The Insanity of God: A True Story of Faith Resurrected

by Nik Ripken

Now. . . I never celebrate the Lord’s Supper without thinking of that last communion in Mogadishu with my four Somali friends who would soon be martyred. I never partake of the bread and the cup without an awareness that I am doing so not just for myself, but on behalf of brothers and sisters around the world who do not have, and may never again have, access to the body and blood of our Lord in a service of Holy Communion. Every time I open a hymnbook I think of Tavian, that old singing saint, sitting in his prison cell writing and composing over six hundred praise and worship songs that are now sung every week in churches all over his country. When I worship on Sunday mornings with American congregations and we stand to lift our voices and spirits together in congregational singing, I am reminded of one of the most hostile countries on earth. Believers in that country secretly meet in groups of three or four or five, at different times each week to share, worship, and “sing” their favorite praise songs by silently mouthing the words together to keep neighbors from turning them in to the secret police. On occasions, when my heart is moved by some piece of special music—an offertory solo or an uplifting choir anthem—I think of Aisha’s courageous voice rising from the dark dungeon beneath her city’s police station or I think of that great choir of fifteen hundred inmates standing at attention, arms outstretched, facing east as they sang Dmitri’s heart-song back to him. When ...