I don’t love the title “missionary.” It’s a word that holds so much history and weight and prejudgement. I feel unqualified for it—like I don’t deserve it. Plus, everyone has their own idea of what a missionary is, and I’m not sure I meet their expectations. 

I’ve found that people expect me to be an evangelist or a church planter. They want my sob stories—the ones packed full of emotion. With heroes of the faith running through their minds, they wonder how many people I’ve led to Jesus, how many people come to my church or small group. Numbers. They’re so important. 

And what I’ve learned—or trust—is that these thoughts and questions and preconceived ideas come from hearts of gold. They come from a good place, but they don’t describe my job. They don’t reflect the calling God has given me—a so-called missionary. 

We are Kingdom Builders

Technically, I am a missionary. It's my title and job description. And I love my job. I cannot stress this enough. Nearly every day I wake up and experience the absolute joy of it. I am beyond grateful for the support that allows me to follow Jesus. I wouldn't trade my life for the most stable, secure job in the world. 

But

I still don't feel like a missionary—at least not the one most have in their minds. 

Because I don't think you and I are that different. We—the Body of Christ—are similar. So very long ago, Jesus told us to "Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and [the Father] will give [us] everything [we] need." (Matthew 6: 33) 

This is the Church’s charge. It’s the call of Jesus' followers—not just those with the label missionary. The Father created us to be Kingdom seekers, Kingdom builders. Forget the title of missionary. Forget all you think of when you hear that word. Let go of it all. 

I am a Kingdom builder, and so are you. 

What Exactly is the Kingdom?

When I say the Kingdom, I mean this perfect and complex way of living and being Jesus came to establish. It’s both tangible and intangible, physical and invisible. The Kingdom of God is the family of God—billions of image bearers who trust Jesus and accept the life, love, and grace He gives. Every nation, tribe, and language united under our Father in worship. 

When Jesus taught us to pray, He prayed for the Kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. The Kingdom isn’t far away. We are part of it right now. We find the Kingdom in the goodness and love and nature of the Father among us—creation, the Church, Imago Dei in the billions of people on this planet. 

Jesus looks at us—imperfect humans—and calls us kingdom builders. He asks us to build it where humans have resisted it, where it’s lacking, where brokenness and darkness have taken over. Building the kingdom of God isn’t about building our own stories of greatness. It’s about fighting for the heart of humanity to know and experience the Father. It’s an invitation to know Jesus, to know His abundant life and love. 

So, yes, I am a missionary, but when I say that, I mean I am a Kingdom builder. 

And I mean that you and I are the same. The Father designed us to join what began the moment He said, “Let there be light.” We are kingdom builders, created to open people's eyes to the sacred all around us. Our world aches for the collision of the holy and the ordinary. Our souls long for the divine—for the Father Himself. 

This is what we usher in as kingdom builders. 

Kingdom Building Work

Sometimes this looks like planting a church, running a training center, loving your coworkers, leading a small group, making dinner for your neighbor. Sometimes it looks big and grand. It catches people’s attention, and they label it missions. But more often, building the Kingdom means staying faithful in the little things and showing an aching world who the Father is. 

Our world is desperate for God’s Kingdom. It aches for heaven on earth. The created longs for the creator. The sustained begs for the sustainer. 

And so the Father gives us that charge: “Seek the Kingdom of God above all else. Build my Kingdom. Love Me and love your neighbor. Imitate me and help others see a glimpse of my face.” 

Friend, we are kingdom builders. May we wear this title proudly, letting it touch every part of our lives and our world. 

The post We are Kingdom Builders appeared first on Kate Berkey.

In the kitchen, Kristy and I put the finishing touches on dinner—sometimes take out, other times something homemade. We’ve learned it doesn’t really matter what we eat. Food will always unite us.

This home—normally a quiet space—fills with noise and chaos in the best of ways. We wipe up food that spills onto the floor and laugh about water that falls from cups. It’s messy and beautiful and wonderful—the life-on-life kind of night our hearts ache for. 

And as we gather and talk and share life, our home fills with the sound of so many languages. Our friend Mylatte speaks Burmese. Nom wan speaks Thai. Paw wah adds Karen—one of the languages of the Karen people—to the mix. Rebecca and Eliana weave English, Thai, Karen, and Chinese into a single sentence. And the few Americans in the room speak English. 

