One Sunday in Africa

We went to Moduli yesterday for worship. To those who live here, it was just another Sunday at Monduli. But I had never been there. We drove 50 minutes to reach it- across a Maasai plain then turning toward the hills to a small village sprawled out amongst thorn bushes, little dips and gullies. With green hills making you look up to see the sky. Maybe I should have taken a picture. But the people here don't like pictures being taken. I respect that. Besides a picture is flat. And this was anything but flat. It was full of character, color, sound, smells...you can't take a picture of something that you'll see in your mind until you die.
Like a small tanish building of cinder and mud. Cement floor that was more like a dirt floor, simple benches neither painted nor plumb. There were glass windows looking very modern and unbroken-like something out of another world. Outside the cows walked by with their little boy walking behind giving a whack at a straggler. A sheep called and a hornet got stuck trying to get in the window.

We sat there on the benches and worshiped God. We sang in Swahili. I heard two amazing lessons. One on the purpose of our life on earth, by Jacob, and one on lessons from the rich man and Lazarus by Mr. George. But there was also the lesson of God's plan of salvation and worship- from a dirty little building in Monduli, Tanzania to the nice building in Cave Springs, Arkansas. Every time I come here, I'm struck again by the magnitude of God's plan. And also of the need to tell every person. Have you ever heard a lesson that's translated? Perhaps it gets tiring at times for those who live here. But to me it's something like a painting or a piece of music- the web it weaves, the English sentence, the Swahili sentence, hearing the words you recognize, seeing comprehension and encouragement in the dark eyes and nodding heads. Back to English, back into Swahili....

At then end of the service, the congregation doesn't just have a closing prayer and everyone stands up, picks up their purse and leaves. No, they sing a song and file out the building and shake hands down a line until everyone has shaken everyone's hand. Then they have a closing comment and then we're done. And you turn to the person next to you, talk if you can, smile if you can't and murmur "shikamu" the the elderly looking Momma who comes up to shake your hand again.
You stand in the hot sunshine with the wind pulling at your clothes and watch the Christians talking together, the white with the brown. The mommas gathering together, holding babies, chattering quietly. The men standing around shaking hands and talking. It's natural and easy, they've been doing this for so long...just like we do.

And then we drive away, back down the uneven road and back home.

I wish each person could step outside and see what it's like to be in place that is so different but the principles are the same. The love and worship is the same. But I'll never be the same. It's too beautiful. It's too much.