DUCK DYNASTY = NORTH AMERICAN CHURCH PLANTING 101

I’m no church planting guru.   I’ve only done it twice in two nations.   I still need many advisers.    North America is baffling.    My dad, Lloyd Jenkins told me to start watching Duck Dynasty to put together a church planting model.    I can’t remember a time his advice steered me astray.    I’m 46, married for 23 years, have 5 kids, and I still pay attention to my dad.    I think Duck Dynasty is North American Church Planting 101. 

I grew up in the ‘70’s and 80’s going to Bible believing churches.    I heard a mantra over and over again of “The nuclear family is the basic social building block of America.”    Dad, mom, and the kids were it.    Our faith’s wandering into the political fray of the day felt under attack.   It was time to defend the nuclear family.

Then I moved to Africa in 1993.   Many things startled me in that transition.    One was discovering that for the majority of the world the nuclear family was a selfish social model.    Africa taught me that the extended family was the basic social building block of society.     Grandpa and grandma, uncles and aunts, dad and mom, cousins, brothers, and sisters all blended together into a world of shared community care.     I opened my Bible and read of genealogies, clans, extended families, and new churches that acted like extended families.    

My evangelical American upbringing had missed the mark.   The nuclear family is good.    Yet, the extended family is better.   In fact, the extended family is more Biblical, and simply pragmatically wiser and more compassionate.

The most shocking social phenomenon in my return to the United States after 19 years away is that I now believe for most Americans the most basic social building block is the individual.    In that process North America has become a polarized and lonely place.

Before I began making my case that America was losing its social fabric when churches created the idol of the nuclear family I called my dad to check notes.    His response was, “David, I think you’re right.”   Then he told me stories of the transitions he observed growing up in the post-World War Two boom.    Farms became bigger and more mechanized.    The extended family farms were phasing out.    Prosperity brought white flight and suburbs.   Ethnic neighborhoods declined.   Post-secondary education and professional jobs created mobility.    Few noticed but the extended family was in decline.    

My dad, Lloyd Jenkins with a Northern Pike who lost a disagreement with an eagle

Then my dad pushed back, “What does this practically mean for church planting?”   He knew my tendency to become “academic,” and “philosophical.”   I did my, “Duh” and started retreating into big words.    Dad told me, “Duck Dynasty.”

I think he’s right.    If we want to plant healthy churches in North America we need to watch Duck Dynasty.   What is going on here?   Why is this appealing?   

• The extended family is the basic social building block.    Father doesn’t always know best.   In fact, as little kids it was comforting to hear grandpa say, “I spanked your dad and I can spank you too.”      All of us are learning, and the grumpy old gray haired straight shooters are the wisest people in the room.      We never forget our grandma’s proverbs.      Sometimes we need to talk candidly to someone who will respect our confidence and offer good counsel, and usually it is an aunt or uncle.    Many of us have an overly generous uncle who pretends to on occasion be just a little psycho.     Our favorite childhood memories are slumber parties with all our cousins.    In a jam it is nice to be able to drop our kids off at an extended family member’s home instead of day care.      Weddings, births, graduations, and funerals are the defining moments of our life.    We can’t wait to get to heaven so we can all be together again.   

CCR Youth Concert Pastor Uniform

• Eccentricity is cool.   The modern world’s commercialism keeps telling us to all buy the clothes advertised in Cosmopolitan and GQ.    Yet, at grandma’s home we read Bass Pro Shops and the Sears catalogue as we dreamed about Christmas.     Our eclectic intellectual aunt kept stacks of National Geographic and though she never traveled abroad she hoped we someday would.     

When we feel comfortable in our extended family we explore as an individual.   Love and acceptance are unconditional.    We twit and Facebook our generation’s proverbs just like grandpa’s buddies trade stories at a coffee shop.     If our uncles can wear blaze orange to church we can wear retro clothes, dress Bohemian, and even adopt a style from across the world.      Family photo albums teach us every generation has a style that will make them later go, “What was I thinking?”    Thus we can take some risks and explore.   

