In Nairobi,
Kenya; in the cities of Naivasha and Narok, and in the towns and on the roads
between, you see motorcycles and matatus
(village to village taxi vans) and occasionally private cars which have faith
written all over them.
Scripture
citations are blazoned on the windshield, and you see stencils proclaiming the
“Power of Prayer” – even one matatu
covering multiple bases: “Inshallah” on the windscreen, and “No Jesus, No
Peace” on the side window.
Our bumper
stickers have nothing on the Kenyan vehicular proclamation practices.
On those roads,
the group I traveled with also passed buildings with signs proclaiming
“Blessings Butchery,” “Amazing Grace Apartments,” and “Anointed General Store.”
From what’s
visible on the highways and streets, it would be easy to imagine that Kenya is
where the Kingdom of God has come. (And in that
case, I should perhaps alert you that in that kingdom they drive on the other
side of the road!)
My time in Kenya
was an immersion into a different world –which is in fact what Jesus proclaims
about the kingdom of God.
Jesus tells us
that God’s kingdom is a time and place where the Word of God is the lens
through which we see one another, our work, and the world around us. A life in which God’s Word is lived in
ordinary, daily, world-changing ways.
That happens in
Kenya.
And it happens
here, too, in some ways and times and places.
And in Uganda, and
Canada, and Brazil and Egypt;
even places full
of danger and fear.
Do not fear, Jesus says, for it is God’s pleasure to give you the kingdom. It is God’s delight to bring us into
that way of being where we live in the fullness of God’s will and promises.
Nice, yes?
Very nice. But it’s worth noting, too, that this
assurance is bracketed by and embedded in Jesus’ instructions to all of us to
be ready, watchful, alert, and focused on God’s kingdom, rather than the
desires and anxieties that line our daily paths.
Our eagerness
for the kingdom, our readiness to recognize it and join in, is just as
important as God’s delight in bringing the kingdom to us.
That’s what I
saw in Kenya, on all those windshields and storefront signs. I believe that the people who name their
bikes, taxis, and roadside shops for psalms and blessings are anchoring
themselves in God’s promises, equipping themselves to be alert – on the road,
at work, at home, at all times – for the presence of God’s kingdom in all those
places where daily anxieties, desires, fears, burdens and boredom are most
likely to claim us.
Kenya, like the
kingdom of God Jesus teaches about, lives in the tension between blessings recognized
and daily injustice; between grace celebrated and voices silenced; between
unearned pain and answered prayer.
There’s still vast
injustice and pain in Kenya, as in so many places.
Kibera, the
largest urban slum in Africa – in many places free of running water or
electricity – sits a just few kilometers from the Nairobi National Park, full
of international tourists (yes, me) clicking expensive cameras at giraffes,
ostriches and lions.
And government
mansions are built and protected by armed security, while Nairobi County has no
working fire engines to respond to a fire at the airport.
And in the midst
of this, every day, Kenyans count their blessings, praise God, and paint their
faith across the windows of their vehicles, stores and homes, where it’s neither
ironic nor a dream, but profoundly real.
Faith is the assurance of things hoped
for; the conviction of things not seen. That’s what we
heard this morning. But it takes the
400 year old King James Version to get the English translation right:
Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
Faith is
reality. Faith is proof.
Faith is not
wishful, or light, or magical thinking.
Faith is the
reality of our deepest hope, distinct and substantial with weight and momentum.
Faith is verification of the things we cannot see that matter most:
relationship, love, promises and peace.
Think about
faith in your life,
in our world,
here in and near Lombard.
I know that many
of you make a habit of counting your blessings.
Where have you
already touched the truth of your deepest hopes?
In your
children, or grandchildren? In your spouse or a dear friend?
Have you touched
hope in a community that embraces the lost and the broken?
In simple joy of
living?
Where can you
experience the substance of your
hope, the reality of the kingdom of God, here and now?
When have you
known proof of the things you cannot see?
Have you been
able to act on something because you
love someone? Or because you are loved?
A week ago, I
flew across the Atlantic on prayer more tangible than an economy class
seat. Have you felt prayer
lifting and supporting you?
Have you known peace, while living in a world
that’s full of anxiety and conflict?
That’s faith.
Your actions,
when you act in the confidence of those things we can’t see.
Our experience
of hope living and growing.
That’s faith.
And that’s the
kingdom of God.
The one that you
and I are supposed to be watching for, now, yesterday, tomorrow, and always.
In Limuru, I
rode in a taxi with “Psalms 121” across the windshield in letters bigger than
my hand. Some of the Episcopalians
in the car promptly began quoting to each other the beginning of that psalm:
“I lift my eyes to the hills – from where
will my help come?”
considering it
apt for the potholed mountain roads we were traveling.
And then our
driver quoted the last verse instead,
“This is the
Psalm,” he told us, “that says ‘God will protect you on all your journeys,
coming or going, now and forever,’ and that is what
this car means.”
Indeed. That car
is two tons of solid faith, with weight, and momentum.
Faith which is
the substance of our deepest hope; the proof of what we do not see.
Faith which is
the living truth that the kingdom of God embraces us, now,
in traffic, at
work, shopping, playing, fighting for justice, or praying at home.
The sign on my office says “Calvary,” and my business card says, “Reach out. Receive. Rejoice.” Those expressions of faith come with the job.
But maybe it’s
time to think about my car, too.
About faith,
visible and substantial, in the solid metal and plastic of my daily journeys.
What would your car say,
about real,
substantial faith,
if you went home
today and painted your truth on the windshield?
Thanks, Emily, for the poetry and the inspiration. I especially love the way you ended, pulling the stories together.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Linda!
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