August 27, 2010

Home Office vs HQ

Confession time: my sons are fans of the Disney animated series Phineas and Ferb. More painful confession time: I have been known to sit and watch episodes with them.

One of my their favorite parts of each episode is when Perry the Platypus--ostensibly a household pet--goes through some amazingly intricate secret portal to HQ, where he assumes his true identity as Agent P.

Thus.

Agent P's handler (the guy who appears on the big screen in the above sequence) is a distracted, out-of-touch comic foil who sits in his remote office and gives orders. Meanwhile, the platypus has to continuously face the dangers of his chosen profession--which in his case comes in the form of the evil Dr. Doofenshmirtz.

It would be easy to get the impression that this mirrors the relationship between a missionary and the mission board. The missionary--like the cartoon platypus--faces the rigors of his job, while getting orders from a detached and out-of-the-loop headquarters. I can even imagine how it would be easy for the relationship between missionary and mission board to degenerate to just such a level.

In the instance of our mission board, this is not the case.

I was reminded of this once again as I roamed the halls of the Baptist Mid-Missions home office in Cleveland, OH. There are many good mission boards out there, but BMM has a special, missionary-focused quality. Here is what I mean:

Baptist Mid Missions was founded by a missionary.

Mikey stands next to drawing of BMM founder William Haas

I think this is key to what makes BMM somewhat unique among mission boards. They don't exist to tell the missionary what to do. Rather, they work hard to enable the missionary in what he is doing. And I get the impression that this is something that William Haas, missionary to Africa, ingrained in the culture of the mission agency he started back in the '20s.

The Home Office staff always have time for the missionaries.

Smiling front-desk receptionist.

As I went from office to office, never once did I hear anything like "Could you come back later? I'm busy." In many cases the staff members stopped what they were doing in order to help me. In fact, word spread through the office complex that I was there, and people went out of their way to come and greet me. Even the president took time out to say hello.

Which brings me to the final point:

The BMM home office works along side the missionary, not over him.

Matt, the secretary for the Latin American office, and the guy who answers most of my e-mails.

One of my meetings was with the financial department, and the subject was our support level (There will be more about this later). As I sat and interacted with the director of that department, I was reminded once again how BMM puts the missionary first. There was no "you must do this or else" attitude. The major question was "what will work best for your ministry?"

In short, we do not have a mission headquarters. We have a home office. And I wouldn't trade that for any of Agent P's gadgets (although that flying car is sweet!)

Talk back to the missionary: Got any observations about this subject? If so, leave them in the comments section!

Related posts:

Train Up a Child
Missions, Old Skool

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August 25, 2010

Visit to Portsmouth, Ohio

As we drove down into the Ohio river valley and the spires of the town of Portsmouth came into view, I turned to my lovely wife (aka The Brazilian Bombshell) and exclaimed "I love places like this!"

This elicited a roll of her captivating brown eyes. She hears this every time we drive through some small village. She puts up with me "geeking out" over old pillared courthouses, rickety Victorian mansions and ornate-but-fading movie theaters. To be fair, I get excited over places like this in Brazil as well. They are just fewer and farther between.

On Monday morning--while the rest of my family still slept, I strolled around the town and took some pictures with my cell phone. Here they are, in no particular order of importance.

Not quite sure what goes on at this theater now. I can picture it, 60 years ago, being the busiest place in town on a Saturday evening.

Just across the road from the theater was this beautiful building which now houses a museum. I would love to know the history of this building.

What appears to be an ancient vault alarm on the side of this grand old bank. In my mind I can hear it ringing as desperate men in black fedoras make a break for it, followed closely by the "boys in blue".

Of course one of Portsmouth's claims to fame is that it is the home town of cowboy legend Roy Rogers.

If you are a long-time reader of this blog you will remember a post I did about the murals in this city. If not, check it out here.

Also I would be remiss if I did not mention the wonderful time we had re-connecting with our dear friends at Temple Baptist Church in Portsmouth. Pastor Gowdy and his congregation have been faithful and generous supporters of this ministry. We are grateful to God for them.

Talk back to the missionary: Few towns inspire my imagination like Portsmouth. Is there any place in particular that inspires your imagination? Tell us where it is and why in the comments section.

