I remember slipping into the back row of the wooden plank church shelter, curiously resembling a single-wide trailer. The narrow building was lined with rough cut benches and a smattering of homemade sitting implements, all uninhabited for the time being. The vibrant, dancing praise from the small congregation was unusually devoid of dust, as the freshly cut grass floor covering the pale sand padded the excited worshippers, so thrilled to have their small village chosen for meetings of this sort. The Church was situated 100 yards off the shoreline, and in this windy season the steady sound of breakers striking Senero’s beach was a welcome addition to our song and dance. Our team of 14 outnumbered the local attendees on this Tuesday morning, but as the leader began to bellow “Mpambatira Mukama,” a tune now familiar to our visitors, every hand was raised while voices confessed in the Luganda language, “My heart longs for You, I love You my God!”
We had come to this landing site for a dual purpose: to pour gasoline on the flames glowing in the hearts of the few church members, and to plunder souls from the gates of Hell. Though I could go on and on describing the fruitfulness of the morning’s conference, the door to door ministry, the afternoon evangelistic meeting, and the evening showing of the Jesus film, there was one quiet moment unnoticed by all present, that was etched into my recollection that wild morning.
The boy was sitting next to his mother on the second-to-last bench as I came in with cameras poised to capture the moments of ministry delivered by members of Westside Church in Bend, Oregon. I had used enough stealth to arrive undetected by the other adults, but somehow caught the attention of this young child, no more than two years old. His double-take turned into increasingly longer glances until he swiveled around and faced me for an unashamed stare at this white intruder.
I can only imagine what the curious little guy was thinking, but as I looked into his unguarded eyes, all the busy logistics of planning and executing this difficult mission, the timeline for day, and even my current objective of capturing ministry endeavors on film all melted into painful reality. This kid lives here. He was probably born on these shores, stays with a splintered family in a filthy one room shelter, and knows no comforts but the rags that hang on his thin frame and the young mama by his side, busy breast feeding the newest arrival. In a fishing village of 500, with but one fledgling primary school and hours away from modern civilization, the little man has little prospects for a better life than his fisherman father who undoubtedly spends each night on the lake, toiling for food to eat.
Something about the stripling’s eyes made me reconsider my pitying thoughts midstream. Because of our close proximity to the backdoor, I could see a perfect reflection in his eyes of what now looked to me a glimmer of hope. The light streaming in from the open door encapsulated at the edge of the boy’s soul reminded me of the whole point of our ministry in Senero, the whole point of the Gospel. Jesus’ Good News remains focused on the transformation of lives–lives that clearly include children such as this. Due to the message of the cross, this boy need not live his life in an impoverished struggle for survival devoid of abundant life. Regardless of his whereabouts or life circumstances, the young man can grow as a child of the King of kings, with all rights and privileges of the godly.
As I quietly stole out the door to take my place in front of the Church, I soberly reconsidered my role as one who is called, equipped, and sent to point God’s children toward the hope of overflowing life. Jesus, burn it on my eyes!