Paint Me A Picture Of God

She walked about with a face downcast, clueless, faithless, and sometimes hopeless. As usual, she had the smile on her face, the smile that ‘confused the masses’ and made it seem like all was well- but it was not.

All along, she had faced it all: life’s highs and mostly its lows, heartbreak, heart rent, shock, disappointments, maybe even un-appointments. Through it all, she had carefully, albeit gracefully carried the burden with her and made it seem like, well, all was well, but it wasn’t. The only thing she wanted was a perfect understanding of this so-called God that the pastor spoke about, the God that the choir sang about. But, surrounded by a million people, who are apparently supposed to be His representatives, she failed to clearly see God.

And so she carried her burden, her anger, her pain. Every day she looked up to the sky and failed to decipher how He, who apparently so loved the world would torture her like this. Sometimes she wondered why He bothered to go to Calvary because the only thing she wanted was one who would help her carry her load, as opposed to dying for her because heaven knows that what she needed more was a constant friend as opposed to someone who had hang on a tree some 2000 years ago.

And so the search continued, craving for attention, craving for recognition, craving for a sign that the Omnipresent was there with her, but nothing. It hurt the more she thought about it. Could it have been a lie all this time? Does Jesus really care? Did He really leave foot soldiers?

All she ever wanted was a picture of God, a picture of grace, a picture of love. She sought it but found it not. You know why? It was not because God does not exist anymore, nor was it because He was not as powerful too… no! The picture of God could not have been painted because the person with the paint brush had refused to use it. Rather, the person with the paint brush had used it to paint another picture!

It is quite disheartening to note that God would choose you to paint a picture of Him. Disheartening because it is a sacred trust, whose impact is almost never realized. So what did y’all think He meant when He said your parents shall be like God to you? You thought it was a light-hearted ‘bring em up in the fear of the Lord’ kinda thing? Well, guess what? He meant just that- not the light-hearted thing, but the ‘they shall be God to you’ kinda thing!

That when a child is born has their parent as their first point of contact should remind you of how Adam felt when he awoke from nothingness. That the child looks a little like you should remind you of ‘created He them in His image’. That your breasts get all sour when you child has awoken sure should remind you of Isaiah 49:15!

You, mama and papa are the first picture of God your child will see. If you get the paint brush wrong, your mess up the little girl or little boy’s perception! Girls and boys struggling to see God in their life do so because their father-figure was a mess!

And so what if you are not a parent? Do you think you profession of Christianity is just enough to help you slide into that innocent girl’s DM? Ever heard of the line ‘you are the only Jesus someone may ever see’? Well, guess what, they mean just that!

There are places God would rather be, there are hearts God would rather touch but He seemingly doesn’t because He has put you there to do the comforting, encouraging and blessing. But alas, the only picture of God we paint is a flawed one.

Leonardo Da Vinci does a better job!

What If Jesus Was Black...

So I sit here… wondering how we all go to the point of looking down on others, sidelining one another and having these myriad dissentions. How did we get here? From whence do we get the audacity to state that one colour, race or tribe was superior, better or smarter?

And so I ask this question, what if Jesus was black? Yeah, like dark-skinned, walking the African soil, being beaten by the blazing African sun kinda black… would He have black disciples? Would He tell His followers to keep their hair kinky, to drop the drum beating or would He let them be comfortable in their skin?

What if Jesus were black, would He be found chanting #BlackLivesMatter? Would part of the reason He would be crucified be because of His skin colour?

Would He let our elders preach in their shirts only, without requiring a jacket? Would He tell the white and black sisters too, to shun from braiding their hair and work on the inner man? Would He allow a few brows off on some, and tell others a little lipstick makes you look like Jezebel sister?

Would He encourage the payment of lobola, without calling it too barbaric?

If Jesus were black, would He mix with white fellows? Would He still sanction that the gospel be preached to the ends of the earth or that it just be kept in a little calabash? Would He dance to the African beat? Would He have Christmas celebrated in the northern hemisphere, yet call it a pagan feast in the south?

You see, it would make no difference if Jesus were black, because I am persuaded that a black Jesus would be as loving and as empathetic as a white one too. Because Jesus is the same, yesterday, today and forever, I am persuaded that He would do away with all these disparities between the blacks and whites!

Am almost certain that if Jesus were black, life would still be the same as we know it now! So maybe the problem isn’t the history of Christianity, the problem is with the Christian! There is need to step out of our race, skin colour, intellect, career strata and see people for who they are, for what they are because in the end it all won’t matter, except do you have the Son?

