mission impossible

Loose Ends... Confessions Of An Unfinished Faith

“MISSION IMPOSSIBLE” by Nichole Nordeman (As seen in the January 2007 CCM Magazine).

Several years ago my husband and I were invited to go to Paris by a missionary couple who were passionate about reaching out to the artistic community there and were attempting to use the arts as a tool to introduce this skeptical culture to Jesus. They were hoping that an evening of live music from me would be an encouragement to artists who were wrestling with (or even unaware of) how one’s faith could be relevant to one’s art. I remember when my booking agent first presented me with the invitation, I chuckled a little. “Yeah. Missionaries in Paris. Sounds like a tough gig.”

My stereotypes about missionaries were left over from Sunday school. My early impressions were that serving God on a mission field would usually involve some jungle location and lots of half naked natives who spent a lot of time spearing fish or balancing baskets on their heads. It meant putting your kids to sleep in a hammock every night under the thatch roof you made for yourself and your pet iguanas.

So, the word ‘missionary’ and the word ‘Paris’ did not live together in my brain. If being a missionary was to suffer and struggle and eat bugs for God, being in Paris was to wander aimlessly through the Louvre, eat baguettes at the top of the Eiffel Tower and decide which Merlot to have with dinner.

Errol and I were excited about our French adventure, and curious about what it meant to perform an outreach concert in the middle of Paris, where Christian music isn’t exactly on le radar. Needless to say, every stereotype I held about missionary work was quickly dismantled.

Jim and Angela, an American couple who met in Tulsa, were gentle and passionate about explaining how God had called them to raise their four children in France trying to communicate the beauty of Jesus to this artistic community. Paris, we learned, was among the most difficult of mission fields. For the most part, the Parisian notion of God (as it is with our own) was steeped in thousands of years of history and culture. The Jesus hanging on the ornate crosses of these stunning French Cathedrals represented reverence and respect, perhaps obligation … but maybe not relationship or grace.

For Jim and Angela, filling out missionary paperwork that charted their “progress” was hard. The American churches that were supporting them at home were understandably curious about the number of souls that had been saved. Which is, after all, the mark of Evangelical success and whole point, right? But for our new French friends and their messy mission field, progress was measured very differently. Success meant a cup of coffee with someone who needed to talk. Success meant slow but steady credibility with artists. Success meant staying in the conversation…one small concert and art exhibit at a time. By simply trying to love people, they were finding ways to infiltrate a culture that prides itself on…pride. Not easy.

I have a deep appreciation for why Jesus chose the metaphor of birth to illustrate salvation. I like to think that he understood how long and complicated that journey can be. Any woman, who has carried a child, understands that giving birth is far more than the actual finish line when the doctor hands over your brand new little bundle. That moment, as staggering as it may be, is simply the culmination of nine months worth of other important moments. It is the thrill of hearing the first heartbeat. It is the disbelief in seeing that little blob on an ultrasound for the first time. It is the nausea of morning sickness. It is the joy of anticipation. It is the shock of karate kicks to your ribs. It is the frustration of the hormonal assault. It is fear. It is dread. It is elation and profound joy. It is surrender at the inevitable loss of self. It is swollen, ugly ankles. It is every moment leading up to delivery, which many women will tell you is the most agonizing and unspeakably joyful experience they’ve ever known.

The way we really come to Jesus, I believe, is to experience the full process to term, swollen ankles and all. Karate kicks. Loss of self. Unspeakable joy.

This is the mission field our friends in Paris face every single day. Lives that move slowly and cautiously toward the delivery room. Lives that are feeling one little kick at a time inside of them.

Jim sat in our kitchen one night last week. He was in the States to visit churches and to thank them for and to ask for their continued financial support. He looked a little weary, to be honest. (In fairness, he just recovered from the stomach flu.) But he had that tired look that people have when they’ve poured all of themselves into something very meaningful. I’m guessing that raising support is his least favorite part of his calling, although he would never complain. Having to explain one more time that he does not spend his days eating croissants and sipping espresso at side walk cafes, but instead gently pursuing people in a culture, largely uninterested in their need for Jesus, and especially an American one.

Jim and Angela’s church is not our church. There are no borders or bi-laws. No praise team. No committees or children’s choir.

Their approach is beautifully unique…just like the people they’re trying to reach. And the messy thrill of watching someone who is laboring toward freedom…and standing with them…holding hands through every gasp and bead of sweat until they are ready to deliver their hearts to Jesus, is their greatest joy. And should always be ours.

Count to ten…don’t forget to breathe…

nichole