Lessons Learned #1- Walking Among the Oaks, Rebuilding the Ancient Ruins

Well, Rebecca and I are wrapping up our time in Kenya, and sadly, probably wrapping up this blog as well. So as we wind up nearly 2 years worth of blogging about our time here we wanted to take some time to discuss some of the ways we've grown in our understanding of God and His world through this experience. As with many shorter-term missionaries, when we look back at our time it can be difficult to see how little we've accomplished, but we're blown away by how much Jesus has taught us. We want to share some of that with you over the next several weeks, starting today:


Friends from NCF, Magadalene (Right) is a Sudanese refugee
who runs a small craft business that employs other refugees



If anybody had asked me why I spent my senior year looking for a way to get over to Africa as a missionary, my answer would have been immediate: read Luke 4. Jesus, quoting Isaiah 61, declares that the Spirit of God has anointed Him "to preach good news to the poor . . . to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." Jesus' kingdom, I would have said, is inextricably bound up with the prophetic vision of radical justice, mercy, and blessing for the poor. If we want to follow Jesus, we'll embrace his kingdom vision and serve the poor like he did. If the gospel ain't good news for the material poor, it ain't Jesus' gospel. 

It's a good question to ask ourselves from time to time, particularly in so-called vocational ministry: why are we doing what we're doing?  Why are you going on a short-term missions trip to Africa? Why do you volunteer at the soup kitchen? Why are you on the deacons board or the outreach committee at your local church? Maybe like me, your primary answer would be something like, "Jesus loves these people. They have needs that I can help them with. This is part of God's kingdom."

If so, then I think you've got fully half of the reason why God calls us, the affluent, the "haves," to ministry to the poor, the "have-nots." Because it is 100% Biblical to say "Jesus loves the poor and so should I. I can help." But if I've learned one thing about ministry among the poor over the last year it's that this is only half the story.



Our friend Agnes and her (huge!) family



The other half comes from the rest of the Isaiah passage that Jesus' quoted.* "They (the formerly poor, brokenhearted, captives, and debtors) will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor. They will rebuild the ancient ruins . . . they will renew the ruined cities." You see, Jesus rescues the poor for a reason: he wants to use them to change the world.  It's a theme that runs the course of the Bible from beginning to end, from Yahweh's choosing of pagan-and-as-good-as-dead-Abraham to found His chosen people and stuttering-hesitant-murdering-Moses to lead His people out of bondage, to the early church era, when God in all His foolishness chose the weak things to shame the strong, the lowly and despised things to overcome the things that are.

Now where does that lead us, the materially strong, the intellectually educated, the confident and young children of privelege who go out into the world to "help those poor people?" It leads us to realize that Jesus Christ has chosen the outside of the camp as the center of His kingdom work. He chose a 13-year old pauper for his mother, podunk Nazareth for his home, blue-collar labor for his occupation, and 12 uneducated commoners for his leadership team. And therefore if we really understand the upside down nature of the kingdom, if we get God's special care and concern for the poor not just as projects but as fellow employees in His kingdom work, then we will run to the poor because that's where we'll find Jesus doing his most amazing kingdom work! It's a mystery difficult to explain, but I've come to believe that God calls people like me to serve the poor because that's the only way in today's society that I'm ever going to meet any of them, and He knows that without relationships with the poor and broken I'll never really get Him or what He's doing with the world.



One of our best group leader's with his father


Lesson 1 is simply this: if you want to understand the Jesus who spoke those words in Luke 4, you not only have to help the poor, you have to enter into real relationships with them. And through these relationships we'll find that the poor, as oaks of righteousness and rebuilders of walls, have a whole lot to teach us about Jesus. I have come to believe over here that living a Chrisitan life without relationships with the poor leaves you looking at Jesus with only one eye open. Because you miss a great deal of his ransomed-poor-transformed-to-oaks-of-righteousness work.

