Reverse Culture Shock, The Black Panthers, and Kroger

For the first time in two weeks (although it seems much longer), it’s quiet. I’m sitting at home, alone, after returning from Burundi last night. Bonnie and Liz are at the store. There are no street noises, no children playing, no loud music, just blissful quiet.

Whenever I return from a missions trip overseas, I experience a certain degree of reverse culture shock. This trip it started on the bus ride from the airport to the parking lot where our car (and home) awaited. I don’t remember who was the first to make a remark, but soon all three of us were joining in. We noticed that the windshield of the bus didn’t have a hole and wasn’t cracked. Another noticed that there were actual lanes on the road that people seemed to respect. The third observed the lack of motorbikes whizzing in and out of traffic and the lack of bicycle taxis and pedestrians. In the video I posted above, you’ll spot all of these things in abundance. By the way, this video in no way communicates the sheer terror of a local African taxi ride. In case you’re wondering, closing your eyes doesn’t help much.

But the real shock came, as it always does, when we arrived home. Oh it doesn’t hit at once, but sometime within the first 24 hours I realize that, while by American standards our modest home may not seem like much, but the standards of the majority of the rest of the world, we are part of the über-wealthy. Most people reading that last sentence roll their eyes and go, “Yeah, yeah, I know.” But they don’t know. No one knows until they experience the crushing poverty of much of the rest of the world for themselves.

But this year my reverse culture shock took a slightly different form. The first night at home, all of us were completely exhausted. We had been awake for over 40 hours with only slight cat-naps on the plane for rest. I had the most energy of the lot of us (which wasn’t saying very much) so I went to the local Kroger for some frozen pizza. It was there that I thought, just for a moment, I was back in Africa.

I noticed in the store two extremely well-dressed black men in suits. That’s not all that unusual in North America. What struck my eye was the other black man in urban fatigues with an army insignia on his color (O-2), bolstering a sidearm. You see this in Africa on occasion, but I confess that I’ve never seen it in my local Kroger before.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, you really, really need to remember that I was sleep deprived. Liz tells me regularly that I’ll speak to anyone. That’s true. But this is a little over the top even for me. But I was tired. I wasn’t thinking straight. Seriously.

Well, in my sleep deprived brain, I associated the men in the suits with the body guard with Africa. So, being generally fearless and exhibting my usual lack of good judgment, I approached the one that looked like the leader and said, “Samahani Bwana, wewe onasema kswahili?”, which being translated is, “Excuse me Sir, do you speak Swahili?” The man looked at me with surprise and said, “Excuse me?” The bodyguard looked confused and squared his shoulders to me. I don’t think anyone felt threatened. I looked like I had just crawled out from under a rock. I felt like it too. I imagine they thought I was crazy. But…well…did I mention that I really really tired?

In my sleep-deprived state I was genuniely surprised by his answer and said, “Sorry sir, but usually you see an armed guard with two well-dressed men in Africa. Since I just returned from there about an hour ago, I thought you might be visitors.” It was only then that I saw the patch on the guard’s shirt. It had a panther’s head in a circle. A black panther’s head.

For the record, the man I approached was the perfect gentleman. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. I don’t remember the first name, but the last name was “x.” I appologized again and wished him a pleasent day. Then I headed for the frozen pizza.

Another man saw our exchange of pleasentries and greeted me as I walked by. He was also an African American but, while he flashed me a huge grin, he was less than complimentary to the New Black Panthers he kept watching closely. I don’t remember exactly what he said (I was really tired), but it was clear he knew the men involved by reputation and didn’t approve. He even knew Mr. “X’s” name.

When I checked out, the young man ringing up the ticket also commented on our (what was rapidly becoming famous) exchange. He didn’t have much to say about the black panthers, but was amazed that a white man like myself would even talk to them, let alone initiate a conversation.

To be candid, if I realized they were New Black Panthers, I probably would have avoided them. I would have refused eye contact and walked different aisles. But, and this should be no surprise, the reality was different than the reputation.

I’m still working through what conclusions to draw from this little encounter. I confess I don’t understand why someone requires an armed guard in a suburban Kroger unless it is part of a mystique they are trying to maintain. What I do know is this: I’m thankful to live in the United States, where personal armed guards are primarily for appearances, not protection.

They Burned a Car on Thursday

With any luck (as Calvin would say), this will be my last post from Africa. The bags are packed, we’ve settled the bill, and we’re sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Dorado waiting for Alain (Flory’s assistant) to arrive and take us to the airport.

I will be posting more videos and pictures from Africa in the coming days to be sure. I’ve tried over and over again to upload a couple of videos and some pictures using the hotel internet, but the power rarely stays on for the hours it takes to compensate for the glacially slow upload speeds.

