One Fish, Two Fish, Red Face, I wish

"Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you." - Matthew 5:11-12 (NIV)

"Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble."-Mt 5:11-12 (The Message)


For years now, I've prayed to God, "Show me what its like to be persecuted." Not a normal prayer for your general American Christian, I know. This evening, my blind eager eyes could hardly focus when the light shattered my night.

I'd been planning this evening's events for most of the week. There was mission trip training in the morning, sushi and assorted Japanese for lunch, followed by a sweet nap. I would wake up in time to stroll on over to CAC to cheer on some of our youth battling for spots on the traveling wrestling team. This would consume most of the evening's hours, beginning at 6 p.m. and wrapping up near 10-ish. I did, however, account for a brief time within those hours to attend a young adult worship gathering.

As I approached the school I noticed a recent friend, we'll call him Jorge. Jorge is one of our drummers for the worship band at MCC. He's a young guy, early twenties, attending college here in Egypt, studying English literature and minoring in Spanish. He's fluent in Spanish, English, and oh yeah, Arabic - because he's Egyptian. That becomes important in a moment.

I flash my pass to the desk workers and we walk into the campus. We hang out, watch the matches for a while, joke around with some of the high schoolers we know, have a good time. I look at my watch; its 8:45. "Jorge, you going to that young adult thing tonight?" I banter. "Yeah, you wanna go?" he returns. So I give a prompt, "Let's do it." We depart.

I had the road and building number on a posted note in my pocket but was pretty sure I knew where we were going, though I hadn't ever been there before. We find the building without any problems, except we don't see any stairs to the second floor. We knew we were in the right place because we could hear the singing from the road. It is not unusual that a set of stairs is hidden or around the back so Jorge and I motion to enter what appears to be the semblance of an entrance. Before we take more than a single step, we are halted by a booming arabic voice demanding, "Private entrance." We quickly apologize as we turn to find an older, slightly overweight Egyptian man with an bad attempt at a beard hanging off his face loitering amongst the cars parked in front of the building. My assumption, he's the boab/guard. No problem, we walk around. We had not gone more than 6 or 7 steps past this guy when he rushes over to Jorge, slaps him in the face and pushes him as if Jorge had just severely insulted the man's family. Now, I begin to lose track of the conversation because it rapidly becomes only arabic. I did pick up on a few things. A motion towards me, Jorge's repetitious reenactment of the face slap, and the large man using the same words in arabic again and again. Without knowing a single word that had just been said, here is what I assumed the situation was: the large man was angry that we had done something we "shouldn't" have done and used this along with his age as an excuse to attack a young Egyptian man associating with an American, both of whom are on their way to a Christian event.

So a minute or two later, Jorge pretends to amend as if it were nothing so that we may continue on with our friends awaiting us in the flat above. We walk in unnoticed, grab seats and listen to the rest of the group sing songs I'd never heard. A bit shaken up, I notice that the percussionist in Jorge is stomping a little more violently than these boring worship songs would generally incite. Its not long before he motions to me that he's going to take off, so I grab my coat and we exit as he persuades me its ok for me to stay. I exit also, anyway.

Once on the street, the man is now gone, or at least hiding for the shame of his retarded action. Jorge can't hold it in any more. He recounts to me exactly what was said in the flashbang conversation that still surged in my head. Essentially, the man decided we ignored what he had said and that was so disrespectful he needed to take it out on one of us, but not both since I am American. He claimed that he was just like Jorge's father and had the right to do whatever he pleased, even if that meant unnecessarily slap my friend. When Jorge asked him why he did not take the same actions towards me, the man only gave to same response, confirming my suspicions from earlier.

At this point in the conversation, I could smell the frustration on Jorge and see the fury whelming inside. This was not a shocking one time occurance. This type of interaction had happened before, more than once. This was a way of life Jorge constantly experienced. I had to ask. "Tell me the truth, and you don't have to answer, but did that man slap you because you are Egyptian going to a Christian event?" The relief showered Jorge's face. I thought the man would cry in the street right there next to me. But his elation with my understanding held back the tears. "This," he clinched his jaw, "this is just a small glimpse into what its like." That was all he said about it for the rest of the night. I talked incessently about it, admiring his courage, faith, and stamina. I rambled about how I did not understand what it was like to be persecuted, and was strangely jealous that his seat in heaven would be sweeter than mine.

As I sit comfortable, in a home provided for me, with a fridge overstocked with delicious, nutritious food, a warm bed and American friends to surround me I can't help but wonder what it must be like to traverse this country in the shoes of that man. Jorge is Egyptian by nationality but his professed faith in Christ makes him a minority in the only place he could possibly be a majority. He has no country. He has no home. Seen as a traitor to his countrymen and home, he is the walking, fighting, persevering persecuted that Jesus informs us heaven belongs to.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Let me also be persecuted, my Lord. May your name be given glory among men and angels when your children face death all day long for your sake.

Jorge, my man, you are the truth.