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August 20, 2010

Book Review: Everyone Communicates, Few Connect by John C. Maxwell

Effective communication and "connecting" are subjects near and dear to a missionary's heart. Almost everything he does--from church-relations to on-field ministry--rises or falls on his ability to connect with others. Therefore, John C. Maxwell's latest offering, "Everyone Communicates, Few Connect", is timely and relevant for all involved in missions. Without a doubt it is valuable for just about any other line of work as well.

Maxwell is an acknowledged "leadership guru" and prolific author, whose flagship book "The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership" has become a classic in that field. With this latest volume he focuses on the subject of communication.

But this time there's a twist.

Before the book was published, Maxwell made the manuscript available online and invited readers to contribute. The result is a collaborative effort that brings the experiences of a host of "regular folks" to the table.

"Everyone Communicates, Few Connect" is divided into two sections of five chapters each. The first section deals with "connecting principles", and the second with "connecting practices". In reality, I found the entire book to be very practical. It has made a difference in how I approach our visits to supporting churches while home on furlough.

For example: common missionary wisdom dictates that one make a video presentation, or at least a quality Power Point presentation that is presented at all churches. However, based a principle Maxwell brings out in his book, I have made a special presentation for each church we have visited so far. The result? Our time has ceased to be a "report" and become a time of family sharing.

That is just one example of how I have benefited from this book. If you work with people in any way (and unless you are stationed at a one-man observation post in the arctic, chances are good you do) you will benefit from it too.

Talk back to the missionary: What principles do you follow to connect with those around you? Share them with us in the comments section.

Related Posts:

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Your Very Own Mission Field

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August 19, 2010

Bob Dylan, Brazilophile Painter

clipped from twentytwowords.com

Related Article:

Sigh

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August 17, 2010

Missionary Max: Chapter Thirteen--Slippery Slope

The story thus far: Maxwell Sherman has decided to remain on the island to help the small congregation that had been abandoned by the former missionaries. On the way to dinner with the beautiful Ilana, he discovers that their conversation is being bugged. Meanwhile James Rockwell, the representative of the SPGI conglomerate has taken a special interest in Max.

Cascavel placed the walkie-talkie down and looked through the binoculars, scanning the lighted streets below him. He was perched on the tile roof of a two-story residence in the downtown district of Santo Expedito. It was where all the upscale restaurants were, and it was where Diego—O Diabo—had informed him that Max and Ilana would be headed.

As he watched the cars pass on the lighted streets around him Cascavel reflected on the dramatic change in his relationship with Diego. Thrown into the dank holding cell at the hell-hole that served as a federal prison, he had expected the worst. To his surprise, he was removed shortly thereafter, cleaned up, given a full meal, and brought into a comfortable--if Spartan—office. His heart quickened in fear when Diego walked in, but the soldier formerly known as O Diabo struck a conciliatory tone. After commiserating with Cascavel's plight he offered a proposition: he would see to it that all charges were dropped if Cascavel helped him track down the evil gringo who had been the cause of all his trouble up until this point.

Eager to avoid any prison time, and almost as eager to exact some sort of revenge on the man who had twice humiliated him, he had jumped at the chance. There was the slightest twinge of conscience when he reflected on how the americano had not demonstrated the least bit of malice toward him—but that was easily shaken off by the prospect of freedom. Now, in the space of one day, he had gone from street riffraff to special agent of the Cabritan government. He had even been given a uniform, and the promise that if he did well there was promotion, power and wealth in his future.

Cascavel was suddenly brought back to reality by the sight of a black Mercedes navigating the streets below. It made it's way finally to Paladar Dourado.

Cascavel put the walkie-talkie to his face. “The package has arrived.”

“Very good.” Came the reply from Cascavel. “The operation is a go. Plant the bug.”

Almost without exception the roofs of Santo Expedito's buildings are made of ceramic tiles. The newer buildings boast tiles that are mass-produced at factories, and held in place by little grooves in the tiles themselves. The older buildings still sport tiles that were made by spreading clay on the thigh of a slave girl and waiting for it to harden. These tiles are held in place by gravity and force of habit.

