Where Jesus Lives
Picturesque landscape, raw lifestyle, relaxed attitude. They’d told me to expect all this. But I hadn’t come prepared for one the thing that should’ve surprised me the least:
The beautiful humans of Kenya.
I’ve known (and lived with) many hospitable people in my life, people extremely generous with their homes, their food, their service to others. But I’ve never seen such open hands when it cost so much.
“Jesus lives in Maasailand,” our guide, the good doctor Mwaya Wa Kitavi told us. Had you been in church with us on Sunday, you’d know how true that is.
Church was meant to start at 10am. But, already five days into our journey, we had been adjusting to “the African way.” We left our hotel at half past 10. An hour later, we’d dodged potholes, skinny cows, and one wild monkey to arrive at the church, only to be told the three mzungu ladies needed to change clothes.
As we were whisked away down another dusty road to the pastor’s house, I looked down, suddenly self-conscious that the long jersey-knit dress my mother had sewn for me was somehow indecent, that I’d offended them somehow. Those fears were dispelled as we were greeted and brought inside the house. They told us, “Today we dress you as a Maasai.”
In a small, dim room furnished with only a bed, the women helped us out of our dresses into long skirts, tunic-style “overdresses,” and matching capes. Feeling slightly foolish in orange and burgundy, I was ushered back outside to pose with the others for pictures. I couldn’t help but note how much better the Maasai ladies looked, so natural in their just-off-the-shoulder capes and elegant jewelry.
Piling back into the van (by now it was nearly 1pm), two tiny boys, the pastors’ sons, climbed up with us and into our laps. I forgot how out-of-place I felt as I held the littlest one and he stared back at me with huge brown eyes. I suddenly knew I loved him like he was one of my nephews, and it struck me: we’re all family.
That’s what they were trying to tell me. They were dressing me like them to say I WAS one of them. When I stepped out of the van – camera always in hand – I was met with, “You look like a beautiful Maasai girl!” Of course I didn’t, but I believed them anyway.
The men shook my hand and smiled. The women hugged me, and laughed as I nearly walked into a giant pot where lunch was cooking on the fire. They looked on, picking pieces off a tough piece of meat, as one of the oldest women of the tribe approached. I was busy staring at her deeply stretched earlobes when she began placing beautifully beaded jewelry around my neck. “Thank you,” I whispered as she nodded and squeezed my hand.
Gradually, more of the girls came with necklaces, one holding my hair up as another would tie it securely in place. After several layers I was presentable. “Those are very expensive,” one pastor told me with a wide smile. “You can tell by how intricate it is, made by hand.” I made a mental note to make sure I returned every piece.
And on and on we went, smiling and laughing and playing with the kids running through the dust around us, everyone dressed in their beautiful Sunday clothes. Finally someone said, “Let’s go in,” and the service began. (Church had long since started.)
I won’t even bother trying to describe to you how beautiful their singing and dancing is. You honestly just have to see for yourself. I’m fairly sure the man behind the keyboard knew only a handful of chord progressions, but that was all he needed, as they sang echoed chorus after chorus, alternating Maasai and Swahili and English. The dance I can only explain as a kind of neck bob while bouncing your shoulders… it looks ridiculous if I try it but they make it elegant.
The girls led a song, then the men, then the women, then the children. Several pastors alternated speaking and translating. Pastors from out of town were introduced. We other visitors were introduced. There was more singing, and we were brought into the centre of the dance. Two more women placed necklaces on me. This was a party that never stopped.
As Mwaya had accurately prefaced for us, “In Africa, you don’t rush. You take your time. Every event is a celebration.”
It was well after 4pm when, after worshipping with the people, we did the other thing we were there to do. That afternoon, every person there received a Bible in the language of their choice. For most, especially the children, it was the first Bible of their own. Joy was written all over their faces.
Still it wasn’t over. We took photos – even managed to get everyone to stand together with their Bibles in front of the church – and talked and laughed and talked some more. Then food was passed around, and we ate, and drank, and suddenly it was time to say goodbye.
Someone asked if we were to change back into our clothes. Suddenly I realized what hadn’t been apparent before; their intention had never been to take these rich, beautiful gifts back from us.
Overwhelmed by the generosity and inclusion I’d experienced from the people that day, it was difficult to tear myself away. I said goodbye to some of the kindest people I had just met, squeezed some more hands and treasured their smiles one more time, and then we were back in the van being carried away from that church, that oasis in an otherwise barren land.
And I mean that rather literally. Before we headed back to our hotel, there was one more stop to make.
That church had long been a nomadic church – there in the rainy season and gone when it became too dry. It had been that way until together they’d built a dam, forming a man-made lake where everyone could get water for their homes and fields and livestock. It had taken a ton of work. It had changed everything for the village. And it meant the church could stay open all year.
When the dam was built, the church prayed that God would fill it, and a week later, the rains poured in. Since that day, it has never gone dry.
In the same way, since the Maasai people were filled with the Holy Spirit, I don’t believe they will ever “run dry” of the love of Jesus. I look at my necklaces and wonder, how can I show the love I’ve been shown? How can you?
If you’re wondering where Jesus lives, yes, He’s in Maasailand. And here in Canada. Anywhere His children are. We spend a lot of effort trying to conjure God’s presence. Sometimes we think He’s in nature, and yeah He is. But His presence isn’t there because of the nature – He’s there because you are. Wherever there are people, that’s where you’ll find God.
This week, I found Him in Kenya, and I’ll never forget it.
