Symbolism.

Let’s face it, we do a lot of things because of how they look, not necessarily because they accomplish something important. Or noble. Or transformational.

The symbol becomes our righteousness. The event. Our intent. The photo album. The Twitter posts.

And some of that stirs my cynicism.

I’m in day four of Honduras detox. Still feeling the physical fatigue and spiritual weariness of 8 days amongst the least of these on the northern coast of that beautiful country. And I’m wrestling some deep questions:

If our lives are just the sum total of special events, what are they really?

If mercy is confined to a week in June, is it really mercy?

Is a plantain a fruit or a starch? They look like bananas, but they sure do taste like potatoes. (Not all my questions are apparently so deep).

Short-term ministry trips have gotten some valid criticism in my social circles. They don’t really make a sustainable difference. They simply feed the American fix-you ego. The $1,500 travel expense would be more effective invested in long-term initiatives. It’s just a self-righteous photo-op. It’s nothing more than episodic compassion.

There’s some truth in there. Some real dangers. Worthy tensions to embrace.

Attending a weekly church service doesn’t make you a follower of Jesus, taking your wife out for dinner doesn’t mean you have an intimate marriage, and spending a week among the poor in La Ceiba, Honduras doesn’t place an completion sticker on your Great Commission chart.

But these events, these coordinated efforts, these “episodes,” can be powerful triggers for long-term transformation if we allow them to be a means, and never an end.

I know 22 people who are siphoning through what 8 days in Honduras means for them today. For their right now. For this very moment. Twenty-two people who have re-entered normal with a new sense of normalcy. Twenty-two people refusing to allow this “episode” to be a momentary high on the road they were already traveling, but contending to make it a starting point on a completely new adventure. A Kingdom adventure.

And that kind of awakening has no price tag.

What events have triggered long-term transformation in you?

Some things just have to be seen before they become real (kind of like a LeBron James championship).

Just a little over two years ago, City Community Church was born out of so much hope, pain, and conviction. Nathan and I knew we wanted to make a strong opening statement, so when the opportunity emerged to partner with Mission of Mercy in La Ceiba, Honduras, we took it. Even though we didn’t have the resources.

Mission of Mercy’s work in La Ceiba was nothing more than an unformed mass of God-inspired passion and imagination. A perfect reflection of CityCom. Not only could we help La Ceiba grow, maybe we could all grow together.

Two years later, our little “startup” has sponsored over 60 kids and brought two teams to interact in person.

But the most overwhelming realization undoubtedly occurred when Nathan and I stood just outside this new, two-story building attached to Lilles de los Valles church and realized…

…this is CityCom’s first facility.

We still don’t own any property back in Indy, but thanks to the outrageous generosity of so many CityCom’ers, we’ve somehow helped a little church in a poverty-ridden slum in La Ceiba, Honduras create a place to offer real hope to their community. (If you’ve ever given one dime to CityCom you’ve given to La Ceiba). I think that’s pretty dang cool.

And yet I’m 100% certain they’ve given us more.

I pray our parallel tracks continue with La Ceiba, Honduras, because what’s beginning to happen here is beautiful. Hopeful. God-full. Exactly what our city needs, too.

Tell me your story.

That’s one of my favorite ways to start a dialog, especially with someone I’m just getting to know. It shapes a conversation. Injects intrigue into a developing relationship. And makes me sound cool like Donald Miller.

Stories turn abstract concepts from National Geographic articles or State Department statistics, into actual human beings.

That’s exactly what’s happened here in Honduras over the past few days. Indianapolis hasn’t just come to La Ceiba. Humanity has collided.

Yesterday, a few women from our team shared their personal life stories with the mothers of the Mission of Mercy projects kids. Their vulnerability provided a safe place for these Honduran women to begin telling their own stories.

Stories of abandonment and abuse emerged, alongside a deep and abiding love for their children. Minus the dirt floors and language barriers, they could have been the stories of women in our own church. They were the stories of women in our church.

Suddenly poverty was no longer just an issue to wrestle with, it was people. People with hopes, and pain, and dreams, and joy, and brokenness.

With stories.

Stories we all found pieces of ourselves in. Stories that gave strength to both the teller and the recipient. Stories that muted U.S. and Honduran, wealthy and poor, super power and third world.