• Food, food, food and more food make life full of joy.     It is easy to have a good natured debate around a dining room table.     Yet it is hard to get angry and resort to name calling with the wonder of food.    We don’t know how it happened, but there have been some times when dad didn’t know how he was going to buy groceries that week.   Then mom cooked up a wonder with leftovers and scraps.     Our table is not for us alone.   Somehow we could always find an extra chair and a little more when a friend or neighbor dropped in.    Food reminds us of God’s bounty.   Food teaches us to look over eccentricities that become irritating and forgive our extended family’s sins.    

• Teach with proverb, story, and humor.    It probably is easier to learn for an academic exam
  
  with outlined notes.    Yet in the tests of life it is proverbs and stories that get us through.     When we face the unknown the oldest wisdom is the best.     Life can be painful.    There are times we shed lots of tears.    Thus we must laugh at every opportunity.     In fact, sometimes we don’t know how to express all of affection for one another.   When the junior high teen tells us, “Stop touching me,” we resort to good natured teasing.   In fact, we only pick on people we like.     We know the marriage has taken when we start calling our in-laws, “the outlaws,” and laugh like we’ve created an original joke.   

• We listen to the sincere and humble.    The real reason we stop for a moment in our channel surfing is to make sure our crazy cousin is not on the Jerry Springer Show.     In our extended family we know we’ve all messed up.    It’s hard to find a struggle one of us hasn’t struggled with in the past.   We all wish we had not said stupid things in anger.   We also were silent at times when we should have spoken.   When the preacher says, “We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” we nod our heads and can’t wait to hear about grace.    

None of us like to be lectured by those who are confident in their own righteousness.    We stop to listen when someone who has been through our struggle shares how they overcame with God’s love and our community’s support.    Our patriarchs are testaments to human depravity being redeemed by God’s grace.    Our family finds its dignity in sincerity and humility.     With that combination we can listen to some of the most difficult lessons.    I’ve googled over and over again for months Duck Dynasty reviews. Generally even those who don’t share faith in Jesus’ resurrection listen, disagree amicably, and conclude, “The Roberstons are sincere.”

• However, Biblical preaching is costly.     There will come seasons when we hear old preachers say there are only three responses to a sermon.    We’re either glad, sad, or mad every time the Bible is taught.    We’re glad we’ve accepted the Bible’s truth and we’re on a path to see our departed grandma.   Sometimes we’re sad that we know we should listen, but something holds us back.     Occasionally, we’re just angry at an uncomfortable truth.     We’ve all reacted those ways to a sermon so we shouldn’t be surprised when others also do.    We can complain about the preacher’s presentation style, tone, use of language, body language, and eccentric dress.     Yet, the world always needs prophets to speak the truth and hold us to account.     Most of the time those prophets of old are eccentric characters.    They pay a cost with the loss of favor.     We will too.  

• History is a mess but family loyalty matters.    I hope this blog will be discussed by those concerned about growing churches and Christ’s influence in North America.   Yet, it is personal.     I’ve met the Robertsons once.    The church they attend, Whites Ferry Church of Christ has a ministry called World Radio that gave us the financial backing for our radio start in Uganda.   A couple times I’ve passed through their church to say thank you.      I’ve once shook Phil and Allen’s hands.    I was struck by their approachability, generosity, wisdom, and humility.    My duck hunting brothers and friends cheered that I had met the Duck Commander, but at that point few other groups considered their family “celebrities.”

I’ve watched Duck Dynasty, read one of their books plus read the GQ article and the recent social commentaries.     I can find little in Phil’s dialogue that is off base with my understanding of the Bible and America’s shifting social dynamics.   Phil’s words are simple Bible with an honest Louisiana duck hunter commentary.  

Yet, I’m troubled by his comments about race.    I don’t think Phil’s comments reflect historical reality.   Also, it is personal.   I have two children with black skin.

For a moment let me discuss perception.   I have white skin.   There are some neighborhoods and  cities where I feel uncomfortable and even unsafe.    It may just be my perception and may not be reality.

