Light and Darkness

Light and darkness. I’ve been thinking a lot about that the past few days. I have been privileged to grow up in light. I was raised in a family where God’s light shone brightly. I was born in a country founded on the light of Scripture. My education has given me ample resources to know how the world God created functions, and to think critically and logically (usually) about the issues I face. I am blessed – oh so blessed. Recent events here have drawn a sharp contrast between the light that I have known, and the dark side of Africa. It started 12 days ago…

Grace* is my house helper. She is a God-fearing woman who has been through more trauma in her 40-something years than I will probably ever see. She has had five children by a couple of different men, and is not married. Lest that strike you as promiscuous, consider local tribal traditions. Having children IS womanhood. Not having children is a curse, not only to the woman, but also in the family and village. And of course male children are required.These perspectives (and many other superstitions) lead to a multitude of problems: polygamy, AIDS, family in-fighting and feuds, and even incest and rape (terms not always used here when we in the West would find them applicable). Ways of describing events and relationships are much less defined, hindering our ability to really understand what has happened. When locals say “married” and “divorced” they may not be referring to actual legal status. This is the background for understanding Grace’s story. Despite her history, when I first met Grace I was struck by the radiance of her face. I soon came to discover that her joy was rooted in Christ.

Then, 12 days ago, the unthinkable happened. Her 15-year-old son, her oldest child, died suddenly of cerebral malaria. He was fine on Saturday morning, and by Sunday night at 9:00 he was dead. She had taken him to the hospital on Saturday night. He seemed to be improving Sunday morning. But then he took a turn for the worse, and passed away. He had just begun high school – an accomplishment and privilege here. Grace had so proudly told me about him just weeks earlier.

The funeral was ten days later. Rod and I and some others from the school attended. It was held outside, down a rough foot path, under a canvas tarp. The casket was open in a small lean-to on the way to the gathering. 

The choir. Notice that white is worn at funerals.

A choir sang at the funeral, then family members spoke. Grace began, speaking for an hour about her son and the events leading to his death. It was all in Swahili, and despite my recent three-week course, I couldn’t understand much of it. However, one of our workers was sitting beside me and translated a bit for me.

Grace speaking

After Grace and her mother spoke, the events of the funeral took a turn that I can only describe as an invasion of darkness, even though the sun was still shining. For the next hour and a half, various family members on the paternal side – the side of the father who had not raised the boy – attacked Grace and her family for allowing him to die. They even spoke of possible legal action. The paternal grandmother, who had just moments earlier been singing “alleluia” along with the choir, attacked the most viciously – even her family members made a show of trying to stop her tirade. I didn’t need to understand Swahili to interpret the total absence of compassion in this matriarch’s words. 

Later it got worse. At the burial, Grace wanted to stay until the burial was complete. Her parents, however, told her to leave when the casket was only half covered with dirt. There is apparently some superstition that staying to the end will cause others to die – or something like that which I’m sure I have not even begun to grasp. Grace refused. She wanted to stay to the end. And then, unthinkably, her own parents denounced her for disobeying them. They told her not to step foot in their house again.

After the burial was complete, Grace went to her church and spent the night there, alone. Of course friends tried to reach out to her, but she said, “I only have my God.” I think I would have felt the same. 

Today, Grace showed up on my doorstep. I was thrilled today to see her! Her parents, who are caring for the children, have relented a bit. She says she is still weak, but is planning on coming to work on Monday. Please pray that our home can be LIGHT for Grace.

The day of the funeral I had also been reading my seminary students’ essays -- the assignment was to write about a "moral issue". I wasn't prepared for what I would receive: unnervingly honest papers about polygamy, HIV, incest, corruption, and circumcision rituals -- including female circumcision for the purpose of "preventing prostitution". My students are educating me about the superstitions and traditions fueling these devastating practices. For the most part, our students know which traditional practices are destructive, and want to stand up against them. But they are often caught between two worlds – the light of biblical principles which they want so much to fully embrace – and family/village pressures and superstitions which they cannot easily turn their backs on. Kenya is supposedly 80% Christian. But how many of these “Christians” are like the matriarch at the funeral? The Bible says, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” What is the Christian population according to THIS standard? 

I guess we could ask the same question in our own congregations, couldn’t we?  Proclaim the Light. The Darkness is oh, so very dark.

*Not her real name.