Smaller, Weaker, Less
By Scott Seaton
How do you determine growth goals for yourself, your family or your organization? It’s likely some version of “Bigger, Better, More.” We want to have a bigger market share, or a bigger house. We will develop better ways to serve our customers, or better ways to attract new members. We want more money, or more friends. Bigger and better and more. None of that is wrong.
Arlington Bridge Builders seeks to be smaller and weaker and less.
This post is the second reflection on our five core values, inspired by the Sermon on the Mount and Jesus’ call to live as followers of his new Kingdom. In our last newsletter, we looked at “Holistic Concern,” the idea that Jesus cares for all aspects of our being—and so should we.
Today we’ll consider our conviction that Jesus wants us to be people of “Humble Influence.” We state it this way: “When Jesus calls his followers to be the “salt of the earth,” he invites us to season every aspect of our society through humility rather than power, and distinctiveness rather than compromise. Similarly, being the “light of the world” is a call to both gentleness and clarity. On the cross, the God of all power gave up power in order to redeem us, the most influential act in history. And so we likewise seek the flourishing of our community through our weakness and service. (Mt. 5:13-16)”
Perhaps the most powerful demonstration of humble influence I’ve ever witnessed took place in a remote corner of Iran. In December 2003, a major earthquake struck the southeastern part of the country centering on the city of Bam, famous for its ancient citadel, a World Heritage Site. In just a few seconds, the citadel and the city were destroyed, killing 43,000 people. Because of official relationships our denomination had recently established with Iran, we were able to send a medical team within days of the tragedy, and I joined them.
Soon after arriving, we walked the streets of Bam. The devastation was overwhelming. Buildings had collapsed, utilities were cut off, and rubble was everywhere. But the far greater destruction was on the residents of Bam, the living and the dead. Through an interpreter, I talked with several victims who were living in unheated tents in the middle of winter, afraid to enter unstable buildings. They lost everything. I had a picture taken of me, next to a man who had lost several members of his family. He wanted to talk. In the picture, I’m holding a dusty textbook that belonged to some unknown student, who had lost his family, his school, his friends—perhaps his own life. The anguish and suffering was everywhere.
We set up our small medical camp on a school yard, along with other relief agencies from around the world. Next to our site was a large hospital compound, complete with surgical facilities, flying the Ukrainian flag over their camp. Other sites displayed similar flags of their country or agency, representing an impressive display of international support. Flags flew on every site, except ours. We had no U.S. flag, and nothing to identify us as Christians. But people knew who we were. Long lines formed every day, of people wanting to receive help from well-trained American doctors. Despite the animosity between our governments, we experienced tremendous mutual respect as human beings.
The facilities of our relief camp were adequate, except there was only one latrine for the hundreds of aid workers. No one bothered to clean it, and after a few days, it was absolutely filthy. Until two members of our team, Bob and Murat, took it upon themselves to clean the latrine. They were on their knees scrubbing away the filth, when the Director of the relief camp walked by on his daily inspection. When he saw what our team members were doing, he became visibly angry and ordered them to stop.
Why would he do that? In their culture, toilets are considered unclean, literally and spiritually. It is disgraceful to clean a toilet, not something done by a person with status. And in any society—but especially in the Middle East—you would never let a guest clean your toilet. Yet here was a respected American, doctor, elder and guest doing just that. It was too much for the Director. And so he yelled, “Stop!”
Bob and Murat replied, “No, please let us; we came here to serve.” The Director couldn’t believe it. He had nothing to say. He simply kissed their cheeks, and left.
On my last day in Bam, the Director visited our camp as he often did, sometimes joining us for a meal at our outdoor table. He invited me to his tent for tea. We talked about our being together, how hard it was to see the suffering in the city and to hear the stories of the victims. He told me about the story at the latrine: “It was a historic moment for me. I’ve told everyone about what your team members did. And how after walking the streets of Bam and feeling so troubled, I like to come by your camp. I always feel peace and comfort here.” He even told the President of Iran this story during one of his reports.
There was something different about our camp. It wasn’t bigger than others, it didn’t have better facilities, it didn’t serve more people. The difference wasn’t the presence of American doctors. It was the presence of Jesus. The One who became smaller, weaker, and less for our sakes, was present at that camp. Because Bob and Murat humbled themselves as Jesus did for the sake of others, a Muslim in Iran experienced the love of our heavenly Father.
My hope and prayer is that we would do the same for residents of our city, burdened by their own hardships. When our neighbors facing food insecurity visit our little food pantry and feel peace and comfort, when a small class of English learners feel welcomed and loved, or when a foster child experiences attachment simply because an adult is reliable enough to show up, that encounter is marked by humble influence. And that makes a big difference because Jesus is present, in his followers whom he calls the salt of the earth and the light of the world.