Is it Uncomfortable, or is it Sin?

Hello, tender friends!

Someone from church, Cara, gave me permission to post this story of her missions trip to the Middle East. I have left the text unedited. If you have any questions, I will relay them to Cara.

I think the takeaway of taking questions to the Holy Spirit to ask if something is really sin or just something that makes us uncomfortable has applications everywhere. My hope and prayer is that we will all focus on what is important to the Holy Spirit.

Here are her words:

I’ve put this off and then straight up run from it so many times. It was a feeling so real with no logical explanation other than the spiritual warfare that took place. You’ll notice that I use “code words”. We went to great lengths to avoid words, behaviors, and titles that would draw attention to us or our friends. I’ll dig into this and hope it brings a realization to others that our Savior- the omnipotent, omnipresent, Author of Grace- is our reason for hope and joy. May we never forget to surrender all things to Him!

The trip took place in February. We were very aware of the different religious holidays in the Muslim faith and did not want to be disrespectful by visiting during a time that would draw more than usual attention to our group. This attention would negate the progress made by the local believers in the area and would eventually put their lives at risk. They work for “The Company” which is a faith-based organization that sends believers to far-reached areas to spread the Good News of (our) “Father”. Our trip was listed as sightseeing according to our Visa, but we had multiple intentional opportunities to discuss the Good News. The atmosphere is male-dominated, but women could socialize in smaller groups. A Muslim born believer (MBB), or conversion from Muslim to faith in Father, would find themselves shunned from their family and village. Believers are extremely rare and are believed to number in the double digits.

Upon landing in the country, we were immediately aware of the poverty gap with extreme poverty visible in certain areas and excess splendor just a few feet away. Most of this country, from the newer and extravagant homes to the abandoned or damaged buildings, was layered in some form of debris or general rubbish.

The widespread approach of this country’s inhabitants does not place a need for environmental awareness, which was a first for me. As we sat in traffic, I witnessed a mother place her young infant in a trash bin on its side and close the lid. As a mom, I was upset and shocked, but she was not alone. That block of land sat adjacent to a multi-million-dollar arena built for a recent international soccer tournament. The field stuck out among the native landscape and was rare to say the least. The neighboring block had abundant individuals gathering where the children played soccer among the mounds of trash, the adults sat in small clusters, and various animals roamed freely. The streets were layered in waste and diverse colors of street dirt, sand, and sewage.

I wanted to run to that mom and offer to adopt her baby which felt like the “fix” the situation warranted, but God didn’t ask me to intervene, and I would have initiated more hurt than help. In that moment, I realized God was calling me to evaluate this trip under a very specific lens; “Is it uncomfortable, or is it a sin?” This phrase still serves me today as I evaluate what God is calling me to do. The moment with the mom was uncomfortable, but not a sin. Because of that, I began to pray that God guide my glance and break my heart for what breaks His. That prayer would be pivotal in my life as we toured the country.

We visited various sites such as where the Garden of Eden is presumed to be (though based on shifting riverbeds, it likely is not the actual location), where Saddam’s palace sits above Nebuchadnezzar’s walls, and what is believed to be the oldest standing church. The roof may be gone, but the walls still resemble the outline of a cross which is historically accurate to that time period. On the final day, we toured an area with multiple, modernized mosques. I had less heartache over debris in the street that bothered me upon landing and an increasing vision for the depths of those lost within the Muslim belief system. Women had to use head coverings all week, but in this location, we wore a burka as well. As our brother guided the men in our tour, one of our sisters led the women of our tour around to the women’s entrance and into the first mosque.

The volume of people present rivaled an American professional sporting game. The passion in the air was palpable and organization was nonexistent. Men could enter with little concern and had unguarded access to touch a golden casket in the center of the mosque of an individual assumed to be a prophet. The women’s entrance was heavily guarded. We held onto the person in front of us to prevent separation as we waited to be pat down. Women scrambled on each other to get inside and were frantic in doing so. A force behind me pushed hard enough to mark my cheek on my teammate’s backpack.

Once through security and in the cleansing room, women were expected to purify every part of their body including their face, ears, nose, hands, and then someone would wash their feet as their hands would then be dirty if they touched their own. As visitors, we were not expected to cleanse, but I don’t think we would have been welcomed if we had desired to do so (though I don’t remember if that is an unspoken decree or my opinion).

After cleansing, women would then find a spot on large, ornate Persian rugs to weep to their deceased prophet. In the Muslim faith, an individual’s eternal reward would be measured by the level of sorrow displayed in their worship and the frequency.

