Song on Isaiah 42:10-13

Sing unto the LORD a new song SATB – George vP by George vP

Pray for the missionaries

 

I have recently had contact with a few of our missionaries who spoke about difficulties they are facing. We need to know that when missionaries experience trials and difficulties, there is a spiritual struggle behind it. And we need to pray for them, that they might stand firm in the struggle. The same holds true for our sisters on the field, and for all workers.

Missionaries go out with joy, enthusiasm, conviction, and a deep sense of calling. They leave behind familiar places, beloved communities, and cherished families, to bring the gospel to those who have not yet heard it. But the path of mission work is rarely smooth. Many face ongoing difficulties—discouragement, conflict, loneliness, and at times even hostility from the very people they long to serve. Scripture teaches us that these struggles are part of a deeper, unseen conflict.

Missionaries need to navigate cultural differences and organizational challenges; but more than that, they are stepping directly into the front lines of a spiritual battle.

The New Testament is unambiguous: the devil hates the gospel. He hates the freedom it brings. He hates the light it shines. And he hates to see people escaping his clutches through the ministry of Christ’s servants.

When missionaries proclaim Christ, they are not just teaching ideas. They are announcing liberty to captives. They are tearing down strongholds. They are shining light into darkness. It should not surprise us, then, that the evil one pushes back.

Paul reminds us that we do not wrestle against flesh and blood but against the spiritual forces of evil (Ephesians 6:12).  Missionaries feel this reality acutely. The devil cannot snatch back those whom Christ has claimed, but he can—and does—attempt to discourage, distract, and divide those who carry the message of salvation.

One of the most painful trials missionaries face is not external persecution but internal strife. Disagreements within a congregation, misunderstandings among supporters, or tensions with fellow workers can cut deeply. Even more wounding is when gossip or slander begins to circulate—sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. That causes weariness beyond telling.

These things are not trivial. They are not merely “personality clashes” or “communication issues” or “cultural misunderstandings.” They are spiritual attacks. The devil delights in sowing suspicion, resentment, and division among God’s people. If he cannot stop the gospel from being preached, he will try to weaken the preacher and his wife. If he cannot silence the missionaries, he will try to isolate them.

Gossip and slander are among Satan’s oldest tools. Our Lord called him “the liar and the father of lies” (John 8:44). Gossip and slander drain courage, cloud judgment, and break trust. And they can leave faithful servants feeling abandoned, misunderstood, depleted, and betrayed.

Missionaries often carry burdens that few see. They may feel pressure to appear strong, composed, and unwavering. When they visit the supporting churches, they smile and endeavour to appear positive. Yet behind the scenes they may be wrestling with discouragement, fatigue, or spiritual oppression. They may be near to burn out. The apostle Paul himself spoke of being “utterly burdened beyond his strength” and “that he despaired of life itself” (2 Corinthians 1:8). Missionaries are not immune to such experiences.

Their struggle is not a sign of failure. It is a sign that they are engaged in work that matters.

Where the gospel advances, the enemy resists. Where light shines, darkness pushes back. Where Christ builds, Satan attempts to tear down. Missionaries stand in this tension every day. As is often attributed to Martin Luther, “Where Christ builds a church, the devil builds a chapel.” It may not be a verbatim quotation, but the saying captures the fact that the devil always opposes the advance of the gospel.

And yet we know that Satan has been defeated and that Christ has won. The devil may rage, but he is beaten. His fury is real, but his power is limited. Christ has already triumphed, and he equips his servants with everything they need to stand firm.

Missionaries do not labour alone. The risen Lord goes with them, the Holy Spirit strengthens them, the prayers of the church uphold them, and the Father watches over them with unfailing and loving care.

When disagreements arise, Christ can bring reconciliation. When gossip spreads, Christ can vindicate. When discouragement weighs heavily, Christ can lift up the weary. When the devil attacks, Christ shields his servants with his own victory.

If missionaries face spiritual battles, then the church must support them with spiritual weapons. They need more than financial support—though that is important. They need prayer, encouragement, and steadfast solidarity.

Contact your church’s missionary with an encouraging word. We have many means at our disposal to do so, from an old falchioned letter in the mail, to a quick text.

We are all engaged in spiritual warfare, whether on the mission field or on the home front. Satan attacks us here in North America as he attacks missionaries and the converted in Mexico, Brazil, PNG, and other fields. He may use different methods in Africa than he does in Canada, but attack he does. Some of our missionaries are labouring in western culture, and so they feel “western” attacks as well.

Pray for the missionaries;

Pray for their protection.

Pray for unity in their congregations.

Pray for courage when they are slandered.

Pray for joy when the work is slow and difficult.

Pray for perseverance when the enemy presses hard.

Sometimes the devi’s attacks are overt; sometimes they are subtle. We all need to be on guard against the devil, who attacks the church like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

Brothers and sisters, missionaries are not heroes in their own strength. They are servants upheld by grace. And the Lord who called them is faithful. He will not abandon them in the struggle. He will complete the work he began—both in them and through them.

There is a God

 

Jesus, I come – George C. Stebbins by George vP

The Hero

(Translation of “De Held” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

Although small and skinny, Mr. Lampers still gave an overblown impression. That came from his manner of carrying himself. He was a teacher. Of course, that in itself had nothing to do with his puffed-up air, for I know several teachers with whom that is not at all noticeable. I mean, no one would say they were conceited, because they really weren’t.

