Two Guys Walk Into a Bar

“Ok, so tell me your story!” I said over the loud music in Greene Turtle in Crofton.

“The whole thing?” Sameer asked, laughing.

“Yeah! I got time,” I replied, settling into my burger and fries.

Sameer grew up in rural Indiana. His family moved there from India when he was five years old. One day, in 2nd grade, while playing basketball with some of his friends, one of them asked him if he was a Christian. When Sameer told him that he wasn’t, his friend replied, “My daddy said you’re going to hell if you’re not a Christian.” That day was the last day those friends played basketball with Sameer.

Understandably, that short interaction paved the way for years of pained interactions in his community. As the only non-Christian immigrant family in the small, Christian community, Sameer was consistently faced with rejection. As a young kid, the society around him silently communicated that Christians are exclusive and prejudiced towards people from other backgrounds. There was a closed door to integration with the community, based on a cultural barrier that he wasn’t allowed to cross.

Then he met Mary. 

In middle school, Sameer made a friend and found a family that reopened that door for him. The mom, Mary, communicated through her warmth and affection that you can be different and still be loved and included. She began to force open the door that the community had slammed shut. But even still, Sameer was faced with continued rejection. Rejection came in the form of sideways glances or consistent “no’s” to invitations. If you weren’t part of the Christian community, it was hard to even get someone to go to the dance with you.

Mary’s love for Sameer and the inclusion he felt in that family had a lasting impact. So much so, that Sameer went to church with the Irish-Italian, Catholic family. He even went as far as to go through the Catholic catechism and be confirmed. He started to feel a part of something bigger.

But once out of the comfort and care of that family, Sameer’s relationship with the church started to waver. While he was in law school, the Catholic church experienced great scandals in the midst of the plethora of abuse reports. Sameer quickly distanced himself from the church. The door closed again. He had opened himself up to placing his trust and identity in a group of people only to have it backfire again. From that moment on, Sameer said he was an atheist; how could God let something like that happen? 

In college and beyond, he found that there was a much more diverse and inclusive culture outside the rural Indiana town he grew up in. And people really didn’t care what your religion was. Up until a year or so ago, his college, early career, and adult life had been spent in comfort as an American who was free of the baggage of religious affiliation. He even challenged people in their faith at times, trying to get them to think outside their box.

Then he met Bailie.

They met online and immediately hit it off. Before long, Sameer was in love and wanted to communicate that love through supporting Bailie and participating in things together. Over two years ago, Sameer started attending Bay Area Community Church with Bailie. He showed up to support her. He stayed because he felt something new.

Getting to know Bailie more, watching people interact with one another in the church lobby, and hearing the sermons on a Sunday morning, Sameer saw a sense of unhindered joy. It was enticing, even beautiful. So much of his life had been bogged down by the stress of society around him. Watching his girlfriend and people at church walk around with such freedom and peace made him curious beyond control.

So he started to write an email. Initially, he didn’t want to tell Bailie for fear of getting her hopes up for something he wasn’t ready for. Even though she didn’t put any pressure on him to be Christian, he had to talk to someone about it. He wrote the email, saved it. Rewrote it, saved it. Re-rewrote it, and saved it again. The memories of rejection came flooding back as he considered sending the vulnerable email out to the all-too-generic info@bayareacc.org. Would these people close the door, too? Should he just delete the email and spare himself the humility? He hit send.

Then he met me.

The email actually went to several people in the connecting department at BACC and they thought Sameer and I might be a good match to chat. I am forever grateful for that connection. After a few emails, Sameer and I set a date and met up for happy hour.

It ended up being more than an hour as we laughed through each other’s life stories at Greene Turtle in Crofton. We started the beginnings of a great friendship that night. On Monday, April 1, 2019, two guys walked into a bar and two friends walked out.

The rest of the Spring and Summer, Sameer and I met every few weeks to catch up and talk about things that were on our minds. We talked about the significance and supremacy of Christ. We talked about the story of the Israelites through Scripture, why bad things happen to good people, and the difference between foreknowledge and predestination. Each time we met, Sameer had more questions about faith in Jesus. He spent time reading the Bible with his kids and letting Scripture shape his life.

After a few months of this, I asked him one day, during another one of our happy hour meet-ups, “Sameer, what’s stopping you from fully committing to Jesus and putting your faith in him?”

