Outside the city of Injibara, a town in the crisp mountain
air of northern Ethiopia, Mark and Debbie Maclachlan live in a little
cultivated garden of Eden surround by thousand-foot granite pillars protruding
the green countryside. In their agriculture project, dozens of species of
plums, pears, apples, and plants I can’t pronounce are flourishing in the
mountain climate. The plums and pears have gone to market and exploded in
popularity, created an insatiable demand. It’s part of their vision to create
livelihoods in their community while representing Jesus to their neighbors,
most of whom are nominal Coptics.
I spent a couple days with them, refreshed after 2 days
alone in a hotel room in bustling Addis Ababa and then a full day on the bus.
My pastor flew out from the States to join us and as we walked together along
the dirt road he helped me process some of the frustration and exhaustion I had
been feeling. Truthfully he was a life-saver. That night, I shared a devotion
with the Injibara team (2 couples plus the team from our church) about
experiencing God’s presence and was pretty vulnerable about the things I was
wrestling with what God had been teaching me. It was cathartic to share and
encouraging to them.
I wish I could have stayed in Injibara, but I was expected
to teach on Tuesday, so on Monday, I woke up at 4:30. Mark and Debbie took me
to the big patch of dirt where local buses (all looking as though they’d been
through the wars) were about to depart. They told me to play the “white card”
and I would be fine. They said goodbye and drove off. A little stunned, I
wandered into the compound looking lost. “Addis?” I inquired helplessly to the
throng of Amharic speakers. “Addis Ababa?”
“No!” replied the an official looking man. “Addis for
tomorrow okay. Today, no. Tickets no.” I’ve learned not to walk away
immediately when someone says “no” in Ethiopia, so I shuffled my feet and
looked helplessly at the man while he gathered the other passenger’s tickets.
After a long time, he shouted some things to the driver and some people
standing nearby, grabbed my bag, looked at me, and said “okay.” I paid the man
and got on board, relieved. I had played the “white card”.
The bus creaked and veered slowly across mountain plains and
through a winding gorge as deep as the Grand Canyon. The man on my left was
drunk or hung-over. The one on the right held a small baby. The old woman
behind me lay there moaning as though she were sick, one breast dangling
haphazardly out of her shawl. I folded my long legs into the tiny seat and
tried to entertain myself for the next ten hours. During lunch, two Israeli
para-gliders approached me, eager to talk with another English-speaker. At long
last we reached Addis, butt-sore but alive. I was dropped on a side street and
immediately mobbed by taxi drivers.
A phone call to my Dawit confirmed my fear: lodging at NOT
been arranged for that night. Homeless in Africa. Great. I had one more trick
up my sleeve. I told the driver to take me to the SIM guesthouse (the mission
Mark and Debbie served in). Pulling into the deserted compound, I was told the
office was closed for Adwa (or “Expel the Italians Day”). But the guy on duty
managed to find me a room just for the night. It was a simple, clean, quiet
little room on the second floor. I collapsed onto the bed exhausted and
relieved. I was running on fumes, burned out from all the travel and bustle and
ambiguity and then a horrible thought struck me: I have to teach tomorrow. And
I have no idea who, where, or how many.
I imagined myself standing behind a podium in front of
dozens of sharp-faced Ethiopians and trying to conjure up something wise and
insightful to say about discipleship. My mind went blank. I panicked. I have nothing to say! I don’t want to
teach! I just want to go home and watch movies and drink a cold beer and eat
comfort food. The whole weight of the trip hit me in that moment. I
wondered, is this burnout? Or am I just
tired? There was nothing to do, though I secretly hoped for a catastrophe
to strike and cancel the seminar.
I walked into the guesthouse’s dining hall where a
middle-aged American was listening eagerly to a Nigerian Muslim-background
believer tell his story. Eventually I joined the conversation, intrigued, and
listened as the Nigerian spoke passionately about his work discipling other
“MBBs” in Nigeria. There was something genuine about him that I really liked
and I wanted to know more. So I invited him to join me for dinner. I talked for
a long time with my new friend. I learned about his family, his dissertation,
and the training center he has for Jesus-followers coming from Islam. I learned
that we know some of the same people. I also learned that some of the people he
works with are Fulani, those beautiful wraith-like cattle nomads I work with in
northern Ghana. We exchanged contact info and discipleship resources before he
went home today. I think what attracted me most about him was that everything
he’s doing so perfectly embodies the style of intensive, hands-on discipleship
that Jesus modeled. I teach all about that model of discipleship throughout
Africa, but I know of precious few who are actually DOING that model. It made
me want to quit teaching this stuff and just spend the next few years DOING it.
Yesterday morning, I gave a little talk on Exodus 33 to a
dozen Nigerians working at an international school. Then my host, Dawit
informed me that my “seminar” that afternoon would consist of 7 people who had
already done the conference before. I had expected to train the 7 in the
context of leading a bigger seminar with them. NOW I had to come up with a new
plan, a NEW seminar just for them.... in 2 hours.
Well, I did some fast typing and came up with a plan. So
when we arrived at the tiny office where we were meeting, we spent time getting
to know each other and having some pretty honest dialogue about what was
happening in their lives. Over the next 2 days the teaching became a great
round-table discussion. By the end of today the conversation reached a fevered
pitch. Okay, I thought. We have buy-in. Tomorrow we’ll finish
with some practical work which I hope they’ll be able to apply in their
context.
One of the strongest contributors was a pastor named
Million. Kid you not. When he was young, his mother didn’t let the other kids
call him “Milli” because she wanted her son to get the “full Million.” He grew
into a giant hulk of an Ethiopian gangster/street fighter before being
introduced to Jesus by a frail old lady at a restaurant. Now he’s a hulk of a
pastor (who I STILL wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley) with a growing
passion for discipleship.
Another guy chimed in during our discussion on forgiveness.
He was frustrated that the Muslims he works with view the forgiveness of Christians
as a sign of weakness and God humiliating the Christians. He wondered if
Christians should really forgive them or fight back to earn their respect. He
concluded he would have to follow of the cross, even if he was misunderstood or
ridiculed.
Tomorrow should be interesting. I’m having my two
organizers, Dawit and Mekonnen do the teaching while I sit back and watch. This
is my favorite part! We’ll have discussions on “what’s next” and then wrap it
up for the week.
Stay tuned for what’s next! Babysitting missionary kids at a
volcanic crater lake, preaching on Sunday, getting offered raw meat before my
long flight home Monday. Hmmmmm.....
