I was never one for religion or fanaticism, much to my father’s dismay. I was the sole sceptic in an ever-zealous Catholic household. Priests were talkative old men, and pastors were mere actors in my book. One did not need religion to be good. That was my philosophy, and I was sticking by it. My Sundays were spent poring over my textbooks, groaning over the horrors of law school, and ignoring my younger sister’s persistent phone calls. That is, until the Sunday I allowed her to drag me to an evening service at her overenthusiastic church full of young people.
They say that miracles do not happen to you, but through you. Looking back, I should have known the moment I watched cripples climb the stage to give birthday wishes that the pastor of this church was no actor. I saw young doctors, new couples, disabled people, blind students, and previously homeless men give heartfelt thanks to the quiet white man in the front seat and to God above. I watched them cry, laugh, and celebrate him. I saw the five-tier cake and the joy on their faces. I watched a story unfold. Of how one man had touched the lives of thousands, how the crippled now walked with prosthetics, and how the blind became scholars with stars in their eyes. How the homeless had someone to feed them and the sick had someone who cared.
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I realized, sitting there in the back row poised to criticise, that perhaps, I had been missing something all these years. There are indeed real men of God, and they are the ones through whom we can see God Himself. That is my new philosophy, and I’m sticking by it. So I sat right there, content in this little church of young people or maybe I should call it the large young peoples’ church where I could catch a little glimpse of God Himself.
So from a past critic of men of God, a converted believer in the fact that there are still true men of God, I wish the white pastor of the young people happy birthday!
by: Nana. A.
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