“What do you see?” Bernard Kabaru asks.

He glances first at the faces of his workshop attendees, then over his shoulder, to the wall. A picture of an empty, destroyed house is projected there.

“What do you feel?” Kabaru continues.

The picture changes. Two young women and a child sit in front of a dilapidated tent, obviously a scene from one of the many Internally Displaced People camps that cropped up around Kenya after the country’s peaceful landscape exploded with post-election turmoil just four months ago.

The women aren’t smiling. The child isn’t at school. This isn’t a home.

Kabaru, a representative from African Leadership and Reconciliation Ministry (ALARM), frowns at the picture.

The pastors sitting in a semicircle look at the picture thoughtfully. Emotion draws its expression on their faces. A deep line here, down a forehead. Wrinkles etched outside eyes. A frown traced around a mouth.

“Desperate,” a man says.

“Discouraged,” another one suggests.

Kabaru shifts in his seat to look at his workshop attendees more directly.

“Is this wound in us?” he says, gesturing to the images projected onto the wall.

Heads nod slowly, eyes still looking at the homeless women glowing from the wall. A man drops his chin to his chest.

This scene, and these feelings, aren’t uncommon today in Kenya.

The semicircle of pastors, part of the larger Seminar on Reconciliation put on by Scott Theological College’s Institute for Church Renewal, would be a good place to start to get insight on how Kenyans—specifically Kenyan Christians—are doing in these months after the chaos.

Ministering to those who will minister . . .
Pastor Steve Munyambu struggles with a strange dichotomy.

His home and belongings torched just hours after the election results were announced, he comes to the seminar with mixed feelings.

“I’m not sure whether to minister or to be ministered to,” he says, shrugging his shoulders slightly. He looks at the other pastors standing around him, and they tip their heads in understanding.

Manyambu isn’t the only one here who has been personally affected by the country’s troubles. Churches in America and England chipped in to provide 30 scholarships for other pastors living and ministering in Nairobi’s slums, some of the hardest hit areas during the violence and looting. So, just as these pastors can represent their flocks, they can also shed some light on the thoughts and feelings of their individual sheep.

Kabura’s ALARM workshop on trauma healing was just one of a handful made available to the seminar’s participants. A similar organization, Peacebuilding, Healing and Reconciliation Programme (PHARP) also presented a short program on repentance, forgiveness and reconciliation.

As the pastors were given opportunity to explore and tend to their own wounds through these workshops, they were also equipped to lead their congregations in efforts of reconciliation.

“As a church and observers, we are brought into the situation—and we can be brought into the solution,” Pastor Kariithi Ngari, from Karura Community Chapel, said in his mobilization workshop. He urged the church leaders to be relevant in their preaching and teaching, so the church can address the needs of people outside the church.

“Your people must know more than theory,” Ngari says. “They need to know what they can do.”

Nevermind the Nakumatt thermostat…
And there’s a lot left to do in Kenya to rebuild the relationships and stability this country once enjoyed. Pastors and Christians might find themselves swimming upstream, said Lt. General Lazaro Sumbeiywo.

In his keynote address, Sumbeiywo explored the history behind the tribal conflict in Kenya and warned that the simmering racial distrust that caused the outbreak of violence wouldn’t go away overnight, though some Kenyans would like to brush it under the rug.

“Some Kenyans have the notion that just because Nakumatt (a large supermarket chain) is open, everything is OK,” Sumbeiywo said. He stressed that the cessation of violence isn’t synonymous with peace, and that there are underlying issues that the church needs to address in its people.

And, from what the seminar’s participants said in a sharing time, it seemed as if these pastors were ready to go back to their congregations and begin the long process toward reconciliation.

“I think we failed as Christians, and especially as Christian leadership,” one man shared. “But the only way to healing is to share between people. To say, ‘You’ve done this, and I did this.’ We need national healing.”

“And we can spread out awareness from this nucleus, from this seminar.”

by Andi Clinard

Raila Odinga and Mwai Kibaki.

Orange Democratic Movement and Party of National Unity.

And, perhaps most of all, Kikuyu and Luo.

