Therefore, having this ministry by the mercy of God, we do not lose heart. But we have renounced disgraceful, underhanded ways. We refuse to practice cunning or to tamper with God’s word, but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to everyone’s conscience in the sight of God.
— 2 Corinthians 4:1–2 (ESV)
There is a scene in the World War II film Fury that has remained with me long after the credits rolled. The tank commander, played by Brad Pitt, utters a line that lands with unexpected weight from the interior of a Sherman tank rolling through a scorched European wasteland, surrounded by the wreckage of the war’s closing offensive: “This is the best job I ever had.” His crew takes it up — one by one, each man repeating the refrain until it becomes a kind of liturgy of commitment in the midst of desolation.
I thought of that scene last Friday, somewhere on the road south from Nairobi to Olderkesi.
I was traveling with Benjamin Kijabe, and as the kilometers unfolded beneath us, our conversation turned — as it often does — to the state of the global church. We spoke about the persistent deficiency of discipleship in the modern ecclesia, not merely as an organizational failure, but as a spiritual one. And we arrived, gradually and honestly, at an uncomfortable conclusion: part of that deficiency exists because discipling is hard work.
It demands honest introspection. It demands a willingness — more than that, a desire — to draw near to Jesus, to allow His Spirit to move into us through proximity to Him, in order that it may flow outward again. And then, as we draw near to others — near enough, long enough, holy enough — that same Spirit begins to move through the contact, igniting in them the same desire to draw close, to become conduits of the Living God themselves.
Benjamin said it plainly: “It is one of the most challenging tasks we can undertake as believers, and yet it is also perhaps the most rewarding.”
This is the best job we could ever hope to have. To be called sons and daughters. To be beckoned into His presence. To draw close — and, through that drawing into His Spirit, to draw close to others, encouraging and inciting them toward the same.
The morning after I arrived at Olderkesi, I found myself at the breakfast table long after the plates had been cleared, relishing the morning chai and the company of Rev. David and Mako. The long travel day behind us, we settled into the unhurried grace of an East African morning. And then Mako opened his Bible.
He read aloud from 2 Corinthians 4:1–2.
One of the things I love most about Scripture is the way the Truth of the Gospel pervades its varying translations — how different cultures and languages reach for the same eternal reality and, in doing so, illuminate facets that a single rendering can obscure. I was reminded of a liturgical Bible study I went through last Advent season, which examined how different translations of the Gospels surface small but significant details, how the particular words a culture reaches for reveal something of how it understands the text.
In Maasai, for example, there is no word for “ministry” — the word Paul uses in 2 Corinthians 4:1. The Maasai text renders it esiai Laitoriani — “the work of the Lord.”
I find this rendering more theologically precise in two respects. First, it carries the weight of divine agency: it is God Himself who is at work, and we are merely invited to participate in what He is already doing. Second, it frames ministry as it ought to be framed — as work. Not work in the diminished, reluctant sense the modern West has assigned to the word, but work as vocation, as joy, as participation in something larger than oneself. When our hearts are rightly oriented, any labor can be esiai Laitoriani — the work of the Lord. The best job we have ever had.
One of the most beautiful dimensions of proximity discipleship — being near enough, long enough, and holy enough — is what I can only call the long game.
I have known Rev. David and Mako for a long time. I have been actively working alongside them both for approximately seven years. At different seasons of that journey, both Rev. David and I have discipled Mako. And now, having traveled this pilgrim’s road together long enough, something has shifted. Proximity discipleship has entered a new, synergistic phase. We are more in step. More aligned. We no longer simply minister to one another — we serve together, as iron sharpening iron.
That morning at the breakfast table, with chai still warm and Mako’s Bible open between us, we were not teacher and students. We were three disciples gathered around the same Word, each sharpening the others.
This is what we are giving our lives to. This is esiai Laitoriani — the work of the Lord. Rev. David and I have another Maasai phrase we have taken up as a kind of mantra for our work in the North: esiai Laitoriani mara peechu — the work of the Lord is not in vain.
It is, without question, the best job I have ever had.
Thank you for your continued prayers and partnership. It is your faithfulness that makes this work possible — and it is work worth doing.
Field Note: We will remain in Olderkesi through the weekend, working alongside the staff of the project as we continue to make progress toward total self-sustainability in the future.
Soli Deo Gloria,
Mathew
From one man He made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and He marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from any one of us. Acts 17:26-27