A letter from Sue and Ted Wright in Zambia
January 8, 2009
On toward the frontier
We start off early one Sunday morning, facing the rising sun. Past our city limits, past the commercial farms, through the town of Chongwe, up into rolling hills. My passenger points through his window to the left. “Did you know there is a hot spring over there?” I did not. But regardless, I am driving too fast to observe. According to my watch we must be near our destination.
These people are molding bricks for their prayer house in Malawi. Materials can differ from region to region, but the spirit is everywhere strong.
Chiwang’obme. The name means “something to do with a cow.” Maybe cows went to drink there long ago. Today our mission has nothing to do with cows. We are going to preach the gospel at a rural prayer house.
“A few minutes more,” says my passenger, reassuring. Thank God, the tank was full before we started. I should have remembered that here in local parlance “one hour” means two if not three.
Zambia is officially a Christian nation, but the rural areas are like a frontier. Churches are constantly straining and stretching to reach these far-out folk. The man beside me hails from Lusaka. At his home congregation he plays quite a leading role. But this same congregation has commissioned him also to spearhead movements into more remote places. So, first there was Chongwe — 45 minutes distant. Then Chiwang’ombe, farther down the road. Now, as I’m about to discover, even this prayer house has spawned another. So it’s like stepping stones.
Perhaps I should pause for a moment to explain about church growth, African-style. The process here is really quite natural, as natural, we might say, as bearing children.
Healthy congregations in our context tend to be pregnant. Each mature church accepts as part of her mission to conceive and raise children (prayer houses). A prayer house might begin, as the name suggests, with a meeting in somebody’s home. Before long, the mother church will supply a lay preacher, who hopefully has knowledge to go with enthusiasm.;
With time, this emerging little fellowship grows. The mother church sends more resources. Often she welcomes folks from the prayer house into her governing process. Members of both groups contribute toward a building — perhaps made of mud-brick, roofed over with grass. If there happens to be school near, the members can rent space. The minister from the mother church will come to administer sacraments.
With still more time, the young church requires a resident leader who is trained. We call this person an evangelist. She or he may have studied at Justo Mwale, where I live. Evangelists are my heroes. They serve for a mere pittance — in fact, most survive as “tentmakers” in the Pauline sense, but they preach, counsel, lead and motivate. They guide the growing church through its turbulent teenage years.
And their reward? Must be in heaven. Here on earth they just move on. When finally the prayer house can support an ordained minister, it becomes a congregation and bears children of its own.
Somewhere near the foot of those hills is the daughter church of Chiwang'ombe rural prayer house.
So, on this particular Sunday we are going to visit the grandchild: the rural out-station from Chiwang’ombe prayer house. Just before our turnoff we find a man beside the road. He has been waiting here — gosh, how long? — to welcome us distinguished guests.
“Ah, this vehicle is good,” says our guide. Translation: It’s a Land Cruiser and can navigate the cow path. After six more kilometers of outcrops and gullies, thorn bushes and hairpin turns, we arrive at a grassy clearing. We have passed a few huts, but there is no village here, just a couple kids who greet us shyly.
Muitana akulu m’pingo. “Summon the church elder. Tell him that our people must assemble.” The kids exit left. Soon the elder appears on the right. Offering his hand, he motions toward the prayer house, indicating that all of us should enter.
We do; we sit down. And what a beautiful place! So peaceful and serene, I could stay here the rest of the day. Just a simple mud structure, mostly open to the sky, with views in all directions of fields and purple ridges. Silently, I thank God for the privilege of this assignment, but I feel as well a tinge of regret. I have an American group arriving later at the airport.
By now, other children have gathered here to wait. They sit very quietly. Zambian children know respect. Outside in the bush, the church elder breaks the silence by striking a gong so as to signal the coming of worship. I can see it’s a tire rim hanging from a tree. I don’t doubt that the sound travels far.
We will continue the story next month. Meanwhile, ponder this: Where is your gospel frontier?
To what lengths will you go — physically and socially — to bring Jesus’ love to those who lack? Does your church see itself as the mother of new ones? Does it offer small groups that normally meet in people’s homes? Do such groups include nonmembers? Could they grow or combine into churches? How did your church get its own star t— and when? — if not by a similar process?
The Rev. Ted Wright
The 2009 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 43
