Belonging Where I Don’t Belong

“Do they not mind sitting all over and on top of each other?” My friend asked as I stuffed one more child in the back of the car and checked to make sure no toes were in the cracks before closing the door. “Nope!” I replied. “We’re in Africa where we say, ‘There’s always room for one more!’“

I hopped in the driver’s seat and looked at the rear view mirror into a sea of little black smiling faces. They were so excited, probably mainly because they were getting to ride in a car. But I was smiling, too, because of where we were going - down to the nearest water hole about five kilometers away for the village church’s first baptism ceremony since the church was planted a little over three years ago. 

“Is everybody squeezed in nice and tight?” I yelled into the back seat. “Yeah!” all the kids yelled since they were literally packed in like sardines, a tangle of arms and legs and little kid body odor. 

For that last reason, we rolled down all the windows and started making our way down to the water source. All the way there, the children sang praise songs to Jesus at the top of their lungs in French and multiple tribal languages. As we weaved our way through the village market and neighborhoods, everyone turned to see what in the world a car was doing driving through and why it was full of happy singing children. 

When I parked the car at the water’s edge and started letting kids out of all the side doors and back hatch, I counted twenty-five of them. Then I turned right around and went to get another load full of kiddos, making the same trip through the village back and forth as many as four times, each time with children singing praises at the top of their lungs, until all the children in the Sunday school program had successfully been transported to the site of the baptism. 

The kids didn’t know it, but they were evangelists. And because of our drive by and the noise we made, many extra villagers followed us down to the water to see what this was all about. 

Everything in Africa is done in community, including baptism. So on this beautiful day, fourteen people from this village church (who had studied the Scriptures, completed a baptism course, and proved their understanding of the gospel) made the public and communal decision to be baptized together. 

Each person went individually into the mucky brown water, reddened by the previous day’s rain, stood knee-deep between two pastors, and made a public confession of faith in and obedience to Jesus Christ. One of the pastors said something to each person - sometimes he asked a question or shared a Scripture or allowed them to share their testimonies. And then the old self was buried and the resurrected life was raised up out of the dirty water and welcomed into a crowd of singing worshippers standing on the water’s edge. 

Mixed in with the congregation on the shore were wanderers who had come to see what the commotion was about. There’s no way they left without seeing and hearing the gospel of Jesus Christ plus the joy of the people who abandoned their lives to him in baptism. Particularly meaningful to me were the two young women standing at my side, two friends that I invited to come with me on this morning just to see.They are both Muslims who have professed faith in Jesus but are still trying to figure out what they means and what it looks like. They both saw and heard every testimony and Scripture. They saw how God is moving in the villages and transforming people’s lives as they turn to him. My heart bursts at the thought of what kinds of seeds the Holy Spirit was planting in their hearts as they watched it all unfold. 

After the baptism, to celebrate their newness of life, the ones who were baptized had selected a special fabric and already had new clothes made out of it. New clothes, new life. What a beautiful and tangible picture of how the old is gone, the new has come, and how we are clothed in righteousness by the grace of the One who saves us by faith. 

Once we returned to the church building after the actual ceremony, there was great rejoicing and much eating. I was served a large bowl of beans and rice with a red oily sauce that was prepared by the women of the church, which they did entirely with their own resources (a generous gift) as a surprise blessing to the whole assembly. I humbly thanked the hands that served me and looked up into the eyes of an older happy woman that I recognized. I paused for a second and soaked up the joy of the moment, which spilled out as a few tears in the corner of my eyes. 

I recognized her face even though I don’t know her name and have never really even had a conversation with her. It’s my own fault for not having learned her language, but then again, we have a connection that surpasses language. For the past year and a half, I’ve been immensely blessed to be a part of this church. And every time I go out there on my Sundays off, I see her face. Their faces.

I watch them sing and dance and get energized when they worship. They watch me struggle to pronounce the syllables in their local language as I memorize their worship songs. I watch their faces shine with joy when they receive God’s Word. They watch me spend time teaching their children songs and stories and verses about Jesus. I know why they are there and they know why I come. It’s for Him. He’s the one that connects our hearts in the Jesus culture even though our country cultures may be very different. 

And now I’ve seen them give their lives to Christ. 

And I think I should be kneeling down and washing their feet, but instead they are serving me a bowl of hot rice as a gift of hospitality, and I am overcome by a new understanding of the gospel. The gospel of Jesus Christ is undeserved generosity. It is the welcoming of a stranger like me who has been brought in and loved. A stranger who has been given a place of honor and belonging. It’s what Jesus has done for me, and I am finding it expressed so purely in a remote African village at the hands of a church who has found truth in Christ and is living out his love.