I have to take a course in school called Theory of Knowledge. We look at different ways of knowing things. It’s pretty much philosophy. We were given essay topic options, and one of them was “faith as a way of knowing”. I don’t want to write something to fill in all the necessary criteria, but I do want to write this.
What do I know about humanity? I know that it is cruel. In Uganda, one of the ways people get revenge is to pour acid on another person, torturing that person. There was an article in the newspaper today about robbers who have taken to beating their victims, then covering them in gasoline and lighting them on fire. What I know about humanity is that it is unjust.
I have no faith left in humanity. How can rebels turn children into soldiers and force them to kill their parents?
Humanity is cruel. Children endure things that they never, never, never should have to even think about. You want me to have faith in humanity? Sorry it isn’t going to happen. Humanity is superficial and commercial and selfish, and downright evil and cruel. We scar each other, sometimes for no reason at all. You want me to have faith in humanity? Fine. I have faith that humans will hurt one another if left to their own devices. My faith in humanity means that I know that humans will act in ways which will hurt others. My lack of faith in the goodness of humanity means that I know we will hurt each other. All evidence suggests this.
Well, almost all evidence. There is one key factor missing so far.
Have you ever noticed that what makes a difference in what we know of humanity is the faith that we are capable of having? Even at her darkest, most depressed times Mother Theresa had faith that God would love the children she loved. And He did. And she kept going.
One of the things that is interesting about living in Africa is the obviously joyful spirit of those who suffer yet have faith. The woman, Mrs. Tamali, that runs the orphanage in Lira that captured my heart and passion, has suffered untold things. Her husband was killed during the tumultuous time of Idi Amin. Her house was taken. Her life was taken. She lived in Northern Uganda throughout the horrific war. She saw the people she loved packed like animals into refugee camps. She saw life taken.
But her faith was never taken.
Mrs. Tamali wrote letters every day for 19 years to people in the government demanding that her house, captured by Idi Amin’s soldiers, be returned to her. She waited with faith that someday someone would hear her cries for what God had provided to be returned to her. Finally, her faith led to legislation that all homes taken by Idi Amin’s troops in Lira be returned to the families.
Mrs. Tamali’s faith had shown its results. But was that good enough? No. She wrote more letters, asking for her house to be repaired, until finally troops were sent for three months to rebuild her house.
And now she runs Father’s House, the amazing orphanage where so many scarred children have come to find love.
I do not have faith in the goodness of humanity. But I do have faith in the strength of the human spirit. I have faith in our ability to hope and turn situations around.
What I know about humanity is that when we have faith, we are an amazingly strong and joyful creation.
