Sometimes in Niger there seems to be little distinction between the sacred and the simple. The everyday walks hand in hand with the extraordinary. I know that the significance of events depends largely on the cultural lens through which you view them. Just because I regard certain moments and events as more important than others doesn’t mean they necessarily are. But even after four months I still am struck with how often the sacred is found in the simple and vice versa. Sometimes you find a burning bush when you go looking for berries and other times you take off your sandals in reverence to find you are standing in a field of cow pies.
My first Christmas in Niger was a perfect example of that sort of uncanny juxtaposition. I slept over at Chez Johannson so that I could wake up and have Christmas morning with my Virginia family. After opening presents and playing with Sam’s new toys, I met up with Djibo and Hassan to go to a concert downtown. A number of churches from Niger and Burkina had gotten together for a giant Christmas service. I had a wonderful time listening, worshipping, and at times even dancing with the rest of the audience. There was, however, one practice that struck me as odd every time it happened. Just when the musicians had worked themselves to a frenzy and the singer was dancing and singing with all their might, someone from the audience would walk up and stick a dollar bill on the singer’s forehead. Because of their sweat, the bill would stay for just a moment before falling into the singer’s waiting hands. It didn’t matter if their was a pause or not, people would come and stick their bills on the singer, and the singer would never miss a note. I turned and asked Djibo and Hassan about it because, through my American eyes, it looked grotesquely similar to throwing money at a stripper. They told me that it usually means something similar here in Niger. But this crowd of new believers and unchurched passerbys knew of no better way to show their appreciation. They felt compelled to give and did so the only way they knew how, appropriate or not.
The Sunday after Christmas I helped Boureima lead a group of his church’s youth for a three-day Christmas campaign in Hassan’s villages. There were 18 of us altogether, and in true African style we crammed them all into two cars. Boureima drove his Suzuki 4 runner and I drove Saber’s Nissan Sunny hatchback. Let me just say, that was the most stressful drive of my life. The roads I had navigated with difficulty on my motorbike a few weeks earlier I had to drive in a 4-cylinder, 2-door FWD hatchback filled with 5 other passengers and their luggage. With every ravine and sandy floodplain I thought for sure his car was going to break down in the middle of the Nigerien bush. But, the Lord provided and we made it to Alambare without issue.
Alambare is a village that has won a special place in my heart. It’s a village I claim as my own not just for the amount of time I have spent there, but the events I have been a part of. I’ve shopped in their market, danced with them under the stars, slept in their huts and attended their weddings. I’ve watched as their thatched church has grown in size and numbers and twice I have preached from its pulpit. The visit with Boureima only increased my feeling of attachment to this village as, once again, I was a part of important milestones in the church’s history.
During the morning service we baptized eight new church members. They had dug a giant hole just outside the church and covered it with plastic. The women from the village slowly filled the hole with water bourn from the well. When the hole had been filled, everyone gathered around and watched as, one by one, eight men and women climbed into the watery grave. The drums and the cheers resounded as each successive person who was submersed in the tomb-like baptismal was lifted out of its depths into a new life in Christ.
That evening I preached on the significance of Emmanuel, God with us. To conclude the service there were four couples who wished to dedicate their children to God. Boureima explained the significance of the event then asked for the other pastors to come up and bless the babies. Much to my surprise, he asked me to come up and bless one of the babies, named Isaac. It was the first time I had ever dedicated a baby, and the only way I can describe it is as a terribly awesome privilege. It was terrible because, as I held a five-day-old bundle of pure innocence in my hands, I was confronted with all of my corruption that should disqualify me from giving any blessing. How can I, who am so sinful, hope to add anything good to something that was so fearfully and wonderfully made? But, at the same time, it was awesome because the Christ in me rose above all my inadequacy to bring that child before his Creator and ask for His blessing. I don’t remember what I prayed out loud, but my heart was bursting with hopes and wishes for this child I had just met: that he would grow up into a man of wisdom and integrity, that he would pursue righteousness all his days, and that the Lord would bless his every step. Before I could finish I was brought back to reality by a warm, wet sensation. The little guy had peed all over me. Boureima, who began to laugh hysterically, said it was the mark of a good blessing. Eventually the whole village began laughing at the white guy who was covered in baby urine. I guess it’s appropriate, since Isaac means “she laughs.”
