The Weekly Wrap-Up: September 6-10, 2021

20 years ago, life was pretty normal. Monday, September 10, 2001, I probably had the usual Monday blahs. I don't actually remember anything about that day. Why would I? Nothing remarkable happened. And then Tuesday. I was moving from one class to the next. There was a weird undercurrent. Mr. Weaver was late to Geography. When he arrived, he told us that there had been a plane crash in New York City, a big one. The school started to realize that something bigger was going on, so we were all herded into the cafeteria to watch the news. My timing is all mixed up, but we were definitely watching when both towers fell. We watched the Pentagon in flames. We watched plumes of smoke in Pennsylvania. 

I'm pretty sure we were sent home early that day. I remember going to the gas station and seeing endless lines. At school, my best friend had asked what the World Trade Center was, and I said it had something to do with finance. I didn't really know. But I knew something fundamental had shifted. My mom was flying somewhere a few weeks later, and our car was searched for explosive material before we entered the airport grounds. The airport had checkpoints now. We couldn't go in with her. When I took my first flight ever a few years earlier, my sister had come with us all the way to the gate. No ticket required. 

I don't think I'll ever forget where I was when I first heard the news. But other memories are fading. Unity gave way to tribes and factions. Our love for the first responders turned into distrust and fear. A war that started when I was 16 turned into something undefined and "ended" in disgrace. 

The echoes of what happened on September 11 will be felt for decades to come. I will likely never know in my lifetime everything that happened before, on, and because of that day. But I know what it did to me. I know how it made me feel. I know that for one brief moment, this country was unified in a common grief. I will never forget that. 

It seems a bit cheap to talk about my week after that, but another thing I learned that day is that life goes on. There was a September 12. The world didn't stop turning, and so, neither must we. It is appropriate, though, that we started our week with Rosh HaShanah. Or Labor Day. But I prefer a good shofar. 

I FINALLY finished my thank you cards and prayer letter this week. They have been long delayed, but I hope the content will be worth the wait. 

A good part of my week has actually been spent talking about next week. We will be having Missionary Council. Many of our top regional leaders will be in Greenwood to discuss the future. This typically happens every year, but, you know, 'Rona. Normally, I have very little to do with MC. But we did such a good job of running the CMF Seminar that our glorious leaders asked us to do the same. Of course, it's next week. Running a successful Zoom call isn't simply a matter of clicking a button. We'll be fine, I'm sure, but I do appreciate slightly more warning. 

Otherwise, I've been working on Tamil. I'm getting so close to being done! If I was a better employee, I'd stay and finish it. But I'm exhausted. And any work I do right now would be pretty much useless. Maybe I'll come in this weekend. 

Bye!

(Where were you 20 years ago?)

The Uber UBer Conference Post

What? A conference post a month and a half after it ended?

What can I say? We did get here eventually.

So, where to begin? A few months ago (more than a few by now), one of our MFM regional guys asked me if I'd be willing to represent OMS at the United Brethren National Conference in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I'm one of three UB people at OMS, and I guess a familiar face is helpful with these kinds of things.

Not gonna lie, I was a bit hesitant. There's some history if you will, and I also wasn't sure about logistics. Driving 500 miles one way isn't my favorite thing to do.

Fortunately, one of the other UB people at OMS was also coming along.

That's Sarah. Sarah and I work together in ECC, and we have lots of fun. (I also helped recruit Sarah - sort of - so that's a thing you know now.) Sarah and I convinced my dad to drive us out to PA for this most auspicious occasion.

You know the best thing about driving to Pennsylvania?

Tunnels!

Tunnels are awesome.

In order to save some money and our sanity, we decided to camp halfway. We found an interesting little campground at the Laurel Hill State Park. If you like trees and hiking a mile to the bathroom, this is the place for you.

We were visited by a few friends while we were there. 

Finally, we made it to Lancaster. My dad stayed with his brother while Sarah and I stayed at the new Hotel Lancaster. I don't have a picture of it. Apparently, it used to be some kind of flea pit (my uncle's words) before they spruced it up. I thought it was fine; not much of a view, but I had a place to rest my head, and at the end of the day (hehe), that's really all that matters. 

Lancaster had pianos in random locations, and this one was outside the hotel. 

