I Didn’t Know Until I Knew

On Saturday, our team flew from Lusaka to Livingstone for a two-day trip to see Victoria Falls and experience a day safari. Before we left, though, we went to George Complex, a community of 200,000 people near Lusaka. Many of the women and children there walk more than a mile everyday to get clean water. As a result of this long walk for water, most of these girls can’t go to school. They carry 20-liter containers on their heads and babies on their backs. Girls as young as 8 carry these containers. We visited that day because those who live near the Pentecostal Church in George Complex were receiving clean, safe water for the first time. A bore hole was donated by people from Willow Creek Community Church. This bore hole will serve about 1000-2000 people who live in the village. We met many of these people. Many were children. They were beautiful, with deep dark eyes and smiles you wouldn’t believe were possible.

There are things about these children that are different than the children we know. Many of them don’t have shoes. They wear clothes that are too big or too small, or clothes that are out of season. Many are orphans or have only one parent to care for them. At the most basic of comparisons, though, they are the same. A woman and her daughter stood near me. The mother asked if I would take a picture of her and her daughter. The daughter immediately became resistant, asking her mother why she would do this! How embarrassing! I asked her, “How old are you?” She said, “Seventeen.” I said, “Ah, I can see why you don’t want to be anywhere near your mother!” They both laughed so much they bent over. Not so different.



It was an incredible celebration. Government officials were present, pastors were present, community leaders were present. Families were there. Mothers, fathers, children. Once the bore hole was “commissioned” by the member of parliament who was there, the mothers and girls began to pump the water into buckets they had lined up. Fresh, clean water flooded out of the pump and we all danced and sang, praising God for what he had done through his church. I took hundreds of pictures of the water, the children, the mothers, the pastors, and our team.




The meaning of this didn’t really sink in until later that day, though.


As we flew to Livingstone, I reflected on my experiences in the last week. We had three days of incredible teaching in Ndola where we taught about the importance of demonstration of and proclamation of God’s kingdom. In other words, pastors should preach, yes, but they should inspire and equip their church should also be out in the community addressing the needs of the community, like feeding the hungry, caring for those with HIV/AIDS, loving orphans and the most vulnerable people. Without these things, there is, as Richard Stearns would say, a “hole in our gospel.” After the teaching, we went to the Ndola market, an experience that won’t ever fade from my mind. I wrote about it several days ago and it sparked so much heartbreak and questions, and yet, was a harvest for God’s work. The day after we went to the market, we visited the little children at the New Hope Christian Centre and sang I Love You Jesus Deep Down In My Heart. And the day after that, we went to the bore-hole dedication.

So, here is what I realized – my math at its best:
TEACHING + MARKET + BORE HOLE DEDICATION = THE LOCAL CHURCH IS THE HOPE OF THE WORLD

I had heard this. I thought I knew what it meant. . ..until I knew what it meant. You know?

Did Something Happen?

Recently, I was talking to my mom and describing to her my upcoming trip to Zambia, Africa and all our team would be doing while we're there -- teaching African pastors about the role of the church in the community, both the Biblical basis for that role and practical ways of achieving it. As we talked, and I grew increasingly excited (as I do) about God's extreme blessings; she, on the other hand, grew silent. This has been happening a lot lately with many different people I've talked to. When I finally took a breath and listened she said: "Did something happen?" What she meant was, how exactly did you become this crazy, devoted-to-God person? She asked whether I just started reading some things, going to church, and talking to others -- a slow, intellectual process. Or, did something happen? Was there a conversion experience? A triggering event?