After three days in Alambare with Boureima and his church I came home for 12 hours, only to turn around and go back with the American mission. We spent new years at a hotel near Park W, just a little way up the road from Alambare. After a day looking for lions and elephants we rejoined Hassan for three more days of services in his villages. Rodrigo and Brent took care of the preaching, so I was able to sit back, play soccer, and just enjoy being amongst my friends there. At the end of one of the services, Hassan asked me to pray as we closed. When I came up to the front, one of the villagers suggested that since I was spending so much time in their village that I needed a true Gremanche name. So right then the congregation began debating what to call me. Eventually they decided on “Yampabo” which means “God’s Gift.” Because I had spent so much time in those villages, I had begun to take ownership of them. Little did I know that the people were also starting to take ownership of me. It was such a simple gesture, but one with tremendous meaning. With a new name they claimed me as their own.
Since coming back to Niamey, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on these moments. What makes them remarkable to me is not the incredibility of the experiences, but their simplicity. It’s remarkable that the things that appeared so simple, if not vulgar, could be so full of significance. The secular tradition of tossing money became an act of worship, a hole in the ground became a baptismal, and a new nickname became a claim to a people. And sometimes the things that appear so meaningful end with you covered in pee.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Maradi
The first time I came to Niger, I remember riding with Brent from the airport to his house for dinner. I don’t remember exactly what we talked about on the ride, but I do remember him telling some of the most incredible stories about his work here. It seemed every landmark we saw and every person we met had its own story. He had an anecdote about everything and everybody. They weren’t boring stories told to fill silences, but amazing histories of God manifesting himself to His people. At first I thought he had so many great stories because he has been here so long. However, after only three months of living here, I’ve learned that there must be a wealth of stories that were either forgotten or just overshadowed by something greater. It would be a herculean task to remember them all because each day brings a new tale of God’s miraculous provision and His divine intervention on behalf of His people.
Two weeks ago I left to spend some time in Maradi with Dan and Earlene Ligon. While I was there I was able to glean from the wealth of their knowledge and experience. Each morning, over a cup of coffee, they would share about their life and ministry in Maradi. Just like Brent, they seem to have an infinite store of fantastic stories. And after we had drank what Lawali calls our “earthly anointing” we would head out to join some stories in the making.
The primary purpose for my 700 km voyage east was to visit churches there that are already engaging in small business projects. There are four churches in the region that have been given grants to invest in projects of their choosing. The goal is for these projects to be a blessing to the community and to supplement the meager tithes of the congregation. Dan and I visited each of these churches to get an update and to offer advice and encouragement. The projects ranged from taxis to gardens, from street-side shops to raising sheep and bulls. During these visits the business side of my mind came to life, excited by the projects that are already realizing profits and challenged by those that are struggling to break even. After encouraging the pastors and offering any advice I could, Dan and I would pray over each church and their business. We prayed that these humble businesses would grow into a major source of provision for the church and the community.
In one of my first updates I wrote about miracles, and how sometimes the miraculous is accomplished through the will of man. During my stay Dan and I drove out to Bunda Dallo, a Fulani village that is a living testament to those sorts of miracles. The village is just over 200 km north of Maradi. There the land is too dry and sandy for farming, which makes it ideal for the nomadic Fulani herders. Villages are loosely congregated around wells, which are never short of visitors (mostly cattle) throughout the day. We traveled to christen a new well that had been dug for the church. There is only one other well in the area that has water year-round. Come the heat of May this new watering hole will be in high demand. In their exodus through the desert, the Lord provided water for the Israelites from a rock. But now, thanks to Wesley’s Wells, the Lord will be providing water in the desert from a new well that is almost 45 meters deep.