We were about three or four blocks from the convention center where the conference was being held. That meant I had very little trouble getting my steps in for the day. We also saw some interesting sights along the way.

On to the reason for being in Lancaster! Our job was to represent the wonderful opportunities and ministries of One Mission Society to the lovely people of the United Brethren church. We were also heavily promoting the billion.global vision. Which, you know, you should really sign up for if you haven't.

Our booth was back in the corner, which wasn't the greatest position in the world, but we did okay. 

The conference went from Wednesday evening to Saturday morning, but we really only needed to be there in the evenings. Garth, the MFM guy, manned it in the morning, and we kinda hung out in the afternoons, but mostly, we had mornings to explore. 

Naturally, I found a bookstore.

And a few books.

On Friday morning, we went on the bus tour to see Isaac Long's barn and the Martin Boehm Chapel. 

Apparently, the United Methodists put up the sign and only deigned to include the UBers a few years ago, despite us existing first. 

The historical part is that little stone bit behind the barn in front. Yes, people still live there. I'm hoping someone told them we would be traipsing over the their land before we arrived.

Martin Boehm was actually excommunicated by the Mennonites for being too evangelical. They unexcommunicated him (recommunicated? recommunioned? uncensured, yes) in 2016. 

My dad's best "I'm so disappointed in you" face.

"Ye must be born again!"

Though we were done Friday night, my dad and I stayed for the final session on Sunday. They commissioned new pastors and Bishop Fetters gave a charge to the church. Did I mention this was the 250th anniversary of the church? That's important. Lots of history. Lots of people. Lots of awkward moments. coughcoughhistorycoughcough

Then, as we were in Pennsylvania anyway, my dad and I took a mini vacation. We saw some miniature trains in Strasburg. 

This model railroad would switch from day to night settings. It was quite a large setup.

Those are actual goldfish.

Kinda looks like I'm in a blimp for this game.

Look at that detail!

My dad was in his happy place.

Hanging out with old stuff is fun.

On Sunday, we went to probably my favorite place in the world, which you should know by now.

If you've not done the cyclorama, you really, really should. It's worth the extra cost. Try to go when there aren't a ton of people so you can see more.

This painting will be in my mansion in Heaven.

Checking on my boys from Maine.

This doesn't look like much, but on July 2, 1863, probably close to 10,000 men died in this field.

Every time I go to Gettysburg, I take two pictures. I always take these pictures from roughly the same places. It's kind of my own memorial. 

The first picture, because it's early in the auto tour, is taken just beyond the Virginia Memorial. 

This is the view that Longstreet, Lee, Pickett, and the top brass of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia had as they watched their men march on July 3, 1863. They were all aiming for those trees in the middle there, trying to break the Union lines in the middle.

This is the opposing view. Hancock, Meade, and the top brass of the Union Army of the Potomac watched 12,500 Confederate soldiers march across an open field.

Pickett's Charge gets a lot of press. It's the "high water mark of the Confederacy," the point at which the Confederate cause pretty much reached its zenith (despite the fact that they were actually marching south - it's confusing, I know). That marker there, with the rebel flag, is for Lewis Armistead. He actually made it over the wall but was mortally wounded in the process. 

In my opinion, and I'm stressing that this is simply my opinion, Pickett's Charge, while incredibly brave, was also incredibly stupid. I don't care how many men you have. You don't march across an open field into the center of the enemy. He's got reinforcements on both sides with excellent interior lines. The Union troops didn't even fire their light weapons until the Confederate troops were about 200 yards away. Up to that point, though, you'd better believe they were firing all the artillery they had. The South lost about 50% of their men. Lee got caught up in his own hype and the push from Jefferson Davis to deal a crushing blow on northern soil. But the South was never going to win that war. (I don't care how many shows HBO makes with that premise, it's completely illogical.) I have a lot more I could say about the Civil War, and I'd be happy to if you contact me, but this is probably not the place for it.

So why do I take these pictures? It's a touchstone for me. It's a reminder that two sides stood this far apart and couldn't stop the inevitable. A lot of men died on this land, for a lot of different reasons. I don't ever want to reach this point again.

We headed back West on Monday morning. Have you ever taken US30 in Pennsylvania? With a camper? It's a daunting prospect at the best of times. You start to realize very quickly why the highways have tunnels.