So why are relationships with the poor so important (besides the fact that Jesus calls us to them)? The answers are endless, but here are a few:

1. We learn what it looks like to really follow after Jesus. Truth is, for most of us, it's easy to follow Jesus, or at least to think we're following him. Not so for the poor. A few stories will illustrate the point. We have Indian friends here who are unemployed and unmarried, at least partly because by becoming Christians they lost their entire web of cultural and familial connections which would normally provide them will all sorts of support (jobs and a spouse for sure). Or what about our friend Iris, who comes to church week after week, teaches the children in Sunday School, loves and greets everybody with the love of Jesus, but goes home to a slum, to a home where her grown children (and thus grandchildren) still depend on her financially, and as often as not can't find work to put food on the table? What about our pastor friend, who takes in about 300 bucks a month, and with that runs an orphanage for 20 some-odd kids, leads the church, runs a small neighborhood school, does high intensity evangelism and discipleship? And then who has gotten car-jacked at gunpoint twice in the last 18 months for his pains? What about our young friends who live in the slums, who have no decent living anywhere on the horizon, who live in a culture where you cannot marry until you have become wealthier than they can imagine, and are trying to follow Christ's sexual ethic in their lives in a culture absolutely ravaged by infidelity and promiscuity? What, for heaven's sake, about Gabriel, the farmer that taught me to plant rice, who has ten kids of his own and takes care of five others who've been orphaned? There are stories at home as well: my friends I met through Advance Memphis, who have risked their lives to leave the gangs, or given up on all the money they could easily be making by selling drugs. Regardless, relationships with the poor force us to realize that following Jesus is costly. They shake us out of our apathy.



Rebecca chatting it up in the rice paddy



2. They help us see the deadly lies we believe. The rich young ruler walked away from helping the poor because he couldn't do without his riches. You and I justify our extravagant lifestyles by making "needs" of everything from car-per-person families, to private school education from 3 yrs to 30, to flat screen TVs. Furthermore, we often secretly believe that a) God blesses us financially if we really follow Him, and b) wealth creates happiness. If you don't think you believe those last two, here's a test: when you've visited poor families, have you ever thought, a) "Wow, these people really need Jesus. They probably have a lot to learn about Him," or b) "How can these people be so happy with so little?" Because if you have, you, like me, have bought into the health-wealth-gospel through the back door syndrome so typical of our culture. But when I think of Ezekiel or Joyce, two farmers who live on less than an acre of land in wooden or mud huts and yet who are two of the happiest, most faithful Christians I have ever met, all of these lies fade away. God does not necessarily bless the faithful financially; sometimes they suffer financially more than anybody else. But neither do riches bring happiness! Because if they did, why are so many Americans struggling with a lack of fulfilment and feeling miserable amidst all the stuff, and so many Kenyan Christians rejoicing daily in the very little the Lord has provided?

3. We participate in the body of Christ. Plain and simple, I have rarely been as challenged in my walk by the physical presence of a church community as I have been at New City Fellowship Nairobi. Why? Because both culturally and economically we're worshiping together in a much more diverse group of people than any I have encountered before. Paul says that we're the body of Christ, but too often our lives are so homogenous that we hands forget about how much we need the feet. Relationships with the poor preclude this.

4. And finally, we meet Jesus in the face of the poor. Jesus said that "whatever you do to the least of these, my brothers, you have done unto me." Mother Teresa regularly talked about meeting Jesus in the face of the poor. Of course this always sounded like garbage to me . . . until I really found myself among the poor and in relationships with them. And then I realized there is a divine mystery here, that to the poor belongs the kingdom of heaven, and for those of us who are not poor, we encounter Jesus in a special way in our relationships with them.



Rebecca with two farmer friends. We regularly sleep in their
village in one of the homes of a group member.



In all these ways and many others our relationships with poor farmers in the rural areas and poor city-dwellers at church have forced us to rethink our reason for wanting to be a part of "incarnational" ministry. Yes, we want to help those who Christ loves. Yes, we want to serve the way he served. But we also desperately long for relationships with the poor, we long to walk among the oaks of righteousness and work alongside the builders of walls. We have so much to learn about God and His kingdom through relationships with all the people that we typically treat as ministry projects, or as total resource-deficits. May God give us His eyes! May God give us His heart! May God knit together His church, founded by the blood of Jesus, and held together by the Spirit, that all people from every corner under heaven, every race and tribe, and every economic class on the planet would find themselves drawn into the great body of Christ, and so meet the Head of All Things, Jesus Himself.

Peace,

Michael

*Richard Hays has written about "echos" of the Old Testament in the New Testament, and my guess is that many who heard what Jesus read from Isaiah 61 knew how the rest of the chapter went. Besides all of this, the whole idea of Jubilee was to give back to the poor resources that would allow them to provide. This was not a soup kitchen jubilee, but a resource/capital jubilee as farmers got back their land. So regardless, I think Jesus claimed the full Isaiah 61 prophetic vision for his own ministry.