Or, given the day, any of the other lines able to be drawn between Kenya’s many and varied tribes.

There’s the haves, and the have-nots. The settled and the uprooted. The predators and the preyed upon.

Here in this cavernous church overlooking the Rift Valley, the contrasts—though perhaps not always as sharp—continue.

The cold, two-story stone shell of this AIC church in Kijabe, Central Province, gives way to a warmer inside. The windows glow with the late morning sun, casting shadows beneath row upon row of thin, wooden pews, some askew from last Sunday’s crowd.

But this Friday portrays a slightly different scene, as a line forms at the door. These are IDPs—internally displaced people—who have come from all over the Rift Valley, forced from their homes by the post-election turmoil in this country. They’ve come to the AIC for help—food, clothing, and a message from the church.

Soon, the sea of benches is one-third full, mostly with women, their heads covered in brightly colored handkerchiefs, their hands holding plastic bags or woven baskets, or their youngest children. A man with traces of gray hair bows his head, holding his worn cap between his knees.

Above them, a long wooden sign declares Psalm 118:1, “O give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.” Some are asking, why would a good God let such a bad thing come upon our country, upon us?

The people share their stories—stories of despair, of lives turned upside down. My home was burned. My own neighbors suddenly became my enemies. I saw my friends attacked with machetes, arrows or spears. As the testimonies come, the calm of this tucked-away church contrasts more clearly with violence outside its doors. The echoes of clapping and singing are a far cry from the crash of glass, the pop of tear gas cans and crack of guns not so far in these peoples’ pasts.

A woman stands to lead prayer, and the benches creak as some bow their heads. A man closes his eyes and massages his brow. A woman bounces her crying child. Some stare absently away, chin in hand. A grandmother clucks to a baby in her arms. Someone coughs.

And against the soft murmur of the praying woman, there is a bustle of activity in the back of the church, as a handful of volunteers prepares the food distribution for that day. A door slams. Shoes scrape across the floor as a man hurries from here to there.

Near the door of library-turned-storeroom is a yellowing paper sign: “What would Jesus do?” An oasis of congruency—surely, this is what Jesus would do.

The library tables and chalkboards are pushed back against the wall, stacked one on another. A bench usually used for churchgoers perusing books now holds a wall of containers of shortening. On the bookshelves, there are bags of salt. Empty bags and boxes litter the concrete floor; stray beans and fugitive kernels of maize are scattered here and there. Volunteers hurry to pack bags of sugar, rice, beans, tea, carrots and much more—nearly everything donated by the congregation of AIC Kijabe.
There is one final, sometimes painful contrast within these church walls, and it lies within the hearts of the people. All of them have been wronged, all have had hardship, but where there is anger and bitterness in some, there is hope and forgiveness in others.

John Mwangi, a Kikuyu, was working at a tea estate in Kericho when the decree was released: All Kikuyu and Kisii must leave. His own friends looted his house, beating others to the punch because—being close to him—they knew where he lived. They took everything, he says. They’re bad people. They don’t know God. You can’t even talk to them.

John says he’s willing to forgive these people. But will he ever go back?

The question twists his face, and a short exclamation comes out of his mouth.

“I won’t,” he says. “I can’t try.”

He shakes his head. No way.

Meanwhile, Harrison Munyua is ready to shake hands with his Kalenjin friends and customers, though deep lines have been carved between those tribes and his own Kikuyu people in his battered hometown of Eldoret.

Harrison, a radiator repairman, was warned by his Naandi friends to evacuate and escape the bloodshed in the town in western Kenya. He saw people being speared to death, and is thankful for his friends who rose above their tribal differences and helped him dearly.

He believes there are people who love the Lord among the Kalenjins, because if there weren’t, he wouldn’t have been warned to flee by the people he fellowships with at his church. His pastor, a Naandi, wouldn’t have invited him to hide in his house. Kalenjin police officers wouldn’t have helped him get to his wife and children by hiding him under the seat in their vehicle for an hourlong drive, ferrying him through dozens of roadblocks put up by angry mobs.