But I had better return to Mr. Lampers.

When he straightens his spectacles and tilts his head, there are several girls in the second grade who grow afraid of him. And when, in spring, his high falsetto voice pierces the classroom with sharp rebukes, even the sparrows chirping in the chestnut tree outside the open window fall silent.

In his classroom he rules supreme; outside of it, not to the same degree; and at home, it is his wife that reigns. 

Our housemaid Jans let him in, and when he emerged from behind her formidable form, she said in the same tone she would use with the cat, “Yes, go on in.”

But Jans is not in the second grade. He solemnly shook my hand.

“Ahem” (that’s how he usually begins his sentences), “Ahem, Pastor, I would like to ask your advice.”

He had already given me advice on several occasions—unsolicited—so I felt it only fair to return the favour. 

“With pleasure, Mr. Lampers. What’s on your mind?”

He coughed importantly, pulled up the legs of his trousers, and sank into a big chair. Then came the story. He had Kees de Bont in his class. Did I know the De Bont family? Indeed, I did. The household was not as clean as one might wish. Well then, a few days earlier he had said to Kees: “. . . you should give yourself a good wash sometime, or you’ll get scabies.” The boy had repeated this at home, and it had not gone down well. The result was that Kees’s father kept him home from school.

“Ahem, mind you, Pastor, I did not say: 'you have scabies,' but: 'otherwise you’ll get scabies.' Or perhaps: 'that’s how one gets scabies.'”

What pained Mr. Lampers most of all was that father De Bont demanded an apology.

“And that I cannot do, Pastor. I only gave a well-meant warning. That is my duty, and besides. . .” His voice was already beginning to chirp again. So, I cut him off and advised him simply to go to the De Bont household and explain the matter. He shook his head despondently and left.

But from other quarters I heard that he could not be moved. The headmaster, his colleagues, his wife—everyone tried. All in vain. 

Until one evening he appeared again.

He seemed even smaller and thinner than before; this time he looked more deflated than inflated. After much beating about the bush came the confession. He was willing to go to the De Bonts. “But you see, Ahem. . .  you may laugh at me, but they have such a large dog there, a terrible brute. And I simply am so afraid of dogs.”

There it was. This time his glasses sat crooked, his head hung low, and the Hero of Grade Two sat pitifully in the big leather chair. 

So, I gave him my advice once more, with the result that he went to the De Bonts . . .  together with his wife. And Kees is back in school.

But every now and then, when I meet him in town, I have the urge to bark.

 

JANS

 JANS

(Translation of “Jans” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

Jans. That’s her name. And for me, that simple name represents a formidable presence.

This week it was rough again. I wouldn’t want to speak ill of her, because she’s a good girl, my wife says. But if I’m honest, there are moments when I dislike all those “good girls” who, with all their goodness, tyrannize the whole household—me included.

Because, to be even more honest: I’m afraid of our housemaid. I’m not afraid of anyone, no—but I am afraid of Jans. Afraid of her look, in which a whole world of contempt can lie. Afraid of her “see-I-told-you-so-you-poor-fellow” air when she finds something I’ve been searching for hours. Afraid of the merciless decisiveness with which she announces that I may not go into this or that room because it’s being “done.” Afraid, too, of her sharp tongue, her lack of respect for my person and my office.

My wife is also afraid, but only that she might leave—“and you know you can’t get anyone nowadays.”

So we live under the reign of Jans.

And she is formidable. When she arms herself with broom and dust mop, it’s as if the Pleiades are bearing down on you. She is broad and tall and, in certain places, of considerable depth. She has a chin like the bumper of a modern army truck and hands that conceal a crushing strength. An Amazon, a Hippolyta, a tank.

It does me good to be able to say this for once. Because this week was particularly bad. To put it briefly: on Sunday I preached an old sermon. Not very old—only about three years. Nobody noticed, which says some things about both my congregation and my sermons.

Nobody? Except Jans. For she—apart from other “talents”—also has the memory of an elephant. But I hadn’t thought of that at the time.

Those whom the gods would destroy, they first blind. Cheerfully—at least outwardly, for after an old sermon you always have a slightly uneasy feeling—I stepped into the living room after the service and laid my sermon on the sideboard. I had a friendly word for my wife and for our children. I was behaving in that familiar way that marks a conscience looking for reassurance in the normal behaviour of others. Half an hour later I went to the sideboard to fetch the sermon. It wasn’t there.

“Jans! Jans!”

Jans appeared. Her expression should have warned me.

“Jans, where’s my sermon?”

“I’ve already put it away in your study.”

Still I suspected nothing of my approaching downfall, and in my hubris I had the audacity to ask, “And how do you know where that sermon belongs?”

“I’ve known that for three years already, Pastor!”

There’s a time to be silent. This was one of them. We both stood there—but how differently. The air was full of her triumph, and I, badly wounded, left the battlefield for my study.

“You know what you’ve got,” says my wife, “and not what you’ll get.”

Well, what we’ve got, I know for sure: an Amazon, a Hippolyta, a tank.