A Continued look at our time in
Nigeria…
Twice during our stay in Nigeria
we were taken to an all night “Power Vigil.” The meetings consisted of some lively music, people shaking violently
and falling down (sometimes with small children strapped to their backs), a
guest speaker taking up an offering for redemption, hours of the pastors
screaming incoherently at the audience, pouring oil in to the mouths of
pregnant women to “anoint the babies inside,” and a whole other list of things
that made me cringe. Wide eyed, I downed a Power Horse energy drink, and
listened for Christ, even a tiny mention of Him past the occasional “in Jesus
Name we pray” repeated 15 times just so the audience knew the prayer was over. There
would be no such mention of our Great Savior who poured out His blood so that
all who put their trust in Him will have eternal fellowship with Him.
The pastor took his position at
the podium and began to speak about how tonight was the night. “I am tired of having to wait in line at the
airport, I am trusting God for a private jet,” he said to a hungry
congregation. I asked God to break my
heart that 200 of His people were perishing before my very eyes, that private
jets were being exalted more than Christ, and that I was more concerned about
my discomfort or what I was going to do later or how tired I was. That the 50 or so children that came along to
these meetings were malnourished and likely had treatable or preventable symptoms,
and that I didn’t feel anything, except maybe a little dislike for a church
that didn’t care for my preaching. “God
break me, I want a heart for your people,” I begged.
At about 5:30am, Weston, Michael,
and I jumped up to see if we could help distribute the bags of food that were
given to everyone in attendance. The people
were supposed to come up two by two to where we were giving out the food. A mob quickly formed and before any order
could be made dozens of people were pushing and shoving their way into the
small office where the food was. People
were fighting over a bag of rice; children were being crushed so that a few
days food could be had. “Is the love of Christ in any of these people,” I
asked. “This is Nigeria,” someone
responded.
I got a little angry. Earlier that night the pastor had complained
that he was tired of waiting in line at the airport to a congregation of people
who would later fight for rank in line and risk their children’s safety for the
sake of a food ration? These people can’t
afford to live and you are going to complain about your two hour layover in
Paris?
And later that night, I was
punched in the face by the reality that I’m not as unlike that preacher as I
would like to believe. How much of my
speech is Christ exalting and how much of it is wasted on the trivialities of
the World? How much time do I spend
complaining about discomfort, dislikes, and circumstances when I will never
know the feeling of needing to fight for food? When will I finally wake up?
