We live in the day and age of the superhero franchise. Marvel and DC comics have successfully made movies based on superhero stories a must watch. Each one of the heroes has an origin story, a tale that outlines the hero’s fate as decided on by factors beyond their control. Although none of them set out to be heroes, they find themselves compelled to take a stand against crime. Tragedy usually strikes, propelling the yet to be discovered hero into his destiny, forcing him to emerge. These stories often portray the heroes as individuals with needs, weaknesses, and even passions, like our own, who choose to set them aside, accepting the life of loneliness and secrecy to protect those they love and a city in need.
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I was chatting to a colleague of mine recently and I came to the realisation that often when it’s time for prayer requests many Christians do not ask for prayer regarding their daily struggles. In fact it seems like they are oblivious to them. I’ve noticed that they want prayer for external items ie. a car, a husband, a house, a new job…the list goes on and on, and this bothers me to a certain degree, as we hardly confess our sin to one another and ask for prayer regarding our daily struggles.
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I grew up on a tea plantation in southern Malawi. I loved the fresh air and freedom, but from about age six, I was being sexually molested by the guards at our house and then later, a cook. I don’t know why I was afraid to tell my parents, but it left me twisted inside in many ways. I felt as though I wasn’t good enough for the people around me. I started withdrawing within. I remember hearing one of my mother’s friends say of me “this one is not as friendly as her sister”. I spent many nights crying, my swollen eyes were becoming a regular, normal sight.
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In the midst of all these #mustfall movements, I’m wondering if we’re engaging in the correct battle.
Social justice has always been important to the Lord. He has always been a God for the disenfranchised and the oppressed in society, a God who cares for the widows and orphans. He is a God of Justice and He will judge wrongdoings.
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I happily grew up in the village (read: Limpopo, cows, chickens, dirt roads, clean air etc.), and have now settled in the ‘burbs of Joburg. Just recently, I was struck by how different life is in these two worlds. Back in the village, life was great; you knew all your neighbours around the block and could easily pop in to ask for a little sugar for your tea, or a little help with something.
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I’m just a young woman who grew up being very competitive and with a strong desire to please. From as early as five years old
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When I look at my life, I see a full testament of how God orchestrates every single thing I’ve gone through for a grander purpose.
I grew up in the small city of Mzuzu, Malawi. I was raised by very religious grandparents who were very active members of the church. I recall never missing Sunday school, so from a young age I had an awareness of who God is, as well as an understanding of right from wrong. But I wouldn’t say I was saved.
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Growing up in the 90’s, I thought Christian art was flaky. Unoriginal. Uninspired. Bland… yet godly. The mini art critic in me could spot from a mile away that the perm fixed in the depiction of Jesus that we see in Catholic art was far from me – and almost everyone else too. But it was art. Christian art. So, when I started considering the claims of Christianity, the art work I was exposed to made the culture seem narrow and detached.
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I used to be in the charismatic movement. I was a fully-fledged member. I had gone through the rites of passage; I attended the conferences, the leadership seminars, ‘prophesied’, ‘spoke in tongues’, lead worship, played in the church band, wrote a few worship songs, started a Christian band, lead a small group and even had Jeremiah 29: 11 bookmarked. Basically, I was in there!
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Like all fairytales start; one day, on a beautiful summer’s day in the beautiful town of Johannesburg, there was a princess named Tsholo. She was soft spoken and laughed so gently and eloquently. Then one day, someone lovingly asked her, “what are you doing!?”
Okay, that’s where the fairytale ends. I don’t even think it was a summers day, probably winter. Either way, it was pretty awkward, because there I was, trying to be like some of the ladies I look up to in the church. You know them right? Those ladies that speak softly and rub your arm ever so gently when talking to you.
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