On the way, we stopped at another place I've been wanting to visit. I wasn't sure how I'd feel about it, to be honest. That day holds a lot of memories for me.

You're looking out over the final resting place of Flight 93. The memorial is quite well done, and also quite sobering. I was in New York City in 2004, and I've seen the Pentagon from a distance, and I wanted to complete the journey in Pennsylvania. There were some parts that were quite horrifying. You can walk down to a memorial grove of trees, but it felt almost sacrilegious to walk over that ground. They also had recordings of phone calls that were made from the plane to family members. That's an awful thing to have to do. In some ways, I felt unprepared for the emotional gut punch, but at the same time, I think it was a little healing to be there and acknowledge the grief I've carried. It's hard to express just how much the events of September 11 effected me. A lot of people died for no reason. I'm still angry about it. 

Moving on.

We stopped to camp in Cambridge, Ohio, Monday night, mostly because we were tired and didn't feel like finishing the drive after dark. I'd be hard pressed to recommend the campground. It's right along 70, and it's crowded. A big rig came in around midnight, which also added to the annoyance. But I can't complain, because it was cheap and convenient. 

We got back Tuesday, a full week after we left. (By the way, we didn't just abandon Sarah in Pennsylvania. She had her own mini vacation.) It was a good trip, and I am glad I went. I'm not sure how successful we were, but I did see a lot of people I really only ever see at conference. And I gained some new supporters, so that's always a good thing. 

As ever, if you have questions, feel free to leave a comment. Or email me. Or call me. Send a pigeon. 

How do those work, anyway?

Fifteen Years Ago

I was fifteen, a sophomore at Lakewood Park Christian School. We had just switched periods, either from homeroom to first or first to second. I was settling in for one of my favorite classes, history with Mr. Weaver.

There was a delay. This was before cell phones were a ubiquitous device, but there was still a current of something in the room. "Did you hear...?" Some parents were pulling kids out of school. Finally, Mr. Weaver came in and said that something had happened in New York. I can't remember what he said exactly.

Everyone ended up in the cafeteria. The technically-minded kids were working on the TV to get reception. I think both planes had crashed into the towers by then. We got it working in time to see the plane hit the Pentagon. We watched everything burn, people jumping out of windows, ash and smoke billowing in great plumes.

Then the south tower fell.

It was quiet in the cafeteria. Everyone was straining to hear the TV. Some whispered to their friends. I was sitting with Christine. She asked me what this would mean.

I honestly didn't know. I told her something about how the towers held a lot of economic power, but I really had no clue. This was unheard of. Nothing like this had ever happened before. What would it mean?

The north tower fell. There was a hole in the sky, Manhattan was an island of dust. There were rumors of other planes that had been hijacked, as it was now clear that this was definitely a deliberate act. At some point, we heard a plane had crashed in Pennsylvania.

There was a fifth plane missing. Then there wasn't. People were streaming across bridges. Boats filled the harbors.

The videos just kept playing.

I think we must have dismissed early that day. I can't imagine we would have gotten anything done. I remember my dad picking me up. He was very calm. He said there would be a war for sure. He said he needed to get gas, but it would probably be a madhouse.

He was right. There were long lines at every station. The price had shot up. I remember being irrationally angry with everyone else. My dad actually needed gas that day. He wasn't just doing it because he was scared.

I watched TV the rest of the day. My mom was at work. I don't remember if my dad watched with me or not.

I was reminded of the Oklahoma City bombing. That was my only frame of reference. Except no one could get close enough to where the towers were to really see anything.

Another building collapsed later in the day. That night, President Bush gave an address.

I was reading the transcript of it the other day. I can't remember any of it. I was in a fog. All I could think was that nothing would ever be the same again.

Memory is a funny thing. There are things that stand out clearly. Some things I can infer based on those memories and the logical course of events. When I think about life before September 11, 2001, it seems almost wrong. I remember my sister sitting with us at the gate before we went to Jamaica. But surely not, because people can't sit at the gate if they don't have a ticket now. I remember news broadcasts that said little to nothing about things happening anywhere but in the U.S. I remember watching planes in the sky and not having a worm of doubt in my mind about whether or not they'd reach their intended destination.

