Monday, October 12, 2009


This is something that I've been struggling with for the past couple of years, something I've never shared with anyone cuz I was too scared or just couldn't come up with the right words use. Don't tell anyone.
I was brought up in an upper-middle class church; a highly-educated religion; an intellectual faith. God spoke to me with an extensive vocabulary and an English accent.

It wasn't until college that I began to find out that God might actually exist beyond my microcosmic understanding of him. That there are people with 2nd-grade reading levels who also believe in him. The thing I just couldn't come to terms with was how my highly-sophisticated bachelor-degree Jesus could be the same Jesus for these guys who didn't even have the capacity for abstract thinking. I knew that the God who reigns on high in the soundness of my arrogant catechism couldn't possibly coexist as the simplistic heavenly Daddy sought after by hillbillies who can't spell "apologetics". If I had such a hard time trying to concretely grasp concepts of salvation and assurance, what would be said of anybody with any less of an intellect than mine? I know I sound like a pompous ass, but I just honestly couldn't continue to worship a Supernatural Being who was also worshiped by simpletons…not because I was conceited and condescending, but because I thought that it was all fake. How could you sing to a God you couldn't even conceptualize? How could you obey a Bible that you could barely even read? How could Jesus live in your heart if you couldn't understand figurative speech?

Yesterday I think I finally understood, when I was brought back to the simple truth by two simple Ugandan men. Ronald and Francis are two colorful, beautiful Christians, taking advantage of an amazing opportunity to work in Iraq for an incredible salary…$600/month (which is actually double what the Bengalis make here. Francis has 13 kids. Just wanted to throw that out there. And yeah, they know about Watoto.). We hung out for three or four hours, talking about how much they love reading the Bible and how much I love avoiding it, talking about Uganda and about America, trying to solve mysteries like why there are so many flies in Iraq and how I manage to live without a girlfriend. I was so captured by the joy and peace of their easygoing fellowship. And they spoke to me one simple word, which explained to me what no volumes of doctrinal discourse could ever explain. They called me their muganda…"brother".

I guess that's just it...I am your muganda and you are mine. It's about love, ya'll, cuz God is love…and that's all there is to it.

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