“Actually, I don’t think anything. So what do I do now?” I almost choked on the chicken wing I was working on. We talked more about the signifiance and weight of fully committing to Jesus. That night, Sameer professed his faith in Jesus.

That brisk, September evening, two friends walked into the bar and two brothers in Christ walked out. As I opened the door for him while leaving the restaurant that night, all I could do is thank God for his faithfulness.

Chickpeas with Mohammad

“Wait, say that again…” I exclaimed, blinking a few times to make sure I was focused on what he was saying.

“Yeah- you can tell the quality of an Pakistani-Indian restaurant by how well they cook their chickpeas,” he replied, smiling and nodding.

“I never would have guessed that, but I guess it makes sense!”

Mohammad and I had just settled into our seats when we started talking about what to order. I had picked a fairly nice Indian restaurant because I wanted to make sure wherever we ate was halal. Mohammad seemed both pleased and nervous as he looked at the menu.

I was a bit nervous too, actually. Its understandable for both of us to feel that way. Although we went to the same high school and college, we had never spent any time together. We chatted in college a few times because we had a class together. But it was one of those 300-person classes so we rarely saw each other.

I reached out to Mohammad three weeks before meeting up for dinner. I had an assignment to complete for a seminary course and all of my other plans to hang out with other Muslim friends had either not materialized or were canceled last minute. I earnestly wanted to catch up with Mohammad, but this was also my last chance to complete the requirement for class.

I watched Mohammad look at the menu out of the corner of my eye. I was trying to determine what the status quo for ordering at this dinner would be. Having spent time in both India and Malaysia, I was familiar with how Muslims interact with ordering food: often times I would not order but they would order for me as a way of being hospitable. Mohammad, though, is an American, so I was not sure how those tendencies were going to translate.

As my mind was racing, trying to figure out how this dinner was going to play out, out of the blue, he asked, “So did you travel in May?”

“I didn’t, actually - I haven’t traveled since October when I went to South Sudan, India, and Lebanon.”

“Oh I remember seeing that on Facebook,” he said. 

That was actually how we’ve remained connected over the years. We became friends on Facebook back in high school and never interacted until one day, when I had posted about facilitating a Bridges Workshop (designed to inform Christians about Islam) at Bay Area Community Church, he messaged me. His message was short: I hope your Bridges event went well.

At the time, I was not sure if that was sincere or accusatory. He didn’t respond to my explanation of the event at the time, so I was concerned he had been offended. So when he had accepted my invitation to meet for dinner, I was ecstatic.

“We had Ramadan in May,” he abruptly said with a smile, closing his menu.

He had quickly opened the door for us to talk about Islam. This jump started our conversation for the evening. He told me about the reasoning behind Ramadan and how it was for him this year. I found out that he is actually an immigrant, having moved here when he was four years old. His family is from Lahore, Pakistan. As he shared some about the food there, he told me about what they normally eat during Ramadan.

I knew about customary breaking of the daily fast with a date, but I did not know about the additional food traditions. He said they would typically first have vegetable pakora. As soon as the waiter came around I ordered some - I have had a lot of Pakistani-Indian food, but I had never tried pakora. I was extremely pleased when it arrived and was able to hear more about the different food traditions that Mohammad grew up with.

Then I reminded him of why I had reached out to him in the first place. I had told him via Facebook Messenger that I was doing research about what it was like growing up as a Muslim in America. As soon as I reminded him of this, he leaned back and began sharing far more than I could have imagined or asked for. Here is what he said:

I was in fifth grade when 9/11 happened. It was a shock for all of us. For good or for bad, though, the Muslim community drew closer into itself. This was not because of a specific choice on their part - this is because of the police-states where most of the Muslim community has come from. The majority of Muslims in the US are immigrants and the majority of those immigrants are from countries where the government heavily polices them.

When you grow up in a country like that, you grow accustomed to drawing close to your family and keeping your head down when turmoil or tragedy increase. My family is from Pakistan which is a moderately policed-state. A lot of my friends and other Muslims in our community are from Iran, Iraq, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia - all countries with a heavy hand. Our communal response to 9/11 in the US was one of learned self-preservation.

