"Varieties of Service:" My Plans for Volunteering in Bosnia

In the last few years, I've written about God's love a lot. I like to talk about it, even get choked up about it every once in a while. But actually to put into practice? Not so often. For as long as I can remember, I've preferred to think, write, or talk about things, rather than DO them. But the more I study the Bible and reflect on the world, the more I'm faced with a truth that clashes with my occasional laziness, as well as my proclivity for wanting to stay in the safe (though often outlandish) confines of my mind:  Love is much less about warm feelings and sentimentality than we think it is. It has to be backed up by actions, or it means essentially nothing.  

This was a hard pill for me to swallow at first, partly because I had an overly-narrow conception of what it might mean for me to love through my actions. I was thinking back on all the community service and volunteer activities I had heard of my friends doing, and was failing to see how I could make a contribution in any of them. Maybe, I thought, I wasn't cut out for service work. Maybe I should stick to what I was comfortable with and knew I enjoyed doing. God would understand if I wasn't really suited for going out and doing things. Something the Apostle Paul wrote helped me to resist the urge to fall into this way of thinking:  “There are varieties of service, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of working, but it is the same God who inspires them all in every one. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.” (1 Corinth. 12:5-7) 

I may not be of much help building a house or assisting doctors in a village in a foreign country (nor, for that matter, plenty of other things that require physical dexterity or coordination). I'll probably never solve world hunger or cure cancer. But I could at least try to transform whatever skills or interests I have, no matter how academic or impractical they seem to me, into something concrete that could make a positive impact on someone's life. To love, not just with hollow words, but in deed and in truth. Over the last few years, I've been attempting to figure out what that would look like in practice. This June, I plan to be involved in something that I hope will be one big step in the right direction. 

About six months ago, I learned that the church organization I belong to, the NJ synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, has been running mission trips to Bosnia for the last 15 years. This year, volunteers will be there from June 20th to July 1st. Most of those days will be spent running programs for children at schools and orphanages throughout the country. Volunteers will often be broken into four groups to lead activities involving music, acting, sports, and a community project. While having fun and meeting a lot of new people, the goal is for children to learn the value of diversity and to build skills in teamwork and conflict resolution. 

The more I heard about it, the more the idea of participating in this trip “clicked” in my mind. For the last six years, travel has been a passion of mine. Most of that travel has been to the Middle East, so I've gotten used to some of my family and friends questioning my sanity in going to locales that they consider dangerous or unstable. I've received a very similar reaction to my plans for this summer, in spite of the fact that the wars in that region ended in the 90s. While Bosnia is far from being a war zone, it continues to bear the physical and emotional scars from those years. The country has more than its fair share of political and economic challenges ahead of it, and there is much healing that needs to be done, not least among its youth. 

It's clear from testimony from both volunteers and students that the trips have done a lot of good over the years. And because of my interests in travel, music, and acting, I feel I can make a real contribution to this mission work. Unfortunately, airfare to Bosnia and expenses while in the country aren't cheap. I'm hoping to be able to raise $2,400 by the end of May so that I can attend. 

A view of Sarajevo

That's where you come in. If you've made it this far in reading this blog post, please consider whether you are feeling called to help me to reach my goal. Every dollar counts. If you're not in a position to contribute monetarily, then any prayers or moral support in the next several months would be vastly appreciated. If you want to know more about the Bosnia mission or have any questions, please go to www.servanttrips.org for a lot more information. Please, help me to share a tiny bit of the love that has been shown to me, and to be an agent of peace in a country that is in sore need of it.

The Ease of Mourning a Building

During my first visit to Cairo in the summer of 2010, I made an effort to hit as many of the obligatory tourist spots as I could. Homesick, feeling exhausted from the heat, and a bit strapped for cash, I didn't get to them all. On one of the days, though, I managed to fit in some time for the Egyptian National Museum. With the exception of the gallery dedicated to King Tut's belongings, it was an hour and a half that I wished I could get back. It struck me as unorganized, mismanaged, and dirty. On my second trip to the city a year later, an American I met at my hostel persuaded me to go to the Islamic Art Museum with him. I expected to find much the same as I had in the Egyptian Museum, but was pleasantly surprised to discover a pristine museum with an amazing collection of well-organized artifacts. On Friday, a car bomb went off at the police headquarters building, close enough to the museum that much of it was severely damaged. The National Library and Archives were similarly affected. Exactly how much was destroyed is still unclear, but the loss of even a few of the works of art at the museum is a tragedy.

I was devastated by the news. Priceless works of human creativity and knowledge were now gone because of one act of violence. And somehow, that fact outweighed the human toll in my mind. Four people had died and fifty were wounded because of the explosion. On the next day, the third anniversary of the 25 January Revolution, at least 29 were killed and hundreds injured or arrested. In spite of this, I kept returning to the loss of artifacts and documents. And I felt guilty as hell because of it. I knew that human pain and suffering should mean a lot more to me than the destruction of material things, no matter how old or beautiful. This should have especially been the case with violence in Egypt, a country I had come to love during the time I lived there. 