So eager was Cascavel to begin his new mission that he failed to notice he was on one of the latter roofs. The tile upon which his foot rested had apparently been made by a slave girl with particularly smooth thighs, because when he applied pressure it slipped out from under him, causing the surprised bandido to lose his balance. Crashing to the roof on his back he grasped wildly for anything to stop his fall. His fingers closed around the walkie-talkie. With a yell—punctuated by the rows of tiles as he passed over them—Cascavel slid down the roof, over the gutter, and into a garbage can two stories below.

The Paladar Dourado occupied a building that began life as an armory, built by the Portuguese crown for the supply of the occupying troops. It was a solid stone structure. Massive wooden beams—hand-hewn from jungle trees and pulled by slaves to the capital city—supported the edifice. After its military career ended the building passed from one owner to another, until two brothers—immigrants from Italy—bought it and turned it into a restaurant. The first two floors were nice, but the piece de resistance was the terrace. There was no covering—customers dined under the stars. On rainy nights dining was restricted to the first two floors.

The sky this night was crystal clear. Stars shown brilliantly, appearing to Max to be closer than usual. A quiet breeze blew, lightly fluttering the cloth napkins on the circular tables. In the corner a singer crooned Frank Sinatra classics, accompanied by a five-piece band.

Ilana indicated a table close to the edge of the terrace—one that would afford them both privacy and a nice view of the city lights. They sat down. A waiter materialized and they placed their orders. Then Ilana turned to Max.

“So, my mysterious friend, we've shopped together, eaten together, danced together, and thwarted a robbery together. And I don't know anything about you. I think at this point—especially after giving you a ride in my Mercedes—that I am entitled to a little information.” Her tone was playful, but belied a real curiosity. Her eyes were wide and she was leaning forward, elbows on the table, head in her hands, expectantly waiting.

Max sighed. Talking about himself was not his favorite pastime. But now he knew the moment of truth had arrived. Before sitting down he had quickly scanned the surroundings to see if there were any other bugs in place. Being relatively assured of the privacy of their conversation, he had no excuse to delay further.

“My full name is Maxwell Sherman.” He waited to see if that caused any reaction. It didn't. Max was relived. “I grew up in and around New York City. My family is...fairly well-to-do. I guess I was pretty privileged, but I took it all for granted. Big-time party guy.”

“Really!” Ilana was incredulous. “You don't seem like the 'millionaire playboy' type.”

“Well, I was, and it drove my parents crazy. They sent me to the best college their money could buy, thinking that it would shape me up. After three years, though, it was pretty evident they were wasting their money. Then my Dad died, and that really messed me up. I almost completely ignored my classes, spent my time drinking and partying.”

Two blocks away Cascavel swore and stood up in the trash can. He wiped the filth off his new uniform as best he could—which was not very well. Disgusted, he pocketed the walkie-talkie and jumped out of the can—right onto the tail of a passing cat. The angry feline let out a yowl and furiously scratched at Cascavel's leg, further jangling the bandido's already-frazzled nerves.

Taking a few deep breaths, he looked around him. He was in a back ally, behind the house. The binoculars were, miraculously, still hanging around his neck.

His walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Everything ok there?”

Cascavel answered quickly. “Everything's fine. Just...ah...scouting out the right place to place the bug.”

“Get to it! You don't have all night.”

Swearing again as he clicked off the walkie-talkie, he stepped out into the street-- just as a delivery truck passed by, soaking him from head to toe in water from a nearby puddle. Shaking with equal parts rage and cold, Cascavel stood there, looking very much like a drenched Chihuahua.

“So what did you do after your Dad died?” Ilana asked.

“Well, about three months later, 9-11 happened. Something snapped inside me, and I thought I had found my purpose in life.”

“Ah, love of country!” Interjected Ilana.

“Exactly. I dropped out of school and enlisted in the Army. My mother went into a towering rage, but my patriotism knew no bounds. I have always been athletic and excelled at martial arts as a kid, and so Army life suited me fine. I became a Ranger—that's special forces—and spent most of my time in Iraq, Afghanistan, and a few other places that I'm not really allowed to talk about.”

“Ooooh!” Ilana put down her fork and looked in wonder at her companion. “The man of mystery just got more mysterious.” Max responded with a wry smile.