Hospitality in the Hinterland

This past week Rebecca and I made the 4.5 hr trek up to our Meru group a little bit earlier than usual. One of our farmers, Samuel, had just insisted that we come and visit him at his home for a meal before the meeting started and we'd decided to do it.

We just happened to run into the group chairman when we arrived in the village after an hour and a half of bumpy, dusty, dirt roads. This was a real God-send since we didn't know where Samuel lived, nor had we any game plan for finding out..

I realized when we arrived that these farmers live in the most remote area of any in which we work. This is the "real Africa" that we all seem to have embedded in our subconscious: sun-scorched brown soil, tough, scrubby and sparsely scattered vegetation everywhere, an unimaginable amount of dust. And Samuel's farm and family is equally typical: he lives with his wife and children in one mud hut among many that scatter a large compound on which his father and mother and the vast majority of his siblings and their wives still live. The farm is 17 acres (which is enormous by the standards of some Kenyan regions), but there are four brothers who will divide the land when their father dies; the scads of small grandchildren who ran in and out of the shadows of trees and huts, laughing and pointing at the "mzungus," and munching on the leftover chappatis that we couldn't finish are a fitting reminder that that 17 acres will get real small real fast.

Samuel's wife beamed when we walked into the small hut where they'd set a small wooden table and chairs up for our meal. We ate delicious food, and lots of it. The children love visitors because it means that the "best foods" are prepared, and everything was cooked with obvious concern: the tea had lots of milk in it, there was plenty of chicken, and lots of chapatis (the tortilla-like food that people give to visitors and cook at Christmas). And by now we've been around long enough to read the signs and see that this family had gone well beyond what they had to do to welcome us, strangers from far away.

Halfway through the meal, Samuel leaned back and said, "You know in our African culture, we love visitors. We say they are blessings."

Those words shook me from my slumbers as it were; these Kenyans had saved to be able to serve us meat, had spent the morning preparing. They had given us costly food for them, their favorites for sure. They had washed our hands before the meal, and made sure we were comfortable at every moment through the entire affair. I know nothing of hospitality like this. I can't even imagine what it would be like to welcome someone with half of the lavishness with which they welcomed us. And then, when we have finished, this man and his beaming wife thank us for coming. "Visitors are a blessing."

When we come to a new place our home culture gives us the lens by which we evaluate what we encounter. But stick around long enough, and their culture will become a lens with which to look back at where we came from. And Kenya has taught us the beauty and joy of lavish hospitality, and more importantly taught us that hospitality is a gift that the poorest can give, and find great delight in the giving. And if that is true for Samuel of Meru, how much more for us, who have material wealth beyond the comprehension of these villagers?

The author of Hebrews tells us to be hospitable because in so doing some have entertained angels without knowing it. Well, if an angel is essentially a messenger of God, I can say confidently that some visitors have received hospitality from angels as well, and that the lavish hospitality of Kenyans has been refreshing, challenging, and a powerful ministry of God in our lives.

Peace,
Michael

Under The Vine and Fig Tree

Every man will sit under his own vine and under his own fig tree,

and no one will make them afraid . . .

                                                                                                                     Micah 4:4

Last week I went down to the village in Murang'a where our Pilot group meets, even though we didn't have a meeting scheduled for that day. The road to the village rambles through a hilly countryside along the Sagana river, with small farms crammed  with tobacco and vegetables crowding the river banks on one side of the road, and dry scrub land rising up into dusty hills on the other. And then the road suddenly spills out onto a broad plain. This too was once as dry and dusty as the surrounding hills, but the community irrigation project has turned the dry lands into a vast flood-filled plain separated into countless small rice-paddies. And a good number of those paddies belong to members of our group. The electric green of the rice creates a stark contrast with the brown shabbiness that covers most of Kenya just before the October rains, and amidst the green you can see spots of orange, purple, red . . . farmers in imported American t-shirts and traditional congas hard at work in the fields, as they have been since early morning and will be till after the sun sets. On clear days you can see Mt. Kenya rising up some 14,000 feet above the village, but on Tuesday it was totally hidden behind hot hazy clouds.


Mzee Gabriel

I went to Murang'a to learn how to plant rice from the oldest member of our group, Mzee Gabriel (mzee is a respectful Swahili title meaning "old man"). Gabriel shouted a greeting to me as I got out of my car, and I tiptoed my way along the walls of the rice paddies to get to him. In order to grow rice, farmers have to build mud walls about two and a half feet high around the paddies to keep the irrigation water in place, and these double as "sidewalks" of sorts to get around without wading knee deep in water.