Their anguish was in stark contrast to the splendor of the room. The ceilings were arched, mirrored, then dressed in gold and turquoise. Fresh floral arrangements were generously draped on every wall that met sparkling marble floors. Impeccably lit chandeliers allowed us to observe ornate carved banisters that guide guests to the tomb room but thwart women from touching the casket.

As I took in the idols holding incense and observed the chamber in all its magnificence, one woman caught my eye. She was on her knees in the right-hand corner of her rug. The unmoving black hijab perfectly merged into her burka that flowed around her like a wind-soaked cape. Her eyes were swollen and red, her face was aged with small splotches that offset her dark drenched eyelashes. Her mouth, open and downturned, released a sound only heard when mourning a loved one gone too soon. As she looked towards the golden casket, her shoulders tensed and fell as she exhaled, then folded over again, rhythmically rocking forward on her knees to place her forehead on the ground. Emotion flooded her soul as she surrendered to the pain. As I watched her mourn in devotion, my heart wept for her. I wanted to run to her, just as Father does when we turn to Him. I wanted to tell her that there is a worship filled with Joy and Grace that will forgive generously! As I viewed this manifestation of emotional anguish, my throat began to feel sharp pokes on multiple sides of my neck as if being held by claws.

With every thought, the grip I felt began to tighten beyond uncomfortable. I choked on tears and brushed the spots around my neck as if I could strike an insect.

This worship was sin.

Exodus outlines an unmistakable expectation for us to worship no other but the Living Father and yet we stood in the presence of illusion presented by the prince of darkness. Thousands have been led astray through generations of false teaching and we held a front-row view to this dejected worship of lost followers. I began to have trouble breathing which only exacerbated the tears. My eyes began to cloud as I choked and reached anxiously for my water. Suddenly, I could see the entire room and was overwhelmed with the sheer volume and sound of their screams. I desperately felt the need to turn away, but my body felt frozen and heavy. Somehow, the concrete sensation subsided long enough to allow me to turn my face to the wall, away from the mass of mourners. In this moment, hot, heartbroken tears continued to fall but mine fell to the Father of compassion. I wept for the lady in the corner as she continued to offer praise to her deceased mystic. I cried out to Father for forgiveness from the things that I had let engross me and the situations that pulled my gaze away from His will. I begged that He would continue to keep my eyes directed on His lens; Is this uncomfortable, or is it a sin?

I don’t remember how we got outside or how long it took to get there. I remember seeing the sun as if it was the first light peeking through in the morning. The joy I felt was definitive and warming as I looked up and remembered that the one who made the sun calls me by name. These first steps felt liberating and fresh!

We were then ushered to another mosque, but we could not enter. Though it was only for native Muslim men, it was larger and much more ornate. As we walked around the crowd, we stopped for a train of individuals that were chanting. They followed behind several men that carried the wooden casket of a loved one high above their heads as they bobbed it upward. They danced and wound throughout the 500-yard courtyard bursting at the seams with various of dark-clothed men, women, and children gathering for a day of mourning. They hopped on specified feet when they circled around demonstrators that were sprinkled in the courtyard and their mourning would intensify, presumably earning the individual a greater level of favor in the afterlife. The sharp feeling in my throat continued throughout the visit to the mosques. My efforts to soothe my aching throat and throbbing head were futile on my own.

As I type this, the back of my ears ache as I recall the physical changes the women in our group saw after a week of fitting into a culture of oppression. After a few hours of our longest flight, the scratch in my voice ceased, my head stopped hurting, and the tightness in my chest eased. The Peace that surpassed ALL understanding held me and repeatedly whispered to me that even though I was not called to save an entire culture, I have a calling. I am called to rest in the Joy that is found only in forgiveness. I am called to love my children and those who are in need. I am called to mourn for sin but reminded that growth can be found in our discomfort. I treasure our time with the brother and sister and that Father called them to this place. The things that are uncomfortable are not necessarily a sin, but I pray that I never disregard how uncomfortable sin can be!

*I will almost always speak in code about this trip. The brother and sister that were our guide were contacted by the embassy shortly after our departure. Their names were on a hit list as they were discovered to be sharing Good News and assisting with conversions. The brother and sister on this trip relocated to a similar country and have been considered “Safe” by the company, but one of the sisters we toured with still lives in the village we stayed in for multiple days and is still working with the company to share good news.

Thank you for sharing this testimony, Cara! May your words bring understanding about spiritual warfare to many.

Thank you for stopping by, and thank you for sharing, tender friends!

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