“Trust me, even if I could talk about them, I wouldn't. There are things that make me wake up at night in a cold sweat.” He shook his head as if to rid it of unpleasant memories.

Ilana beheld the man across the table from her with admiration. She thought back to when she had first seen him in that marketplace. He seemed so different now—almost larger than life. Reflecting on their shared experiences over the last few days, she realized that when she was with him she felt a sense of adventure, and yet of safety at the same time. How many other men had given her that feeling?

“None.”

“None what?” asked Max.

“Er...” Flustered, Ilana realized she had answered her mental question out loud. “None...of this explains how you ended up here on Cabrito.”

“Ah well, after I left the Army, I had no direction, and was pretty traumatized by some of the things I saw. My mother was ecstatic when I came back, and wanted me to jump right into an executive position at the company. The thought of doing that made my stomach turn. Instead I bummed around for a while, until I finally got a job at a construction company upstate, near Albany. The hard physical work helped to distract me from my memories and thoughts of what a screwup I was. Once again my mother was...shall we say...not pleased.”

Despite his earlier mishap on the roof, Cascavel was really quite good at climbing things. Growing up on the streets of Cabrito he had survived primarily by shimmying up walls and running over rooftops to get away from whoever was after him. Thus the restaurant wall before him posed no real challenge.

The ancient, vine-covered stone wall provided many hand and toe-holds. The wooden beams sticking out just below the terrace would provide the perfect platform for him to carry out his job. Without further delay Cascavel began his ascent.

He chose the back wall of the building where there were no windows. It would not do for anybody to see him. He began his climb and, gecko-like, he was soon at the top. He could hear the sounds of gentle music, light conversation, and the tinkling of ice in glasses. Supporting himself with one arm on one of the protruding wooden beams, he hoisted his wiry frame up so just the top part of his head appeared over the wall. To his delight he found he was almost completely hidden by decorative plants that surrounded the terrace. Peering through them, he also found that he had calculated with surprising precision—he was directly behind the table where the americano and the girl were sitting. He instinctively reached over to feel his arm...still sore from yesterday.

Ilana was about to sip her complimentary coffee when she stopped, and sniffed the air. “Do you smell something funny?”

“The only thing I can smell is your perfume.” replied Max, truthfully. It was intoxicating, making it hard for him to concentrate.

“No, seriously, I smell something...like...like garbage.”

A gentle breeze blew through and Max caught a whiff. “Oh my, now I smell it too. Wow, somebody needs to take out the trash.”

Ilana shrugged. “Probably from the street below. Anyway, you were talking about what happened after you left the Army.”

“Oh, right. Well, one Friday evening in February I was walking from work to the little apartment I rented. I had been pretty much disowned by my family, and really didn't care about anything or anybody. I was looking forward to a weekend of meaningless drinking—alone.

“No girlfriend?” Ilana asked slyly.

“Plenty of girls, none of them friends. Anyway, on the way to my apartment. That night I passed a little church I had passed many times before. It was getting dark and I noticed that there was a light in the back of the building. Suddenly my entire being longed for some sort of human contact. The warmth of the light beckoned to me. Before I knew what was happening I was knocking on the door.

“A man answered, and introduced himself as Pastor Dave. He invited me in, and we began to talk. It was causal at first, but he could tell all was not well with me. He began to gently probe and suddenly I was pouring my entire, miserable life out to him.”

Ilana was surprised to see Max's eyes become moist at the recollection.

“Then Pastor Dave began to talk to me about Jesus,” Max continued. “I was pretty ignorant about Him...used His name a lot as a swear word. But Dave spoke about Him as if he and Jesus were intimate friends, in fact he even used the phrase 'best buds'. It was something completely knew to me, but I was sure this guy had something going for him that I didn't.

“Before I left he gave me a Bible and told me to read John and Romans. I went home, broke open a six-pack, and did just that. I never finished the six-pack, but by Saturday evening I had finished John and Romans.”

Ilana hoped the shock was not registering on her face as Max told his story. When Max had explained his church work she assumed it was some sort of charitable, social thing. Never in her wildest dreams would she have taken Max for 'religious'. He seemed too real, too at ease with himself. Apart from the Roman Catholicism of the island, her contact with Christians had been the intellectual, academic Christianity of the American university campus whose reason for existence seemed to be connected to some social cause or another.

