Having completed my second weekend in Kenya, there are still many aspects of the novelty of my situation here which dominate the experience. Two doors down from my hotel is a half-finished commercial building of sorts which is currently being used as a preschool. I have been greeting these four and five-year-old children as I pass by each day, and on Tuesday I stopped to shake hands with a few of them. Before I really knew what happened I was walking through town on market day with a small troop of them trailing behind me and trying to hold onto my fingers wherever I went! I tried to make it clear to all of the local adults that were watching with my facial expressions and body language that this really wasn’t my idea, I wasn’t trying to steal children, and that I wasn’t grabbing their little hands in return. Most were able to laugh at me about it. Walking further out into the countryside later on that day another crowd of children started to gather to stare at me, but as I took out my camera one little boy jokingly yelled to his friends (as my guide translated it), “My mother says that white men eat little children!” So many interesting levels of irony there, but I’m glad they’re being taught some caution at least.
In visiting primary and secondary schools as a guest speaker I have been most enthusiastically received everywhere I have gone. My stories of a land far to the north where the sun never sets in the summer and where in the winter it gets so cold that my facial hair ices over as I walk to school drew as much wide-eyed wonder from the teachers as from the pupils at times, but very few seemed bored anyway. I have also fielded many rather difficult questions from these young listeners. One of the ones which stretches my competence a fair distance has been when I have been repeatedly asked honestly and innocently by these children, “Why is your skin so much lighter than ours?” My best guess at an answer is to say that my skin doesn’t work so well to protect me from the potentially harmful rays of the sun, so I tend to burn more easily; but one thing that light skin does slightly more efficiently than dark skin is to enable the body to produce vitamin D from sunlight, and given the limited amount of sunlight at times in the northern part of the world where I live we need all the vitamin D advantage we can get. But that being said, I know many dark-skinned people who have adjusted just fine to life in the frozen north, and I know it is quite possible for pale folk like me to adapt to climate conditions in equatorial Africa. Making a show of putting on some additional sunscreen as I said so tends to add to the comic effect.
A more difficult question has been, “Why do white people tend to be so much richer than black people?” Again, my best guess at an answer has been that some would say it is because in the part of the world where I live the struggle for survival against the brutal climate means that people have had to work harder just to survive, and that hard work in turn has generated many different forms of wealth. Others would say that the differences are based mainly on a history of white people coming and stealing from darker skinned people in various ways over the years. My guess is that the truth would lie somewhere in between those explanations. The important thing is to work on building a greater sense of solidarity between peoples of all skin colors, for which those with the greatest advantages must take the greatest responsibility.
Addressing the fact of the inequality between their lives and mine has been an omnipresent factor, as has the question of what they should be praying for God to do about the situation. The people of the Ahero area as a whole are deeply devout Christian believers, who struggle with the fact that God has quite apparently chosen not to materially bless them in the same ways he has blessed many countries dominated by white people. So when some tell me with a tight-lipped affirmation of their faith that they believe God will soon perform some miracle to help them out of their suffering and state of acute vulnerability I must confess it makes me rather uneasy. One young man who is a local school teacher of subjects similar to my own told me that there are churches of different sorts on average every square kilometer in Kenya, but many of them are based on a desperation for God to reach down and miraculously sort out their economic and health-related problems for them. Not coincidentally, as I have noticed, the word “miracle” figures strongly into the names of many of these churches.
Another aspect of this type of Christianity seeking miraculous relief from suffering found here, which has its most problematic roots in the United States, is the idea that perhaps rather than trying to fix things we should just wait for Jesus to come back in the role of warrior god to destroy everything and then let him rebuild afterwards. Even setting aside the whole question of “smiting the heathen” being problematically inconsistent with the character of Jesus’ message, this sort of belief makes me uneasy in large part because of the dangers of frustrated “rapture” expectations I witnessed in the US back in the 1970s. Sadly many of my friends from that period still haven’t learned from that experience, or outgrown that mentality.
The best I can offer as both medicine for this dysfunction, and as encouragement for those who come to church for such reasons, is a sermon I’ve given in the two churches here I’ve been invited to preach at: Defining the difference between faith and hope. My texts for this message have been 1 John 3:1-3, Hebrews 11:1, Romans 5:1-5 and 1 Corinthians 13:13; all relatively frequently memorized passages actually, but I’ve rarely heard them preached on in conjunction with each other.
