200 hp to go just 5 mph faster

2 Cor 12.10 Whenever I am weak, then I am strong

Tulips at the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, Mount Vernon, Washington

A car having 200 hp (like the Audi TT) has a top speed of 130 mph. The Bugatti Veyron has a top speed of 290. If the laws of physics followed a straight line (the red dotted line below), the Veyron would need 460 hp to hit its top speed of 290 mph. But there is no straight line. The Veyron requires exponentially more horsepower to continue accelerating. At 260 mph the car is using 1000  hp: five times what it needed to go 130 mph. It needs 200 hp more to go from 260 to 275, then 200 hp more to get to 285. The final 200 hp painfully urges it to 290, just 5 mph more.

The normal life is a 40, 50, or 60-hour workweek. There are evenings, weekends, holidays, and vacations to take care of personal matters such as housework, marriage, children, church, shopping, taxes... all the normal parts of life that we balance to maintain a certain level of happiness, achievement, and relaxation. If the workload increases or our personal responsibilities grow heavier, we either re-balance or dig in and suffer the consequences: fatigue, tension, frustration, depression. Significant changes (debilitating illness or injury, divorce, death) can make our lives so unbalanced that we have no way to get back into a good place and so we just have to struggle through.

Half the difficulty of being in Romania is not the work, but being in Romania. These are the things that changed when we moved:

– no job

– no life insurance

– no health insurance

– no car

– no phone

– loss of family and friendships

– no easy way to talk with family and friends (this was before Skype)

– no church

– frustrations with the language and customs

– change in food

– limited ability to buy things we needed (tools, pharmaceuticals, band-aids, electrical)

– poor quality clothes and shoes

– expensive to get back to the States

– concern about what these changes would do to us

– fearful of what these changes would do to my children

– uncertainty that it could be done

– homesickness to the point of paralysis

Concentrating everything into a short space of a few months meant the move was highly stressful: the hardest thing I had done in my life until then.

If you think this is not so difficult, go ahead, try one of the easiest ones: cancel your health insurance. If you’re not so rich and don’t have health insurance, then great, you are blessed: that’s one thing you don’t have to give up to follow Christ. Or resolve for two years to have no holidays with family. No Christmases or birthdays or anniversaries, no Thanksgivings. Nothing. Or give up sports. No college or professional sports for five years. Learn how little you enjoy them when you come back and almost no one you liked is still playing.

Or give up shopping for a year. For one year, you can buy nothing new. No clothes, shoes, electronics, tools, furniture, kitchen stuff, bedding, toys for the kids, gifts for other people... nothing. For one year you can buy only out of second-hand stores. Learn how your joy is destroyed when you are deprived of buying anything new.

We had all the normal American things. They were so normal we didn't even consider them: until we had them no longer. It is a terribly difficult to stop having them. Just because you don't have them doesn't mean you don't need them.

Over time, as we learned how to do it, some of these losses became less stressful. But other things became more stressful (especially separation from my children) so one stress was replaced with another.

You would think that as years passed and Romania became more routine the stress level would go down. It didn’t. It went up. Some of it was because of the greater amount of work (we had 40 workers by our 10th year) but there were also unexpected changes: how much I began to dislike Romanian food and how much I correspondingly missed American food, how much I missed hearing the American language being spoken, my children getting on with their lives (that hole I left when we moved filled in and it was impossible to “come home” any longer), our home church’s flow of families coming and going meant that after 10 years we knew almost no one, then the pastor we knew (and liked) left and another one came who didn’t know us (it made a huge difference in being able to enjoy going to our church), most other Americans were leaving Romania, there was a growing anger at the way children were treated in Romania (at one of the funerals, for a favorite little boy named Antonio, I laughed, and after that I stopped going to funerals), illnesses, injuries, dentistry, too many reports, too many laws, too many changes, too many injustices, and many other things that kept the stress levels increasing.

