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Gary Haugen is Harvard InterVarsity alumnus,
is president and CEO of International Justice
Mission (IJM), a human rights organization
based in Washington, D.C. Prior to founding
IJM, he worked in the civil rights division of the
U.S. Department of Justice and was director of
the United Nations genocide investigations in
Rwanda.
This excerpt is taken from
Just Courage by Gary A. Haugen. ©2008 by International
Justice Mission. Used with permission of InterVarsity Press, P.O. Box 1400, Downers Grove, IL 60515 ivpress.com
Even though I read the words almost twenty-five years ago, I can still picture them on the page. I was a freshman
in college sitting up late one night in the dorm laundry
room waiting for my clothes to dry and reading John Stuart Mill's essay "On Liberty." Writing in 1859, Mill was trying to explain the process by which words lose their meaning, and he casually offered that the best example of this phenomenon was Christians. Christians, he observed, seem to have the amazing ability to say the most wonderful things without actually believing them.
What became more disturbing was his list of things that
Christians, like me, actually say—like blessed are the poor and humble; it's better to give than receive; judge not, lest you be judged; love your neighbor as yourself, etc. Looking at each of the glorious declarations on the list and the corresponding mediocrity of my own daily character, Mill's observation seemed simply and clearly true. What ended up surprising me, however, was
what followed—which was not a rush of guilt or despair, but the opening of a fresh and unexpected window of hope. Perhaps my life need not be, in fact, so manifestly shriveled and mediocre if I began to act as if what Jesus said was true. Perhaps there really is more to this life.
One of the biggest regrets of life, I think, is a sense of having gone on the trip but missed the adventure.
For example, one summer when I was ten I was camping
with my dad and two older brothers on Mount Rainier. One of
the ways my father expressed his love for my brothers and me was to take us to such places and to simply walk—mile after mile—up into the beauty and grandeur of these sacred treasures. On such walks, Dad would always stay with me, making me feel like I was setting the pace. We always went farther and higher than I would have chosen. But along the way, Dad was there—to steady me over streams, to feign the need for a rest, to help me over the boulder, to assure me I was almost there.
But on this particular summer day I didn't want to go
on. We had been walking with hordes of tourists along the
gentle asphalt trails outside the visitor's center. At the top of the meadow trails, however, the paved trail ended and a large warning sign indicated the beginning of the trail used by climbers on their way to the summit. With a text undoubtedly drafted by lawyers, the sign warned of every conceivable horror that awaited those who ventured beyond. I wasn't feeling particularly tired, but my little stomach ached as I looked up at the massive rock formations and snow fields that went up and up. My dad suggested we try to reach the base camp used by those heading for the summit, and my brothers eagerly accepted. Dad assured me I could make it and that he would help me.
I, however, was thinking we ought to pay more attention to the lawyers who took the time to make that nice sign. After all, all manner of things could go wrong. With these mounting anxieties beating in my chest, I responded the only way a ten-year-old can to such a proposition and simply said: "No. That looks boring."
Instead, I suggested, I'd like to hang out at the visitor's center. The visitor's center was warm and comfortable, with lots of interesting things to watch and read. So I stayed and explored every corner, and judging by the crowd, it was clearly the place to be. As the afternoon stretched on, however, the massive visitor's
center started to feel awfully small. The warm air felt stuffy, and the stuffed wild animals started to seem just—dead. I felt bored, sleepy and small—and I missed my dad. I was totally stuck. Totally safe—but totally stuck.
Truth be told—I went on the trip and missed the adventure.
I believe many Christians are yearning to walk on a pathway to courage, but feel stuck at the visitor's center. They yearn for liberation from small and trivial things, and to experience the passion and power of God on the more jagged edges of faith, where true glory
lies. And I believe God is providing a very specific answer to that yearning and a very concrete path for getting there: God is calling his people to a pathway out of fear and triviality through the struggle for justice in his world.
In different times and in different ways, our heavenly Father offers us a simple proposition: Follow me beyond what you can control, beyond where your own strength and competencies can take you—and you will experience me and my power and my wisdom and love.
In Isaiah 58, God lays out a very compelling vision of what he offers those who follow him on this path:
Your light will break forth like the dawn,
And your healing will quickly appear;
Then your righteousness will go before you,
And the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
You will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
So how do we find that abundant, heroic life for which
we were made? How do we enter into God's kingdom now and experience the authentic power and presence of God?
We do it in weakness.
Perhaps the first indicator that I am approaching such a
place will be seen in my life of prayer. Mother Teresa said that she couldn't imagine doing her work for more than thirty minutes without prayer. Do you and I have work that we can't imagine doing for thirty minutes without prayer?
If not, perhaps we need to do an old life's work in a new way. When we are following our Father on the great mountain, we want and need to talk to him. It's natural. It's part of the journey. At the visitor's center, though, there are enough things to occupy us that such conversation really isn't necessary—checking in every once in a while is generally quite adequate.
But I don't think we really want to spend our days at the visitor's center. To get out, however, we have to admit that it is fear and not cleverness that's keeping us there. We need to believe that the Father really does know where the joy is, and that it's safe to follow him in our own weakness up the mountain. Perhaps then we can know the joy of going on the trip without missing the adventure.
Take Christ at his word and see if he is true. If you're wrestling with some sort of decision, reflect for a moment and ask yourself, Am I being brave, or am I being safe?
It's not by sheer will that we become brave. It takes reformation of the heart. God doesn't call us to try to be brave but to train to be brave. We won't arrive at it tomorrow, but hopefully, by the grace of God, we'll be more brave ten years from now.
Three resources that have been very helpful for me and my colleagues are Dallas Willard's Divine Conspiracy and Renovation of the Heart, and John Ortberg's The Life You’ve Always Wanted.
As you leave the college world, consider choosing the path towards courage. It may mean giving up comfort, security, control and even success, but you will receive four things in return: adventure, faith, miracles and a deeper knowledge of Jesus. Who among us wouldn’t want these?
Additional Resources:
This excerpt is taken from
Just Courage by Gary A. Haugen. ©2008 by International
Justice Mission. Used with permission of InterVarsity Press, P.O. Box 1400, Downers Grove, IL 60515 ivpress.com
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