He hears what others from his area are telling him, about never going back. But he believes forgiveness is everything—and for him it means going back to Eldoret, living among the very people who looted his home and workshop, and trying to show them God’s love in that way. And, moreover, Harrison believes God can and is at work in the Kalenjin community, just as He’s worked in his heart.

A calm hope comes from the eyes of Hannah Wangui, an old mama from Molo, also in Rift Valley and a scene of a lot of recent violence. She sits, hands one on top of the other in the lap of her printed dress. She holds her head, adorned with a white handkerchief, high. A small smile makes her distinct cheekbones even more beautiful. Small winkles gather around her eyes and mouth, as she speaks words of hope and forgiveness.

Yes, she is homeless, a state delivered from the hands of her neighbors in Molo. But transportation and tough roads are the only things keeping her from going back there.
To her, it’s simple. She is receiving food and clothing from the church in Kijabe, but she doesn’t feel she belongs here. She doesn’t mind if she has a house or not—she knows the Lord has her, and she will trust Him to work through her as she goes back to live in Molo. Others around her are calling for revenge but she carries nothing on her heart against these people. She wants only to be a light in the darkness.

True forgiving, Mama Hannah says, means going back. When you don’t go back, she says, you are just saying you forgive them, but you are very far. You haven’t restored the relationship.
When you forgive someone halfheartedly, you haven’t done any forgiving.
Her prayer is that as she shows them God’s love, they will be convicted of the wrong they have done, and they will repent and be led to God. And it’s on that path that people will be brought together—even people of different tribes.

So, there are many contrasts in Kenya at the moment. But it’s the prayer of people like Harrison, and people like Hannah, and people like the volunteers at AIC Kijabe, that eventually the love of Christ will help to blur the lines, to reconcile the tribes and to restore Kenya and her church, for God’s glory.

by Andi Clinard

Pastor Steve Munyambu pauses thoughtfully as he reflects on the people responsible for torching his home in the Kibera slums of Nairobi, Kenya, just minutes after the disputed election results were announced.

“These were young people I had worked with in rehab programs. These were young people I had worked with in tutorial classes. These were young people I had mentored for a long time.”

He says each sentence slowly and deliberately.

“I didn’t see it coming, so I was hurt.”

He and his neighbors labored to squelch the flames wrought by a petrol bomb the youths launched into his home. There was the first bomb, then a second. And, as the neighborhood’s resources of water and people dwindled, a third and a fourth.

“After the fourth one, we had to say, ‘Lord, you’ve seen our struggle. There is nothing more we can do.’ “

The chaos lasted through the night, and the pastor’s emotions flickered like the flames.
“I felt bitter. I felt upset. I felt angry,” he says. He clasps his fingers together and rests his wrists on the desk in front of him. “At some point in time, before I came to my senses, I felt revengeful.”

But, just as many Kenyans will be forced to do as the violence smolders out in some places and continues in others, Pastor Steve was made to grapple with what forgiveness looks like in action. And, because of his faith, he truly has triumphed—or began to triumph—over those emotions that first seized him.

“The very people who burned my house, have we met?” He pauses.

“Not once. Not twice. Not thrice.” Many more times.

As he was volunteering with the Red Cross at a food distribution camp just outside Kibera, Steve came face to face with the men who burned his home.

“God has his own way of programming,” he says. “Instead of them going to the different line, God brought them to my line. Again and again, we saw each other—face to face.

“To see them do that act (of torching my house)”—he pauses, taking in a breath—“God, it was traumatizing. And more so when you meet them again, it’s hard.”

He shakes his head. “It has been hard.”

Their interaction didn’t stop at a wordless exchange of relief materials. Instead, he has talked with them about what happened, and he’s trusting God in the process of forgiveness.

“We shed tears,” Steve says of his times with the men. “More tears of, ‘Lord, forgive them.’ More tears that I didn’t see it coming. More tears that, ‘You mean, you would do this to me after the years that we’ve been able to stay together?’ Maybe more tears that you may be working with people who could still stab you in the back.

“Maybe more tears for the simple reason that you felt vulnerable for the first time.”
Pastor Steve is quick to point out that where he is now is not where he was four weeks ago, when Kibera and the country were first thrown into turmoil. He and his family have made choices that have pushed them toward forgiveness. The decision, when surrounded by a comforting and encouraging church family, to press on, to rise above, to be resilient. And the decision to move back into the old neighborhood, not far from his razed home, to continue his years-old informal ministry there.

