When I attended the Catalyst Conference in Atlanta with more than a hundred other Virginia Baptists, I expected a blessing. The impressive speaker lineup and the nationally-known leadership lecturers and authors promised sure-fire challenges and insightful messages.
What I wasn't prepared for was unexpected blessings delivered by children.
As 12-year-old Austin Gutwein settled himself on stage for an interview I silently wondered what a child could contribute to a leadership conference. Then I learned.
Jim White
When he was 9, Austin learned of the AIDS epidemic in Africa. Children, he learned, were being orphaned as their parents died of this dreaded disease. He decided to do something about it.
Getting people to pledge money for each basketball shot he made from the free-throw line, he made 2,057 free-throws, one for each of the children who would be orphaned that day while he was in school. He raised more than $3,000.
Austin realized he had stumbled onto a method of raising funds that had real potential. With the help of World Vision, he organized “Hoops of Hope.” To date, Austin's efforts have raised more than $450,000. He has built a school, a testing lab and has supplied thousands of testing kits to stem the disease in Zambia.
I asked myself, “And what, exactly, have you done to make a difference in so many lives?” The words of Scripture came to me: “A little child shall lead them” (Is. 11:6). I learned to be impressed by a child's leadership.
My second child-induced blessing of the conference came through the Daraja Children's Choir of Africa. With all the exuberation of their youth and culture, the 23 children writhed their ways onto the stage. The brightness of their native dress eclipsed only by their smiles, they began to sing from their hearts.
After the first song, a leader asked if one of the children would like to quote a favorite Scripture. Hands shot up. John Njuguna was chosen. He stepped to the microphone and in his thick African accent said, “My favorite passage of Scripture is Psalm 23.”
Psalm 23. I've read it and quoted it thousands of times in my own devotionals, at hospital bedsides and at funerals. It is a perennial favorite, of course. I didn't expect to hear anything new in this familiar passage.
John started. “The Lord is my shepherd ….” I did not know John's background, but I knew the choir was made up largely of orphans. Our church's involvement with some of the lost boys of the Sudan some years earlier when I was a pastor in Newport News caused scenes of horror to flash upon the screen of my mind. Children who had witnessed their parents mercilessly butchered before their eyes had fled into the forests with no one to care for them. Suddenly, the significance of a shepherd to such children struck with the force of a lightening bolt.
My musing were cut short by the words, “he makes me to lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.” Still waters. I remember listening to the Sudanese boys who had come to Newport News. They told of soldiers chasing them, shooting at them. They came to a river infested with crocodiles. Facing certain death if they stayed where they were, they plunged into the current. The crocs did their awful work pulling many of the children beneath the torrent — leaving survivors scarred with the memory of their companions' cries.
What must still waters without the threat of danger and death mean to such children as these?
John went on: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” African children know more of this valley than I have known in a lifetime. I reflected. The greatest personal indignity I had experienced in the past year was at the hands of rubber-gloved NTSA agents at airports. Due to a total knee replacement six years ago, I never fail to set off the metal detection alarms. Their frisking sometimes becomes intrusive and personal. But, “valley of the shadow of death?” Certainly not. Not like these children have known it.
I listened to John with renewed reverence for the familiar words he was speaking. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies.” I pictured the enemies these children have faced. Soldiers with guns. Fierce animals. Aids. Government heads concerned more with acquiring personal wealth than with protecting innocents. For a long moment, I was lost in the scene. God, siding with the oppressed, prepares a lavish feast for these children while their attackers and would-be murderers, in custody, are forced to watch.
I returned to John's recitation. “And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord, forever.” My eyes spilled out their tears. Such promise of ultimate victory! No wonder this is John's favorite chapter in the Bible!
Through John, and the witness of millions of other African children, God spoke to me once again through the 23rd Psalm. He spoke of his compassion and care. He spoke, saying he is aware of our struggles and trials. He spoke of his protection and of the great victory celebration planned when we are ushered into his presence.
As I reflected on how powerfully this chapter had affected me, I realized again the greatness of God's word to speak to us within the cultural contexts of our lives. While for me, the 23rd Psalm has always been a beautifully poetic description of God's provision, seeing it through the eyes of these children transformed the text. With a single bound, it leapt from theoretical promise straight into actual hand-holding practicality. This is how the swift and powerful two-edged sword of Scripture is properly seen.
Perhaps the American church in general has not experienced enough adversity. When we do, maybe the Bible will cease to be a source of division and become, instead, the bread of life.
The high-profile leadership conference speakers delivered on their promise. My expectations were fulfilled. But it was the children who lead me.