The well is owned by the church, but managed by one of its loyal members, Ahmed. That night we stayed in the village with Ahmed. Sitting around the chai pot, Dan translated Ahmed’s story to me. Ahmed is the loving husband of three wives and the doting father of many children. He became a Christian many years ago when he saw a vision of Jesus walking through his village, asking him to come and follow. Shortly after his conversion, he presented his son, Magagi, to Dan to pray for healing. At the time, Magagi had over 50% curvature of the spine. It was so severely curved that one of his feet could not touch the ground when he stood upright. But Dan felt that the Lord had another way of healing Magagi. Some time later, a doctor came and visited the village and offered to fly Magagi to the States for a series of surgeries that would straighten his back. So, Ahmed signed over guardianship of his son so he could fly to the States for 3 months of all expenses paid medical treatment. Ahmed told us how, even three years later, the story of that miraculous provision gives him opportunities to share the gospel in his community.
In my two weeks in Maradi I didn’t just hear stories, but saw the fruit that they bear to this day. I visited Pastor Terah’s clinic, a dream that took over eight years to realize but now provides top-notch care to the community. Terah and I paid a visit to a mother that had, quite literally, just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Remarkably, it was a woman my mom prayed with for healing at that clinic nearly two years ago. Dan and I oversaw the groundbreaking of eight new classrooms at the Christian school Earlene manages, which has grown to be the second best school in the region. It is the only school in the state with a computer lab and has one of the highest graduation rates. I helped Earlene decorate a wedding cake for one of her teacher’s wedding and sat amongst the pastors Dan has trained during the ceremony. It was during those moments where I felt, in some small way, I had become a part of the stories I had heard and that in the same way they were becoming a part of my story. Maybe they will never be written in a book, and maybe they will be forgotten in a generation, but the fruit they bear will endure.
But the best story of all was a story that has been told for centuries. Dan and I attended a Christmas lunch with all the teachers of their school. They had asked Dan to share a message, but what he did was better than any sermon. “I want us to go around the room and each share a part of the Christmas story.” And so we did. I tried to follow the story as it was told, piece-by-piece, in Hausa. I’m sure some of the details were forgotten, and some were definitely told out of order, but eventually the whole story was pieced together. The beauty of the telling of Jesus’ birth was that each person that told the story took ownership of it. It is a story that invites all who hear to become a part of it, to claim its protagonist as their friend, brother, Father, and savior. It is a part of those teachers’ story and it’s a part of mine. And each day we get to be a part of its next chapter.
Two weeks ago I left to spend some time in Maradi with Dan and Earlene Ligon. While I was there I was able to glean from the wealth of their knowledge and experience. Each morning, over a cup of coffee, they would share about their life and ministry in Maradi. Just like Brent, they seem to have an infinite store of fantastic stories. And after we had drank what Lawali calls our “earthly anointing” we would head out to join some stories in the making.
The primary purpose for my 700 km voyage east was to visit churches there that are already engaging in small business projects. There are four churches in the region that have been given grants to invest in projects of their choosing. The goal is for these projects to be a blessing to the community and to supplement the meager tithes of the congregation. Dan and I visited each of these churches to get an update and to offer advice and encouragement. The projects ranged from taxis to gardens, from street-side shops to raising sheep and bulls. During these visits the business side of my mind came to life, excited by the projects that are already realizing profits and challenged by those that are struggling to break even. After encouraging the pastors and offering any advice I could, Dan and I would pray over each church and their business. We prayed that these humble businesses would grow into a major source of provision for the church and the community.
In one of my first updates I wrote about miracles, and how sometimes the miraculous is accomplished through the will of man. During my stay Dan and I drove out to Bunda Dallo, a Fulani village that is a living testament to those sorts of miracles. The village is just over 200 km north of Maradi. There the land is too dry and sandy for farming, which makes it ideal for the nomadic Fulani herders. Villages are loosely congregated around wells, which are never short of visitors (mostly cattle) throughout the day. We traveled to christen a new well that had been dug for the church. There is only one other well in the area that has water year-round. Come the heat of May this new watering hole will be in high demand. In their exodus through the desert, the Lord provided water for the Israelites from a rock. But now, thanks to Wesley’s Wells, the Lord will be providing water in the desert from a new well that is almost 45 meters deep.