Do you have the Son? Not the black Son, not the white Son, but the Jesus Son, the one that came to seek and save the white, black, poor, rich lost! Because if Jesus were black, the Bible would still have 66 books, with the same words, and the same message- the message of love, and salvation!

So, is it a black Jesus we need, or an experience that rises above the strata we have created?

There Is You, And There Is Me

A glass of water sitting on the table, filled with liquid, but not to the brim, slightly less than three-quarters.

She sees it half-empty, I see it half-full.

Is either of us wrong? I don’t know. And, that is the law of perception; directly tied to it is individualism.

See there is absolutely nothing wrong with seeing things a certain way, but what is wrong is forcing your opinion on another. In fact, what is worse is forcing your personality on another.

It is indeed a notorious fact that no two persons are the same, take Jane and Jennipher, identical twins but totally different. It would be a huge aberration, if not treasonous to force Jane’s ideals on Jennipher. Why, because there is Jane, and there is Jennipher.

Sadly, we do not want to accept these differences; instead, we make those who are slightly different uncomfortable in their uniqueness. Because we forget that if there is more than a thousand fish, then there will be more than a thousand human beings. But, we hate what is uncommon and make it seem like the dreaded.

The only thing that irks me the most, apart from failure and betrayal is superficiality, a wanting-to-fit-in kind of mentality that destroys individuality. See, if God wanted a world replete with calm people, He would have, with a simple “Let there be.” Instead, He said let there be, and out came shapes, types, kinds and categories of people. So then why is it seemingly an offence to be oneself? Why are people never taught to be confident in their skin? From whence do we get the ideology to let people feel out of place, judged and harassed simply because they are sanguine?

One day, someone said something, that I feel went to the very root of my individuality. I felt insulted. So to everyone out there who is too boxed to embrace, who is too short-sighted to discern beauty in apparent messes, to anyone who thinks we should be cut out from the same cloth, it is time to come out of the mediocrity and embrace the diversity. There is nothing wrong in being different, and nobody should feel there is.

Attack my incompetence, my irrationality, my irresponsibility, but never my individuality! There is beauty in being different.

“I took the road less travelled, and that made all the difference.”

Two Knocks And There Was A Damsel

Class was long, and heavy… if that’s an accurate adjective, but right now not even a Grammar Nazi can argue against the use of the word ‘heavy’ to describe the past four undisturbed hours of many a student’s nightmare: class. And so when the clock hit 1, I was one of the many delighted students to escape the doors of Law Class 3, somewhat hurriedly as if the whole thing was about to burn down (well, it could burn down for all I care. Am not a bad student all right, but there are days… and Monday was that day, pardon me, all Mondays are those days.)

Not to bore anybody, I stormed out of class, rushed down the staircase and quickly found my almost pale body on a mass of fleeces, blankies and pillows. I did not intend to sleep (even if I tried, am not one to sleep during the day, unless am sick or really upset), and so gazing through the lifeless ceiling, I begun to unwind. I was coming to the end of my academic tenure in less than four months, and I was upbeat about the future… and so my mind wandered like Alice in Wonderland… what to do, what to do… amidst all this, I was shoving my feet in rhythmic motions, trying to make a melody in my mind, weird ways to unwind I must add.

Suddenly, my thoughts were disturbed. A soft knock was heard from the other side of the door and yep, I thought I knew who it was.

“Bags, lipstick, clothes, BC payable ba sister”? Yes? No?

You can’t blame me for being prejudiced; those are the kind of voices we hear each time someone knocks and so I was ready to scream no thank you, but my courtesy instincts nudged on me to at least say, ‘please come in’. And boy somebody came in!

And so the door was pushed gently, softly and a tall glass of beauty walked in, clad in a quite expensive navy blue suit, with nicely done hair. As I continued my gaze, I saw some files firmly fixed in her arm, whilst trying to cautiously position her handbag on the other arm. She looked darn gorgeous! She was about in her early 30s, turning 33 or 34. She didn’t look like she was married, never mind having given birth before. She was just there! But who could that be?

Quickly, I brushed her off in my mind and thought she was my roommate’s guest; in fact I was about to scream, “Ethel, are you there? I think you have a visitor” when my thoughts, and my mouth were stopped by a “Hi Madaliso,” from this stranger.

“What the?? You know my name?”

Of course I didn’t say that, I just stared at her with my mouth ajar…

“What an interesting way to welcome guests,” she continued with a smile.