Eventually, I realized how I could feel the way I did:  I was far enough that I was able to, and it was easier and less upsetting for me. Because I now live half a world away from Egypt, I have the option to shut out the violence and loss of life. Improvements in communication and recording technology allow us to have nearly-instantaneous reports of events through Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube. But if we want them to, they can be no more than images or sounds on a screen, happening to extras in a movie rather than to real people whose lives have been torn apart by turmoil. We Americans have a knack for dehumanizing and ignoring negative events around the world. 

In the days after the explosions, a big part of me wanted to do just that. Not in spite of my connections with the country, but because of them. Being upset about millions of dollars of repairs to the museum and library was easier for me than reflecting on the hellish roller coaster that Egypt has found itself on since its revolution. It was easier for me to lament the destruction of a thousand-year-old Islamic manuscript than the death of someone's father, mother, brother, sister, or friend. It was safer, because I was afraid that if I allowed myself to think any more deeply about the situations there, I would completely lose hope that Egyptians will one day live in a just country that doesn't swing from one brand of despotism and rights abuses to another. 

In the end, another thought about the Islamic Art Museum helped me not to give in to feelings of futility and despair. In the articles I read about Friday's explosions, there was no mention of the possibility of leaving the building to decay or be abandoned. It will be at great cost, but the building and its collections will be rebuilt and restored. They won't be allowed to be in shambles forever. Like the museum, Egypt has a chance for a future, even though much has already been lost. As long as there are people who love the country and its people, who are committed to rebuilding Egypt and transforming it into a country better than the one it had been before the revolution, there is hope. 

My Seminary Essay (Part 2)

Of course, my return to Christ and decision to enter seminary didn't occur simultaneously. I had a decent knowledge of theology and the Bible, a love for God that I had never thought possible, and a strong desire to help other people and preach the Gospel. Now it was a matter of figuring out how God wanted me to use those gifts and passions. Seminary seemed like a logical and appealing choice, but I was also aware that one didn't need to be a rostered church leader in order to serve or spread the Good News. Why not get a desk job, find a position in museum work, or pursue a career teaching Middle Eastern history at a secular university? None of these jobs would necessarily prevent me from being active in my church or community. 

Praying for guidance became a common practice for me, as did discussions with friends and family. Over time, I found myself being nudged more and more in the direction of theological and pastoral training. In addition to Pastor Mark Rossman, the advice and encouragement of my oldest and most devout friend, Kelly Graziano,  were crucial in my decision to begin the candidacy process. 

From early on, I knew that frequent evaluations of the strengths I would bring, as well as the obstacles that may cross my path during my education and ministry, should be essential in my decision. One of my main strengths is in academic study and biblical knowledge. As an undergraduate, I studied history, literature, and languages, three subjects that I've been passionate about since I was a teenager. I began to study Christian theology and interpretation of the Bible about three years ago, as mentioned above. In addition to my private readings, I have attended six Bible studies and taught one. I love being in a classroom setting as a student, and consider myself to be a leader in discussions. Secondly, I started writing short, sermon-like reflections on God and scripture last year, and have been posting weekly to a blog for about five months. I enjoy writing and hope to continue it in the years to come. In terms of my interpersonal relationships, I tend to be the person that friends and family members confide in, trust, and ask for advice on a wide range of issues. I think that I'm very sincere and genuine, which tends to lower people's defenses and put them at ease. Finally, seminary education and ministry in the ELCA would pose no severe hardship in terms of family, mobility, and financial concerns. I'm single, don't have children, and have a total of about $10,000 debt from my undergraduate institution. 

In terms of weaknesses and areas that I would like to improve in, it usually takes me several days to feel comfortable in an unfamiliar situation and with lots of new people. So, for example, if I was appointed to a church it might take some time to feel at ease in my new position and with the members of the congregation. I might have difficulty if any important decisions needed to be made quickly that would affect the church community. I would also like to be more active in service and missions in the upcoming years. 

In the end, though, my decision to start the ELCA candidacy process isn't just about making lists of strengths and weaknesses, or considering the pros and cons of entering into a profession in the Church. It's about discerning a call to vocation, a process of prayer and discussion in which personal experiences can also play a part. In June of this year, I attended the NJ synod assembly with Pastor Rossman. By the end of the first day, after hours of reports from various committees, voting on various issues, and listening to suggestions for changes and additions to memorials, I was exhausted and had a headache that was becoming increasingly unpleasant. I wondered if my decision to go to the meeting had been a wise one. I woke up the next morning for a service. And in the middle of a hymn, the sound of hundreds of pastors and laypeople singing washed over me. I looked around at the other tables and rows of chairs. All these people, coming from churches throughout New Jersey, worshiping God. Not only through the singing of hymns, reciting of creeds, and the receiving of Holy Communion that morning, but through daily service to their congregants and communities. 