The well is owned by the church, but managed by one of its loyal members, Ahmed. That night we stayed in the village with Ahmed. Sitting around the chai pot, Dan translated Ahmed’s story to me. Ahmed is the loving husband of three wives and the doting father of many children. He became a Christian many years ago when he saw a vision of Jesus walking through his village, asking him to come and follow. Shortly after his conversion, he presented his son, Magagi, to Dan to pray for healing. At the time, Magagi had over 50% curvature of the spine. It was so severely curved that one of his feet could not touch the ground when he stood upright. But Dan felt that the Lord had another way of healing Magagi. Some time later, a doctor came and visited the village and offered to fly Magagi to the States for a series of surgeries that would straighten his back. So, Ahmed signed over guardianship of his son so he could fly to the States for 3 months of all expenses paid medical treatment. Ahmed told us how, even three years later, the story of that miraculous provision gives him opportunities to share the gospel in his community.
In my two weeks in Maradi I didn’t just hear stories, but saw the fruit that they bear to this day. I visited Pastor Terah’s clinic, a dream that took over eight years to realize but now provides top-notch care to the community. Terah and I paid a visit to a mother that had, quite literally, just given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Remarkably, it was a woman my mom prayed with for healing at that clinic nearly two years ago. Dan and I oversaw the groundbreaking of eight new classrooms at the Christian school Earlene manages, which has grown to be the second best school in the region. It is the only school in the state with a computer lab and has one of the highest graduation rates. I helped Earlene decorate a wedding cake for one of her teacher’s wedding and sat amongst the pastors Dan has trained during the ceremony. It was during those moments where I felt, in some small way, I had become a part of the stories I had heard and that in the same way they were becoming a part of my story. Maybe they will never be written in a book, and maybe they will be forgotten in a generation, but the fruit they bear will endure.
But the best story of all was a story that has been told for centuries. Dan and I attended a Christmas lunch with all the teachers of their school. They had asked Dan to share a message, but what he did was better than any sermon. “I want us to go around the room and each share a part of the Christmas story.” And so we did. I tried to follow the story as it was told, piece-by-piece, in Hausa. I’m sure some of the details were forgotten, and some were definitely told out of order, but eventually the whole story was pieced together. The beauty of the telling of Jesus’ birth was that each person that told the story took ownership of it. It is a story that invites all who hear to become a part of it, to claim its protagonist as their friend, brother, Father, and savior. It is a part of those teachers’ story and it’s a part of mine. And each day we get to be a part of its next chapter.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wedding Crashers
Last Saturday I had the privilege of attending a Gremanche wedding in one of Hassan’s villages. As one might expect, it was a totally different experience from a traditional American wedding. I can not say it was a traditional Gremanche wedding because traditionally marriage occurs without ceremony: a man chooses a bride, he pays the dowry, and then takes her home at the agreed upon time. But the church in this village has grown, and one of the members wanted to have a Christian wedding. This was to be the village’s first Christian wedding, which promised to be a different experience for villagers and visitors alike. It did not disappoint.
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
I rode to the service with Rodrigo, who would be giving the charge of marriage, Pastor Boube, who would be performing the ceremony, Juanita and two other pastors who would be translating. We arrived and greeted the groom, who could not be distinguished from the guests if you didn’t know otherwise. Upon our arrival the guests began to fill the thatched church and take seats on the logs and stumps used as pews. The drummers began to play an opening song and the whole church began to sing along.
After three songs, the bride was still nowhere to be found. I wasn’t concerned because it is normal in American weddings for the bride to make her grand appearance a little tardy. However, I could tell Hassan is beginning to wonder where she is. The translator goes out searching for her long enough for Rodrigo and I to wonder if there was going to be a wedding after all. In a few minutes he returns, saying, “Don’t worry, she’s coming. She’s just finishing grinding her millet!”
I bet no American girl’s fantasy of her wedding day involves pounding millet into grains. No, instead she’ll have bridesmaids to help her do her hair and makeup hours before the service. All will rise to greet her when she enters the sanctuary. Her pedicured feet will walk a path paved with rose petals to a pedestal where attendants will lift the train of her overflowing gown. Not so for this young Gremanche bride. The father had chores for her to finish because the next day she would belong to her husband and would prepare the grains for him.
