explained that the dying woman’s parents were not church goers but had had one of five children baptized. There was the residue of faith somewhere in this woman’s childhood.

I turned my attention to the dying woman. I read a few Scriptures and then talked directly to her again. Did she understand what it means that she is a sinner? She nodded her head. Did she understand that Jesus, out of his great love for her, died for her sin? She nodded her head. Did she understand that she could do nothing to earn this? She was growing tired, I could tell. I had to rouse her and ask her again. Did she understand that she could do nothing to earn this gift of forgiveness and eternal life? She looked right at me, intently, and nodded her head. It was then that I realized, lying in a bed on a respirator in her final days, she probably understood this better than most other people being baptized! And I, like Mumma, had to explain that it was not a private or even a biological family event. It is a communal event, and that in order for me to baptize her with integrity I would need to bring other members of the body of Christ, the church, with me for the baptism. Did she understand this and agree to my bringing some others with me to baptize her? She nodded her head. I also explained to her and the family that I did not have the authority to make the decision to baptize her. I would need to get this from the elders of the church. Thank goodness for email: I would be able to do it the same night.

Finally, I explained to her that baptism was not magic. It did not, by itself, guarantee anything. I explained to her it is the visible sign of an invisible reality. I could provide the visible sign—the water—but it only “worked” in the presence of the invisible reality—faith, the belief in the saving work of Christ on her behalf. And I explained that God alone knew what was in her heart, and it would be his knowledge alone that would save her and provide the forgiveness she needed. This is true for all of us no matter what our condition when we are baptized. I asked her if she understood what I had said? She nodded her head yes.

I left the hospital believing that God, through the hospital chaplain, was calling me to baptize this woman. And I was pretty sure the elders of my church would trust my recommendation and approve. For some reasons this woman’s baptism seemed more akin to the baptism of an infant—she was helpless in so many ways and another adult was speaking for her. The truth of the matter is no matter what age a person is at the time of baptism, and no matter who performs it or how much water is used, in every instance God is doing the work of offering mercy and grace. We are ALL helpless when it comes to salvation. And in every case no one but God really knows the condition of the heart of the person being baptized.

I left the hospital thinking about Camus and Mumma. I have often wondered what I would have done if I had been Camus’ pastor/confidant. I had my own Camus, now, and I was grateful for having heard his story in order to be able to enter this sacred space more aware and open to God’s calling.

The Power of Hatred and Forgiveness

I met Col. Glenn Frazier in June in Pittsburgh at the second annual Descendants of the Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor (DADBC) Convention. Like my father, he was a WWII exPOW and survived to tell about it. Unlike my father, he hated the Japanese—all of them. He hated them so much that he could not even stand to be in relationship with anyone who did not hate them too. Though he had been very successful as a soldier and in business after he retired from the military, his hatred destroyed his first two marriages and left him estranged from four children. Colonel Glenn Frazier had reason to hate the Japanese. He had suffered torture and starvation, and witnessed unspeakable atrocities at the hands of the Japanese in World War II. Glenn is a member of the Battling Bastards of Bataan. He survived the Bataan Death March, O’Donnell Death Camp, a Hell Ship, and forced labor in Japan. Glenn had suffered a lot for almost four years. And every day of those four years his hatred grew. Glenn Frazier is a member of the Greatest Generation who fought to secure freedoms every American enjoys. But as the Camp O’Donnell Memorial Cross on at Capas National Shrine in the Philippine Islands states clearly, “Freedom is not free.”

On July 4 we celebrate the birth of the United States of America. We celebrate it wildly with waving flags, fireworks and parades. And, of course, we eat sumptuously with family and friends! All this we are able to do because over the years men and women of the armed services have paid dearly. As the veterans like to say, “All gave some. Some gave all.” My father also was a prisoner of war of the Japanese for three and a half years. So were some 300,000 other men and women. One hundred thousand perished. These ex-POWs understood the cost of freedom and they appreciated every day thereafter and every meal they were able to eat after they returned home. But for Glenn, the survival and return was bittersweet. His hatred of the Japanese tainted every part of his life. He was a free man living in a free country but he was imprisoned by his hatred. His nights were sleepless, filled with horrific nightmares. His days were filled with arguments and tirades with anyone who dared to own a car or anything made by the Japanese. His health was failing and hatred was killing him.

