A Pastor's Blessing
He never expected to find such generosity amid such poverty, but a Kenyan pastor and his congregants welcomed him with open hearts.
The e-mail came to my in-box sounding like something written by the Apostle Paul 2,000 years ago: “Dear Hamlin, Praise the Lord, brother, may the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all, brethren. Mine is to thank the Almighty who made us to meet. Live long and God bless you.”
Except this message came from the very modern-day Pastor Cornelious who runs a church in Naivasha, Kenya. And, like the best messages from friends–brethren, as he would term us–it had photos attached. More about the photos in a minute. First, let me tell you how I met Pastor Cornelious.
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Last January my wife, Carol, and I went to Kenya with our friends Richard and Gretchen. They wanted us to see the well they were digging in a dry part of the country, where Richard had served in the Peace Corps years ago.
They had raised money through their church, and although our participation was modest, they insisted we join them, along with two other friends, on this once-in-a-lifetime trip.
We’d never been to Africa and we both were a little hesitant. Quite frankly, we were worried about seeing a lot of poverty.
Kenya is not the poorest country in the world by any means, but with a booming population and limited resources, its per capita income puts it near the bottom tenth. How relaxing would a vacation be among people who had so little?
The first part of the trip was a dazzling safari. Our small group had six days and nights sleeping under the stars.
The wildlife was spectacular. We saw buffaloes, zebras, rhinos, hippos swimming in muddy lakes, gazelles racing, antelopes, wildebeests, howling hyenas, baboons, monkeys, the shy dik-dik, graceful giraffes and herds of elephants.
The snows of Mount Kilimanjaro lurked in the sky like a cloud against the brilliant blue and we counted all the different kinds of birds–89 that I recorded in my journal. This from a city boy who wouldn’t have been able to tell you the difference between a sparrow and a wren.
On Saturday night we were coming back into civilization, staying at a lodge overlooking Lake Naivasha before continuing on to the village whose well Richard and Gretchen were helping to fund.
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The lodge had been built when Kenya was a British colony, and it reeked of England: old photos on the walls of ladies having high tea on the lawn, bouquets of roses in all the rooms. We asked if there was a church in the town where we could worship in the morning.
“Of course,” we were told.
Sunday at nine, we got into our jeep and drove through the village on dirt roads, children waving and asking for sweets. The church was a modest whitewashed concrete-block building with a dirt floor. The name, though, showed great aspirations: Living Water Gospel Church World Wide.
There were six plastic chairs inside, set up in front for the six of us Americans. The rest of the congregation sat on rough wooden benches, studying falling-apart-at-the-seams English Bibles.
I gazed up at the tin roof. A lot of holes, which made me wonder what happened during the rainy season.
There was no fancy acoustic system, no stained-glass windows, no recessed lighting, but the hand-painted message at the front was confident: “Whoever believes in me as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow within him” (John 7:38).
And taped on a sidewall was a black-and-white sign that would have been recognized by any worshipper. A cell phone with a line going through it.
The worship began with music. The singing, led by the teens, was accompanied by one drummer and one kid clanking a tire rim. We joined in, clapping and swaying, doing our best to approximate the Swahili.