Pastor Usher: Just because God is silent doesn’t mean He is weak.

I went to church for the first time in Burundi today, celebrating Easter.  It was a grey, overcast sky, and it began to drizzle as we waited on the dusty rocky road for our ride.  We hopped over puddles and trudged through mud from the car to the building, hearing the joyful music pouring out.  “Joyeuses Paques!” came the well wishes from lovely African women in brightly-colored regal outfits, along with emphatic AMENs! 

The pastor delivered an earnest and beautiful message about the truth and the foundation of the resurrection.  His message had so much joy and such color in its delivery, it made me long for such joy in my own heart.    

I worshiped this morning in a country that has seen its people torn apart in civil war, a war of ethnic conflict, not even of beliefs or territory or retaliation.  A country that saw over a decade of conflict, division, animosity – conflict borne of deep sadness, fear, and misery.   And an aftermath filled with mourning, confusion, and injury – both physical and deeply emotional.

Yet as I look around our communal table three times a day every day in Kigutu, heads are bowed in a moment of silent prayer before a first bite is taken.  Hands are quietly raised to make the sign of the cross from head to heart.  A quiet but strong faith filled with gratitude is almost tangible.

This quiet faith seems to be everywhere.  My colleagues are dressed smartly Sunday mornings for breakfast – they are on their way to church.  I can distinguish but two words from the beautiful and mellifluous melodies sung by the woman who cleans our residence – Jesu and Imana (God).  On my first ride from Bujumbura up the mountain to our sanctuary at Kigutu, the driver is playing music whose lyrics are in Kirundi.  Though I can’t understand the words, the sound and feeling are very familiar to me.  I say to Claire “this

President Obama's face peeking out on that totebag, btw.

sounds like Jesus music.”  “It almost certainly is” comes her response, with a knowing nod.  In downtown Bujumbura, signs are more demonstrative.   A Canal-Street-style booth of a shop sells sunglasses, handbags, luggage, and pumps out loud music with the distinct word “Hallelujah” threaded throughout.  A taxi has flashy letters emblazoned on its rear windshield proudly declaring “I WAS SAVED BY GOD THAT DAY.”      

I contrast the lives of those here in Burundi, who have lived through deep grief, yet remain ever faithful, against my own (easy) life, my own (unchallenged) beliefs, and consider my own doubts.  How presumptuous of me.  I hear my sister’s cheeky, sassy voice:  “How dare you, sir!”  How dare me indeed.

On this Easter, as Pastor Usher emphatically recounted the beautiful story of the resurrection, I am reminded that this is all that matters. That my petty frustrations, my selfish disappointments, my petulant stubbornness, are all ridiculous when seen through the lens of the resurrection and against the backdrop of Burundi.  The pastor’s sermon was filled with reminders of details that once excited me…  That God chose women to discover Jesus’ body missing from the tomb – had the story been fabricated, women would not have been named, as their testimony was deemed worthless at that time.   That Scripture, hundreds of years prior, foretold the details of the crucifixion event down to the stripes and piercings (Isaiah 53:5), embodied today in the Passover matzoh. That the Lamb of God, as first introduced by Jesus’ cousin John, well before his crucifixion, was a reference to the sacrificial lamb of the Passover, without which the sons of God’s chosen would not have been saved.

As I think about my experience of God’s silence in my own life, and my cross-armed bratty reaction, I now find myself contrasting that with the raging silence that was no doubt experienced by my colleagues and their families and their families’ families, year after year.  They had to have wondered "Where are you, God?  Why don't we hear your voice?"  Yet their faith persists.  They recognize and kneel to the strength of God, even in His ostensible silence.  

On this Easter, while deeply saddened by all I know of what my new friends have been through, I am grateful for this contrast, this reminder, this humbling – this smack in the head – that comes from the steadfast faith of those around me.  Those who would have every right to consider God’s silence weakness, but who instead silently, daily renounce this, knowing that the resurrection, in its demonstration of the strength and matchless power of God, is all that matters.  

While at dinner here in Bujumbura, I facetime with my family just in time to catch them for the traditional Greek cracking of the eggs - so fun to be able to watch from afar.  The tradition goes oldest vs youngest, and the two participants hold their eggs out, ready to crack them against each other - only one will break, and the winning egg goes on to the next round.  The declarations begin with Christos anesti!  Christ is Risen!  The emphatic response is Alithos anesti! and so begins the cracking.  

Yes, I declare silently - He is risen indeed.