Our family "going native" in Chicago

At times I also feel that way when I travel with my children with black skin.    Sometimes I’m in a neighborhood, city, or state where we feel unwelcome.   Sometimes I’ve noticed people staring at us with glares that felt threatening.    I quickly hurry into our car and keep driving.    I’ve never stayed in such situations long enough to know if my perception is accurate.

A few times I’ve seen my extended family with white skin connect the dots when their family members with black skin are the victims of prejudice.   I’ve never seen such righteous indignation.   Phileo (family) love is the mama bear of all loves.    It is instinctual and may not be reasonable.   It is nurtured by experiences that can be ambiguous and undefined.     

I understand the Robertsons have an extended family member with black skin.    I imagine the Robertsons feel the same as we do and cannot stomach racial prejudice in any of its forms.  

I spent 4 years of my life in Arkansas.    I’ve hunted ducks with friends, who define themselves as “white trash.”  Those friends feel more affinity economically with poor African Americans in the South than they feel with upwardly mobile Caucasian Americans in the South.   I believe my white trash duck hunting buddies would in good conscience agree with Phil’s comments on race.    Their experience does not reflect the broad picture of history and race, but it does reflect their personal experience.    Poverty, non-literacy, and systematic injustice can be pervasive.    All are victims – even the oppressor.

Bible preaching and living confronts those unjust systems.

When I went to visit the White’s Ferry Road Church of Christ with my full family I drove quickly through Louisiana.   A few times I felt uncomfortable stares at gas stations and fast food restaurants.   Then I drove into the church parking lot and felt at home.    People noticed all my kids and treated them all with fairness and honor.    I believe that is the belief system and culture of the White’s Ferry Road Church of Christ.   In that social network called “church” we’re all extended family.    

Tarbet clan Christmas 2012 (Jana's church planting family)

That extended family of the church is one of the oldest and most controversial testaments to our faith in Jesus’ resurrection.    Language and culture communicate the Gospel.    Worship reflects itself in ethnic nuances.    Yet, in the church Jesus prayed for gender, age, ethnicity, race, and nationality are irrelevant.   We’re all family.   

We can’t re-write history.   We can’t heal every wound with our human attempts.    Yet, family loyalty matters.   In fact, family loyalty is one of the best ways us humans can undo the messiness of history.

• Yet, what about those who don’t have a nutty extended family?   As I write I’ve tried to refrain from telling too many personal stories of mine.   I’ve also tried to refrain from the details and partisan banter about the Robertson clan.    I’ve tried to remind us of the good of the old extended family memories many of us share.   It is my hope those old memories will call us to plant churches in North America that rise above the mess we’re currently in.

Yet, I know some who read this will not have memories of a growly grandpa, nutty uncle, grandma’s cooking, and an intellectual aunt.   They never had a slumber party with dozens of cousins.     Thanksgiving, Christmas, weddings, births, graduations, and funerals are not the defining good moments of life.

For that reality we who have received must give.     Our extended family can no longer just be those with whom we share biological and adopted affinity.    Our extended family must be our local church.    Duck Dynasty is Church Planting 101 in North America.   

THE JOY OF THE MISSIONARY CALL

Senator and friend, Marguerite Nyagahura with our foster son, Gabe

There were many privileges the Lord gave us during our season in East Africa.  One of the greatest ones was joy in our friendships with the African people with whom we served.   We had a few furloughs where we returned to the United States wounded by religious charlatans.   We know missionaries whose return to the United States came during a season of wounding that created Afro pessimism and spiritual bitterness.   Yet, in our departure from Africa’s Great Lakes we had an immense sense of fulfillment.   The institutions we labored to build were stronger than our charisma.   They endure.   Also, our friendships blossomed.   Those we shepherded blessed us.   We are immensely grateful.