When she smiled, I saw an expression that looked familiar. I saw a dimple on the left cheek, and then a slightly smaller one on the other cheek. She had eyes I had seen before and a body that was beginning to look familiar, the more I weighed it.

“Oh forgive my manners, please take a seat.”

“Thank you,” she said with a wink.

The next few moments shocked me.

She begun to do things I knew, acted in a way that was familiar. My mind was screaming, “who is this person and why does she looks incredulously familiar, I mean she even has two black beauty spots on her right hand!”

Wait, did I just say two beauty spots? I looked at my hand, and bum I had those two, in the same position as hers. Suddenly, our gazes met and so did our thoughts.

“Oh come on now Maddy, does it have to take you so long to figure out that am the older version of you? Ok, am Madaliso Daka, a 33 year old lawyer. I thought the navy blue suit would make it easy for you to recognize me, since we are ‘navy blue striped people’?”

Now that last line is like my only child. I guard it jealously, securely. Navy blue striped people is my one-liner, nobody else’s, well unless you are me, from the year 2027! What! Did she just say everything about me in less than 3 seconds? Could she really be my older version? What in the world is going on?

“Madaliso, what are you eating for lunch?” asked Ethel, my roommate.

And suddenly I awoke from my righteous imagination. It had all been a product of my imagination. There was no 33 year Madaliso; it was just me, still shuffled up in those comfy fleeces.

Truth be told, my imagination works overtime, but this is not the point. The hard cold point am trying to drive securely into the sockets of my head (and yours, I hope) is that our future us is out there somewhere, maybe in the year 2025, or 2030 (hopefully time won’t last long enough), and truth be told our future self is only but a carbon copy of who we are now, only older. Yes, our future self may be that drunk, crooked man or that blesser-loving, sleep-your-way-to-the-top lady. Nothing about age changes a person.

A month ago, I attended a seminar where the lesson driven home was that getting to the future is hard. I somehow refined that principle: getting to the future you want is hard. My 33 year old self will come in 2027 whether I do anything about it or not. However, the choice lies in my hands whether the person I’ll become in 2027 will be one I’ll be proud of.

This whole chat reminds me of earlier sentiments I shared with a friend. I asked her what we would be like after we become associates, and her response was that we would be the same person, only in bigger bodies! I couldn’t agree with these thoughts more.

So today, I remind myself that a good character is not by chance, accident, never mind age; a good character is made by painstaking efforts. You will not suddenly be a knowledge-thirsty, ethical and downright honest lawyer, if you daily, right now in law school, embrace mediocrity in study schedules, or minor deals with friends and family.

Getting to the future you want is hard, but it is worth it if you want to love the person who will walk in those doors five, ten years from now.

A Taste of Heaven

I opened the gate to a trail of green grass, tall tress and big brushes... All this rich verdure canopied a sparkling body of water, carefully packed by the Creator in what man calls a "lake." But, the wonder of all wonders was the thick fog that enshrouded this magnificent sight... gliding through the green grass, being caressed by the misty fog with the mesmerizing chill of fresh air, I thought to myself "this must be heaven!"

Lost in my senses, I didn't notice the approaching footsteps.. hump, thump, hump, he walked... Suddenly, the music stops and my heart skips a beat. Noticing a silhouette figure over my shoulder, my heart skips more beats, or five to be precise... I was engulfed by a feeling, a feeling called fear!

What? Realising the meaning of this emotion, it hit me.. This isn't heaven. Heard have I about its beauty, imagined have I about its awesome scenery and beautiful people, but it has never gone into my imagination that heaven would be a place of fear... That I was afraid of the approaching foot soldier was proof that I was not there....yet.

See heaven is not the absence of sorrows, much as I want the sorrow to end;  heaven is not just a place where the painful blow of death doesn't strike, much as I despise death; heaven is not  only a place where little girls are not raped, defiled, mutilated... Heaven is not a place where flowers do not wither and leaves never fall... Much as I am tired by the cares and concerns of this world, of losing friends, opportunities, dreams, and beautiful nature, I do not look forward to place that is all bliss.

Heaven is peace, quietude, and security in the Father's love. Heaven is being able to sleep even in a raging storm because you know that the One in you can calm it. I guess heaven is the state of not being worried about sin, because you know that it is sin that takes away your joy, your peace, your serenity...

If heaven was the absence of sorrow, death, hunger, God could have easily given us all this but trust me, we would still not be satisfied... Heaven is therefore God with us; the reunion of the estranged prodigal with his loving Father!

Heaven, no matter how fair, is not heaven if God isnt there!