By the 13th year I was crushed. Exhausted. Depressed. I wanting to stop but was unable to because we were caring for 800 children a year and it was impossible to leave them—plus there was no way to tell 40 people they had no jobs just because I was tired.

In difficult times I looked to Paul to see how he dealt with things, and it helped. But this time he didn’t help, not because he hadn’t gone through what I was going through (he certainly had, and much more) but because it wasn’t a spiritual problem: it is a human one. I was exhausted. The only thing that could make it possible to go on was to stop the noise and get rid of the weight.

It took two years to get past that. I won’t tell you how I did that; that’s for another time. But this thing I do know, for certain:

It takes as much energy to go one more year now as it took to go ten years when we first started. The increased weight and accumulated years make each year distressingly more difficult than the last one.

I have no idea how Paul did it. But it must have been absolutely horrifying for him a times. We had rocks thrown at us in the village, but I was never stoned. I was taken to the police station, but I was never in prison. I was never whipped or beaten, never shipwrecked, never without food, and my responsibilities and worries were a small fraction of what he had to live with. I marvel that he didn’t collapse under the weight. I truly have no idea how he did it.

So when Paul says “I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ”, I can take my experience and see how he could have said that. And when he says “whenever I am weak, then I am strong” I can take my experiences and see why he said that, because truly: it is a deep weakness that the work lays on you. A person can thoughtlessly say something and it hits exactly that weak point, and after that the mind starts working: how can I get out of this? Or you see something and it hits another weak point and you can feel the tears wanting to start, and you push them back out of embarrassment.

Weight wears you down. Too much weight crushes. Too much weight over too many years crushes intolerably. It's a weakness. Every day you are standing at the precipice with your toes hanging over, and the smallest push would tip you off. A year later you look back and see what caused all that grief back then and laugh inside, because you would love to have such easy days now.

But it’s also a strength, because you know that what was the end of your strength ten years ago is child's play now, and so you know you’re getting stronger. But still, the weight keeps you weak. Vulnerable. Always at the precipice. And you’re never totally sure you can make it another year.

A person that lives the normal American life cruises along at a normal speed. It takes almost no effort to live that way, because the normal American lives the normal American life. To get the next 50 miles an hour (the move to a foreign county and the loss of everything familiar and necessary) takes double the energy as you were putting out before. The next 25 miles an hour (the work has grown) means another doubling of the stresses. The next 13 miles an hour (injustices, illnesses, injuries, funerals, aloneness) double it again. Now you’re in trouble: the steering is light and you can feel things becoming unstable. You push it another 12 miles an hour (exhaustion, depression) and the stresses have doubled again, and now the ride is frightening: you’re at a very dangerous speed. One slight movement of the wheel, an invisible bump in the road or a mechanical failure and you’re dead, because at this speed, no one survives a crash.

I have no idea how to squeeze another 200 hp out of my complaining car just to go another 5 mph. It’s too uncertain, too terrifying to go any faster. How Paul did it, I have no idea. Not a clue. It amazes me. He went further and faster than I can imagine. Still, I do know three things:

1. People cruising at 60 have no idea what it takes to go 290. It requires massive changes and the shedding of a whole lot of weight before they would be able to even get into the race, much less become a contender.

2. I am convinced that Paul meant exactly—and only—that the closer he got to Christ the more terrifying it became, and it was only because Christ made it to the end and climbed up on that cross that Paul could force himself to go on.

3. Taking your foot off the accelerator instantly tells you you’re dropping away from Christ. The impossible effort if took to get this far makes you get back in the race. You can’t come this far and give up. It has cost too much. It cost them too much. That knowledge, comfort, sense—whatever it is—that Christ is nearer now than he was a year ago keeps you going. But it is still so difficult; so terribly difficult. There is no guarantee it can be done for another year, but the question of which is more terrifying—keeping going or stopping—makes you fairly certain you have to keep going, because you will not survive stopping but there is a chance you will not the crash.

The weakness of being so completely crushed by the weight makes you want to give up, but you can’t. Living on the brink means that sometimes the slightest thing will undo you. It is a terrible way to live.