            Our missionary calling is a unique spiritual gift.  We believe to be a missionary is to be one sent from one’s earthly home by the Holy Spirit for the purpose of making disciples and developing churches.   That call means over time we become a cultural insider who is never completely at home.   Thus we’re prophetic in holding leaders accountable while pastoral in building institutions that bless coming generations until the Lord returns.   This calling is from the Holy Spirit.   It is never about economic power, race, or national origin.  Only a few will hear a missionary call.   Yet, the call is never restricted to those from certain earthly privileges.

            We believe all cultures need missionaries in their midst.  We observed that over time the missionary vocation became a great source of social strength in East Africa.   Our heritage not only developed churches.  We built schools and scholarship programs.   We counseled diverse national leaders.  We helped the poorest of the poor and most vulnerable.

            Our family believes our new call is to serve the Diaspora from Africa’s Great Lakes who are in North America.  We believe we are doing what missionaries always do.   The Lord is leading us to new niches that most do not see.   A typical weekend for us involves going to social functions of Diaspora in Chicago.  Sometimes we know someone at the function.   Yet, sometimes it is simple beginning introductions.

            We usually say these words, “We are very thankful for the 19 years the Lord gave us as adults in East Africa.   He put a missionary gift in our heart.   We believe we are still to be missionaries even when we return to the USA.”

     

Paulin Byusa, Ame Ishimwe, Joseph Masengeshu, Joris Manzi at Commemoration

       Then spiritual magic happens.   We are met with smiles.   We are met with stories.

            “I went to a missionary school.”

            “A missionary sponsored me and found a scholarship for me to study abroad.”

            “A missionary baptized me.”

            “A missionary performed my wedding.”

            “A missionary prayed for me (or my child, nephew, niece, grandchild, etc…) when I was sick and I was healed.”

            “A missionary counseled a difficult situation in our community and brought unity.”

            “A missionary kept my mom safe during a season of turmoil and strife.”

            We are immensely thankful for such a heritage.   Yet this heritage is not one to hoard.   It calls us to see new community needs, and initiate.   In the process we make many mistakes.   Yet, God’s grace goes far beyond our failings.   Thus the Lord is glorified.

      

      In April as Rwanda faced the month of mourning the tragedy of the 1994 Genocide we sensed it was time to pastorally initiate a commemoration.  As it closed a few Diaspora told us thank you.   The Chicago Rwanda Genocide Memorial would not have happened without a missionary in the Diaspora midst.

            We then spoke something that our missionary elder statesman once said to us.

            “Don’t give me any honor for this.  It was just a missionary thing to do.   The honor needs to go to the Holy Spirit which called us.   All this call is about is discerning when the community has a need that can only be met by an outsider understanding enough to initiate.

            You can be a missionary too.   You are away from home.   America needs you to be a missionary to them.   You will return to your African home someday.  When you return go as a missionary.   Be a Holy Spirit inspired starter.”

            To one thankful Diaspora mom we said, “Again this is no big deal.  It is just a missionary

Diaspora kids - Christian, Zam, and Aisha sharing a meal in our home

call.  The Holy Spirit may call your children to be missionaries too.  If so, bless your children in that call.”

            This is pure missionary joy.  We empathetically understand these old missionary words generations upon generations have repeated, 

 "I can’t tell you how happy I am to learn that many members of your family are diligent in living out the Truth, exactly as commanded by the Father. But permit me a reminder, friends, and this is not a new commandment but simply a repetition of our original and basic charter: that we love each other (2 John 1:4-6, The Message with a little tweak.)"

FATHERS, SANDBOXES, AND ENDURING ROADS

Many of us spent years in Uganda, our brother to the east. Parties, laughter, debate, and flamboyance mark the joys our eastern brother. Yet another marker of our eastern brother is the roads. In fact, roads are usually the first item of conversation our eastern brothers raise when they visit Kiga­li. Something is horribly wrong with Kampala. It is the roads. Something is right with Kigali. It is the roads.

Metaphors are dangerous com­munication devices. They turn the profound and complex into a simple symbol. Yet they resonate. The trag­edies of our Great Lake’s history can be obviously seen in our roads.