Last night we said goodbye to Flory. We discussed next year, made a few plans, talked and laughed. He watched us play To Court the King, but we couldn’t coax him to play. He did lay hands on my dice, but it didn’t help. Liz was the big winner last night.

As we sipped our Coke Lights and relaxed, I discovered why we never left Bujumbura. We had been scheduled to travel 60 km south to a small church in the country on Friday. The trip, however, had been canceled at the last minute. When we asked Flory about it, he stated that most of the church would be working in the fields. So the visit was postponed until Sunday. I was to preach during the worship service, and we would all be visiting with members from the church. But on Saturday, Flory informed me that we would be staying in Bujumbura instead of traveling south. He didn’t really say why, but now I know, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story.

The last presidential election results were contested by certain elements in Burundi. Evidently only one candidate was on the ballot. I don’t pretend to know the intricacies of Burundian politics. But I know enough of Central Africa in general to not be surprised that there are rebel forces in the country very unhappy with the voting in general and the results in particular.

Evidently, and here’s where it gets a little fuzzy, the president was traveling to the south last Thursday. At least the President did something, somewhere that made the news. To show their displeasure with the election results, the rebels hijacked two cars and burned them—one on Thursday and one of Friday. This act of civil disobedience occured on the same road we would have been traveling. When Flory was informed of the rebel activity Tursday night, he canceled our Friday trip. He didn’t want us anywhere near such a potentially dangerous area. As it turns out, this was a wise decision. We would have been traveling that road when the rebels decided to strike. It very easily could have been us.

This is just another example of God’s providential care over us. Certainly I’m grateful to Flory for being careful regarding our welfare. But in reality it was God in his mercy who provided a protector for us, a member of his body to watch out for the weaker members—in this case, Bonnie, Liz and me.

As we sit in the lobby and wait for our ride to the airport, I am at ease. While any number of things can go horribly wrong between here and home, I can rest in the knowledge of God’s providential care for us.

On the Shores of Lake Tanganyika

A view of Lake Tanganyika from the resort we visitedToday is an unscheduled day of rest. We had intended to travel to one of the country churches here in Burundi. But the pastor informed us that few people would be there as today was the day to work in the fields.

So instead of hanging out in the cramped hotel, we took a taxi to one of the better resorts on the shore of Lake Tanganyika. The admission to the beach is free. But we all ordered a drink (two cokes and a bottled water) and split a pizza, just to give us a little bit of legitimacy.

This is evidently where the mzungu (white people) hang out. There is a family from France enjoying the swimming pool and a man from Italy watching the news. There are some Africans here as well, but they are evidently the wealthier members of the populace.

I confess it’s nice to sit here by the beach, enjoying the breeze, listening to the surf. We have several hours before we go see the famous Burundian Drummers rehearse. This is the one experience that I specifically requested, and I’m really looking forward to it.

There is free Internet here and it’s reasonably fast. Thus, I’m taking the opportunity to update my blog. You can’t imagine the frustration of trying to stay in touch with wireless Internet that is only marginally faster that dial-up. I thought that was just the Internet of Burundi, but evidently I was mistaken. At any rate, I have my iPhone and portable keyboard with me, so I’m taking advantage of the situation.

Last night Bonnie, Liz and I had dinner at Flory’s house. While we were there, Flory spoke of the events of the previous day, when my teaching of the brothers officially ended. The teaching ended just a bit early as there was some church business to discuss. Since this didn’t concern us, we went back to the hotel. Evidently, before they discussed the business of REMAC, they took some time to provide feedback.

I suspected that the teaching went well. I could see the men taking copious notes, nodding their heads as they wrote. But I had no idea of how God used our time together. Here are some of the comments Flory relayed to me:

“I knew that we couldn’t lose our salvation, but I had no idea that the indwelling of the Spirit was also permanent.”

“For the first time, I feel I can talk to the Pentecostal pastors and show them their errors.”

“The illustration of walking in the Spirit opened my eyes. This is the key to living godly”

“Now I understand what tongues are for and why we don’t have them today.”

To be honest, I don’t remember all the comments he shared because after the first few I was completely overwhelmed. Plus, the number of topics we discussed were many and varied. For while I had an outline to guide my teaching, whenever anyone asked a question, we stopped to discuss it. I figured that these men knew what needed to be discussed better than I did.

For example, one pastor asked about a man having more than one wife. While that isn’t even on the radar of people from North America, it is a problem here, especially when you head into the deeper parts off the rainforest. I found it interesting that no one was really sure if bigamy was actually against the law in Burundi and Congo DR.

It took a little bit to sort that question out. The answer isn’t as simple as some would make it. But when we were done tossing it around, the men were satisfied that they could handle that topic with confidence.