Then along came a young Japanese student. You can read Glenn’s story in his book, Hell’s Guest. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Hells+Guest&x=0&y=0 But the book does not tell about the young Japanese woman who was an angel sent from above. Glenn told me this story himself when I met him recently at the annual convention of the Descendants of the Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor. Through an extraordinary act of grace and compassion this young Japanese student asked Glenn to forgive the Japanese who had caused his suffering. But she did not stop there. She asked permission to take off his socks and shoes. Then she took a basin filled with water and washed Glenn’s feet. When she was done, she prayed for Glenn to let go of his anger and forgive the Japanese for what they had done. She prayed that he would be freed from the hatred that had imprisoned him all these years. And he was! After this, within three weeks, Glenn’s nightmares ended and he was sleeping through the night. Hatred gone, he began to build relationships with people and to serve joyfully in his church. Glenn’s third marriage is holding strong, and he has reconciled with two of his four children. And Col. Glenn Frazier now takes every opportunity he has to tell people that freedom is not free. America’s freedoms have been won by the suffering and sacrifice of hundreds of thousands of men and women. But more important, Glenn takes every opportunity to tell people that the ultimate freedom is the freedom from sin, like Glenn’s hatred and anger, and that freedom is only found in the grace and mercy of God. Spiritual freedom also is not free. But thank the Lord, someone else paid the price! Jesus Christ suffered and bled and died, so that we might be free from all that imprisons us. The love of Christ delivered a man named Glenn Frazier from fifty years of hatred and anger and the wake of destruction it left in his life. Freedom is not free. But Christ has paid the price.

Of Thee I Sing

My father was a WWII POW. He was in the US Army just 19 months when he became a prisoner of the Japanese during WWII. He was starved and often brutalized and suffered for three and one half years until Japan surrendered in August of 1945. He was liberated about a month later. He did not re-enlist. But he often said, “If my country needed me and I could serve, I would go again.” He was very patriotic. And one of the signs of his patriotism was evident whenever the national anthem was played the tears would roll down his cheeks. Whenever the flag was raised or any patriotic songs were sung or played my father would silently cry. These symbols of our country moved him deeply. He lived to be 85 and I don’t think the emotion ever subsided. I have witnessed this over and over again with the American people, and veterans in particular, in a variety of contexts. Patriotic music moves people—especially people who understand the cost of our freedom.

As a pastor and worship leader it makes me wonder. So often I sit in worship and observe people singing songs about the love of God, the sacrifice of Christ, the price he paid for our sins, the grace and mercy and forgiveness of the Lord, the new life we are given, and yet I would dare to say the majority of people sitting in worship are at least visibly unaffected by what they are singing. Now, don’t get me wrong. I do not believe that tears are the primary or necessary evidence of heartfelt worship. I am just saying that the contrast between what I see when veterans sing the national anthem and what I see when many Christians sing in worship makes me wonder. It makes me wonder if we understand the cost of our spiritual freedom? I do not see the same level of engagement with the lyrics of the words of worship music as I do with patriotic songs. Animated and enthusiastic is how I would describe patriotic singing followed by clapping and whistling and cheering. Not so in worship in many churches I preach and worship in. And heaven forbid, if someone actually moves or raises their hands during the singing! Even when the song’s lyric’s say “we lift up our hands” few venture to actually do such a demonstrative thing.

The important question for person to ask is, of whom or what do I sing? What makes my heart sing? What gives me goose bumps? What makes me want to shout for joy? What causes me to silently be in awe? These are questions especially important for people claiming to be set free by the blood of the Lamb. Tears will not reveal the answer to all of these questions but they do indicate some level of deeper engagement in the music and its words. The question for me is clear, no matter what the visible signs, who is the “thee” of whom I sing?!

Til Death Did Them Part

Although my father’s story of his time as a prisoner of war in WWII is a very tragic one filled with brutality and man’s inhumanity to man, it does have a fairytale ending of sorts.

When the Japanese surrendered in August 1945, of the 300,000 prisoners they had taken, 200,000 survived—barely. Like my father most of them were severely malnourished and diseased. Almost all of them weighed under 100 pounds. The prisoners lost an average of 25 pound a year. Most were prisoners for 3.5 years, meaning they lost 75-90 pounds. My father joined the Army weighing 160 pounds, and he weighed 90 pounds when he was liberated. All of these POWs were seriously ill with malaria, dengue fever, beri beri, and dysentery. Along with 200,000 other soldiers my father spent the next three months in a variety of hospitals being nursed back to his normal weight. It took almost three months. In October 1945 my dad was in Schick General Hospital in Clinton, Iowa, getting very close to being released to go home. There he met Alpheus Brown, who was in the bed next to him. They were both from the Brainerd Lakes area of Minnesota. Al showed my father a picture of his sister Hazel. She was a beautiful young thing! My dad declared, “I am going to marry her.” Al was outraged and responded, “Over my dead body!” Uncle Al later told my husband and me that he thought my dad was some kind of a weirdo! He was so friendly and talkative, Al thought something was wrong with him. But true to form—my father was a very determined man—Ken went home, met Hazel, and less than three months later they were married. The plot thickens.