The months that followed have similar flashes of stark memories surrounded by fog. My mom had to fly somewhere shortly after the attack. Our car was searched going into the airport parking lot. Police were everywhere. We had to watch her go through security alone (with her shoes on!) and wonder if she'd make it back.

A few weeks later, a plane crashed in Queens. I listened to the news in the yearbook room and prayed that it wasn't another attack.

For weeks after, I would hear Enya's Only Time on the radio. It was interspersed with broadcasts of the event. I've never been able to find a copy of that. I can't listen to the song now without thinking of it.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, a boy in the school died in an ATV accident. I can't remember at all when it happened. I don't know if it was before the attack, shortly after, or months later. I just remember that I had been friends with the boy's sister. We sat next to each other in Geometry and joked around. She was a year below me. After her brother died, I felt it was important that I go to the viewing to support her. My dad drove me there and waited in the car. I went in on my own, and when she saw me, she hugged me. And she held on for what seemed like hours. We didn't say anything. We just hugged. As we drove home, I remember looking out the window and crying. I didn't see much of her after that. I didn't know what to say.

A year later, we had a concert of sorts at the WWII museum in town. It was a remembrance gathering, a chance for people to prove they hadn't been beaten. For some reason, I was asked to sing with the kids from LPCS. We sang "For Such a Time As This." I did the verses. They sang the chorus. It was a big event. I had no idea at the time. I was terrified I'd forget the words. I haven't sung that song since.

Ultimately, I was proved right. Nothing was ever the same.

I developed a kind of mental block regarding 9/11. First off, I hated calling it that. It was September 11th. (I hated when people called it 911. Still do.) I avoided video or photos of it, but I saved every newspaper for a week following the attack. I bought the LIFE magazine issue about it. I bought both movies that were eventually made, and I never watched them. After YouTube became a thing, I had a depressive episode (not because of a video-sharing site) and binged every video I could find about the attack. I watched the towers fall for hours. I created a playlist, and I've never watched it since then, but I can't bring myself to delete it.

I feel like I was there, but at the same time, I feel like I have no right to be so upset or moved by everything. I live in Indiana. No one wants to attack Indiana. I'd been to New York once, but it hadn't meant anything. I thought it was a noisy, crowded place.

We went to New York later for our senior trip. Two and a half years after the attack. We spent a morning at the site. I remember looking at it and trying to figure out how such large buildings fit into that itty bitty space. It was giant hole in the ground, fenced off. The surrounding buildings still had damage in places. There was a church just down the street. I couldn't reconcile the two images in my head.

I don't know that I'll ever get over it. I don't know that I'll ever fully understand how I feel about it. I don't know that I'll ever remember everything about that day. I don't know that I'll ever be able to see a photo or video without flinching (and they are everywhere, and show up at unexpected moments). I don't know that I'll ever be able to watch the movies. I doubt I'll ever get rid of them, though.

I pray that it never happens again. And I know that it probably will. If it does, I don't know if it will affect me the same way. Recent events have numbed me to the point of apathy. More people died? That's terrible. What should we do for lunch?

I don't want to feel that way. But I'm tired of living in a broken world. I'm tired of feeling like nothing we do changes anything.

I don't have a nice way to end this. Like all things, it just...

Is. 

Tomorrow

Tomorrow will be hard. It's hard every year.

For the most part, I'll be avoiding social media, the news, anything that might acknowledge the significance of the day.

It's not that I don't want to be reminded. Although it still feels like a punch in the chest when I am.

It's that I don't want to be desensitized. I don't want the day to become less than what it is.

So if I'm quieter than normal, you'll know why. I'm thinking about a day that changed everything. I'm thinking about people who started the day expecting normal, and ended the day before the sun ever set, some having no idea what had happened, and some who knew without a doubt that they would never see their children, parents, siblings, spouse, loved ones again. I'm thinking about the people who did what they've always done - answered the call, served and protected, gave their all.

And I'm holding my breath. Because anniversaries tend to spawn all kinds of things. 

I shouldn't write things at midnight.

I'm at a loss to understand how anyone can look at the world we live in and think people by themselves can make things better.

We live in a fallen world.

I can measure my life in tragedies. Public ones. World-changing, horrible events that stole breath from my body and stuttered my heart.

