Camping, Soccer, and Christ Crucified

Go and tell what you hear and see: the nosebleeds are plugged, the migraines are calmed, the abscessed teeth are restored and the poor have good news preached to them.
Paraphrased from Matthew 11:4-5

So maybe that isn’t as compelling as the blind gaining their sight, the deaf hearing, lepers being cleansed, or the dead being raised. But, it is what I heard and saw this weekend. And to a God who knows the time and place that mountain goats give birth, everything is a miracle of his creation. No deed is too great or too small and no person is too remote for his attention.

This past weekend Brent and I traveled with Pastor Lawali to a Fulani/Gremanche village called Mayanga Gourma. I would try and describe where it is, but only those who have been there can find it. There is no road to this village, and no sign lets you know when you have arrived. It is home to a people that were not just forgotten, but forsaken. You must first be known to be forgotten. On our way Lawali would occasionally say we missed our turn, or drove past the road. Brent and I had no idea there was a turn that could be made. Driving along dried-up creek beds and narrow cow paths we slowly crept farther away from what we were sure were the last signs of civilization, and very primitive ones at that. As day turned to night we were convinced that Lawali had gotten us lost in search of a mythical village. Then, suddenly, we drove up on a small mass of huts and grain houses. We had arrived. People appeared from every direction to see the strange vehicle that had made it to their village bearing two white men.

There is a mysterious power to the Gospel, which defies logic or convention. After projecting “God-Man,” a short film that summarizes the gospel message, Lawali invited those watching to accept Christ. He didn’t preach, he didn’t debate, he just invited. In moments 30 men stepped out of the shadows into the glow of the projector, demonstrating their new commitment to follow Jesus. Not last of all came the chief’s son, taking long drags from his cigarette in between sentences of the sinner’s prayer. We offered to pray for any sick that wanted healing. Only two women accepted: one suffered from chronic migraines and nosebleeds, and the other had an abscessed tooth. We prayed, told everyone we would be there the next day, then packed up and left.

We returned the next day to play a soccer match with the villagers. Since I provided the ball, I was allowed to join the game of shepherds and farmers. The Fulani style of play agrees with their herder mentality. Moving in groups, they relied on the strength of numbers, not strategy, to push the ball towards their goal. After an hour of playing in the midday heat we took a brief rest. It was then, under the shade of a nearby tree, that I preached my first French sermon. I wish my message were as perfect as the setting. It was short, simple, and told with the vocabulary of an 8 year old.  At the end I invited everyone to come to hear more that evening. The soccer match finished in a shoot-out, with the chief’s son making the last stop, cigarette in hand, for the Hats to prevail over the Hatless.

That night we again presented the gospel to the village. Brent preached a short sermon that was followed by the “Passion of the Christ.” At the end of the film, Lawali gave another invitation. This time 30 more came forward. The two women we had prayed for the night before came forward to share their testimony. They had awoken completely healed of their ailments. After sharing their story, 15 more women stepped forward to accept Christ.

As we prepared to leave, Lawali promised to return every Thursday to disciple the new congregation of converts. Brent and I promised to return once a month. But greater than our promises were their commitments. Unsolicited, one man brought forth the first offering: a huge basket of peanuts from his harvest. The chief’s son said he would have a thatch building constructed before Lawali’s first visit on Thanksgiving. So about the time you are watching Macy’s Parade, remember the church in Mayunga Gourma that will be having its first service.

That night as I slept in my hammock on the village outskirts, I thanked God for letting me be a part of His work. It has to be His work. There is little other explanation for what we saw. What reason did 75 people have to commit their lives to Christ? It wasn’t their Muslim upbringing, or the promise of persecution from Muslim society. It certainly wasn’t the judging eyes of the village that witnessed their new commitment. It could not have been the persuasion of our testimony. There is only so much that can be conveyed using a second language that passes through a translator who is translating from his second language to his third. All signs, cultural and logical, make their decision seem foolish. No, it was not our work, but God’s work that we happened to be a part of.  

For Fulans demand signs, and Gremanche seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Fulans and folly to Gremanche, but to those who are called of both tribes, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.
Paraphrased from 1 Corinthians 1:22-25

Living Water

The other day I was in a village helping Shelley with a Kid’s club. There were hundreds of kids that seemed to appear out of the sand to attend the hour-long program. Out of the hundreds of children’s I saw, one stands out in my mind over the rest. There was a girl who could not have been more than ten years old. She was tall and slender, simply dressed with her hair braided in the way of the Fulani people, and had a beauty even her melancholy face could not cover. She wore a sandal on her right foot, but there was a handkerchief wrapped around the stub where her left foot should have been. She did not come to the club. She merely passed by on her way to draw water from the village’s well. I stared in disbelief as she used her stub on the well’s foot pump to fill her five-gallon bucket. As she lifted the bucket to her head and walked back to her home, I thought my heart would break with each hobbled step she took.