Four. 

That’s four languages (plus a spattering of Chinese now and then) echoing through the room. Each of us picks up bits of the conversations we can understand. We simplify our words to help others join—using broken English or Thai or Karen or Burmese when needed. And when we need to communicate something to the entire group, time seems to slow down. 

First say it in English
Then Burmese 
Then Karen
Then Thai
Does everyone understand? 

What a beautifully complicated, chaotic gift. 

This is an average night at Braverly small group—a night for all of our Braverly women and any family or friends who want to come with them—to gather in our home. Our conversations range from completely silly to meaningful encouragement to thought-provoking questions. Every conversation, every question, every word needs translated into each language, and I think this is absolutely beautiful. 

When I came back to the States, people asked what the hardest part of life in Mae Sot was. For me, the answer was simple—the language. Thankfully, many people in Mae Sot understand enough English, and although my Thai is sad, I can get by. But after awhile, the shallow, small conversations become tiring.

Your girl doesn’t do small talk well. In fact, I hate it. But when the common language is so small, it’s all you can do. 

So I learned to do small talk like a champ while still craving the real deal—the kind of conversation that bonds and unites the hearts and souls of a group. 

But in this craving, in this longing for a common language, I found that it had always existed. It just didn’t look like words. It didn’t look like English or Thai or Burmese. It wasn’t like the tribal language of Karen or Poe Karen. 

It was the look of longing when we talked about family or showed pictures of our parents and siblings. It was the smile when we talked about our dreams for the future or held tangible pieces of our hopes close to our chest—like the way Hser Ku Paw held her new camera. It was the way we ducked and ran to avoid the pouring rain. It was the laughter that echoed in the room when we tried (and failed) to say something correctly in another language. It was the dance party that started when a song played over the speakers. 

Because despite our different languages, we were held together, united, and more similar than I could have ever imagined. 

That group of women in my living room on Thursday holds hopes and dreams for their futures. They long for a life for themselves and their families that is good and beautiful. They crave to be seen and known and loved by others. Kindness and empathy are desires of their hearts—being seen for more than just the hard parts of their stories. 

They like to try new things, and as scary as it is, they like to try challenging things. They like to prove themselves to others and to their own insecurities and doubts. They don’t like to get caught in the rain or stand in the blazing Thailand sun. Babies who bounce up and down to silly music make both of us laugh and dance along with them. Sometimes they say the wrong word in English, and most of the time, they laugh at me when I pronounce a Thai word incorrectly. 

We are held together by so much more than a language. We are united by our humanness, by the hopes and dreams and desires of our hearts. We find common ground in our delights and our sorrows, our stories. We are so very different—from different backgrounds and histories. And yet, we are one—the Church in its holy sacredness. We may not all believe the same things or hold the same values, but that’s ok. 

That’s ok. 

That’s ok.

I feel like I should say this again for America—a country who seems to lord their differences over others and can’t seem to pause long enough to find common ground. 

We may not believe the same things, think the same way, or hold the same values, and that’s ok. 

I don’t speak the same language as my beautiful Karen or Thai or Burmese friends. We come from distinct histories and experiences. We don’t think the same way about some things, but there exists a sisterhood forged by acts of love and kindness and empathy—values our world desperately needs. 

Church, we speak different languages. We come from different experiences and stories and histories, and this is beautiful. May we make space for one another and allow bonds of family to be forged out of this simple act of love.

The post I Think We Speak Different Languages, and That’s Beautiful appeared first on Kate Berkey.

I am a lover of the everyday ordinary. 

Lest you think my life in Thailand is beyond crazy or a “I-could-never-do-that” kind of thing, know that this life is filled with the ordinary in the midst of the extraordinary. It’s filled with trips to the grocery store and to the bank. It’s filled with work and staff meetings and deadlines. It’s filled with alarm clocks and dishes and errands. It’s filled with busy weeks and days off. It’s filled with friends and game nights and movie nights. It’s filled with delicious food and leftovers and eating out. It's filled with the planned for and the unexpected, the anticipated and the spontaneous. And it's filled with significant ministry moments. It's filled with days teaching English to 160 kids. It's filled with moments at the border. It's filled with youth group and Braverly small group and worshiping alongside people from Thailand and Burma and America.