Intertwined with the seemingly-mundane, even in the hours of reports and debates at the synod assembly, was something greater. Something holy. This is how God is working in our world, I realized:  through visits to shut-ins and hospital patients, addressing the needs of congregations and communities, serving as a shoulder for people to cry on and as a confidante for those in need of help or advice. He could be seen in the organizing of relief work and missions, in the overseeing of Bible studies and youth groups and Sunday schools. Through the daily grind, day after day and Sunday after Sunday. It's that work, that vocation, that I want to be a part of. During that morning service, I felt a sense of awe and gratitude for the road God had put me on that led to this moment. I had the sense that, yes, He approved of my decision. God willing, this committee will be able to see the potential in me to do His work, to be His servant as a rostered pastor in the ELCA. 

My Seminary Essay (Part 1)

In April of 2010, I told my mother that I had converted to Islam a few weeks before. It was one of the most difficult conversations I've ever had with her. At the end she said, “Well, who knows, maybe you'll go back to being Christian one day.” I remember scoffing and replied, “Yeah, maybe, but I highly doubt it.” Yet here I am, three and a half years later, writing an essay as part of the candidacy process to begin an ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) seminary education. And somehow, it makes total sense to me. In my head and in my heart, the idea that God is calling me to ordained ministry, to be a help and a blessing to others, feels right. It feels like what God wants me to do.

It's strange how life can seem like it's come full-circle. For a few years in high school, I hoped to become a pastor. I was active in the youth group of a friend's non-denominational church, was very passionate about the faith, and identified as a born-again (even to the point of being “re-baptized”). But slowly, imperceptibly, I lost my faith in Christianity during my freshman year of college. God and I were on good terms, I thought, and Jesus' sacrifice “for the sins of the world,” as well as organized religion as a whole, seemed wholly unnecessary. I would have described myself as an agnostic, still believing in a supreme being but not adhering to a particular religion. 

In 2008, I began to want to be part of an organized religion again, to fully believe in its scriptures, traditions, and main doctrines. At the time, I was studying Middle Eastern history and Arabic at New York University, so Islam seemed like the most logical choice. I was convinced that my fascination with the Arabic language and Middle Eastern cultures had all been for a reason, had been leading up to my decision to convert to this largely-misunderstood religion. I thought I had everything figured out. 

After my conversion in 2010, my honeymoon period with Islam didn't last very long. Hardly four months had passed when the doubts started creeping in. Most of them arose as a result of my intensive study of the Qur'an. Now that I was Muslim, I realized, I could no longer study the Qur'an from a purely academic standpoint. Eventually, although I still found its language beautiful, I started having issues with much of its content and theology. About six months after I converted, I was increasingly wondering if Christianity could actually provide the best articulation of what God is like and the type of relationship He wants with us. So I started going to church again for the first time in several years (Our Saviour Lutheran Church). I also began to study the Bible, joined a class at my church, and read all the books and articles I could get my hands on about Christianity. For several months, I was spending a majority of my free time poring over works on Christianity and Islam and contemplating which path God really wanted me to go down. 

My hours thinking and reading about Christianity and Islam were never easy. They always involved some kind of mental and emotional stress. There were only a few people who really understood why it was so important to me to come to a spiritual decision (most notably my friend Kelly Graziano). Many of the people close to me said something like the following: “Why are you spending so much of your time studying this stuff? Isn't it kind of a waste of time? God exists. What's most important is that you treat your neighbor as you would like to be treated. Why bother trying so hard to find the right religion, if there even is such a thing?” Or:  “Why don't you just say a prayer and accept Jesus Christ into your heart right now? The rest will work itself out later.” But I've always believed that if God is our Creator, we owe it to Him and to ourselves to try to figure out as much as we can about Him. I thought that settling with being agnostic, or forcing myself to believe in something that didn't make sense to me intellectually and morally, would be selling God short.

I knew intuitively that for me to come back to Christianity, I couldn't just believe it based on “blind” faith. I needed to have a better understanding of the religion itself, and especially of the Bible. I needed to feel that Christ was Lord both in my head and in my heart. That moment finally came in April of 2012, when I stumbled upon an Easter sermon written by NT Wright, a well-known New Testament scholar and Anglican bishop. Wright's work made sense of all of the issues that had kept me away from Christianity in the past. Because of him, I became certain of two things:  the historical probability of Jesus' physical resurrection, and the idea that Jesus was the culmination of all of God's plans for mankind and creation. Since April, there hasn't been a single day of the creeping doubt or suspicion that surrounded me when I was a Muslim.