One such occasion occurred when I was asked to speak at a church in a rural area. I had declined a request to preach at the 11 o'clock hour knowing how difficult it was to accept a woman in the pulpit. I did agree, however, to speak to the group after lunch--since most church members brought food and made a day of church-related activities.
Listening to the morning sermon, I looked about the sanctuary. Its rough, partially finished structure reminded me of WWII vintage movies. The pews were large logs and the pulpit a crudely nailed together stand. The floor had rough bits of concrete and rock scattered about. No doors stood to hinder entrance. I am not criticizing. I, in fact, smiled when I saw what actually worked in this poverty stricken area--no need for padded seats and elaborately carved podium. The first time I spoke in a rural area, chickens walked between my legs as they pecked at corn on the ground. Another time the pews consisted of bales of straw.
I focused my talk that afternoon on Ephesians 5 and Paul's words that we are to love one another. When it came to the part about *submission* I needed to handle this with care. I turned to the women--who were, by the way, all seated on the left side of the room.
"You ladies have it relatively easy," I said. "All you have to do is submit." Knowing full well that Kenyan women do 80% of all work--including building the homes--and the children do the other 20%, I quickly followed my statement with, "You have your list. You cook meals, wash clothes, plant your gardens, build your houses, and often sell your produce. You know full well what you must do to be submissive." The ladies in their white head coverings--a sign of Christianity--smiled in confirmation of my words.
Then I walked to the right side of the room. "But you men, you are the ones who really have it difficult. What do Paul's words tell you to do?" All eyes were intently on me. I had a feeling it had more to do with the fear of leading them astray than connecting with anything I said.
The elders were seated on a log situated diagonally on the front right side of me--within just a few feet of where I stood. I glanced their way and repeated my question. "OK, Gentlemen, what do Paul's words tell you to do?"
A couple of the elders whispered, "Love our wives."
I smiled and followed with, "Yes, he said to love your wives, and to follow Christ's example." I went on, "Christ loved the church and gave His life for it. And Christ said that husbands are to do likewise." I hesitated before my next question, "Now, how many of you husbands are willing to die for your wives?" Total silence. In that shabby structure, sitting on uncomfortable logs, not a sound could be heard. At the same time, I seriously thought of looking for an escape route. I had had the audacity to use a verse of Scripture that I could almost guarantee they'd never heard before. Yet the Kenyan pastor, my translator, had repeated my exact words. I knew enough Kiswahili to be certain of that.
I walked over to the head elders. Could I get them to set an example for the congregation? "So who among you would die for your wife?" I asked with a smile--though perhaps I should have used the word *wives*. Very slowly, one-by-one, their hands began to raise. "Thank you," I said.
I continued with a message of love, then ended my talk. Did my words have a positive impact? I have no idea! Why would they listen to a woman?--especially a white woman! And what gave me the right to talk about family life and love in a culture a world away from my own?
I can feel a rapid beating of my heart when I think of the many opportunities to learn the most important lessons of my life while in Kenya. I think of a student who attempted suicide, and the school administration wanted her expelled. And the afternoon I spent talking with pastors' wives--with our constant companion; a man listening to be sure minds weren't contaminated by my ideas. Or the student whose fear of dying prevented her from removing a bracelet she had been told had special powers. These experiences, and hundreds more, gave me my richest learning. I was hired to teach. I fear I taught little...I was most often the student.
The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost,
to
reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”
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