Chapter 40 Two White Guys, Who Happen to Follow Jesus

This past Saturday, my friend Joe and I met with Mustafa, a Sudanese man who will soon be setting up his tables of merchandise in front of the Rialto. Mustafa sells shoes and various other pieces of urban clothing, and he moves from street corner to street corner, trying to earn enough money to send home to his wife and his seven children, and his mother, all of whom have recently fled the Darfurian region of Sudan to the capital city of Khartoum, in hopes of a better life. Or simply life itself.

So, we showed him the area he could use -- a little alcove under the marquee where a ticket booth once stood for the movies inside. It is a good space, wide open, yet under protection for shade, or if it should rain. Then we went inside and gave him a tour, revealing for him the promise of a new cultural center in this beloved, ancient theater of ours, 11,000 square feet of space, currently of twisted metal and concrete, under renovation for Mustafa and the many others who now call our town their own. We talked about the dream of Sudanese gatherings, and of classrooms filled with children and adults alike in the area where the balcony still stands. We envisioned some day, that Sudanese celebrations and weddings could take place in the main auditorium. He at first seemed overwhelmed by the task in front of us (and I can't blame him for that), but then he seemed excited, and smiled. He looked around at the mess, and then above it, and perhaps he grabbed some of the vision as he said, “Yes, some day.”

You see, it just so happens that Fort Wayne is now home to one of the largest Darfurian populations in the United States. Mustafa and his countrymen might not realize it, but every bit of effort we undertake inside that theater -- every stone moved, every sledge hammer swung, every bruised muscle and stretched tendon and inhaled breath of dust and grime -- all of it -- is for them. And not just them, really, but displaced people from strange borders all over the world; people that somehow survive and persevere long enough to make their way here.

After the tour, Mustafa wanted to talk about bringing his family to the United States to be with him. And so we dusted off some chairs and sat down, and in his broken English, he was able to describe the costs associated with the various visa applications (that he has already begun), and if those should be received and approved by the proper authorities, the expense of plane tickets to ultimately bring them here. All told, he’s looking at around $10,000. He’s already paid about $3000 of it, but it’s hard for him to save much because nearly everything he earns is immediately sent back home to provide for his loved ones, his mother included.

The Sudanese are a proud people, and so it is difficult for him to talk about this with others in the Sudanese community, those who live in Fort Wayne, right here in his midst. Joe actually asked him directly if he had discussed any of this with them, and he quickly dismissed it as an option, which I heard clear as a bell above and beyond the other sentiments that were harder to understand. And so, Mustafa, a Muslim, sat in a room with two white guys, who happen to follow Jesus, asking for our help. I’m sure that wasn’t easy, either, but for the record, I don’t think I can express in words how much of an honor it was.

So, we spent the next half hour or so talking about how The Reclamation Project might be able to help, maybe by co-signing on a loan for him, or some such thing, and all the while he listened politely as we explained it -- but, because of his Muslim faith, the taking out of a loan does not sit well with him. We discussed other options to find the money and expedite the process. Joe is actually leaving in a couple weeks for a return trip to Sudan, and he offered to bring greetings to Mustafa’s family on his behalf, or money – to seek out other solutions, whatever he could. We gave him hope, as best we knew how – hope to bear against what seems to be a hopeless situation.

And then, what I love about Joe is that he always has the courage and presence of mind to ask whomever we may be meeting with, Muslim or otherwise, if we can pray together. Not after we leave, or some day as some vague promise, but right now. Mustafa nodded a little hesitantly, but it was a nod of agreement all the same, and so Joe began to pray. He prayed for blessing, and for provision. He prayed for Mustafa’s family and he prayed that we’ll find the right foundations and grant givers to provide for their reunion, very soon, and that everyone would be protected until then. And then, he asked that all of it be done in Jesus’ name, which is obviously a daunting seal of approval for a Muslim, but Joe didn’t shy away from it.

As we were leaving, we told Mustafa that some people might stop him in front of the Rialto when he is setting up his shop. They’ll ask him if he’s allowed to be there and if he has permission from the owners. We told him to call us if that happens, because we'll say "he’s with us" and that he’s more than allowed to be there. We talked a bit about the steady flow of traffic in front of the Rialto, up and down Calhoun, a main artery in and out of the city, which should be good for business. I wanted to tell him to pay extra close attention to the sound of an old Harley without much a muffler, but maybe, that will be for another day.

Yes, some day.

And so, with this view of Mustafa's world, I suppose our very idea of missions around the world is changing. We’ve always sent out well meaning people from this church congregation and that, to places hither and yon, where over time they learn the language, adapt to the customs, and hope beyond hope that they’ll be accepted in a new and strange land, and if so, that some day they’ll be permitted to share the good news of Jesus. Of course, God has seen fit to accomplish much through this, but curiously, now, perhaps through a new kind of church, He has also seen fit to bring people like Mustafa (and others who will be described in the pages that follow) to our very own backyard. Each with their own story of untold struggle, persecution, and pain. Stories that, in fact, need to be told; and, well, this seems like a good place to start telling them.

We pray and hope that people like Mustafa find Jesus here, not because we force Jesus upon him, but because he lives in our town now and he's come to us for help and we happen to be in a position to do just that, thanks to a creative God who knows all about timing and what a vast redistribution of resources looks like.

And it just so happens that Mustafa, and others, well, they trust us, and we hope beyond hope that some day they’ll ask why we would do such a thing, why we would do any of it -- and when we explain why, that they’ll trust the very Jesus who causes our hearts to well up with love for them. And, yes, we pray that some day they’ll be permitted to return home to their own native land, newly equipped and ready to re-emerge into their very own culture; to not only bring justice, but to share the good news of a Savior who made it all possible.

Yes, some day.