I didn’t go to church for seven months. Actually, that’s not true. I went about three times in seven months. A collection of us would gather and it would appear very protestant. A song, sermon, and prayer. Mostly I didn’t join them. I did however cuss out my roommate. I told him exactly what I thought of him. I went back later to apologize and we sorted it out. Another time I was in the courtyard and asked a different roommate about poverty. She and I talked extensively through an array of topics; God’s image, poverty, shame, the gay issue. Other times we played poker and the nickel winnings balanced our expense reports. That outdoor courtyard with cards, candles and the local brew was a veritable value exchange.
Sometimes we’d smoke huka or host a party for the other NGO’s. Our ‘secular’ friends expressed their surprise when we’d show up and share a drink to laugh or cry through the crisis. Amidst the unending sadness, a few drinks and night of pleasure might be the only solace. But a few of our little band of men became the solace for many unbelieving women that could not trust others to treat them as other than meat. Some of us slept around and for the first time, I stopped trying to be a good christian; judgmentalism is a blinding burden.
“He who is forgiven much, loves much.”
Jesus
Our obligatory “devotional prayer time” every morning became a mainstay...never interpreting the scripture, but just reading a passage and praying if requests were made. I remember the snot-bubble crying where the tears stained the shirt of my friend. And it was ok. I remember hearing a heart-beat that was not my own and being surprised at proximity and pain. And it was ok. And sometimes it was my own shirt that was dampened, soiled by the tears of others. And that too was ok. There was the man I hardly knew that offered some water and a pat while I dropped in the dirt track to throw up and the girl that boiled water to steam my cold away.
It was in the tears, and through the laughter, and under the stars that I met the Lord and myself. It was because of honesty and the poetry of a man that weekly visited the local prison. It was the performance of a great leader, and the commitment of a tender friend and the frankness of skeptical helper and a bright invitation to join their team. It was the morning prayers and the nighttime walks...the theological smatterings and the hearty dreams.
It came as a friend with a vision for others...of her pride for a King and a kingdom. It was in the death of criticism and the birth of love that I knew God and it became home...and when I left the country and flew away, I left God there. I left my church there. My children, my parents, my brothers.
Two weeks later I went to church. There were one hundred fifty people in the building. The pastor approached the front, gave a half-hour sermon on something and we finished with singing and a prayer.
I left my church in sudan. I left God in sudan and what remained was the knowledge that church is not a building and God was with me. To separate God from the community that fights and forgives is to split marrow from bone.
Community is not God.
Since then God has remained and new connections grow. Have faith in God and trust someone and you will experience church every moment of every day of your life.
I still go to buildings to meet with other Christians but the sorrow that remains is the death of a family that meant the world to me and taught me about the world. It is sadness that nostalgia and adolescence are the only reminders that someday...someday I hope sooner that later, there will be no more sorrow, no more tears, and no more separation or dying. I want heaven so bad.
Not only my sudanese church but you and me and everyone. I long for the day when we can be one as Christ and God were one.
What was left behind...after they destroyed all the buildings and removed all the clergy and looted all the resources, and confessed all the sins and righted all the wrongs and forgave all the misgivings; was faith, hope and love.
It’s been three months since I’ve had a hug.
Sarah C. Mosely
One problem with America is that most things are frivolous. We live so far above the dirt in a cloud of toys we cannot know what is valuable.
Family Counselor