Stories that united us all by our desperate need for Jesus.

Our stories are powerful. They need to be told. Even if the plot line seems more tragedy than inspiration.

So what’s your story?

We found ourselves in the La Ceiba mall. Not our first choice, but the authentic Honduran shops and markets weren’t open as we had expected, and we had a few hours to kill before church started.

Other than the baristas giggling at my mangled Spanish in an awkward attempt to order a frozen coffee, I could have mistakenly thought I was State-side.

Flatscreen TVs broadcasted the latest Honduran soccer match.

Teenage “novios” walked around with their hands in each others’ back pockets (a practice I find disturbing in any culture).

The latest clothing fashions were on display in store windows and on mall patrons.

The food court was packed.

The place was buzzing, alive with normal Sunday afternoon chatter. People hanging out. Relaxing. Shopping. Enjoying life.

Except for me. I was bothered.

Just 2 miles away from this swirling activity is a slum. A village of cardboard shacks, housing impoverished children, who we traveled 2,700 miles to try and help. Were all these mall rats oblivious to the hopelessness residing just off a dirt path within walking distance from where we shopped? Were they blind, or did they just not care?

The least of these were invisible.

Just as I was sticking my boot in the stirrup to mount up my high horse, I got a little nauseous (and this time, it wasn’t from drinking the water). How often could I be accused of the exact same thing?

Culture instinctively protects us from uncomfortable things. It gives us a framework through which we can sanely process the world. That’s what cultures do.

When we leave what know to intentionally embrace the uncomfortable, we can’t help but see the least of these. They’re exactly who we came here to find.

Back home it’s harder. They disappear into the background. They merge with all the noise. The ebb and flow of daily life swallows the very things that glow like neon when we’ve stepped out of normal.

So here’s the question. No judgment. No condemnation. No cynicism. I’m sincerely asking myself.

How do we once again see the invisible?

“Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God.” -Romans 12:2 MSG

Growing up, every fall was filled with a predictable parade of overseas missionaries. The blue carpet of our church’s platform would bloom with Moroccan djellabas, Mexican sombreros, and then usually some poor guy from Ireland who couldn’t figure out how to appropriately bring a Guinness on stage.

We’d hear their best stories, see their slide shows, and then gather in the gym to taste a little bit of their food.

Each dish came with a side of guilt.

If you were a serious Christian, you became a pastor. But if you wanted to really impress God, you obviously lived in a tent on the Serengeti.

As I grew, I began subconsciously rejecting this thinking (along with the curry). America needs Jesus just as bad as sub-Saharan Africa. I think I’ll stay here, start a career and a family, live my dream, donate some money, and let the crazy spiritual psychopaths do the “ends of the earth” stuff.

But now, on my journey from musician, to accountant, back to musician, turned church planter, I find myself less than 24 hours from once again boarding a plane to Honduras. My wife, 12 year old daughter, and a team of CityCom’ers will be spending a week in impoverished neighborhoods finishing a building, playing with kids, and investing in relationships.

Why?

Sitting here in my air-conditioned office this morning, I can come up with a lot of solid, theological reasons.

Jesus told us to “go into all the world.”

Christians can’t avoid confronting poverty.

We can tangibly become the hands and feet of Christ in a broken part of the world.

But as we frantically scuttle about finishing last minute details, I’m pondering something perhaps a little more practical.

There is something transformational about seeing the Gospel at work in a culture starkly different than your own.

As much as some would like to convince us, God isn’t American (although I will debate his preference for the NFL over World Cup soccer, say what you want). But He’s not South African, Chinese, Romanian, or Honduran either. His Kingdom is a culture of its own. It’s not a way of life, it is life itself.

Nothing illuminates that truth like watching the redemption of Christ do its work outside my natural context and perspective.

The goal for La Ceiba, Honduras is not to make them more like Americans. It’s to bring Christ’s Kingdom to life here on earth. We’re definitely taking it with us, but my experience tells me we’ll encounter a bit more of it for ourselves there, too.

Stay tuned. I’ll be posting updates, pictures, and video from La Ceiba next week as internet connection allows. We appreciate your prayers.