The strength is the irresistible attraction to Christ: the knowledge/sense/feeling that you’re closer than before. Backing off to a safer speed brings an immediate sense of loss, a loss so grievous that you scramble to get back where you must be.

Paul is content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities because they are part of the path: Christ’s path. Christ does not make himself close; you have to get close, and stay close. You said you wanted to know him. Are you turning back now that you have gotten what you wanted?

Paul’s thorn was his weakness: the thing he couldn't control. Yes, it was the work, because the work as all he had. It was not the work itself. He knew he could do it. But he also knew he couldn't do it if they kept standing there. He needed no help; he just need them to stop.

No, they weren’t messengers of Satan. The messengers of Satan were the thoughts of anger and resentment that Paul could never clear out of his mind. No matter how much he tried to see things from Christ’s perspective, no matter how much he willed himself to let it go, the turmoil was constantly with him, keeping him awake, refusing him peace, reminding him his love was far far from where it needed to be.

These people were wrong. Not just wrong: stupidly, stubbornly wrong. He was outraged that they would crucify Christ again. He was frustrated that people believed them over him: actually, almost everyone believed them and disbelieved him. His work was at stake. The Church was at stake. He had no power against them. One step forward and two steps back, for his entire life. They dragged him back, sat on him, muzzled Christ. He could do so much if they'd just leave him alone. Why can't they leave him alone?! Why can't they just stay where they belong and forget him?

Years ago, I won't say when or who, but a Christian missionary decided to target our work. It is a common thing that missionaries and churches in Romania will tell people in America how much they do, but when visitors come they are embarrassed to have nothing impressive to show, so they show them our work. This missionary had overplayed his hand and now people were here from his home church, expecting to see poor, hungry children. He couldn't be embarrassed so he brought his visitors to us. We had a large daily work in the village. He knew where to find dark-skinned children so he brought his visitors to the village in a large van, with guitars, came directly to the edge of where we were and started singing and handing out candy.

I was stunned at the casual brazenness of it, but not surprised. A lot of churches and missionaries do it. They have nothing to show visitors, but they have built themselves up so high through their newsletters that they must show something when visitors come. In the hospitals we worked with a charity that boasts on their web site they have 7 workers caring for 40 children in the hospital. They don’t. They have three part-time people, who often don't come to work, taking care of maybe 2 or 3 children. When their visitors arrive they must show them something, so they take them into our rooms. We bit our lips for a couple years, then informed their director that from now on they had to have permission from the hospital allowing their visitors coming to into our rooms (all visitors must have written permission, and it must specify the room). Their next group of visitors came and we asked the chaperone to show us their permission. She couldn’t, so there was this pathetic scene of their group sitting with the one baby that was in her room. After that they stopped bringing visitors into the hospital.

So I wasn't surprised he did it, and I wasn't surprised he did it without asking. I was surprised when he kept doing it, and when I asked him to stop and he replied flatly, "It's not your village". No, we don't own the village, but we are here six days a week for five years building up the work, and you come for two weeks and act like it's what you do. I am fine with you coming if you also tell them how often you are here. He then, shockingly, put a picture on his web site saying it was his work and asking for money because the village was untouched except for him and he needed help to expand his work.

To this day the thought of him revives those feelings of frustration and anger. His blind crusade for funding was astonishing. And a missionary! His name is a common one (even in Romania) and just hearing that name alarms me for a second, and I have to tell myself they’re not talking about him.

Another man, a pastor, had a meeting with the director of a hospital we were both working in and convinced her that he was out of money and asked her to have us buy all their supplies. She called me in and informed me that from now on I would do that. I was speechless. She calmly told me it was important this other foundation was able to keep working and so we would pay their bills, if we wanted to stay.

I had an agreement with a man, a Christian, to store the tools we used for house construction and renovations. Later, when we were adding a room onto a house in the village, we went to get our tools and he had sold them.

