Sunny Side Up July 16-03 �2003, Kathleen Gibson Mission means more than sending money The music of Africa fills my office. Elephant calls. Drums and chants. Laughing hyenas. Roars of foaming waves breaking on shore. Trickles of cascading rain. Bursts of birdsong. I love this CD. For the moment, it's the 'favorite son' of my collection. Perhaps it stems from a childhood fascination for Africa. From the many times I sat, breathless and rigid as yesterday's toast, in a wooden pew in my childhood church, listening to missionaries from what seemed the darkest continent on earth. They showed slides, those early missionaries. Vistas of giraffes and sprawling banyan trees silhouetted against blood red skies. Nearly naked tribal warriors wearing nose rings as large as dinner plates, grasping spears taller than themselves. Women balancing pitchers and baskets on their heads. Chocolate skinned children, eyes and smiles white as milk. The missionaries spoke of cannibal tribes and witch doctors' curses. Of holding church under the shady branches of spreading trees, while the congregation sat on benches or hand-woven blankets. Of territorial monkeys who pelted worshippers with whatever their agile paws could find to throw. Some told tales of hippo and lion chases. And almost without exception each missionary said they checked their shoes for deadly vermin each morning. As though their pictures and words weren't enough, missionaries brought wondrous things that even we children could touch. Baskets woven tightly enough to hold water. Wooden carvings of jungle animals. Elephant tusks. Fabric so exquisitely embroidered I stroked it with reverence. Nose rings and lip plates. Christians in the West gave those missionaries their deepest respect. They'd sacrificed their comfort for the sake of others' eternal souls. So we did the only thing we knew to do-gave them our money, assured them of our prayers. Then went home to our safe houses and our comfortable lives. Surely, I thought as a child, Africa must be the highest call, the deepest commitment. Would God ask me too, to check my shoes for vermin each morning, to stride through dark jungles bringing the Christian message to those who had never heard? Well, would he? My stereo has just switched CDs. Almost uncannily, these words by Wayne Watson replace the drumbeats of Africa: "For such a time as this, I was placed upon this earth. To hear the voice of God, to voice his truth to the nations, and to do his will, whatever it is." God never has asked me to go to Africa-yet. But like the rest of my Christian tribe, I have a mission nonetheless. A mission that requires me to do more than give money while someone else lights up the faraway dark. A mission to testify to truth, wherever I am. A dark corner is a dark corner; in Africa or North America. A truth-seeker in a suit and a condo deserves to know God no less than his counterpart in a loincloth and a grass hut. This little light of mine, I'm gonna' let it shine-in such a time and place as this. You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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