glowing chickens

I must choose words carefully. I’m angry.

The political situation in Zim has jumped from silly to absurd, with the ruling party raiding the opposition party’s headquarters, on the heels of reports of beatings and killings and halting a cargo ship from China carrying weapons of intimidation intended for Zim.

And the eyes of the world are watching all this happen.

Two Saturday’s ago, we held a worship night in Mbare, a run-down, impoverished district in the capital city of Zimbabwe, a division with a less-than-thrilling history of racial tension and a host of other problems. I’ve often described the socioeconomic situation in Zim like this: “Imagine every major problem that a nation can have, and combine all of them. That’s what’s happening in Zim.”

Mbare embodied this. It was unlike any urban poverty I’ve seen, housing broken-down buildings rumored to contain strip-shops that transform freshly stolen vehicles overnight, among widespread rape and prostitution, African buses crammed beyond belief, fields of people wandering and bartering and buying and selling and scrounging for food. And that was just the view from a moving truck. We were told to keep watch over our equipment; a Zimbabwean woman in Grand Rapids the Korn's know was shocked to hear we’d be going there.

On Saturday morning, an illogical number of us piled into the bed of Simon’s small Isuzu truck, along with music equipment and a small trailer, and traveled through the capital to set up for the evening event, where 700 people were expected to worship.

Gennison brought his breakfast pinned between two plastic plates, but as Simon’s speed increased, ketchup started flying, as Gennison humorously tried his best to catch it in his mouth like a Three Stooges skit. Then, a hunk of sausage escaped; Tinashi immediately stabbed the runaway meat with a fork, and I snapped a photo. We all laughed.

When we walked into the Mbare church the day before to scout it out, I sensed the presence of God sweep over me. “This is going to be a good night,” we all agreed, on the heels of two amazing worship nights. We traveled to Mbare with fourteen (yes, fourteen) people in the back of Simon’s truck.

Mbare was good: Dancing, singing, breaking, worshiping, praising.

Our human expectations are beautiful and dangerous, since ultimately, we have little meaningful control. We often prime ourselves for disappointment, but on the other hand, we’re sometimes swept away unexpectedly into something bigger. What we expected from Mbare and what we experienced were different, but as people filtered in-and-out through the night, a faithful group remained until the last song was sung. And though we wanted to see more, it’s the Unseen that counts. We trust the right people were there until the end.

On our ride home, we had two trucks carrying us through the city, with Simon and Gennison playing games behind the wheels.

At night, Harare is dark and strangely quiet, a sharp contrast from the busyness of the daylight hours, where people are less concerned about going to cushy 9-to5’s with retirement plans and health insurance, and more concerned about finding clever ways to survive. But on this night, after three nights of music offered to the LORD, we were laughing, yelling, celebrating, full.

Francis, one of the Zimbabwean worship leaders, a multi-talented man of God soaked in humility, began joking about how he was really from Philadelphia, filling in details about the States he’s picked up, mentioning obscure street names and creating details of fictitious neighbors. He then somehow crafted a story of how he had moved from Ireland to Philadelphia or vice versa, with a stint in India as well.

We were a wreck laughing.

To top it off, Francis faked receiving a call from his long-lost mother on his cell phone, telling her to prepare a place in Philly for his American friends when we returned to the States.

Our stomachs were torn by his comedy.

And in the midst of all this wild laughter and unabashed joy, traveling 40 miles an hour on the floor of a truck bed, I looked up to my left, and there, glowing in the black night on top of a skyscraper, stood a chicken.

Yes, a chicken.

Oddly enough, the chicken is the symbol of the ruling political party, and we happened to be passing by its headquarters. And it was beyond fitting, that in the midst of all this tension, we worshiped for three nights in the belly of the church, proclaimed Jesus as King, and when it was over, laughed until we cried.

Because God is bigger than _____.