Except recently. I was awakened  sometime early Friday morning with a news notification on my phone that a shooting had taken place in Colorado. I worried briefly about my sister and her family, but when no call came, I went back to bed. After my alarm woke me up, I checked the news, saw the reports of the deaths and injuries - and I went about my day. I felt a momentary grief, said a prayer for the families and went back to my printing projects. Why?

Because this kind of thing doesn't really surprise me, not anymore.

I can still remember the first time my innocence was stolen. 1995 - a truck exploded outside of the federal building in Oklahoma City. It was incomprehensible to me, a nine-year-old child. I'm certain my parents did their best to shield me, but even back then, the images were everywhere. As more was revealed, the perpetrator caught, I found myself asking a question. If one human being could do that, what else were they capable of? What was I capable of?

I felt no small amount of satisfaction when Timothy McVeigh was executed for his crimes. I'm ashamed that I'm not more ashamed of that fact.

Just a few months later, I saw firsthand what can happen when one group of people hates another group of people because of ideals, religion, politics, wealth, history... Take your pick. I already knew the world was a crappy place to live, but as I sat in tenth grade history watching towers fall, I understood for the first time just how doomed it was.

And yet people forget. They compartmentalize. They lay blame in all the wrong places. And sometimes they just don't care.

I don't watch the news now. I can't. I read headlines on my phone, and even that makes me want to hide in my apartment, away from the world. I feel sick to my stomach, and yet I wonder why it bothers me. It's nothing new, after all.

But at the same time, it makes me want to start screaming at everyone.

Don't you understand? The world isn't a good place. Things aren't getting better all the time. Living a 'green' life isn't going to fix things. Politics isn't going to fix things. Tolerance isn't going to fix things. Humanity cannot fix things.

I want my innocence back. I want to be able to breathe again, to feel my heart beat in a steady rhythm. I want to be able to allow myself more than a moment of righteous indignation at senseless acts of violence. I want to know that if I start crying at what I see around me, I'll be able to stop one day.

Why do I do what I do? Because there is Someone who can fix things. Someone who can take screwed up, broken people and put them back together. Only One who stood against Death and won. The only One who can make this brief life worth living.

Why can't everyone else understand that?




Saturday Addendum: It occurred to me that this world would have ended a long time ago if some people didn't know there was hope. It doesn't take too long to realize that the hole in our souls can't be filled by sex, drugs, money, power, fame or anything else this world has to offer. It is only through belief in and obedience to Jesus Christ that we have any hope at all. We as Christians just need to do a better job of letting other people know that.

I Remember. I Wish I Could Forget.

I was sitting in second period. World History. We were late getting started, and rumors started circulating that something had happened. Finally, Mr. Weaver came in. A plane has hit the World Trade Center. They took the students downstairs to the cafeteria. Chet Swearingen helped them set up a TV, and we turned on the news. I don't remember now if we saw the second plane hit, or if it came on after that. We were just kids.

I was fifteen.

We talked amongst ourselves, one eye on the TV. Christine, my best friend, asked me what it meant. I tried to explain what I knew about the World Trade Center - it wasn't a lot. I told her that it was a key financial center, and the economy would be hurt badly. This has happened before in 1993. The towers will be fine. We can recover.

The Pentagon has also been hit.

There will be a war, I thought.

More rumors were flying. Parents were coming to pick up their kids. A fourth plane had hit the White House. No, it was headed toward the White House. The Capitol Building. A fifth plane had been hijacked.

The news agencies couldn't keep up. They were just as panicked, just as confused. Airports were being shut down. The West Coast was just waking up.

The first tower fell.

It hadn't been that long since we started watching - less than an hour - but most of us had already settled into this new mindset. It was obvious that something big had changed - our worldview had just been radically altered. But it wasn't until I watched the towers fall that all of this was cemented in my mind.

I couldn't stop watching. But I didn't want to talk anymore. I was numb. Who would do this to us? I was fifteen! A sophomore in high school. I had never heard of Al Qaeda or Osama bin Laden. I didn't understand how anything like this could happen.

