St Andrews PCEA Church - Nairobi

The Spirit and the Bride say “Come!”. And let him who hears say “Come”! Rev.22:17

“We were not purchasing sadness!”

The World Cup. Vuvuzelas.  Horn-like trumpets with a bee-sound supposed to summon goals…blue, yellow, pink red, etc colored goals. Their sound is meant to rouse the favorite team while simultaneously deafening the rival. !?!? Like Revelation’s angel trumpet – the end of times – calling up the right to life and the wrong to annihilation.

And the paintings on  faces –  for a moment you do not tell whether you are looking at a flag or a face – the flag and face are one – flag on the face and face on the flag. The patriotic identity is clear, like the mark to be stamped on the forehead of the chosen…spelling clear they are God’s…like the fans and their nations.

Amidst the faces and flags are the masks– fierce masks…they made me lean away from the television screen when the cameras zoomed them close. These masks in the soccer communion - images of the unknowable and the mystical. Like the creatures of the apocalypse, eyes all over them, with wings that fly, wings that shield – strange faces indeed. Even in these fans who swear to know their teams so well is the strange zone of the unknown…like the secret things that belong to God.

The unknown. The foretelling octopus. The Sangoma’s. The influencing python. The medicine people. The smoking pots. The praying Akorinos…calling for help for the staggering Africans.  Quarter finals was the ceiling. High or low? Glass?

Netherlands. Spain. All the way.  Both happy to be in the finals. Both hating the other to take home the trophy. Love and hate. Where is the love? The fans hiss with hate. It gets mixed up. Love and hate. Like foe and friend, like the worldly and the holy, the sacred and the profane – like heaven and hell. Woe unto you if you are seating amongst Ghana fans and you are cheering for hand-balling Uruguay! You will harvest a generous basket of wrath.  Just like those seated on the left side of God.

One trophy. Two teams. Twenty two men. Unharmonious ambitions. Orange. Black-stripped maroon. Each team with its own.  And there are those who will be dressed in white.

Then the songs begin - floating in the noise with lines that praise, adore and even worship. They are anthems. Anthems of hope. Intercession.  Who is on the Lord’s side? “Does God like African football?” someone asked.

The favorite team concedes a goal. Even goals.  Bafana. Ghana. Portugal. Drogba. Brazil. Maradona. Germany. Holland-Netherlands? In Kenya, four jeered themselves to death, literally, as Brazil and Ghana proved too weak for their opponents.  The jeers - a curse on the adversaries. Casting into the lake of fire those who disappointed the anticipated happiness .  “We were not purchasing sadness!” They regret having bought the tickets. But the chasm is already too large…like the rich man who ignored Lazarus.

Then  cheers across the globe. The favorite teams scores! If all the cheers turned into one cheer  vented through one vuvuzela, the force would be enough to scare and tuck the clouds in a corner of the skies.  The skies – He will come from the skies…with a white horse…for the white uniformed He will come. Then the tears – of joy. The tears – of sadness. Different tears. But tears all the same. The joyful team…the gnashing team. Jabooolani! Vuvuzelas! Call to celebrate?…Call to mourn? The Winning Voice shouts to all…whispers into every ear,  ”Come!” Let him who hears say “Come!”

Pastor Buri E.