Aschalew Abebe: A Celebration of a Good Man

I said to Amber, "if I have one fear, it's that I will not live an interesting life." She smiled, patted my arm gently, and said, "I don't think you have to worry about that. Think of all of the wonderful people you've met in all the wonderful places." Amber is right.

I have had the good fortune of being surrounded by good folks who are engaging in good work. Some of them live in my local context; others live oceans away. Today, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Aschalew Abebe. He is a rare gem.


We rattle down the washed-out road from Welkite to Gunchire as the sun slips behind the eucalyptus groves and kisses the horizon. Kilometers are marked in clusters of thatched-roofed huts and mosque minarets. I’m jostled side to side, and every pothole we hit sends a jolt through my lower back.

“How much farther?” I ask.

“About 10 kilometers,” Aschalew says, as if I have the ability to convert rickety kilometers to some measurement of time. He laughs, “What’s wrong? This road is not smooth enough for you?”

I tell him it is fine, and his eyebrows lift. The edges of his mouth, too. He says, “I know you are lying, my friend.” He changes the subject as if to distract me from the road. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“Yes,” I say, recalling that night almost four years gone by.

Continue reading at In Touch.

*Photograph by Scott Wade, via In Touch.


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Be Transfigured

This is a sort of continuation of the Double Edged Sword posts.  Follow the links to Part I and Part II. Yesterday, by, through, and in unity with the power of modern technology, I listened to an eclectic mix of sermon podcasts. A preacher with a southern dialectical swagger spoke more of football than he did of Jesus. He summarized the Gospel as if it were some kind of post-game victory dance. A Jesus jitterbug. He said Jesus came to free us from the drudgery of life, the pain of failure.

He was not alone. Sermon after sermon, preacher after preacher, the messages continued. "Are you living in blessing?" they asked. Some were more covert--"are you walking in obedience to Christ; have you ever walked in His favor?" For the most part, the preachers failed to define either obedience or favor. Instead, they resorted to emotional, tautological double-speak.

As if Christ the transfigured can be summed up without proper effort.

Even with proper effort, I reckon the summing up of Christ will have to wait until I see the fire in his heart. Or maybe just the nail-scars in his hands.


I snuck from the office with a good friend. He's a linear fella, a logical man who knows when to speak and when to hold his tongue. He's had a spiritual awakening of sorts and it's come at the perfect time. He's on the uptick and dragging me with him.

We talked about modern preaching and the fundamental shifts in the expressions of the church. "Did you hear about the church meeting in the bar that straddles the Florida/Alabama state line?" he asked. I told him I hadn't. "The bar tender says that some congregants order bloody Marys as soon as they walk into the sanctua... er... bar. Oddly, they serve grape juice for communion."

"Of course they do," I said. "I reckon we over-contextualize everything."

We sat for a few minutes and he read to me from his journal. "I'm not a writer," he said, "so don't hold the style against me." He then proceeded to read one of the most thoughtful and well-written pieces about prayer and suffering. "What if God's best for me is not the 'best' as I see it," he read, "will I still give God glory and see him as good?"

When he finished, I put words to the practicalities of that kind of theology. "The way I see it, there are two God-options. Either God is completely and all-together good--whether in loss or victory--or He is heedless and improvident."

I thought about that statement on the drive home last night. I'll choose to believe in God's goodness, even when my life doesn't seem victorious. I'd rather serve a God of purpose than one of occasional and perfunctory niceties.


The boys greeted me at the door with their usual "Daddy" war-cry. I fought my way through hugs and clamorous day-long narrations and found Amber on the far side of the kitchen. She hugged me. I patted her rear.

On my way to the closet, my phone alerted me of a waiting email. I changed clothes and checked the message. It was from Jordan and Keri Clark, friends of ours from college. Emails from them are holy experiences, moments that require a pause and a deep breath.

Jordan and Keri have lost two children to a rare genetic disease. We've followed news of their losses over the years, watched as they've patiently and faithfully served the God who could have healed, but didn't. The substance of the email is personal, but I will tell you this--Jordan and Keri see God as abiding in love, kind, and merciful.

Some might lament their lot, say it's tragic. I see their lot, the way they've used it to become more conformed into the recognizable image of Christ, and I say they are beautiful.

If only I had the courage to ask for that kind of conformity.


Modern preacher, don't talk to me about victorious living. I'm done with that pipe-dream.  Speak of contentment in plenty and want, pain and suffering. Preach Christ-esteem, conformity, sanctification. Show me mercy, grace in action. Bring me a cup of cold water. Share your journal with me. Send me an encouraging email.

Be transfigured.

Then, I'll listen.

On Heroes (Hebrews Narratives)

"By faith... others experienced mockings and scourgings..." I once met a man who was hog-tied and hung from a tree.  His elders dipped him in the river and beat him with a cane.  They demanded that he recant, and if he didn't they'd tie a millstone to his feet, baptize him once and for all.  He held to his confession so the accusers left him for dead, left him as easy pickings for the hyenas.  If you ask him his story, he'll tell you of faithfulness.  Faith is a river, he'll say.

"...yes, also chains and imprisonment..."

He was a long-haired hippy, a child of the earth with a clear understanding of redemption theology.  He smuggled bibles into the eastern block back before the wall came tumbling down.  He was arrested, threatened under a heat lamp, burned with cigarette butts.  His wife, a twenty year old  peace-child, believed herself to be widowed on more than one occasion.  If you ask them their story, they'll tell you of white-hot faithfulness.

"...They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword..."

By now, we've all seen the video footage.  Bearded man.  Boot knife or scimitar. Kneeling believer commanded to recant.  Heads roll.  You know that story.  Faith runs red, like spilled blood.

There is a quieter type of belief, one not splashed across the pages of books or websites.  It's accused, beaten, jailed, and ultimately put to the sword.  There are workers in these fields who can't blog, tweet, or update statuses for security reasons, but they hang in the war zones, living out lives of relative obscurity.

They are my heroes.

**All quotes taken from Hebrews 11:32-39