Tears and time to reflect – that’s what Sunday in Nairobi provided. With Drew sick, the rest of our team left early for the hour drive to Thika to join two local churches for worship. I stayed behind to take care of my boy.
Kurt was set to preach in one church while Dave Stone, our Senior Pastor, spoke in another. I wanted to be there for Kurt and I had so looked forward to experiencing a Kenyan church service. (I was finally gonna cut loose and dance in the aisle!) Still, the Lord knew best what I would need. Drew slept most of the day, which opened a window of quiet in the Father’s presence. Just the thing for releasing tides of tears prompted by the previous day’s visit to the slums.
Overwhelmed and struggling to accept the extent of Kibera’s poverty, I wrestled with the Lord. “What can be done, Lord?” And more specifically, “What can I do?”
As I listened for His still small voice, the Father very unexpectedly turned the dialogue from physical poverty to spiritual. Then things got very personal as He reminded me that His Son Jesus left Heaven to come to my Kibera. Even though He was rich, yet for my sake He became poor.
Emmanuel. God with us in our slum.
The filth of my sin, the stench of my pride, the barrenness of my constant self-interest – Christ came into my poverty and became sin for me so that I might become the righteousness of God in Him. What a picture Kibera is of my soul without hope and without God in this world.
New tears, but this time tears of gratitude. What a Savior. Fully God and yet He put on flesh and dwelt among us.
But the lesson wasn’t over. I had asked Him questions. Now the Spirit had one for me: Why would anyone who had been set free from a life in the slums choose to live there again?
It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Why then do I return to pride, selfishness and just in general, leaning on my own understanding? He washed me whiter than snow. Why do I slink back to sewage filled paths? Rescued from independence and brought near for a glorious life of dependence on my Lord, it makes no sense to walk those dirty, old streets I used to tread.
Tears again. Tears of repentance.
The Father knew exactly which sermon my stubborn heart required that African Sunday. His object lessons always open my eyes. I came home with a renewed commitment to be still and know that He is God; to wait on Him, follow Him and obey.
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