Two weeks ago, I compared Nairo­bi’s roads to Kigali’s and concluded the fatal flaw of Nairobi’s roads was poor colonial vision. Nairobi would have been a perfect city with perfect roads if only Nairobi had remained a city of no more than 250,000 making the life of British administrators com­fortable. Nairobi refused to be con­tained by such a short-sighted vision.

A journey to Kampala easily sees the same problem. The best tradi­tional neighborhoods of Kololo and Nakasero would have been perfect if not for Uganda’s Independence. Yet, I propose another reason that Kam­pala’s roads are so disastrous – Far too few fathers play with their chil­dren in sandboxes.

My earliest childhood memories are of my mom and me following my dad’s labor. He was a road build­er. The profession literally required, “Life on the road.” When we would enter a new city mom sought a park where we could play. Thus my first habit in a new town is always ask­ing, “Where can my children play?” When we moved to Kigali we found the Kimihurura roundabout by the Prime Minister’s Office, and knew we were at home. As I became school age, dad continued to travel while mom kept me in school. My second question in a new town is “Where will my children go to school?” Thus I’m a fervent believer in education.

During down time my dad had a sandbox for us. Into the sand came a few toy replicas of the construc­tion equipment my father mastered – trucks, dozers, and graders. We played together and my father taught me the basics of civil engineering. Enduring roads require drainage. You must have a good ditch. If not, water will rapidly erode the roads.

During the winter construction stopped. However, for there to be work in the summer my dad submit­ted bids to tendering boards. When there were school breaks I went with him to the reading of bids. We had breakfast before the bids were opened with old friends of his who worked for other construction com­panies.

As my brothers and I were in school dad was away and only home on the weekends. He labored hard and sometimes work was frustrat­ing. Mom heard his frustrations on the difficult weeks. Once I overheard him say, “I don’t care whether a man is black, white, purple, or polka dot. I want to work with men who tell the truth.” I noticed he no longer consid­ered his old friends to be his friends.

A few years later I overheard a ru­mor. My dad’s old friends had been caught in a bid rigging scheme. The scheme involved brief case construc­tion companies that manipulated racial quotas. My dad’s old friends went to prison.

During my secondary years my dad came to every football and bas­ketball game I played. Whenever he was not working he gathered my brothers and me for excursions in the lakes and forests of our home village. My dad’s old friends were in prison. He didn’t know that I knew.

He visited me once while we lived in Uganda. He never could under­stand Uganda’s roads. They were of­fensive to everything my dad consid­ered right, good, and true. They were full of potholes, no drainage, nothing straight, and worst of all abundant evidence of poor workmanship and “eaten” resources. His mind never stopped trying to find a way to fix Uganda’s roads. Finally, he came to a conclusion, “Start over.” Tear up ev­ery road, relay the foundation, install drainage, then put on a good thick layer of tarmac. Only in a complete start over was there hope.

A few years ago, I was at my par­ent’s retirement home in the village. We had a quiet morning’s breakfast. I started asking questions about my dad’s labor and childhood memo­ries. He did not know I knew his old friends had gone to prison for bid rigging. Children learn things from their parents without them knowing.

I know why Uganda’s roads are such a disaster. No sandboxes. Little boys are not playing with their fa­thers who model to them the satisfac­tion of an honest day’s labor. In those sandboxes come pragmatic lessons. Drainage is essential for a good road. Also, in those sandboxes are more philosophic lessons taught. Truth is more important than profit. Honor is more important than relationship. Not every action of truth and honor is immediately rewarded. Yet, over time truth and honor build enduring infrastructure and institutions.

I studied theology in university. I built roads with my dad to pay for my tuition. I’m not a civil engineer, but I know the basics of road build­ing with honor.

I like engineering students in Kiga­li. I lecture for many reasons. One is my dad played with me in a sandbox between building enduring roads. I hope my students have similar peo­ple in their lives.

Something is horribly wrong with Kampala. It is the roads. Something is right with Kigali. It is the roads. We thank God for older generations who taught us to play, study, and labor with truth and honor.