The rest of the week I could not shake the image of that girl. I would wonder how she lost her foot. In Africa, there are numerous possible causes for the countless deformities seen on every street corner, most of which are preventable. Was it a birth defect? Was it an infection that had to be amputated? Was it leprosy, a disease that still preys on the developing world? I then wondered how often she had to draw water. She had probably been doing it since she was six or seven, maybe four or five times a day, depending on how many siblings she had to share the chore. She will have to continue her regrettable march each day until she has a child she can send. But would she ever have a child to free her from her task? What man would pay to marry a girl with such a deformity? As often as these questions haunt me, I try to respond with prayer. I still pray for her when I wake up and I pray for her before I go to bed.

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Last week a volunteer group came from the states to help with ministry. One of the stops on their whirlwind trip was at the orphanage we help sponsor. The team brought with them two tubs filled with water guns. The orphanage had filled several 50-gallon barrels in anticipation of the water battle that ensued. It wasn’t long before the orphans that had been cleaned and groomed for the American visitors were soaked and caked with the sandy soil of the courtyard. The joyful screams of orphans and adult businessmen and women brought the entire neighborhood to the orphanage gates. Neighborhood children peered through the doors with wide eyes, ready to forsake their parents for the chance to partake in the bliss they witnessed. I ran around like a madman, trying to escape the massacre of orphans who quickly became experts at squirting their guns in my eyes, ears and even up my nose. I haven’t had so much fun since I was their age, doing the same thing.

But, at the end of the battle, the thought of the one-footed girl drawing water came back to my mind. I bet she would never waste a drop of her water. I don’t think you would ever find her in the middle of a water gun fight. If she ever witnessed such a spectacle she would probably think it a tremendous waste. A barrel of water is too great a blessing to throw it around so carelessly.

In the fourth chapter of the gospel of John, Jesus meets a woman by a well. He starts telling her about the gift of God, which is like “living water.” He tells her, “Everyone who drinks of this water (the well) will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty forever. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” The woman’s response makes me think of my one-footed girl. “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.”

I wonder how God sees our efforts at our own salvation. Maybe to him we look my girl, struggling, despite incredible circumstances, to gather water in a desert. We forsake the fountain of life for the broken cisterns we have constructed ourselves. We fight and struggle to store the source of life in bottles and jars, only to find them depleted at the end of the day. I think He is watching us and saying, “If you would just ask me I would give you living water. You would never be thirsty or have to struggle any longer.” He isn’t called the well of every blessing, where you have to come and struggle to draw out life. He is the fount of every blessing that shoots out life freely to all who seek it. He wants us to put down our buckets and pick up super soakers because in Him salvation is like orphans in the desert having a water gun fight.

Election Reflections from Abroad

I think as Americans we take for granted just how much influence our nation has in the world. Sure, we brag about how great our country is, boast of its economic strength and its military might. But do we truly understand just how much influence we wield? Here’s a question: Can you name one African head of state? Probably not. I’m doing good to know Niger’s, and I live here. But two weeks ago, every shop I went into I was asked whom I wanted to win the election, Obama or McCain. I talked about economic policy with the guards and about foreign policy with the locksmith (who made a copy of my key by hand in less than a minute, by the way). Each person had an opinion on the direction America should go. Let me just reiterate that. In the remote regions of the world’s poorest country, everyone knew about America’s election, and everyone anxiously awaited the results.

Here is another question we will all answer someday: Where were you when you found out the first African-American President of the United States was elected? I guess technically, I was in America, or at least on American soil. I watched the results early Wednesday morning at the home of the American Ambassador. I gathered around the television with Nigerien diplomats, NGO workers and Peace Corp volunteers to watch as more and more states turned blue. When it became apparent who the winner would be, every African present was so excited they began to eagerly congratulate any America they could find. From the American Ambassador down to the shabbily dressed 20-something missionary, they shook our hands and expressed their gratitude for choosing a black president. My French teacher, a Cameroonais man, called and excitedly congratulated me, telling me I should celebrate with a round of cold Cokes. Everywhere I went that day people were excited to see an American to whom they could give their thanks and best wishes.

So with the excitement of the election gone and past, what happens next? I can tell you this much, the eyes of the world will not start to wander. They will not tire with America and look toward the next big world event. No, I think the world audience is leaning forward in their seat, as if it were at a film that just started to get interesting. The whole world is holding their breath, and on that bated breath is a prayer. Republicans may be praying that Obama’s political agenda would either be blocked or, at least, not be too radical. Democrats may be praying that he have favor as he submits his plans to congress and issues executive orders. I can guarantee the rest of the world is praying, too. They are praying that this new leader will wield America’s sword of influence with care. You and I should join in the prayers.

So right now Father, I pray for Barack Obama. I pray, God, that you will bless America’s new leader. I ask that you give him wisdom and humility as he prepares to lead a large and mighty nation. May your love be his standard and your truth his aim. Under his guidance let America learn to love her neighbors as herself, rather than elevate her to a global pedestal. Surround him with counselors that honestly pursue truth, not their own profit. I pray that you would guard his ears from the tickling tongues of selfish politicians and corrupt bureaucrats. May he only lend his ear to sound advice and wise counsel. Fill his cabinet with modern day Joshuas, Samuels, Josephs, and Daniels. But, may you, Father, be his greatest counselor. Guard his steps against those who wish to make him stumble. May he and his family continue to be upright and above reproach. May those who wish to trap him fall into their own snares. I pray that America would flourish under his watch, and that America would in turn be a blessing to rest of the world. I ask all these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.