The deacon in the village church we were working in tried to extort 40,000 euro from us. When he refused he expelled us. When we appealed to the pastors, they told us to get out. When we asked for reimbursement for six years of improvements to the church they said no.

A church asked for money to build a village church. They got it. Then they asked another church, and got their money too. They asked a third church, and got their money. One church, paid for three times.

One foreign worker bought a Range Rover with foundation money.

A house for single mothers was in fact used by the foundation directors (Christians). When visitors came they moved out and brought in a few women with babies to stay for a week.

Physical pain is difficult at the time, but once it’s over, it’s over. Resentment lasts forever. And that’s the issue: Problems with people are bad, problems with Christians are worse, and problems with churches and missionaries are almost unbearable.

With no exaggeration, the most serious, long-standing, and frustrating problems we have in the work are caused by Christians: usually pastors and missionaries. Churches do almost anything to raise money, and missionaries do almost anything to convince people they are worth their support.

This sounds petty in comparison to Paul’s difficulties, and I agree: yes, it is. But the truth remains: physical pain is easier to live with than the pain people cause, and it is made worse when they are Christians, especially when they are the ones who should be the most honest and most trustworthy.

Paul’s thorn could not have been a physical thing. Something like that could that have caused him so much dismay that he would appeal three times “that it would leave me,” and never would he have called a physical problem a weakness. No. Never. Only people who have never done it speculate on things like that.

The weakness that bothered Paul most was the crushing weight of working for Christ year after year, never knowing whether he could survive it for an other year—and having no idea how to make it for 20 or 30 years more, and wishing for death so he could be released from it. But the thing that burdened him worst of all and gave him the most uncertainty about whether he could continue the race was the super-apostles who came behind him, attracting away his children and convincing them that Paul was nothing: that they were the true apostles of Christ.

Paul knew his resentment was wrong. I’m sure he convinced himself of all the convenient truths: “It only hurts you; not them. They win when they see your anger.” He knew all this. After all, it was he who told others, “Be angry but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and do not make room for the devil.” He knew how much the torment was hurting him and how much he needed to let go of it. But as soon as he got far enough away from them to forget, he would be confronted with something else they did and it would start all over. The injustice of it. The destruction to the work. The automatic acceptance they enjoy by being the establishment and the automatic dismissal he suffers by being the outsider.

He begs God: Please! Please! Please! Let this thing leave me! I need to think. I need to sleep. I can’t go on like this!

And God said: No, I won’t do that. I won’t stop their meddling: it will get worse. I won't give you success; they will have the limelight. I won't give you rest; they will have the easy path. I won’t let you not care: it will hurt even more. I won't give you someone to lean on: you will have even more people who drain you. I won't give you someone who understands: I will surround you with people who are convinced you're wrong. I won't give you assurance; I will give you doubt. I will give you grinding headaches and weariness to the point of death.

And then, it will get worse.

Because I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell a few people who I need to also stay on the path how it's done. If you give up, they will never know. If you stop, they will never start.

And so, with all this before him, and unable to do anything but stop, he trudged on. One evening, when he was broken beyond repair and needed to just tell someone, anyone, he wrote:

We have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.

We do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.

We know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling. For while we are still in this tent, we groan under our burden, because we wish not to be unclothed but to be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee.

So we are always confident; even though we know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord—for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we do have confidence, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. For all of us must appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each may receive recompense for what has been done in the body, whether good or evil.

Therefore, knowing the fear of the Lord, we try to persuade others; but we ourselves are well known to God, and I hope that we are also well known to your consciences. We are not commending ourselves to you again, but giving you an opportunity to boast about us, so that you may be able to answer those who boast in outward appearance and not in the heart. For if we are beside ourselves, it is for God; if we are in our right mind, it is for you. For the love of Christ urges us on.

He put the pen down, dropped his head, closed his eyes in grief, and with an exhausted sigh said to no one, how can I do this?

And God said: Perfect! I'm saving that one.