When she asked this, I realized I hadn't told her "my story." I hadn't told her the story God gave me to spread far and wide in the world to the skeptics and cynics. So, I smiled to myself and said to her: "Yes, something happened." And, actually, it happened in two parts. This is part 1:

I tried a case with three of my law-firm partners in October 2008 in Delaware. Two of them attended Willow Creek Community Church in South Barrington, Illinois. These are lawyers and friends I admire very much for their legal skill. And, they are good men too. So, when they started talking about their pastor and this message and that message, my ears perked up and I wondered how two smart people went to church (I was a most extreme skeptic and cynic, mind you, thus, my mom's question, "did something happen?"). I didn't pay too much attention to what they said. We finished the trial and all went home. After a trial, there is always a period I would call a valley. One goes from an extreme high of activity and emotion to no activity and a sort of depression. Ask any trial lawyer, it's universal. Anyway, when I returned, I was in this post-trial valley, depression sort of state. I decided to check out Willow on the internet. I looked up the website, researched its pastor, listened to a couple of the messages that were posted on-line. Then, on Sunday, November 16th, I decided I would go to church. Me. I was going to church. Turns out this was a decision that changed my life and eternity forever.

Before November 2008, I usually spent my Sundays reading and watching football. This particular Sunday, though, I was going to church. When I arrived, people in red shirts welcomed me. This seemed pretty standard. This church undoubtedly had lots of people coming for the first time. The inside was airy, escalators were 30 or 40 feet inside the entrance and led to the second level. I figured I might as well get an up-close look if I’m serious about this. And apparently I was. So, I walked into the main level seating area. I found my way to the tenth row from the front, left of the stage. Music greeted me. Everyone was standing and clapping to the beat. Some people swayed. I stood with them and mumbled the words to the songs, which, thankfully, for the rookies, were displayed on large screens throughout the auditorium.

So far so good. This was different than anything I’d experienced in church before, but I was still feeling like an outsider, like I was experimenting with something new. Some announcements were made. I don’t remember them now. And then a young dark-haired man with an Australian accent and jeans came on stage with a small, almost invisible microphone attached to his head. I noticed it, of course, they weren’t going to slip anything by me. I needed to know how everything worked to make sure I wasn’t getting fooled into anything. Whether I liked this place was going to be my choice. The name of the message was “When God Whispers: Whispers of Conviction.” Sitting here today, I have no idea what the pastor, Darren Whitehead, said that day. I recall a reference to the Bible, but not the specific reference. I remember that, generally, he talked about how God speaks to us.

About three or four minutes into the message, my eyes started to water. But not just water like when you turn a corner in the Chicago wind and get blasted with cold air. I had that feeling in the back of my throat, that swelling when you’re about to start crying. And then tears ran down my cheeks. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t actually feeling anything in my heart. I wasn’t feeling sad, or happy, or overwhelmed, or angry, or really anything. I still had my head about me. Well, sort of. Something was happening deep inside me and I could not identify it. There were no words for it. I wasn’t sobbing. My chest was not heaving. Simple, quiet tears ran down and landed on my jeans and my hands. I was smiling.

After Darren finished his message that day at Willow Creek, I sat down and watched as the auditorium emptied. Tears ran down my face. I thought over and over to myself: “What just happened?” My hands shook. My heart raced. I was full.

Then, I had an overwhelming need. I needed to tell someone what had happened. This was not normal. I had to tell someone. Bill Hybels stood near the stage as the congregation filtered out. He was the only person in the room I “knew” because, of course, you know people you see on the internet. (No?) Well, I caught Bill before he walked out, introduced myself, and told him it was my first time at the church. He asked what I thought and all I could muster was: “I don’t know. I’m still processing it. All I can say is that I cried through the entire service and I never want to leave.”

He smiled, put his hand on my shoulder and said: “Sounds like today was your day.” What he said took no explanation. I knew exactly what he meant and in my heart knew that he was right. I did eventually leave the auditorium, but didn't want to. I thought they might kick me out if I stayed as long as I wanted -- forever. Somehow I knew I was in the presence of God and I knew it was where I belonged. Turns out, this was only the beginning.

I have since learned that the Scripture Darren taught that day in November 2008 was John 16:12-15. God knew I'd be in church that day:
“I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear. But when he, the Spirit of truth, comes, he will guide you into all truth. He will not speak on his own; he will speak only what he hears, and he will tell you what is yet to come. He will bring glory to me by taking from what is mine and making it known to you. All that belongs to the Father is mine. That is why I said the Spirit will take from what is mine and make it known to you.”

Indeed.