We’ve entered the season when numerous short-term teams from churches across America come to Kenya to work alongside Missions of Hope, some for several days, others for several weeks. I especially enjoy visiting with team members who have never been to MOHI before, those who are experiencing the slums of Mathare Valley for the first time.

Many of those conversations remind me of my first time in Mathare, how overwhelming and almost physically assaulting it was to see, smell, touch, and be intimately close to extreme physical poverty. A literal river of open sewage running through the neighborhoods where kids play and run without shoes. Tin-shanty homes practically stacked upon each other, no light or ventilation inside, each one no bigger than a closet in a typical American home. One small bed to share among at least four people. Dirt floors that become sluicy, muddy pits during rainy season. Streets permeated by the pungent smells of unwashed bodies, livestock, animal and human excrement, butchered animals and their offal, food stuffs (fried bread, “chips” (French fries to Americans), dried fish, etc.), and mounds of trash baked by the sun. Sensory overload is an understatement.

I also know the internal struggle of the newly initiated to Mathare– mixed emotions of “no person should live this way,” while simultaneously witnessing the obvious hope and joy of the people who have made a life in the Valley, despite their crushingly desperate physical circumstances.

I love the fact that this place pushes people out of their comfort zones and makes them (us) view poverty in a different way, attaching real faces and new friends to a once-theoretical reality, an ocean away from our lives in one of the most comfortable, prosperous nations in the world. As Christ-followers attempting to love people as Christ did and see beyond our differences to the God-image borne by each of us, this awakening is critically important to our souls.

Last week, I talked with one of these newbies, an American pastor who had never been here (Africa, Kenya, or Mathare) before. He spent his first few days visiting community members in their homes in Mathare, praying with and encouraging them. His reflections about these home visits were similar to those I’ve heard before from first-time visitors. Yet one observation gave me considerable pause. He said, “You can almost tell immediately from their faces which people in Mathare know Christ and which don’t.” He expressed this thought to a Kenyan worker at MOHI, adding, “I think if you visited most American churches, you wouldn’t notice the same difference between Christians and non-believers.”

Ouch. A tough indictment on the American church. Or perhaps just American Christians. Although my experience among some bodies of believers has been vastly different, I can understand and appreciate what this pastor was saying.

In contemplating an explanation for his observation, I’ve been thinking a lot about Christianity in America. For those of us who identify with Christ, (not just by label, but as our Savior and Lord), do we actually live like we can’t live without Him? I think many of us would say that we do. But do we genuinely believe that we cannot make it through each day without Christ– without His daily provision, protection, intervention, friendship, and counsel? Do our actions display that belief?

For Kenyan Christians living in Mathare Valley (and many other places in this developing nation), it seems that the belief that they literally cannot make it through a day without Christ is real and deep-seated. And not just from the perspective of physical needs being met (food, shelter, drinkable water, and good health). Christ is truly the living water to them. In making his home within them, He brought them peace, supernatural strength, joy unspeakable, and hope for the future that defies their circumstances and shines from every part of their being—their penetrating eyes, glowing faces, warm handshakes, and energy they radiate when sitting in a room with you.

They are evidently and openly living out the Galatians 2:20 life: “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.”

In making these observations, I’m not saying that Kenyan Christians are perfect or that they don’t struggle with sin issues. Certainly not! Like all of us who pursue Christ, I’m sure they have many areas of weaknesses and strengths. However, in the seven months I’ve lived in Kenya and worked in Mathare, I have witnessed a maturity in their faith when it comes to dependency on God that we could all learn from.

I cannot answer the probing question of whether, in comparison, American Christians live the same brand of all-in, utterly-dependent-upon-Christ Christianity. After all, I’m wrestling with the same question in my own life. However, having witnessed my own gradual and continuing transformation in this area of my faith walk, I can say that I’m skeptical.

Do we American Christians have too many conveniences, too much worldly allegiance to comfort, security, and material possessions, and too much unhealthy pride in ourselves and our own abilities that seductively distract us from the beautiful truth that Christ not only desires this type of relationship with us, but also, it’s the best life for us? It’s the abundant life promised in His word, living wholly dependent upon our Father who cares for us more than we could ever care for ourselves (regardless of our education level, resources, opportunities, and abilities).

I understand that this is a growth process in each of our lives as Christ followers, part of our ongoing sanctification. I’m continuously learning through the Holy Spirit to live like I cannot live without Jesus. But honestly, it’s almost easier here, where each day when we step out of our door, get behind the wheel of our car, and drive in stressful, heavy traffic to Mathare, we automatically breathe a prayer of protection to God (for ourselves, other drivers, and pedestrians that thickly line the Nairobi thoroughfares and alleyways of Mathare). Not to mention the fact that our white skin doesn’t allow us to simply “blend in” wherever we go and that we live in a culture that is still foreign to us, no matter how much we try to embrace it every day. Now more than ever, we feel acutely aware of our need for Jesus to get us through each day, in so many different respects.

Yet in a city where we personally still retain many Western comforts, like having a car to drive, decent clothing, and a comfortable place to live in, I could easily grow complacent, comfortable, and self-reliant. I could easily strive to serve on my own steam, forgetting that God is my source of strength, joy, and hope each day.

Maybe through this first-time visitor, God was whispering this message primarily to me. Do I live daily like I can’t live without Jesus? Or, if I was honest, do I primarily rely upon my own abilities and resources to make it each day? Does my dependence upon Jesus shine out in my interaction with others each day?