I don't remember much about the rest of the day. I can't remember if they sent us home early, or if I waited. I know the news was a constant presence. The crash in Pennsylvania seemed almost surreal to me, like it was just one thing too many to add to the horrors of the day. I remember thinking that there was still another airplane out there somewhere. Somehow, I ended up in the car with my dad. We went to get gas because the tank was nearly on empty, and there were huge lines no matter where we went. I felt indignant. We were getting gas because we needed it, not because we were afraid! Gas had jumped to some astronomical price (probably what it is now). Jennie Snow helped us pump gas because the lines were going all over the place.

It was like living in a fog. I felt like I had to watch the news because history was happening in front of me, but I couldn't comprehend what I was seeing. Weeks passed, and more of the story unfolded. I was indignant. I felt like I had been personally attacked.

Sometime later, possibly on the month anniversary, maybe even on the year, there was a memorial service held at the World War II Museum in Auburn. I was asked to sing "For Such a Time as This." I thought it was a wildly inappropriate song for the occasion. I really didn't see what Esther had to do with the attacks on September 11. (It also didn't help that my school had done the asking, and I was not a fan of that place. Also, it was originally sung by a man. Not exactly my range.) But whatever. For the first time, I felt connected to what had happened.

Regardless of how it seemed then, time didn't really stop. Gradually, we moved on. We adjusted. Adapted. Sure, we looked up a little too long when we heard a plane. We spent a little more time at church. For awhile. We made a solemn decision to go to war. Then we spent seven+ years arguing about that decision. The war settled into the background.

In 2004, I went to New York City for my senior class trip. We went to Ground Zero. There's a whole page in my yearbook about it. (Probably because I'm the one who put it together.)







At the time, they were still working on shoring up some of the tunnels and fixing the surrounding damage, including Building 7. We saw the damaged sculpture that had been in the courtyard. There was almost a visceral connection for me to the site. For one, I couldn't believe how small it was. It seemed impossible that two towers could have fit in that small block of space, and I couldn't imagine how anyone got out alive. And I have a very vivid imagination. I think that was part of my problem.

I very nearly couldn't look. But once I looked, I couldn't stop looking. Exactly three times in the last ten years, I have felt compelled to watch videos of 9/11. It was a little bit like torture, because once I started down that path, I couldn't stop until it felt like my soul had been shredded. At least one of those times, I really freaked out a friend of mine. I bought the movie on DVD, but to this day, I can't watch it.

And I don't understand why I feel this way. The events of that day have somehow latched on to my heart, and sometimes, all I have to do is hear the words 'September 11' and I'm back to how I felt that day. All the fear, all the confusion, all the horror at watching bodies falling a hundred stories. It's like it happened yesterday.

I was mildly patriotic before September 11, 2001. Now, the force of my devotion to the United States of America sometimes scares me. I have to reign myself in because my thoughts are decidedly unChristian. I hate the people who did this because they stole from me a great deal of my capacity to feel compassion. Yet I must also love them and pray for their compatriots who are still trying to kill my countrymen. Sometimes I hate my country. I can't begin to tell you how difficult that is.

I'm angry.

I don't know when or if I'll stop being angry. I ask God every day for peace in my heart.

I fail a lot.

I wonder sometimes if this is how my grandparents felt after Pearl Harbor. In the 1970 film Tora Tora Tora!, following the surprise attack in Hawaii, Japanese Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto says, "I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve." It's unlikely the Admiral actually said this, though there are apocryphal accounts of similar phraseology. However, I can't help but feel that the sentiment is incredibly accurate when applied to me on that awful day ten years ago.

I woke up.

I woke up to a world that has been steeped in sin and evil since Adam and Eve decided to trust a snake over God. I woke up to a world that sees genocide as an acceptable practice as long as it's done in secret. I woke up to a world that has no problem killing unborn children because they are unwanted, senior citizens because they are a drain on society, each other because we can. I woke up to a world that worships at the altars of tolerance and political correctness. I woke up to a world that deserves every horrifying thing that happens to it and more.

And yet...

Three years ago, I felt God's calling to become a missionary. I thought it was ridiculous. I was like Jonah, ready for God to punish Nineveh. He wanted me to forgive them? Ludicrous! Who does that? Why bother saving these people?

But He saved me. And I KNOW what I am.

Because His Love Compels Me - I must take up my cross and follow Him.
Because His Love Compels Me - I must love others as He loves me.
Because His Love Compels Me - I must extend the mercy and grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ unto the nations, making disciples and baptizing them in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God.