Mom’s sister Harriet had also begun dating another ex-POW and long-time family friend Carl Kramp when he returned home in October 1945. Mom and Harriet had a best friend named Arlene Leibold. They did not want Al to be left out of the fun, so in late December they called Arlene and asked her if she would like to go out with them. Ken and Hazel, Carl and Harriet, and Al and Arlene went out on a Friday in late December. I don’t know what happened Saturday, but on Sunday Al and Arlene were engaged too. On February 20, 1946, the three couples were married in a triple wedding at my grandparent’s home in Nisswa, Minnesota. The brides all in identical gowns, the guys all in U.S. Army uniforms covered in medals, all three couples married after dating each other less than three months.

Young people who hear this story are aghast. How could these couples possibly do such a thing? They barely knew each other! And what bride would want to share their wedding day with two other couples, let alone wear the exact same dress? And the venue? A living room? As kids would say today, “Shut up!”

Yet these three marriages stood the test of time. Al and Arlene were married 30 years when Al died of a heart attack in 1976. Carl and Harriet were married over 60 years when both of them died in their eighties. And my mom and dad were married 60 years and two months when my father died in 2006. These marriages worked. These men came home after sacrificing some of the best years of their lives serving their country and settled down to do the same for their wives and families. The same work ethic, dedication, and faithfulness that got them enlisted and deployed, and helped them survive unspeakable brutality now went to work to build their homes, families, and this great country we now live in. These Greatest Generation men and women knew what commitment was. When they said “until death do us part,” they meant it.

The sorrow and suffering of their stories was in large part redeemed by this happy ending of three marriages that stood the test of time. All three men almost gave their lives in service to their country. When they survived they did give their lives in service to their families. They remained faithful to each other “till death did them part.”

Facing Death in a Rice Paddy

Five years ago today, my father, Kenneth Earl Davis, died at the age of 86. That he died is no surprise. The surprise is that he lived to this ripe old age. It is a testament to the power and glory of God. My father was a WWII POW and a year and a half after he enlisted in the army he found himself facing death and his life flashing before his eyes.

Just turned twenty-one, Ken found himself face down in a hard, dry rice paddy in the Philippine Islands. He figured it was his time. He would be executed like the other American soldiers he saw dragged to this spot the day before—shot and bayoneted, and stripped of all earthly possessions. Though he had not slept or eaten for days, he could not sleep, and the hunger and pain he felt was overwhelmed by the reality that he believed his life was coming to an end.

Ken had seen this in movies. A person caught in death’s trap would suddenly see their life flash before their eyes. In the movies it was a flashback played out by the characters of the film. For Ken there were no actors, no characters. This was real life. Less than two years after he enlisted in the Army and looked at a map and chose the Philippine Islands as a place to serve, he found himself facing death in a rice paddy on the Bataan peninsula. And his life began to flash before his eyes.

It was as if a screen was suspended in his mind and his memory began playing back all the scenes. He saw his mom and dad and his 11 brothers and sisters. He saw his childhood antics and his rebellious escapades. He saw his home and the church he attended as a child and the chapel he attended while at the CCC Camp. And he remembered the good news of the gospel he learned from as far back as he could remember, that Jesus died for his sins and that he, Ken, would have a place in heaven because of God’s grace and mercy demonstrated on the cross no matter what he had done. It was April 12, 1942. It was about that time of the year—Easter. The screen went blank but Ken’s mind did not. He described an overwhelming sense of peace that came over him. He knew he was about to die, but he reached deep down into the faith he embraced as a child and took hold of it again. And he prayed. He thanked God for this faith given to him. He thanked God for his family. And he prayed that if somehow he survived this rice paddy death hole he would live his life differently. He would dedicate himself to following the one who gave his life for him—Jesus Christ.

Ken did survive that rice paddy. He did not know exactly why, but he did. The Japanese soldiers returned but they did not kill him. They kicked him and told him to get up and directed him toward a column of American and Filipino troops forming down the road. Ken had survived the death paddy, but now, just two weeks past his 21st birthday, he was about to join the infamous Bataan Death March. He would survive this, too. And the death rail cars, and the death camps, and a death ship (hellship), and another death camp. For three and one half years Ken would survive unspeakable torture and brutality. And he would live another 60 years to make good on the promise to dedicate his life to following Christ.

Ken would do more than survive. He would thrive. Despite these four years of the most inhospitable treatment, Ken was the epitome of hospitality. Even though he suffered untold prejudice and evil, Ken would extend acceptance and kindness to all kinds of people. And even though these years were filled with darkness and despair, Ken would prove to be a man of optimism and hope. His life was a testament to the power of the grace and love of God.

[This story is an excerpt from a soon to be published book about Ken’s WWII POW story and how it shaped his life and the life of his children, Forged by War: A Daughter’s Story of Her WWII POW Father and How It Shaped Her, is due to be published summer 2011.]