And isn’t that so beautiful? 

No matter where I live or what I do, the Lord constantly reminds me not to miss these beautiful, ordinary things in pursuit of "more."

Like the dad who skips with his daughter to the bus stop in the morning.
Like the puppies who live at the end of my street.
Like the blood red moon that filled the sky last week.
Like the smell of grilled pork on the side of the road.
Like the sweet lady on the corner who sells mango sticky rice.
Like the view from my bike as my friends and I go on a bike ride.
Like the nights Kristy and I listen to Frank Sinatra as we cook tacos for the third night in a row.

I never want to miss these moments in pursuit of the bigger thing, the more obvious thing, the thing our culture celebrates. We love movies with a big plot twist or big reveal. We love the dramatic love story or the superhero. We love impossibilities and underdogs and the things that leave us speechless. I certainly am a sucker for these things. You’ll always find me rooting for the underdog, and you better believe I want that underdog to have a big moment.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with these big moments, absolutely nothing at all. 

Unless…
Unless they leave us discontented with our incredible lives.
Unless they leave us craving more and more and more.
Unless they keep us from missing the beautiful, extraordinary, ordinary things around us. 
Unless they create a set of impossible expectations that no person or job or place or work or life could ever meet. 
Unless our hearts become hardened to gratitude, to saying “thank you” for the big and the little. 
Unless anything smaller than that big thing we’re chasing is seen as a disappointment.

What an incredible challenge, am I right? At least I know it is for me. I’ve realized that I deeply struggle with contentment, with this idea of enough. My spirit seems to long for more, for something bigger, grander, more abundant, and in the meantime, I forget that the Father has already given me more than enough. There is nothing but abundance in the Kingdom of God. 

If I stop
If I pause
If I notice
If I look
If I see

It’s there. More than enough is there.
It’s in the finances that come in each month from beautifully generous people. 
It’s in the dinner around the table with good friends.
It’s in the bike ride to work, the one that leaves me sweaty but also feeling so very a part of my community. 
It’s in the team I get to worship and pray with every Tuesday afternoon during staff meeting.
It’s in the videos of my nieces and nephew that my family sends me.
It’s in the smile of Paw Wah.
It's in the sound of Hser Ku Paw's singing.
It’s in the hug from MyLatte.
It’s in the rain that cleared the smog that hung over Mae Sot. 
It’s in the very mundane, very average, very routine parts of my life just as much as it's in the big moments, the ones that donors love to read about.

In this season, the Father is teaching me so much about the word “enough.” Enough doesn’t need the big or extravagant to be content. It doesn’t need to be stuffed. It’s the opposite of gluttony in every sense of the word. Enough is rooted in contentment. It’s rooted in gratitude. It’s rooted in dependence on the One who constantly gives more than enough. When I’m constantly searching for more, I miss the very tangible, very beautiful, very holy things the Father is already doing around me.

And I’m tired of missing those things in pursuit of more. 
He’s already given me more than enough. He’s given me abundance. 
I don’t want to miss those things. 

The post We Need to Stop Missing the Beautiful and Holy in the Everyday Ordinary Around Us appeared first on Kate Berkey.

There is this space between Thailand and Burma. It’s no more than a half a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. It runs right up to the river separating the two countries.

This space of land belongs to no one.

Thailand doesn’t want it.

Burma doesn’t want it.

This is No Man’s Land.

Here, there are no laws. There is no education system. There is no health care. Living inside  makeshift homes are stateless people (people with no proof of citizenship to a country), wanted criminals, drug dealers, pimps, and the like. This small space is a trafficking hub, moving people discretely into a harrowing reality. This small space is a violent one, and I was told that it’s not uncommon to find bodies floating down the river from No Man’s Land.

It’s not a place for foreigners. It’s not a place for Thai or Burmese citizens. It’s a place for people trying to escape something.

Two weeks ago, I found myself walking along the perimeter of No Man’s Land, walking past little stands selling cigarettes and dried shrimp. I saw beautiful people and heard their voices. In the bushes of No Man’s Land, I saw a man moving discretely, trying not to be seen. That’s the goal of many in No Man’s Land.