The man in front of her was expressing something far different.

Cascavel had a plan. He would carefully reach over and place the microphone in the plants next to him. From there it would capture the conversation just fine. Still supporting himself by his arm on the wooden beam he reached with his other hand and found the small mic. Hoisting himself up he knelt on the beam and turned the appliance on. A red light blinked encouragingly. Now to place it in the shrubbery...

Suddenly,the bandido felt that something was very wrong. Unbeknownst to him the nylon cord from which hung the binoculars had looped around the wooden beam while he was watching the couple through the shrubbery. Now, as he went to stand up, the cord pulled taut, and Cascavel lost his balance. With a yelp he toppled over. Clawing at his neck he grabbed the cord with one hand, and found himself dangling by it, two stories above the street.

Ilana was lifting a fork-full of delicious stroganoff to her tantalizing (as Max would describe them) lips when she paused.

“Did you hear something?”

“No, did you?”

“I think so...it sounded like a scream.”

“Probably from the kitchen. Maybe somebody got burned.”

“Could be,” replied Ilana. “So, Pastor Dave told you to read John and Romans. What about them made such an impression on you?” She was genuinely interested.

Max chuckled. “Pastor Dave knew what he was doing. When I read John, I met Jesus. I saw his humanity, his deity, his love, his goodness...John has it all. Then in Romans I learned of my condition before God. I saw clearly that I stood guilty before a righteous God, a God who could not let my evil deeds go unpunished.”

“That's a scary idea of God. Isn't that a somewhat outdated?”

“I always thought so.” Max admitted. “But I came to see that what was important was whether or not it was true, not whether or not it was fashionable.”

Ilana did not reply, so Max pressed on.

“Anyway, on Sunday morning I went to church. One verse that I had read was burning in my head. 'If you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus, and believe in your heart that God has raised him from the dead, you will be saved.' And at that point it all came together. I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could do to please God—that Jesus had already accomplished that for me two thousand years ago. I just needed to embrace that in faith and allow it to have its effect on my life.”

Ilana sighed. “What you have sounds really beautiful. But I am too used to solving problems with my mind. Your belief is obviously helping you, but it won't work for me.”

“So what you are saying is that religion may be good for us common folk, but for educated people like yourself it is not necessary.” Max gave her a sly wink.

“No, silly, that is not what I am saying...not really!” She made a playful swipe at him.

“I'm just teasing.” he replied. “Hey, the food was delicious, but it's getting late. How about I let you take me home.

“Ok. But thanks for telling me your story. It is really...beautiful.”

Max smiled. The old Max would have said “Not as beautiful as you...” or some such cheap pick-up line. The new Max, however, was more interested in Ilana meeting Jesus. There was much more Max wanted to say to her, but it went unsaid as they made their way to the stairway.

Once again Cascavel pulled himself to the top of the terrace. Slowly he reached for the tiny microphone and stood up gingerly on the wooden beam, this time making sure there was nothing around his neck. Then he gently placed the microphone in the shrubbery, peered through the leaves...and softly swore. The girl and the gringo were gone!

Nearby two waiters, one tall and lanky and the other short and portly, cleaned off a table where several businessmen had been dining.

“José, watch your language, man!” said the tall waiter to his coworker.

“You watch your language, man! I didn't say anything.”

“Forget it. What should I do with the beer they left in this mug?”

“Just throw it in the shrubbery.”

Before Cascavel knew what was happening he found himself drenched by a liter of vintage cabritana brew. As the potent liquid ran down his face and neck it came into contact with the cuts and bruises sustained from his earlier mishaps. Forgetting himself, he put his hands over the sore spots...and in doing so once again lost his balance. Arms flailing he fell from the beam. Fortunately the binoculars were still hanging from the beam by their nylon cord, and for the second time that night Cascavel found himself swinging helplessly in the night air.

“Hello, Cascavel, are you there?” The voice was coming from the walkie-talkie in his pocket. In frustration Cascavle grabbed it with his free hand an hurled it to the pavement far below, where it broke into a hundred tiny pieces.

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Talk back to the missionary: Did you enjoy this? If so, give us a shout-out in the comments sections. If you REALLY enjoyed it, share it with a friend!

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