A Day with the Family of God in Kenya

Out on a Sunday to the broad hills of valleys of the countryside southeast of Scott Theological College. George and I chat with Dr. Vundi as he races and crawls (depending on the road surface) toward Mukandawi.
On arrival Pastor Elijah greets us. His English is really good as he studied in Winnipeg for several years and has kids in Canada and the USA still. A son is in the US Navy.
A constant in African Inland Churches (the denomination Scott Theological College serves) is that the pastor and any guest preachers meet with the elders (all male) in the small room behind the sanctuary before the service.
Actually, the service has begun as the youth are doing a number before the congregation as they trickle in. The service begins a little before ten and will last until 1 o’clock. Its not a spiritual fast-food affair where you check in, fuel up, and check out like an air terminal. It is the event of the week and the families will relish every minute. More like a tailgate party indoors with all the neighbors.
I am an unexpected fifth wheel, with George the touted preacher. We all are briefed on how the service will unfold. We are on for a greeting, a duet, and George for the message from II Timothy 1.
The choir soon is doing its number. Thirty men and women in an African song about Adam and Eve. Swaying, shuffling, clapping, turning and bowing, with a lead singer and the oft-repeated chorus. A chap next to me and George on the bench whispers the general theme. It’s a long story that resonates with the hardships of life and of God’s grace in Jesus.
Meanwhile some folk just arriving come up to the platform area where George and I are sitting and put down plastic bags with goods inside. From previous experience I know what this is about. George pokes me when he sees one black sack has eyes peeking out—there’s a hen wondering why it has been deposited here. It gives George a suspicious look as if to say “What are YOU staring at—I’m just a lowly chicken in a plastic patch.” Later a second chicken-in-a-bag is placed beside it.
The youth choir sings. The women’ chorus comes next, followed by a song by a dozen or more widows of varying ages. Then approximately 25 men step out to do their part.
Soon the Boy’s Regiment is marching down the aisle under the command of a 13-year-old who barks orders. They do a military drill—real smart, too—that includes singing, parade rest, about face and all. A wee guy about two wanders up and stands between their legs imitating the drill. Priceless! All of this takes place before the platform on a section of the concrete floor that is about the size of the small parquet dance squares we see in restaurants and banquet halls.
Congregational songs are mixed in. An elder goes to the podium with an old-fashioned ledger book into which the notices for the week have been hand written. He reads through the list. Some papers are passed to him with late announcements.
The offering is on this wise. Are you ready? A young woman comes up and starts singing alone. First the pastors and elders file to the table that has four wood boxes with a sliding top attached to a 12 inch wooden handle. George and I follow the nod given us and join the queue. I slip in a bill. Next come the choir members and last the congregation, which by now (an hour and a half into the service) has swelled to about 300. We learn later that the congregation is growing so that they will have to enlarge for the second time so they can accommodate about 500-600. You can hardly have multiple services in sequence, can you, when things go in a single stream from 9:30 to after 2 PM?
Next the bags on the floor are tended to. A guy holds high the contents so those in the back can see. People without cash have brought produce—today it’s mostly mangoes—to be bid on by others. A big ripe watermelon goes for a good sum. Some teen girls take the bags to the purchasers and fetch the money up to the treasurer in front. There a few men’s neckties. Last they unclothe the chickens (one of which poops on the concrete floor) and have some brisk bidding. It’s not long drawn biddy wars here. Just a half-minute while two of three make offers. Soon the birds are placed, like orphans, in a nice family—with good references I suppose.
George and I go up to sing a duet. It’s an old piece I haven’t sung for decades: I Would Like to Tell You What I think of Jesus. It’s a bit rough when you have no rehearsal, but we get a big round of claps.
A prayer or two is mixed in to the order of worship. Then I give greetings from Ellie, my kids and grandkids, the church people. Later the pastor makes a point of a couple enjoying over 53 years of wedded bliss. I mentioned that I had left America under President Bush and would return under a son of Kenya, President Barak Obama. They all cheered. This is so huge in this country.
George now preaches a good simple down-home message about young Timothy who had advantages qualifying him for ministry even though he was young. He had a godly family background, good training under Paul, and gifts of the Holy Spirit. Vundi translates for him.
At the end George makes a presentation to the church from folks in Scotland who send money when George speaks about the church in Kenya. This is quite a few thousand shillings to enhance the widows’ ministry. (You know that HIV-AIDS has left even a lot of younger women widows.)
The pastor says he will report to George how the money is used. I know that some of it will be put into buying some ovens so there will be a way for them to sustain themselves by baking and even selling some breads and cakes.
George then comes up front for a reciprocal gift – a hand carved ebony elephant from the nearby Akamba woodcarvers. Photos snap as the woman in a bright red outfit makes a short speech.
I look at my watch. About 1:30 PM. Things will be winding down now, I think.
But the pastor comes down the aisle and starts speaking about grace. He turns every few sentences to tell George and me the gist of what he just said. He asks a question. There is a hand raised in the back. PTL. Then there is a second. It dawns on me. This is the altar call. No music, no tricks. Two young men come down front. The people are cheering. Pastor leads them in the sinner’s prayer. He asks me to come and pray for them. (Most people under 30 know English.) Then he signals for an elder and two women (whom he told me later he just picked on the spot) to come and say a word to these young guys. It’s beautiful to see their exhortations. The congregation extends their arms in their direction as prayers are made for them. More clapping. One of the men takes the mic and tells his testimony. He had gone to Tanzania to hear a band and have a few drinks. On the way back he had to walk part way and was met by a lion. He prayed that he would give his life if Jesus rescued him. After a tense few minutes the lion ambled off. He was here to make good on what Jesus had done for him. The other lad had been into drugs and his family had been praying for him. He finally turned himself in to the Great Physician.
A final song and prayer and the service ended—after 2 PM.
And you know what? I was refreshed and elated and exchanged greetings with dozens of people – kids, youth, men, women, old folks. We all KNEW we had been in the presence of Jesus, the Savior who lives and still changes lives.
We stayed with the pastor, elders and women leaders for a coke and some bread before packing up to go. And did I mention that George and I will be opening a fruit stand tomorrow? Many of the auctioned mangoes were given to us as a thank-you. George will give many of them away to the gatemen with the hungry mouths to feed.
En route home we stopped at the pastor’s house, where his wife, Grace, and last-born, Esther, had a good meal prepared in a lovely home. Cows were in the cattle shed. Planted trees lined the driveway. Flowers bloomed at the front entry. A nice modest home for Kenya countryside.
To me this is the church being pushed by the winds of the Holy Spirit rather than a model of church growth. Fueled by vital energy rather than budgets. And this is happening all over Kenya, all over Africa, all over India, South America. I am seeing an apostolic freshness here that I wish could be bottled and exported to Europe and America.
Why go to church of a Sunday for a Macdonald’s Happy Meal when you could stay for a multi-course feast and linger with the family in the Father’s House?