“But Jesus deserves far more glory than Moses, just as a person who builds a house deserves more praise than the house itself. For every house has a builder, but the one who built everything is God. Moses was certainly faithful in God’s house as a servant. His work was an illustration of the truths God would reveal later. But Christ, as the Son, is in charge of God’s entire house. And WE ARE GOD’S HOUSE, if we keep our courage and remain confident in our hope in Christ.” Hebrews 3: 5-6
“Edna’s not here? Is Anderson?” I asked.
The woman shook her head no. “They’re in Lilongwe.”
“Lilongwe? Oh, visiting their daughter. Ok, zikomo!” I shrugged my shoulders at Alison, Tiffany and Caroline and shuffled my bare feet in the sand for a moment. “We could go to see Chato?”
We agree, and walk farther down the sandy road to Chato’s house.
“Chato’s not here? Is Miranda?” I asked.
The woman shook her head no. “They’re in Senga Bay.”
“Senga Bay? Oh. Ok, zikomo!” I shrugged my shoulders and ran to catch up with Alison, Tiffany and Caroline standing in the road.
“Let’s just go prayer walk through the Islamic Community and see where the Lord takes us,” Alison said.
We agree, and begin to walk.
Mudibwangi! Mudibwangi! Mudibwangi! Delibwinu, zikomo! Zikomo kwambidi!
Every single person and child we see greets us. We shake hands with a beautiful old woman named Margaret as she yells at a tiny, completely naked little girl holding a string of seven huge fish to get in the bathtub, and then says a long string of Chichewa to us that we don’t understand. Knowing a smile and the light of Jesus in our eyes is enough, we laugh a little, tell her it was nice to see her in English, and keep walking.
We come to the Mosque.
It’s right on the edge of the lake, surrounded by a bunch of houses, a common area with a well in the street, and a tiny school run by a woman named Teacher Rose. Ironically enough, the well has stopped working. We sit down on the edge of its surrounding cement structure, and begin to pray aloud. For darkness to be bound. For the Lord’s children to hear His voice and know it. For not only physical water to come out of the well again, but for living water too, and for, someday, a church of God to be on this ground instead of a Mosque. For you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.
We get up, and begin walking around the Mosque. Knowing the name of Jesus is enough to cripple demons and send darkness scampering in fear to the ends of the earth. Knowing that the light we carry in our bodies, the Father living inside of us, the power and authority we hold, and the fact that merely our feet touching the soil is enough to bind the power of satan. Knowing that a white girl, an azungu, in a long skirt, bare feet and a dirty face is enough to start a conversation that may change the way a person lives life.
In front of the Mosque, I’m suddenly SURROUNDED completely by more than twenty children. I smile to myself, not annoyed that they interrupted my conversation with the Lord, but enthralled to let the little children come to me. I laugh, and we start dancing, and singing songs together, and playing clapping games. I chase a beautiful little girl around to her house, picking her up and throwing her over my shoulder, laughing as I introduce myself to her mother and sit to chat for a few minutes.
I eventually return to my beloved friends, and our rather large conglomeration of children. We sing more songs, and dance and laugh and hug and love and hold each other’s hands. We’ve run out of songs, now what? Jesus loves me, we decide. What better song?
And there we stood, four insignificant girls, four missionaries with tangled hair, dirt streaked legs, ridiculous unmatched clothing and a huge language barrier, on the property of a mosque about to have its call to prayer. Singing Jesus Loves Me.
Do you understand how much POWER there is in that? I don’t. I certainly don’t.
But I do know for a fact that there is power in the name of Jesus. Power enough to break the chains of sin, and death. To have the powers of darkness trembling at what they’ve heard, incapable of drowning out one. Single. Word.
The Lord lives in me, and I am His house. I am the new temple, and the Lord God Most High HIMSELF resides inside my heart. How crazy is it that I stood on a mosque property, a holy place of Islam, surrounded by 20+ children, and we sang Jesus loves me? How crazy is it that the Lord wanted me to be there in that exact moment declaring His Name? That the house of the Lord STOOD ON TOP OF the den of the devil and proclaimed love. Love, the perfect thing to cast out fear. The only way to fight the wiles of evil. How crazy is it that it’s actually not that crazy at all?
The bible talks about how even the rocks will cry out if no one shares the word of God. I don’t know about yall… but I think I’d rather be telling someone about the Jesus that saved my life and radically rescued me from the depths of hell with His undeserved mercy and grace then let some rock that doesn’t understand redemption do what I should wake up every morning excited to do.
I fully intend on finishing with a passion and not just finishing to finish, because I have this horrifying feeling that I’ll take something for granted along the way, and realize everything I had when I miss it at home. If I am the house of God, then I don’t need to be anywhere but where I am to be passionate about life, or ministry. I don’t need to look forward to having four walls surrounding me at home, because I AM home. I AM THE HOUSE OF GOD, no matter if I’m trolling in my tent, preaching a sermon, out to eat, on the internet, holding some sweet little African chanches hand, peeling my 78th potato with a freaking butter knife, laughing with my friends, weeping in a doctor’s office, if I’m in America or if I’m chilling in Malawi. I am going to fully finish out my race, and not give half of what I can just because I’m ready to go back to Pennsylvania. I’m not going to ride on somebody else’s passion, and I am not going to let myself become dry bones. I’m not going to tap out now because I’ve been doing this for eight months and I’m burnt out, because Jesus did exactly this for His whole life and never once complained.
His love burns through me like a wildfire, I feel it.
And I have complete confidence that if I let that fire become huge, and roaring, and unquenchable, what’s around me is going to start catching on fire too.
Oh, the irony of life being an unquenchable wildfire fed by living waters. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how crazy God is. 🙂