When the bride finally arrived, the service could commence. After a couple more songs, Rodrigo preached and gave the marital charge. As Pastor Boube rose to begin the ceremony, the bride’s father made his first appearance. He didn’t take a seat, but started arguing with the groom. Rodrigo and I, who could not understand a word of the discussion, are looking at each other thinking this wedding is going to be cut short. Then, just as suddenly as he came, the father ran off, and nobody gave chase. I asked Hassan what the argument was about and he explained in between chuckles. “The bride’s mother has just recently given birth and is right now recovering. That’s why her parents aren’t here. The father just came to ask the groom for $50 so he could buy medicine for his wife. He said ‘You are part of the family now, it’s part of your responsibility.’” The service has not even begun and the father-in-law-to-be is asking the groom for money! The groom said he would discuss it after the service, once he was officially a part of the family.
The scene was such a stark contrast to the loving father who affectionately kisses his daughter on the cheek as he gives her hand to the groom. That father would nervously announce that it is he who gives this woman to be wed. He would then take his seat and observe with a mixture of pride and reluctance. He would have paid thousands of dollars for the ceremony and the celebration immediately following, and probably would not have asked the groom to help pay.
When the ceremony ended, the bride and groom walked their separate ways. The groom went to his house to prepare it for his bride who would arrive later that evening. The bride went to gather things to take to her new home. Later that afternoon we saw the groom at the village mill, talking to the neighbors. It was then that it struck me: their wedding day would pass almost like any other day. There would be no way of marking the significance of the day, aside from the simple ceremony of the morning. Immediately after life began to go on as normal, but for the newlyweds the standard of normal would never be the same.
Rodrigo, Juanita and I joked about it the whole way home. We joked because the wedding day was so insignificant compared to the significance of marriage. But, despite the seeming indifference with which the wedding was treated, I know that they place more importance on marriage than the day made it seem. During the actual ceremony, you could see a full comprehension of the commitment on the faces of the bride and groom. Though the groom was 21 and the bride maybe 15, they knew as anyone who gets married the importance of that day. They didn’t need tuxedos and gowns, flowers and feasts to understand that life had forever changed. The commitment was its own commemoration. It was a commitment that was made for the first and last time, and no amount of celebration could add to or take away from its significance. In that regard, it was just as beautiful as any wedding I had ever attended.
“Do you not understand? That is all over. Among times there is a time that turns a corner and everything this side of it is new. Times do not go backward.”
“And can one little world like mine be the corner?”
“I do not understand. Corner with us is not the name of a size.”
C.S. Lewis, Perelandra
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Drink the Sauce
For years I worked for a Japanese exchange program called High School Diplomats. Each summer, as part of my responsibility, I would help prepare a group of 26 high school students for a three-week trip to Japan. In encouraging those students to experience as much of the Japanese culture as possible, we always told them about one student who took our advice to the extreme. This guy didn’t want a bit of Japanese culture to escape his eye, his ear, and especially not his stomach. At every restaurant he went beyond eating whatever was served. At the end of each meal he would also drink the bowls of dipping sauces. To the point of absurdity, he tasted Japanese culture down to the last drop.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
The past few weeks I have been drinking the sauce of African culture here in Niger. I have spent almost as many nights sleeping in village huts as I have in my own bed. I’ve eaten almost as many meals with my hands from a calebasse as I have from a plate with fork and knife. I’ve had experiences that wouldn’t be possible anywhere else in the world, and I’ve had experiences that would look ridiculous anywhere else in the world. I have tasted the sauce and found it is sweetest when you feel like you are drowning in it.
First, let me say that this Thanksgiving I was incredibly thankful to be healthy. Driving in Niger is as much of a cultural experience as anything else, and I have embraced one of the most African means of motorized transport… the motorcycle. While efficient, convenient, and ultimately fun, it also the more dangerous way to get around town. On Thanksgiving I was in not just one, but two, bike accidents. I was sideswiped by a taxi that didn’t see me and collided with a car at a sandy intersection with no stop signs or clear right of way. Despite getting tossed once, I was fine, my bike was fine, and only minor scratches were done to the other cars. Thank the Lord for letting me survive that aspect of Nigerien culture that seemed to want to kill me that day.
