I Give Up

My short time in Kenya has already been transformative, and the worship services have greatly contributed to that transformation. Because much of the service is in Luo or

Swahili, I imitate parishioner‘s responses to fully participate in times of worship, with one striking feature of the service being the offering. Congregants are as excited about giving as they are about every other component of worship. They joyfully approach the offering basket for however many times giving is needed to meet the demands of the church, and those that do not have money bring fruits, vegetables, and animals that can be auctioned to fellow parishioners, essentially converting items into monetary gifts for the church. People offer whatever they have unashamedly, and no one enters God’s presence without a gift. In doing so, the Kenyan people offer themselves to God. Coupled with the various gifts they bring to God is an intangible sacrifice of self-preservation. They willingly risk being viewed as persons that live humbly, unknowingly teaching foreigners like me that offering should never be anthropocentric.

As I observed this form of giving, I began to reflect on ways in which offering is viewed in most of the American churches I have frequented. It seems that in the US the offering is the least enjoyed component of worship. While there are many reasons for this, I believe the foremost one is shame. A consistent conflation between what one has and who one is has crept into the scenery, offering a daunting backdrop to this time of worship. Thus, many people refuse to come to church or will be intentionally absent during the offering because of the notion that if they have nothing, they are nothing. Such a view is drenched in self-centeredness insomuch that even those who give large sums can offer gifts stained with this unbiblical assumption. We Christians can so easily be like the Pharisee who boasted about his gifts, but few of us are willing to offer ourselves. During my preparation for Kenya, I prayed a lot, spoke with former program participants, purchased six of everything that I thought I would need, and tried to convince myself that using an outhouse would not be the end of my life. I left my pants, my jewelry, and my laptop at home. But what I clung to was Lydia.

I did not want to give myself to God by fully offering myself to others. Along with my two heavy bags, I also brought distance and defense against others that I learned in the US. The distrust, even (and especially) of fellow Christians encourages this distance, but the love of Christ evident in the Kenyan people is eradicating it.

The offering in worship is a microcosm of the Kenyan way of living. Our Kenyan brothers and sisters do not live in fear of people, of pain, of lack, of anything. They are not naïve; they simply refuse to live in fear by choosing to operate in love. Such love is seen in their hospitality, their tendency to trust before distrusting, their willingness to offer avocadoes when monetary gifts are not readily available… They are teaching me how to remove myself from my offerings, not only in times of worship, but also in daily living. The Kenyan people are showing me how to live into the Gospel, which is love. When Kevin Armstrong, pastor of North UMC, asked me why I wanted to go to Kenya, I told him that I simply wanted to be a better Christian by learning to love better, and God is answering my prayer through the Kenyan people. Each day God endows me with the strength to give up the notion that I am my own. That is my greatest offering.

Better than Olive Garden

You’ve seen the commercial. Smiling servers present mouth-watering pastas and savory soups while an announcer promises, “When you’re here, you’re family.” Such a statement captures the essence of my short experience in Kenya. We interns are greeted with incredible hospitality, warm expressions, open homes, and demonstrations of affection on a daily basis not because we are American visitors, but because we are viewed as family. Despite my American (and furthermore, Southern) accent, I am constantly addressed as sister, granddaughter, or another familial term that takes away the shame and embarrassment of being (or at least feeling like) an outsider. I was taken a-back by this warm embrace, until the Holy Spirit reminded me that this approach is exactly what God does for us. God fills the chasms that separate humanity and divinity through Jesus, welcoming former foreigners into God’s family. I am beginning to understand how extravagant, secure, and powerful God’s love is by interacting with some of God’s children in Kenya. Though I am away from my biological family, I am amazed that God continues to introduce me to new relatives here. - LM

Church’s Chicken Takes On A Whole New Meaning

This past Sunday each of the Duke interns worshiped with a local congregation affiliated with the Umoja Project. Leonard, the head link teacher of the project, and I visited an Anglican church in which we were asked to introduce ourselves and offer greetings. After taking my seat, I thought I heard a chicken cluck. I looked around my area but only saw a purse and thought, “It’s the jet lag. I need some sleep.” I tried to concentrate on worship. Though the majority of the service was in another language, I thought I recognized one word- poultry. Before I knew it, members of the congregation were bringing live chickens to the front of the church. Leonard explained to me that this was the church’s fundraiser for emergency relief and community development. Parishioners who could not offer monetary gifts brought items to be auctioned off to fellow church members, with all proceeds going to the church. The auction eventually came down to one final chicken. Two groups were passionately vying for the prize, one of which assumed the responsibility of representing the Umoja Project. After a very intense battle, the group contending for Umoja won, and the auctioneer attempted to hand the chicken to me. Now I’ve encountered hundreds of chickens in my lifetime, but all have been dead. So I shied away and insisted that Leonard take the prize, and the entire congregation erupted in laughter at the American girl who was afraid of chicken. After service one parishioner reassured me that chickens did not eat humans. When I told my fellow interns about the experience, they ascribed to me the Kenyan name coo-coo, which means “chicken.”