“How can we forgive these people if we don’t see them face to face?” he asks. “For me, it’s easy to say I’ve forgiven you, because I don’t see you. But immediately, when I see you, something grips within my spirit—bitterness, rage and revenge come back.

“If we are going to heal fast, let us be able to meet the arsonist, so that as we meet with each other, day by day, God will be working in and through us to help not only heal us, but to forgive and restore these men to the original fellowship.”

What Hurts the Most
What perhaps tears at Pastor Steve the most, as he aches for his country, is what was lost in the Christian community and witness.

“I’m saddened by the simple principle that Kenya is being touted as 80% Christian,” he says. “When this happens, is the mayhem being caused by the 20% minority? No.”
Steve recalls confronting a group of men on its way to loot a burned-out church and urging the men to consider the magnitude of what they wanted to do. Among them was a young man Steve had stood next to on the day the man was baptized in the very church he was intent on looting.

“I believe that somewhere along the line, Christians did not live up to their calling,” Steve says. “Because if they did, with an 80% statistical figure, (the chaos and killings in Kenya) would not have happened.”

Those are hard words for the Kenyan church to hear, but ones men like Steve—who has clung to Christ and tried to honor him, even in this chaos—are in a place to say. And this is the pastor’s message for the church, and for the country.

“Don’t let your Christian God down,” he says. “If God is for you, live for him. Otherwise, cross over the line, so that we can know how many are called of God.

“I see this as a purging time for the church, so that the true believers are going to stand firm. And those who have just been Christian by name would be exposed, and the Church will be able now to move faster and farther.”

Hope for the Future
Pastor Steve has not given up on Kenya.

He relies on the Kenyan’s resilient spirit to help them bounce back. He knows they will want to move on.

“People will come back and want to piece their lives back together,” he says. “There will be a time for picking up the pieces. Some of the pieces will never be able to be matched together again.

“But at the end of the day, people will want to forge the way forward.”
And he trusts the gospel and their God will guide them.

“Sometimes, in the church history, God allowed persecution to be an instrument to spread the gospel, not only in terms of area, but in the intensity of the message.

“People became stronger in their faith. They depended on God more than in times before their persecution.”

And that is where Steve, along with many other Christian leaders in the country, is putting his hope for Kenya’s future—in God’s hands.

by Andi Clinard

One best moment?

Perhaps it was the other day when Ellen, our sweet little two-year-old neighbor, peaked in my room where I was shaking off a rough day, and crawled up in bed with me for a nap, nestling her head against my shoulder.

But then there are those few small moments that wouldn’t mean much to anyone else. When our neighbor Ibiong asked me to take in her laundry if it rained. Or when she dropped off her kids for us to watch while she fetched water. Or when two of the neighbor kids sought refuge at our house when their parents were fighting.

And, then again, there are those moments, under a twilight sky, as the day is leaving and the night is falling dark on the smoking thatched roofs and simple swept compounds, when I’m simply sitting together with my roommates and my neighbors. Maybe we’re talking about their children and the crazy tricks they pulled that day. Maybe we’re telling a story from our homes, in a world entirely unfamiliar to our friends. Maybe they’re laughing at me as I stumble through the language. Or maybe we’re cracking peanuts in silence, gazing thoughtfully off into the valley or watching the children dip into sleep.

Whatever the case, in those moments, we’re simply being together.

And I enjoy those moments more and more.

God has put a love in us for these people. It has been a process.

The crowding shadows of faces that bombarded us when we first came to Lopit have become our friends. The squealing, swollen-bellied children, our playmates. The village struggles and joys, our own.

I’m happy here, and I ache for the day when Christ claims his first among my group of friends.

So maybe these are the best moments. Moments like now, when I can reflect upon where we once were and where we are now. When I can honestly say, I love these people. When I can fight off hopelessness, and hope in God, that He’ll use our living witness to His glory in these far-off mountains of Lopitland.

by Andi Clinard