Yet while it's difficult to get to Gabriel's farm because of all the mud and water, when we get there the problem is that there isn't enough of either. Farmers have to plow the land thoroughly and then to level it before planting. The leveling happens after the paddy has been flooded, and then it has to be flooded again for planting. But because the group is still waiting for new pipes, because it's difficult to regulate water rationing in the group leaving the members further down the system vulnerable to shortages caused by those upstream, because so many people are planting rice and the river's water has sunk down in anticipation of the rains, Gabriel hasn't gotten enough water for the last 2 weeks to plant. He had hoped Tuesday would be different, but at least by 10 a.m. when I arrived, it was still too dry.

Gabriel speaks almost no English, so it takes a few minutes for me to realize that he wants to try to rearrange some piping to try to get more water to his rice paddy. But I finally get it, and we spend the next 25 minutes hauling around plastic piping, trying several different combinations to get the water, which is powered only by gravity, to come flowing into his field. But to no avail.

The farmer's life here is shaped by water: almost never enough, and then suddenly and surprisingly so much that her crops rot in the fields, and the rivers become impassable. Even after irrigation infrastructure arrives there are issues of water management, of rising and falling river levels, of maintenance. And you wonder: how does anyone survive in a business where the biggest factor is totally unpredictable and totally out of the business owner's control?

Lucky for me, Gabriel's farm is pretty close to his sister's. She is also a member of the group, and she's got just enough water to allow for a little planting. And so Gabriel grabs his nephew and the three of us begin. While the nephew jogs over to the rice nursery to pick the seedlings we'll plant, Gabriel and I wade into mud up almost to our knees, and begin leveling the surface of the paddy to prepare for planting. The mud is deep, and I sometimes sink up to my knees, but the sun is hot overhead and the cool water which continues to pour into the field mixes with the soil and keeps me surprisingly cool.

Plant seedlings are amazingly tough. If you're new to gardening like me, you tend to treat your seedlings like fragile pieces of glass or china that might break at any moment. But the farmers rip them up by the bunch full and toss them around almost carelessly. They know that God's immense creativity has brought forth unmeasurable strength hidden within those bright green shoots, that if He hadn't few would ever make it to the table. And so I grab a fistful and, following Gabriel's lead, begin planting the seedlings deep in the muddy soil in tight rows. When you plant rice you're bent down to the ground almost the entire time, and you walk backwards, and I do neither of these with anything approaching either the speed or grace of my two teachers.

And as I bend over in that muddy rice paddy and shove fistfuls of rice into the dark sticky soil, we begin to talk and laugh and hear each other's stories afresh. I learn that Gabriel has 10 kids of his own, and takes care of 5 orphans besides, that he used to sell vegetables in Nairobi and that he rented this land when the water came and his business started to lose money. He asked me about America, about our farming, asked me to greet Rebecca. After about an hour we take a break when Gabriel's wife bring us mugs of hot uji, a porridge made from millet and sorghum. We hide under the shade of some nearby maize stalks and I drink two mugs. Throughout the day the exotic birds brought here by the sudden appearance of great quantities of water flit back and forth over our heads, nesting in the trees and resting on stalks of maize still standing in the fields.

And then, after another go at it, we finish planting the small section which has received enough water, and hide in the shade of a small solitary tree in the middle of the rice paddies. We eat heaping bowls of rice and beans. I say my good-byes, Gabriel thanks me for coming. I will go home to Nairobi, but he'll stay behind and work in the fields till after dark . . . till enough water comes for him to finish his field.

And I am struck again by the kindness and strength of these people, who know the land and get their daily bread by it, who welcome strangers like me into their homes, their work, their meals, their lives. Amazed by men and women old enough to be the parents of my parents who work from sunup till sundown, and yet who fill their working hours with happy Swahili chatter and often spend their lives working beside their siblings, their nephews and nieces, their own children. Amazed by all of this, and what's more by God's good creation, by His gifts mysteriously given and received. For is not all of this planting and harvesting just a more complicated gathering of manna in the wilderness? For who can explain how it is that the rice which we eat under that solitary tree comes from the small seeds planted in muddy soil four months previously? No, it is all grace and gift from start to finish, divine and mysterious. And my brief participation in this particular mystery is also a gift, a gift given last Tuesday and in nearly 700 other days spent in this country which is just different enough from my own to make God's great grandeuer unmistakeable. And for all of it, I am truly grateful.

Michael