The day after Thanksgiving I left with my friend Hassan for a weekend in the villages he pastors. Each weekend he holds six church services in four villages. I went along to encourage and help him in any way I could. Mounting our motorcycles, we rode for four hours into the African wilderness. Going where only pedestrians and bikers could go, we rode through lion hunting grounds, by elephant watering holes, and under monkey filled trees. I would have stopped to take in the view were it not so terrifying trying to keep up with the daredevil on the motorcycle in front of me. When we finally reached our destination we ate yams and rice and relaxed as the midday heat passed.
That night we held two services in two villages. We rode out to the first village down miles of winding and sandy roads. I preached in the first service, under the shade of a baobop tree: my second French sermon in as many weeks. By the time we finished the sun had long since set, which meant riding back along that windy, sandy road in the pitch dark. I had the pleasure of being the lead bike, with our translator and guide riding with me. Keep in mind: I’m only 24 hours away from my accidents. And let me add that driving in sand is like a perpetual hydroplane, except on a bike that can tip over. Swerving away from low hanging tree branches and jerking for turns at the last second instruction of our guide, we found our way back to our hut without getting out of second gear.
Waiting anxiously for our return was a group of 120 herders and farmers, hungry for the Word and Hassan’s teaching. Night services have a much larger turnout because the daylight working hours aren’t being wasted. So, under the glow of a dangling flashlight, Hassan preached to his church. I sat on the ground amongst the congregation. We clapped and sang songs of worship together and we prayed together. We all leaned in attentively as the one villager who could read shared the Word from the village’s communal Bible. Hassan preached on the passage and then answered the questions of those searching for truth. At the conclusion of the service, these farmers gave happily out of their poverty to the work of the church, proudly dropping pennies into the collection basket.
After the service, we returned to our hut where we shared a meal from a single calebasse. I would tell you what it was if I knew. It was too dark to see what I was putting in my mouth, but it was good. I then set up my hammock to try to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to the sounds of the village, you don’t really ever sleep; there are just parts of the night you don’t remember so well. Between the neighbor’s donkeys making all sorts of noise, the goats having sex right by my hammock, and the women pounding their grains at 4am, I “awoke” the next morning only slightly rested.
Saturday morning, after two services in two different villages, we rode on to the weekend market to buy lunch: mutton and milk straight from the cow. When we got to the market one of the men I sat with the night before was selling things out of his small corner shop. He was so excited to see us that he put his younger brother in charge of the shop while he showed us around. He then took me by the hand to lead me around. This is a Nigerien custom that, I must admit, I still cannot get comfortable with. It is perfectly normal for men to hold hands, interlocking fingers and all, as they walk down the street. It startles me every time a guy tries to hold my hand. But this time, embracing the culture, I walked through the market holding his hand the whole way.
That night, long after the sun had set, we hiked out to an empty field where the church was again waiting for us. They had already built a large bonfire and the drum skins had been warmed. Hassan opened with a welcome and a brief prayer. As soon as the Amen escaped his lips the drummers began to beat a song of celebration. The whole congregation joined in, singing and dancing praises to God. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. I felt as if I were spying on an ancient ritual, a rhythm and movement that had been practiced for generations. The Gremanche tribe has been singing and dancing for centuries. But this newly converted Gremanche village has found a new song to sing and a new step to dance. Their drums echoed through the heavens and their dancing shook the earth as they offered praise to their savior the best way they knew how. They praised a God who has redeemed them, not sought to reform them. They worshipped as a culture that has been reborn, not replaced. And the whole time God smiled back with the most brilliant array of heavenly bodies that can fit in one sky. I joined in, dancing as foolishly as David, until I was covered with sweat, dust, and ash.
The next morning we had one last service before heading home. The journey home was just as long and windy as the trip there. When we finally made it back I was exhausted, but so satisfied. Hassan and I toasted the journey with ice-cold cokes. He had shared so much with me over the weekend. He shared his food, his water, his hut, and even his motorcycle fuel when I ran out. We talked about everything under the sun during our journey. But most importantly, he put the sauce-bowl of Nigerien culture in front of me and showed me how to drink it. And it was good.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
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.
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
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
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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.
****
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.
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.
****
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.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
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