This is the final of a four-part series in which I narrate how I have sensed recent events in my life reenacting the story of the Bible, particularly around the relationship between the primary commitments of God, family, and ministry.
If I have been recently tested as to whether my commitment to family is indeed before ministry, I had not yet undergone the trial of God before family. Many people, I suppose, confuse the commitment to God with that to ministry; so what might a distinction between the two actually look like?
It looks like Genesis 22, the story of Abraham's "sacrifice" of Isaac, "his beloved son."
I also have a beloved son named Isaac.
Throughout our time in Africa, I have been particularly worried about how Isaac--not his two younger brothers--is doing in relation to our ministry. My worries about how he might react to some of our more intense efforts to engage with the local population have prevented me from pursuing some of those "ministry" relationships as much as I might otherwise. Still we often wondered whether God did not want us to do something more radical in reaching out to the people with whom we work: move to a rural area, for example, where we would have no choice but to use more of the Xhosa language, thereby deepening relationships. We had no clear word regarding this matter; we resolved to stay put until we had an unmistakable revelation.
That revelation came in the form of an eviction from our home of three years. Yet it did not result in the scenario I have outlined above.
When our landlord informed us last December that she would not be renewing our lease, we thought that maybe this was the door we needed to move out of town. We pursued the decision with our church in Mandela Park, a former informal settlement outside Mthatha--just the kind of place to which we had an itch to move.
We told them our sad story. The pastor said, "Must we find a place for you?"
"Please," I replied, "even in Mandela Park."
That was a big moment for me. I had never been able to express to that point my willingness to move to such a place. I still had too many fears--founded or not--related to my children.
The morning after, we went to the beach with the children of the church. The pastor said that one of the members had already found us a place. It was in Southridge Park--decidedly not a place like Mandela Park.
We checked the place out. I was convinced that it was the place God had prepared for us. Anna had doubts.
On Sunday I told the people that we "were serious when we said we could live in Mandela Park."
"We can do it," I pleaded, giving them another chance to find us a place among them. "Do you believe we can?"
Heads shook around the room.
"I have a response to that," said the pastor. "Because we also love you, we will not let you live here. The crime of this place is too bad, and it is a burden that only we of this place must bear."
After a week of intense anxiety, forced to make a decision about living arrangements in a city with few options, I was relieved simply to have clarity. We would take the place God--and indeed the local church--had given us. Yet we did not take it before God had tested me.
Like Abraham, I had to decide whether God was more faithful than my fears, wiser than my wisdom. Did God love the beloved son more than I did? God was waiting for me to say so.
In that moment, when "even Mandela Park" rolled off my tongue, I laid Isaac bound upon the altar.
And God gave Isaac back. With more blessings to follow.
-Joe
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