The wooden doors burst open to a perfectly blue sky, gray mountains setting the stage for green pines and rolling hills. Swahili songs of praise fill my ears. No instruments, no microphones, no high tech projection screens or pews. The village had formed a circle around the church yard, singing in preparation for the produce auction that happens every Sunday after service. Beans, eggs, avocados, greens, and the like are sold to raise money for the little wooden church on the hill. I’ve only been twice, and I hardly understand most of the service, though if I actively listen I can catch the main ideas beneath the passion of the speakers. And still, lost in a foreign language and dazed by the sheer length of the service, I feel God. We all call it something different.
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