The outlets in Uganda are different. It is not enough to plug something in and expect it to work, or charge, or do whatever it is you want it to do. You need to plug it in, and you need to switch on the outlet. It is not far away or a complicated switch. Every outlet basically has a light switch attached to it that turns the outlet on and off. Simple.
You would not believe the number of times, in my first months in Uganda, I forgot to turn on the outlet.
I could come back ten minutes later or the next morning, only to find that my phone or laptop was dead because it never charged. It was a small thing, but on top of all the new and challenging and uncertain obstacles before me at the time, sometimes the outlets were just too much. An outlet I forgot to switch on could easily make me cry. I forgot so often because it was unfamiliar to me. It was different.
It was uncomfortable.
(I couldn’t decide if I should call this blog Comfortable or Uncomfortable, so the title is both.)
In time, I got used to the outlets. I almost never forget to switch it on, and when I do it doesn’t bring me to my knees feeling like a failure like it did in the beginning. In fact, now that we are in America it feels strange to be able to plug something in without flipping a switch. Funny how things like that change.
I have come to learn that “comfortable” is a word of the affluent. I don’t mean people whose salaries are in the six digits and who send their children to private boarding schools in Europe. I mean affluent people like the average western civilization citizen, or even below average. I mean the people who make enough money to plan what to do with it, or who have the luxury of asking once in a while, “What do we want to do with this?” instead of “What do we need to do with this?” I mean the people who are affluent enough to make, in one day, more than enough money for food and shelter for their family that day.
As I read through 2 Corinthians, one passage in particular clings to me and won’t let go:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort. (2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
Many of us have trouble relating to this passage. As Francis Chan so plainly puts it: Most of us are living comfortably already; therefore, we don’t need a comforter.
When the Bible talks about comfort, it also talks about suffering. Being comforted is a response to something; being comfortable is a stagnant position. If there is no suffering, there is no need to be comforted, and no need for a comforter.
The New Testament expects suffering of Christ-followers. It makes sense—just look at the experiences of the first followers of Christ: stoned, imprisoned, crucified, exiled. It wasn’t something people chose by default or out of peer pressure. The response today, when someone is asked why they follow Jesus, is sometimes, “Why not?”. Early Christians had a hundred different answers to that question:
Because you might never see your family again.
Because your friends might call you stupid or foolish.
Because you will need to give away a lot of your possessions.
Because you won’t be popular.
Because it might physically hurt.
Because you won’t be the one in control of your own life.
Modern-day western Christianity has eliminated all risk. Faith has become a form of insurance, when it should be an adventure.
Moving to Uganda was uncomfortable. Painful, in some respects. And not just because of the outlets. It meant being halfway around the world from family. It meant breaking off relationships that didn’t make sense long-distance. It meant packing up my sweet little apartment, not knowing when I would see or need some of those memory-filled keepsakes again. It meant new vaccinations. It meant learning how to hang things on my new walls (tape didn’t stick, nails didn’t go through the walls, and putty-sticky-stuff could only be found in Kampala). It meant not knowing how to hook up my gas bottle to make a cup of tea. It meant days without electricity, needing to lug my toaster to my neighbor’s verandah because that outlet worked, sitting awkwardly outside waiting for my breakfast while he slept on the other side of the wall. (That all worked out in the end. I married him and now we share electricity.) It meant being scolded for hanging my underwear outside to dry or not ironing my skirts. Very little came naturally, and very little was comfortable.
But oh, how I needed God in that time.
I prayed about what to do in even the most minor of situations. I prayed before every English lesson I taught, because I was terrified of teaching. I prayed before going for a run because I didn’t know the dangers that lay out of sight. I prayed after being humbly reminded not to wear my shoes inside or eat while walking, feeling a little embarrassed for my cultural mishaps.
Over time, Uganda became more comfortable. Culture shock gave way to culture. Experience yielded confidence. I still commit regular faux pas, but less than seven years ago.
While the difference seems good, I find myself praying less. When my own knowledge and instincts prove dependable, I find myself depending on God less. When other people tell me what to do, I find myself asking God less often what I should do. Familiarity has begun to take the place of faith.
The thing about being a missionary by title is that on the surface, everything you do is for God. I listened to God when I picked up and moved to Africa, so now by default I am sitting in the middle of God’s will for my life, right? Because I listened that one time?
It is dangerously easy to stop listening when you think you have already heard.
The more comfortable I become, the less I feel my need for the Comforter.
It almost makes me miss those confounded outlets.
