I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic (universal) church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.
The Apostles’ Creed
It was a cool morning in rural Kenya. Back home in North Carolina, my family was surviving the swelter of July. But it was winter here, so as I climbed out of our 10-passenger van, I relished the 60-degree mountain air of Kaene, a small village hidden in the foothills of Central Kenya.
I was with members of my church, a group of American United Methodists, visiting orphaned teenagers we partner with through Zoe Empowers. Zoe is an organization that empowers orphaned teens to pull themselves and their younger siblings out of the cycle of poverty forever. We were in Kenya to meet these incredible children, to hear their stories of struggle and triumph, to be inspired by their faith, and to cheer them on with all the love in our hearts.
Out of the van I had a better view of the stone church before me. It stood tall and strong in a tidy clearing, neatly preserved from the creep of dense tropical forest on its periphery. But the bright green tree tops of the forest could not be ignored; reflecting boldly on the church’s windows against a soft gray winter sky. The name of the church was printed on the building in a mixture of English and a language I did not recognize, along with the unfamiliar acronym AIPCA. But the English subscript below it was unmistakable: “A House of Prayer for All Nations. (Isaiah 56:7)”
“What does AIPCA stand for?” I asked the Zoe staffer who was accompanying us on this visit, a local to the area - as all Zoe staff are.
“It’s an African Pentecostal church,” he explained. Later I looked up the exact acronym and discovered that this particular church is part of the African Independent Pentecostal Church, which launched out of the African Orthodox Church in Kenya in the 1920s. I still know very little about this denomination, but its history fascinates my nerdy pastor brain. It was instrumental in the Kenyan freedom movement to gain independence from colonial rule. In its DNA is a commitment to the spiritual and physical welfare of the Kenyan people.
I knew none of this at the time, however. I simply knew I was standing on holy ground, and that even we - United Methodist mzungus from the USA - were part of the ALL NATIONS welcomed to pray and worship in this space. So as I walked toward the church, the words of the Apostles’ Creed floated through my head: “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic (universal) church, the communion of saints…”
Miriam1 was the first to greet me. She was clearly the Mentor of the group, the local adult that each group of Zoe children selects to serve as their parental figure. Miriam extended her hands toward me, and her warm brown eyes revealed a generous and kind heart. I couldn’t place her age, but she was older than me, perhaps by a decade or so. I reached her in a couple more steps and she clasped my outstretched hand with both of hers.
With heavily accented English she said, “Welcome! Welcome! I am Miriam.”
Smiling back at her I tentatively said, “Thank you,” unsure of how much English she spoke, wanting her to lead the conversation so I wouldn’t leave her behind. “My name is Laura, I am a Reverend.”
Her smile widened and her eyes lit up. She let go of me and, motioning toward the building I had just been studying, she said, “This is my church.” There was an unmistakable pride in her voice. We turned and took in the sight together.
This is my church.
Could she be the pastor, I wondered? She would not have been the first female pastor I met in Kenya. But she hurried off before I could ask, and the question was answered anyway when I entered the church and saw the pastor’s name and picture on a sign. He was very much a he - obviously not Miriam. So, a dedicated lay person, then, I thought. A matriarch of the church, I decided as I found my seat.
We circled up in metal chairs on the floor of the sanctuary, right in front of the steps leading up to the altar. Gray light filtered through the windows, the only light to illuminate the teenagers who proudly shared what they have accomplished through the Zoe Empowers program - the farms they have planted and are harvesting, the businesses they have started and are growing, the stability and security they are building for themselves and their families.
We had spent the previous few days visiting other Zoe groups of orphaned teenagers, and the theme of their stories was becoming familiar to us. Their lives had once been marked by food insecurity and lonely survival. But no more. They had worked hard and trained well and learned a great deal. Now they were eating two, maybe three meals a day. Now they had income and hope for the future. Now they had each other. Now they had this sacred space to gather in, this community to count on, this circle of orphaned friends who would do anything for each other. Now they had a Mentor who loved them.
They called Miriam “Mum”, I learned, because that’s how she treated these children who were left without parents of their own. She loved them with a mother’s heart, she loved them like her own. Many villagers had been unkind to these orphaned children, they looked down upon them and treated them with contempt because they had to beg for meals, slinking from home to home for help. But not Miriam. Miriam was always kind to them, even before the Zoe program came to their village. Even before they had a hopeful future, Miriam was willing to care for them, doing whatever she could from her limited means. Miriam always saw them as beloved children of God.
This is my church, she had said, and I marveled at the generosity with which she gave her church to these children. Sure, she offered them the building as their safe haven, their gathering space, their empowerment launching pad. But more than that, she was the church to them. She offered them her Christ-shaped heart and with it, her wider church family, a tradition of disciples who value the welfare of struggling people. She offered them the love of Jesus that will never leave or forsake them.
The meeting adjourned and there was time for pictures - the children always wanted selfies and hugs, often at the same time. This is my church, I thought with pride as I looked around at my traveling companions, members of the church I serve back home. I watched them hug the teens with all their hearts, and I watched as they looked into the teens’ eyes and spoke the words every child longs to hear, “I’m so proud of you.” I watched my people take the cue from Miriam and be the church, offering the love of Christ freely and lavishly to these children who have known too many love-lean years.
This is my church, my heart sang, and as I surveyed the brave, smart Zoe teens before me, I realized I was missing the obvious, most glorious truth hidden in the moment, hidden in their smiling faces. THIS is my church. There was no “my church” or “Miriam’s church” or “their church.” There was only the Church. There was only us. The universal Church, the one that stretches across the boundaries of denominations and languages and social classes and theological differences. The one that rallies around orphans and widows, the one that is bound together by the mysteriously unifying power of the Holy Spirit.
This is my Church. It is Kenyan Pentecostals and American United Methodists. It is young and old, poor and wealthy, orphaned and widows, parents and adopted parents. This is my Church. It is all of us, bound up together in the love of Jesus Christ and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. And in that Kenyan Pentecostal sanctuary, the love of Christ bypassed every language barrier and theological nuance to communicate the only thing that truly needs to be said: You are mine, and I am yours, and we are God’s. Together.
We loaded into the vans and drove away, but before I said my goodbyes I pulled Miriam into a hug and scrambled for the right words. The ones that bubbled up were not nearly sufficient, but they were all I could muster at the time — “Thank you.” Thank you for being their Mum, I meant. But also, thank you for being the Church. Thank you for reminding me what the Church is meant to be.
You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.
P.S. I’m back! I took the summer off from my usual writing rhythms, partly to travel (to Kenya and beyond!) and partly to be present with my family. I hope you had some adventures this summer too, as well as time for R&R. Now that summer is winding down I am getting back into the swing of writing and plan to continue sharing these monthly “hope letters” on the last Wednesday of every month.
As always, to protect the identity of the saints I write about, I am not using this person’s real name.
Laura, your writings are truly beautiful and a I read, I can envion the sights and feelings you share. Thank you
Glad you are back!