As a kid, though, I didn’t know all of this. In hindsight, I can remember some of the looks my family would get in the grocery store those first few years after 9/11. Based on the looks, I could usually tell what was being said in the news that day. Despite those looks, I was never bullied, made fun of, or discriminated against in middle or high school. I think some of that was due to the fairly diverse culture we grew up with in Howard County.

I think the Muslim community in America missed an opportunity to be a voice during a time when America needed it most. I am proud to be an American and have the ability to pursue the American dream. It is actually not that hard to be a Muslim here since we are given the freedoms to be in our community.

When Mohammad had paused after saying all of this, I was speechless. I did not expect him to say any of that. It gave me incredible insight into the life of Muslim immigrants in the US while giving me immense hope for greater relationships between Muslims and Christians in the future. Our conversation shifted towards some of the atrocities that are being done in Yemen, Syria, Somalia, and Pakistan. Understandably, we got fairly depressed. Not to necessarily change the subject, I asked a question I had been curious about: “So have you been to Mecca?”

Just as he was about to reply, the Tandoori Chicken and Channa Masala arrived at the table. We shuffled things around to fit all of the food, offering each other naan, sauce, and rice while the dishes moved around. As the plates settled, he started telling me about all of the times he almost went to Mecca. His father and brother had gone the year before. He and his mother were going to try to go next year.

As I was preparing for my next series of questions to ask him about what actually happens at Mecca, he asked me, “So are there, like, different sects of Christianity?” 

For someone who grew up in the United States and went to the same high school and college as me, I was surprised he was asking this question. I figured the denominational lines were obvious for anyone. I briefly explained the different denominations, a little bit of the history behind the delineations, and where I stood as a nondenominational Evangelical. In the midst of my explanation, I realized just how hard it is to understand the differences if you have no base knowledge of Christianity. 

Then he asked me something I, again, never expected: “Christians believe that Jesus died and then… he… rose? Went up? Which one came first?” At this question, my discernment was trying to determine the motivation for him asking it. We had had a wonderfully open discussion throughout the evening. Was this the point where he would try to point out things he disagreed with? Or was he just genuinely curious?

While my mind was analyzing the possibilities, I answered his question, explaining Jesus’ life, death, resurrection, and ascension, admittedly going into far more detail than he really asked for (but how can you not get excited about the gospel?!). He nodded at the answer and responded with, “Oh that’s right. I always get confused about resurrection and ascension.”

At this point, we had finished eating and he had ordered chai for us to settle our food. I ran to the restroom and remembered I wanted to ask him what he thought about the Channa Masala - the chickpeas. By the time I got back, I saw him signing the check. I protested and told him I wanted to pay for our dinner but he smiled and just said, “It’s already done.” I laughed, shrugged, and told him the next time he would pick the restaurant and I would pay.

I sat back down, finished my chai, and wrapped up the conversation. He talked about his mentor and how he wanted us to meet. I welcomed the idea and commented on how great it is that he has a mentor, to which Mohammad smiled at and then sat up. “Oh, I wanted to tell you, this is random I know- but I just wanted to let you know how great I think it is that you do all of that mission work. I know we don’t really talk much but I uh,” he readjusted in his seat and laughed, “uh...kind of stalk you on Facebook and just think its great how you serve people around the world.”

Another moment in our conversation that took me incredibly by surprise. I probably blushed and thanked him for the kind words, welcoming his Facebook stalking. In a stereotypical millennial moment of slight discomfort, we both looked at our phones and laughed at the time. We had just spent over four hours having dinner together. We wrapped things up and headed on our way, promising to do it again soon.

When I woke up the next morning, I realized I had still forgotten to ask him how the chickpeas were at the restaurant. I fired off a quick Facebook message and had a prompt response: “They were cooked to perfection.”

I smiled, thankful that my taste buds had also determined their perfection without much to compare them to, and then thanked the Lord for our conversation. God ordained that time for us, so it, too, was perfect. 

I’m already looking forward to the next time I have chickpeas with Mohammad.

Why be baptized?

I stopped dating Jesus about a year ago…

Having grown up in a Christian home and gone to a Christian elementary school, I have always had somewhat of a relationship with Jesus. For most of my elementary school “career”, I accepted Jesus into my heart every Friday morning during chapel. I figured the first few times had worked, but my eight-year-old self just wanted to make sure.