Don’t be seen. Don’t be noticed. Blend in. Become forgettable.

This is No Man’s Land.

My friends who were with me that day, filled me in on the realities of this place, and as I heard the stories, a deep ache settled in my bones. There are times in our lives when, if we allow them to, stories and places and people have the power to make our entire being hurt. For me, I’m often left feeling breathless, tears at the surface of my eyes.

Even the words for prayer seem so very far away.

As the three of us sat together, kids and moms began to make their way to the river, no doubt seeking reprieve from the 100 degree temperatures of hot season. One of the kids floated on an old igloo cooler lid. Another splashed his friend. A few laughed and played together. One of the moms held her tiny baby close as she waded deeper into the water. In some ways, it was like watching a scene from a beautiful movie, one where friends and neighbors played together. And yet just behind the group was No Man’s Land—a place of little opportunity and little hope.

My heart did not break for the people of No Man’s Land because I wanted them to experience the American version of life in abundance. I didn’t want to see them in a two-story home with a white picket fence. I didn’t want to see them with hoards of money or possessions.

That’s not true abundance. That’s not a fulfilled life. That’s not the kind of hope you can anchor to.

My whole being ached because I so desperately wanted the people of No Man’s Land to experience the abundant hope and life and light that comes from the Father.

That day, sitting in the hot Thailand sun, my friends and I began to talk about the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom is something that is complex and beautiful and wonderful. You can’t hold it in your hands or build a fence around it’s borders. It’s impossible to describe fully, but you know it when you see it.

It’s a place of hope and love. It’s a place where the name of Jesus is proclaimed, where relationship is king, and the rites and rituals of religion take the back seat. It’s a place of belonging and being known. It’s a place where people are seen for who they are becoming, who the Father created them to be. It’s a place where the Holy Spirit is more than an idea. He is alive and active and moving and working. It’s a place that transcends culture and language and customs and traditions.

It’s for all people—westerners, Thai, Burmese, refugees, wanted criminals, stateless people, orphans, sons, daughters, moms, dads.

Everyone.

Everywhere.

On that day listening to the sounds of No Man’s Land, the Holy Spirit asked me a simple question.

Can you imagine if my kingdom was being built in No Man’s Land.

Today, this small space of land is on the list of things I don’t quite know what to do with. As a foreigner, I cannot go into No Man’s Land. Even if I wanted to go in, I can’t speak the language. I am not the hope or the savior or the light of No Man’s Land. That’s not my job. I haven’t quite figured out what role I play in building God’s kingdom in No Man’s Land.

But.

Can you imagine if God’s kingdom was being built in a place like No Man’s Land?

Can you imagine if the hopeless found hope? Can you imagine if the trafficker encountered the father? Can you imagine if the stateless family didn’t have to prove that they belonged to a place? Can you imagine if the criminal experienced redemption and reconciliation? Can you imagine if God’s kingdom was being built in No Man’s Land?

It’s on the list, the list of things I don’t quite know what to do with.

But it’s also on another list, the list of reasons why I will uproot my life in Nappanee, Indiana, and move 10 minutes away from the Thai/Burmese border. I don’t know what I am supposed to do to help build God’s kingdom in No Man’s Land, but I know that I have been called.

This calling is a calling to words, to bring hope through phrases and sentences and paragraphs. It’s a calling to bring words to people’s stories with dignity and respect. It’s a calling to share these stories with people all over the world, to teach them about places like No Man’s Land, about organizations like Outpour Movement. It’s a calling to remind people that God’s kingdom is being built all over the world. It’s a calling to remind people that the Kingdom is massive and beautiful and a beacon of hope in the midst of brokenness.

I believe that someday this will be said of No Man’s Land. Someday it will be a place of hope instead of a place of violence. It will be a place of family instead of of place of trafficking. It will be a place of abundant life instead of a place of merely existing. It will be a place of being known instead of a place of disappearing into the bushes.

This will be No Man’s Land.

“The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed planted in a filed. It is the smallest of all seeds, but it becomes the largest of garden plants; it grows into a tree, and the birds come and make nests in its branches.”

Matthew 13: 31-32

Want to join me in this journey? Click here to find out how you can partner with me as I seek to tell these stories.

The post This is No Man’s Land appeared first on Kate Berkey.