The metal door squeaked on rusty hinges as it opened into a dimly lit room. The smell of mildew and fresh laundry mingled together in the air. As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I noticed an old table whose paint was chipped and peeling. A couple smiled warmly as they took my hand and gestured to a chair.
They served instant coffee and set a plate of stale champurradas in the center of the table–the best of what they had. Sitting around the table we talked with no agenda and no rush. Time melted away and all I felt was a deep sense of belonging. Interestingly, there was nothing glorious about any of it. In fact it was all very plain and ordinary. Yet because it was ordinary, I was able to sense the joy and peace radiating from them.
Many churches, especially in the developing world, teach that God’s blessings are commensurate with our faith and obedience. In other words, the more we give to God, the more we are entitled to get back from him. Martin Luther refers to this as a “theology of glory” and there is a serious problem with it: it’s not biblical.
The theology of the cross, however, is. Here suffering plays a prominent role in our transformation to become more like Jesus. It doesn’t come with promises of wealth or health. Rather, the way of the cross means that at times we must suffer like Jesus. Throughout scripture we see examples of those who followed Jesus walking a path of humility and suffering, and many paid the ultimate price because of it.
I’ve spent many years wondering what exactly made such an impression on me that afternoon. In the last 10 years I’ve had the privilege of working with churches and pastors in Guatemala and leading US churches to visit them. Over that time they’ve taught me innumerable lessons about life and God, often over coffee and champurradas. They humbly seek out and care for those on the margins who have no way of earning or repaying their kindness. They don’t find much earthly glory in that work. Many of them are no better off than those they serve, but through their example I’m reminded of what Jesus did for all of us.
Our teams spend most of their time in humble places with humble people. Cramped spaces dimly lit, where earthly glory and the trappings of wealth are scarce. And yet the presence of God fills those places to the brim because their humility leaves more room for the Holy Spirit than our glory ever could. They are freer to experience the joy and the peace of the Lord because they are less burdened about appearances and comfort.
Working alongside the church in Guatemala through partnership reminds me that, very often, it’s in the small and meek that we find Jesus. Not in palaces but in huts. In dusky rooms with worn furniture. He’s there hanging on every word, sharing tears and laughter alike. He wants nothing more than for me to accept the invitation into that place, but the only way for that to happen is to forsake my shot at glory and take up my cross too.
Our brothers and sisters in the Guatemalan church have a lot to teach us about humility and the joy and freedom it can release in us. Sometimes it’s through our most humble offerings, like instant coffee and stale champurrada, that God is most glorified and pleased.