Then came middle school and high school and the introduction to new vocabulary (which my mom was not at all happy about), new friends (which I am still thankful for), and new temptations (which drew me away from Jesus). By the time I hit my junior year of high school, I had “successfully” set up two different lives: my “school life” and my “church life.”

But our God is a jealous God (Exodus 34:14) and would not allow me to give only a portion of myself to him. Through a series of friendships, emotions, and one Friday night on a youth retreat, I fell to my knees before the Lord and surrendered my life to him. This was in 2007, a few months before my 17th birthday. So at 16, I entered into a relationship with Jesus and have never looked back.

That weekend would have been a really good weekend to be baptized. You see- baptism is an outward expression of an inward reality. Paul explains this in-depth in Romans 6, sharing that the symbolism of baptism is us dying with Christ underwater, and then coming out with the “newness of life” that Jesus experienced in His resurrection. Going down into the water represents our death and having been washed by the saving grace of Jesus, we emerge out of the water clean and new - signifying our salvation and regeneration in Christ.

Getting baptized on that retreat at 16 years old when I surrendered my life to Christ wouldn’t have moved me closer to salvation or saved me because I had already placed my faith in Jesus. It would have been a moment for me to declare publically my new identity. Regardless of the missed opportunity, that weekend I entered into a new relationship with Jesus.

The years that followed, I generally was “on fire” for the Lord. I made sure to share with others my relationship by talking about Jesus often, committing much of my summers to missions trips, and being actively involved in a disciplining community. Don’t get me wrong- these are all great, normal things to do in our relationship with Jesus. But for some reason baptism just kept resurfacing in the back of my head. 

And I realized something about a year ago. Baptism isn’t just an outward expression of an inward reality. Baptism is also a covenant. Much like the vows that we say and the rings that we put on our fingers in the covenant of marriage, baptism is that moment when we enter into a symbolic union with God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. 

Again, don’t get me wrong- we still enter into union with the Father by the sacrifice of the Son and the power of the Holy Spirit if we aren’t physically baptized. But there is something special about making this public declaration. Much like getting married: we make a huge deal about a wedding because it is a joyous occasion. It’s also a moment that we want all of our friends and family to witness. In the vows, we make commitments, entering into a covenant and inviting the witnesses to hold us to our commitment.

A year ago, I realized I hadn’t done this special act with the Person I had spent years cultivating a relationship with. In a sense, I decided I didn’t want to “date” Jesus anymore. I wanted to experience the symbolic nature of baptism and solidify that holy covenant with Him. And in making that decision, I found myself not wanting to do anything else until I had been baptized. I couldn’t wait any longer! I had waited too long.

So one snowy day in December 2017, with a couple of friends, my wife and I went over to our pastor’s house and got baptized in his hot tub. It was random and perfect. Nothing officially changed for us that day. But I know God is honored by the act. Especially because we felt the Spirit prompt us to do something and we obeyed quickly.

I want to encourage you, now. If you haven’t trusted Jesus yet as your Lord and Savior: why not? I bet the Holy Spirit has put a tug on your heart- go ahead and say yes and see what happens. It’s amazing. And if you have trusted Jesus as your Lord and Savior but haven’t been baptized yet: why not? The next time you feel your heart race and have the opportunity to be baptized, don’t hesitate. The Lord is calling you into a sweet covenant.

Her Name is Love

We walk into the assembly hall. The students are patiently sitting, waiting, anticipating our arrival. We are greeted with eyes of curiosity. Some of the locked eyes are coupled with a jump of the eyebrows, showing the affection and acceptance. Other eyes are joined with welcoming smiles. As we walk through the parted sea of children, my heart swells. I barely know these children and I love them. “Break my heart for what breaks yours” - God is answering my prayer.

We take our seats at the head of the assembly. I nervously sit down. Sitting down is a commitment. Am I ready for sitting here for the duration of this gathering? Of course I am- but why do I feel unsettled? My heart yearns for more. For more connection. For more provision for these children. For more peace in this nation. My mind darts back to the place we are sitting just as Principle Peter directs his open hand in my direction, saying something in Dinka. His hand progresses along the line of my fellow brothers and the children applaud.

My heart jumps. NO! I should be applauding you, sweet, innocent children! Look at all that you have endured! Look at all that you have lived through. You see me as the White Savior, but I am nothing. I am only here with the desperate hope of being a mere vessel. Do not look at me with expectant eyes. The pressure is too great. Look to Jesus, dear ones. Look to our true provider.