I also taught on the Dispensations: what they are, what are their characteristics, what are their purpose. As I showed them how each of the dispensations enhanced the glory of God you could almost see the light bulbs going off over their heads. When I asked if they had ever been taught this before, to a man they said no. Usually when I asked that question, there would be at least one or two men who knew of the topic at hand. But this was brand new material to them all. When I asked them if they understood, they all responded with an enthusiastic “yes” and began talking excitedly among themselves.

Forgive me for rambling a bit, but the last several days have been intense and overwhelming. It’s hard at the moment to put my thoughts together in an organized stream. As I sit here by the shore, enjoying God’s creation, they just seem to be tumbling out willy-nilly. But I trust you can sense the magnitude of what God accomplished here in Bujumbura this last week.

Thank you so much for your prayers, your financial support, and your encouraging words. As you partnered with us for the furtherance of the Gospel, the Lord has seen fit to honor all our efforts.

The only regret I have is that you can’t be here on the beach with me.

When Confederate Money is All You Have

The paper above is now a collector’s item. But for a long while, money issued by the Confederate States of America (which still maintains a government in exile, or so it is claimed) was practically worthless. In money terms, the CSA was essentially broke from day one, plans for coinage never got off the ground, the paper money inflated immediately. After the war, the pretty paper, never worth very much, was devalued to zero. The cry “Save your Confederate Money boys, the South’s gonna rise again!” was instructive of just how worthless the paper had become. What was really being called for was the storage of the paper instead of using it as kindling.

I mention this because Bonnie, Liz and I have, in essence, confederate money. For you see, some of the American bills we brought with us the currency traders won’t exchange. They are too old. Anything minted prior to 2006 no one will touch. And if no one will take your money, it is in the end, only paper.

As it stand at the moment, we don’t have enough money to finish the trip. Oh, we had the foresight to pay for our rooms in advance. But we don’t have enough money to feed us through next week. We’ve written someone in the states for help in resolving this problem, but so far there has been no response. So far, we’ve refused to worry. We don’t actually need the money yet. As I said before, “the day ain’t over yet.” But Bonnie, Liz and I would greatly appreciate your prayers concerning this problem. We’ll keep you informed.

NOTE: This post is my best attempt to duplicate one that was accidently deleted. It’s amazing how quickly something can be deleted, considering how long it takes to upload nearly anything. 

God has supplied the money that we need through some loving friends who work at Grace School of Theology. Thank you for praying for us. This is just another example of those prayers being answered by God, who is ever faithful

Hungry for the Word

The conference ended yesterday. For three days I preached on the simple Gospel—what salvation by grace apart from works really means, and what it doesn’t mean. I felt called to address this subject, in part at least, because of the terrible sermon I heard last year. I guess what surprised me was the lack of outraged denial when the woman stated “You must work for your salvation!” 

So this year I started with the plan of salvation. I laid out the fact that we’re sinners, that we deserve death, that Jesus took the penalty that we deserve, and that faith in his finished work was all that was required to be saved. To be candid, I didn’t see much of a response in the faces of the congregation.

The second night we went to Luke 24 and the road to Emmaus. Why must the Christ suffer and then enter into his glory? Staying in the OT, I showed how we are all sinners, how the shedding of blood was necessary to take away sins, and how the predicted resurrection showed that God was completely satisfied with Christ’s sacrifice on the cross. When I finished, the local pastor stood and (presumably) gave an invitation. One shabbily dressed man came forward and knelt before the platform. Several of the local pastors prayed with him. I don’t know the whole story of this man except that he wasn’t a regular at the church. But I trust God touched his life through the preaching of his Word.

Last night I preached on John 3. I asked (and answered) three questions: What is the New Birth? Who needs the New Birth? How do I get the New Birth? and then another, Do you have the New Birth? In all the years I’ve been preaching in Africa, I’ve never seen a congregation more attentive. The sermon usually takes a secondary role to the worship. Let’s face it, singing and dancing are more fun than sitting still and listening. But not last night! After the service ended, Bonnie, Liz, and I were mobbed by the crowd. To use Liz’s phrase, we were rock stars! People pushed and shoved to maneuver into position to have their picture taken with us. It was quite an experience.

Today I’m going back to the church to continue to teach the pastors. I learned yesterday that one of the men traveled seven days on foot in order to receive the teaching being offered. That’s quite humbling and fills me with a overweaning sense of responsibility.

Of course, I have to admit learning that truth brought to mind an unwelcome comparison. In my church in Michigan, there was little tolerance for preaching that extended past 30 minutes. An Elder’s wife once confronted me about not giving the Gospel the previous Sunday morning. I protested that I did give a clear Gospel message at the end of the sermon. Her response? She sniffed, “Well, I stop listening after 9:30!” I don’t know if it was God or the Devil or my own sinfulness that brought that to mind, but I confess the contrast was striking.