The passage in 1 John is particularly interesting in its emphasis on John’s expectation of Jesus’ second coming. John could never have imagined in writing this letter that would reverently be read in churches over 1900 years later; he fully expected that Jesus would return during his own lifetime. The Gospel of John concludes with an anecdote of Jesus hinting that John could well stay alive until the second coming, but it finishes with a bit of back-pedaling on the matter: Jesus never actually promised that John would live to see the second coming, he only hinted along the lines of “Well, what if he does?” This is probably the earliest recorded excuse for high hopes for Jesus’ immanent return being frustrated. There’s a long history of later expectations and predictions of his immanent return causing more than a little embarrassment for those promoting such claims. But in 1 John 3 the “beloved disciple” takes a somewhat different angle on the matter. He’s basically saying that we believers are primarily citizens not of any earthly kingdom, but a heavenly kingdom soon to come. But the awesome thing, he’s telling his audience, is that they are already counted as God’s children, and the mystery of what sort of roles and privileges they could look forward to in the kingdom to come would just be icing on the cake. So the point, John is saying, is to appreciate what we have in terms of knowing that we are part of God’s family, and beyond that to keep pushing ourselves to be the best we can be because of the possibilities that lie ahead of us.
This brings out the most central aspect of the difference between faith and hope: Hope is a matter of being encouraged by a range of possibilities that we really can’t know about for sure. This is distinct from faith which is a matter of being sure about things that we can’t prove to ourselves purely on the basis of empirical data. Thus “faith is the substance of things hoped for…”
This is where Paul picks up the thread in Romans 5. Through faith in what Jesus has done for us we know we have peace with God. That’s the big thing. Beyond that we get excited about the possibilities of God’s glory coming and making all of our dreams come true. But that’s not the end of it; we can also be thankful that we have difficulties in the meantime because of the character that they build in us. That character that comes through facing difficulties (the old “no pain, no gain” principle) is a huge part of why we can somewhat expect good things to come, even though we’re not sure about them.
Beyond that, the hope we have because of knowing that we are part of God’s family and believing this will bring to us good things on all sorts of other levels is a different matter than crying out that Jesus is coming and that he is going to show everyone that we were right and they were wrong all along –– or believing that we really don’t have to worry about the mess we’ve made of our lives and our societies because Jesus is coming back soon to clean up after us. That latter kind of hope has a long history of making people rather ashamed. The hope based on being able to genuinely connect with God and his people, and expecting that in one way or another we will reap benefits from that, is a whole different kettle of fish.
This goes back to my personal 5 Cs of happiness theory: Faith is a matter of certainty about the top two: Confidence and Connection. We can know for sure that we are important in God’s eyes in spite of ourselves through faith. That kind of confidence is key to believing in my value as a person. Beyond that, the evidence that I can have to justify such confidence is the capacity God gives me through this faith through connection –– to be part of something bigger than myself in terms of loving and being loved by others. Those are the faith issues –– the matters that I believe God wants us to know for sure about. The lower three Cs of happiness –– Comparison, Comfort and Control –– are not intended to be matters of faith, but rather matters of hope for us. We don’t really know for sure whether God will enable us to come out better than the next group in terms of various measures of success. We can’t be sure about having freedom from physical suffering in life just because we are believers in God. Having freedom to do whatever we would like –– even when those are really “good things” –– isn’t something we can count on in too many specifics. What we can do in those areas is to continue to hope based on the strength we gain through faith in the two more important areas of happiness.
This is not to say, however, that factors of comparison, comfort and control are irrelevant to the believer’s life. We are still taught to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread.” We are expected to expect blessings from God also in these “lesser” areas. Beyond that, chapter 2 in the New Testament book of James makes it clear that if we genuinely do connect to God and each other through faith, we will be paying attention to the comfort and control needs of others as part of our connection with them: If we say we love God but don’t care about his people, we’re lying. If we say we care about his people but don’t bother to do what is in our power to help them, we’re lying. But that is more a message that Europeans need to hear than a message that the poor of Africa need to hear. The message that the poor of Kenya need to hear is that there are three things that abide –– that will always be important –– faith, hope and love, with love of course being the greatest.
As I start winding down my adventures here I am incredibly thankful for all of the experiences I have had. Connecting with the poorest of the poor here has been infinitely more gratifying to me than a safari to see lions and elephants. Nothing against those who travel to this part of the world to see lions and elephants, but what I’ve been doing here is just far more “my thing” and the way I appreciate being able to spend parts of my vacation time. Now the challenge is to see if I can take what I’ve gathered here back to Europe and use it to do some “real and lasting good” for those whose needs I’ve been confronted with.