Dear one,
4:45. Moonlight filters through the curtain and open window. The oscillating fan cools, requiring the warmth of a light bedspread. The mosquito netting billows. Beyond, the beat of competing, neighborhood radios reverberates. Saturday evening has become an African Sunday morning and I remember:
Almost exactly fifty years ago this week—I was twenty—thousands of kilometers to the west of here, I was introduced to Africa. We had landed in Freetown, Sierra Leon, and at some moment amid the lively confusion of our deplaning and the offloading of our bags, my suitcase had walked. It had contained what I deemed essential: the clothes that complemented one another, and the treasured books and notes, which would aid me in ministry—or so I had thought.
For the next two or three hours, as I waited for the return of my wayward bag, a local engaged me in conversation: as an obviously rich American, why was it that I could not spare him two or three of my easily-earned dollars? I wrestled with that question then and I continue to wrestle with it, for it is a perennial question. Upon my every return to Africa, someone will ask my charity: a daughter’s sickness; a son’s education; a frozen computer; a blown transmission.
Over the years I have responded variously, at moments I have given, and at other moments I have not; with some I have recognized that my dollars truly aid, but with others that my money hurts. Over the years I’ve also learned to better discern the need of the other, as well as my own, and our shared humanity: What do I have to give my African sister or brother, and equally, what do they have to give to me?
This evening, and for the next five days, I will again share in the lives of twenty-five pastors, whom I first met last June. In my experience this is a unique opportunity: to grow relationally with the same twenty-five, so that we become less and less African or American and more and more one in Christ. In this regard, however, I am reminded of Jesus’ observation regarding the impoverished widow: “[From] her poverty—all that she had—she gave the whole of her life” (Mark 12:44).
In the next few days, I wonder: Will I give from my riches, or will I give from my poverty—and which will be the greater gift? Perhaps I will give from both.
Blessed,
Stan
Ps. The theft of my bag meant my further learning: healthy dependence.
Rich and Poor ...