There is a shuffle. I realize there are phones out, digitally marking this moment for us through picture and video. I take mine out and snap-snap-snap, taking in my surrounding as best I can. I need to share this moment with my people! I need to share this moment with Clancy! With my church! People come and see, the Lord is at work here!!

Then the shuffle solidifies into a murmur- no- a hum… wait… now its a song. The children are singing. The phones are recording the song. Their sweet voices fill the air and my heart expands. In the blink of an eye, my mind darts, races, explores...

My heart is expanding?? How could it expand, Lord? I already love the children in the townships of South Africa where the hope for a better life was just across the railroad tracks, where the Gospel was distorted, where terrible things had been done with the Bible leading the charge, where you took me in 2010.

Lord, I already love the workers on the farm in Ghana where you had me in 2012. Father they just want to provide for their families! They want to Prosper! Oh, Lord, why couldn’t you have let me uphold the promises I made to those people. I thought that was where you were calling us to move.

But no, you took me to Malaysia. You broke my heart in ways I never thought it could be broken. You showed me your love for Muslims. Lord, you gave Clancy and I the story of Rokia. We already love Rokia. Why couldn’t we have gone there? Why, Lord? But no- you had to show us Turkey, too. You had to take me to the top of that castle, with the sounds of the beautiful culture of the place where your church first started to take root, in a place that does not call you King. Oh Father… my heart already loves the people of Turkey. Why couldn’t we have gone there?

But you had to bring me to South Sudan. I love South Sudan. I love these children, Father. Why couldn’t you have just brought me here to begin with? This is what I always wanted! I wanted to do community development and share the Gospel. That’s what they’re doing here in the most raw way. This is it, Father! Why do you do this to me???

My mind blinks back to the song. I must mark this moment. The question still ringing in my mind. “Why do you do this to me?” The singing crescendos and I see this little girl, in the front row.

Dear, sweet little girl. What hardships have you seen? What is your name? Maybe you wear your name. For to me you are simply that. You are LOVE.

LORD, WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TEACH ME RIGHT NOW??

YOUR HEART IS TOO BIG FOR ONE PLACE.

YOUR HEART IS TOO BIG FOR ONE PLACE?

Your heart is too big for one place.

Wow… My heart IS too big for one place.

I am on the right path. I am here, now, following my Father’s will. I will continue. My heart IS too big for one place. You have broken my heart for what breaks yours, Lord. You have answered my prayer. Please don’t stop. But please take it easy on me… I’m not you… Just help me love like you. Sustain me, Father.

I blot the tears out of the corner of my eyes and embrace the flood of confidence, finding comfort in the familiar feeling of a renewed vision. The teacher’s are moving around now, organizing school supplies. Ok, Trevin… Back to the now. Be present. And don’t forget to take pictures!

My heart is too big for one place.

For more reasons than I can figure out, the smile won’t drop from my face.

Innocent.

INNOCENT.

The word kept repeating in my head.

INNOCENT.

We weren't even sitting in the tent for ten minutes before this beautiful little girl nudged my arm and made the international sign for "take a picture." I immediately obliged and then showed her herself before looking at the captured moment. She giggled and skipped away towards the other kids. I looked down at this picture, starting to re-enter into the interpreted conversation between my teammates and the Syrian teacher, and cried. "Why am I crying??" I thought. "No, seriously, Lord... Why am I crying right now??" I earnestly prayed. No answer. I wiped the tears away and tried to fully reengage.

The next day we were back in the Syrian refugee camp. This time we were set to have tea with one of the patriarchs of the community. As we took our places inside the tent, sitting criss-crossed on the clean cement, Munnah came hopping in followed by her older sister and a tray of tea. In just a few minutes, Munnah was parked next to me, shoving an English book in my hands and gesturing for me to read to her. My heart swelled and I again prayed, "Lord, why do I feel this way??"

INNOCENT.

The word kept repeating in my head.

INNOCENT.

This beautiful, innocent little girl has lived six of her eight years of life in a refugee camp in Lebanon. She doesn't deserve this. This world is broken. This world needs the hope of Jesus Christ. I pray Munnah does not lose her joy, her sweet, innocent joy. I pray she remains as innocent as one can in this world. And I pray she finds the eternal hope found only in Jesus.