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
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