by Matt Chancey, VP/Deputy CEO

Twenty-five years ago, Brad Phillips asked me to join the board of directors of Persecution Project. I agreed out of friendship to Brad but also from a sense of basic duty. While I had no personal connection to the persecuted church in Sudan, I had been taught my whole life that Christians are supposed to “remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if you yourselves were suffering.” (Heb. 13:3)

For the first five years, I dutifully did my job as a board member, safely far away from the community which was being served by the efforts of Brad and our small staff.

Then, in July 2005, I made the “mistake” of traveling to East Africa. For the first time, I met some of the actual people I was supposed to be “remembering.”

It changed my life… but I wasn’t fully aware of just how much. That trip was the first of many. Then my whole family relocated to the continent, where we resided for nearly eight years to be closer, not to “the work” per se, but to the people.

All good relationships require a significant investment of time. And the longer I spent with the persecuted, the more I began seeing them not as a “duty,” but as part of me. My wife and children are not my “duty.” They’re my vocation. They’re my life. I have a connection with them which is unique and precious. The persecuted church began to become part of my extended family.

I began seeing the people I visited and served, not as a collective blob of suffering humanity, but as individual members of my extended family. And, like my family, their needs became my needs. Their crosses, my cross.

I remember meeting John Garang, the first President of South Sudan. He was on his way to Khartoum to be sworn in under the “New Sudan” following the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement which ended one of the longest civil wars in Africa. Garang was a strong Christian and fought for his people to have the opportunity to live free of “political Islam.”

Garang took his oath of office in English, not Arabic, and placed his hand on a Bible, not the Koran— a clear signal to the Islamists all around him. They took notice. Garang was dead within a few weeks, losing his life in a mysterious helicopter crash.

I remember Pastor Mattabush, one of the first Christian converts in the Nuba mountains by some Australian missionaries from the Church of Christ who visited after World War II. When the missionaries were expelled by the Islamist government, Mattabush carried on the mission and became a spiritual father to his entire county.

He was arrested numerous times and endured horrific torture. His captors didn’t want to make him a martyr, but he was converting too many prisoners to the faith, so they eventually let him go. Mattabush passed away a few years ago at a ripe old age, surrounded by a large family and congregation of the faithful.

I remember Owida, a little refugee girl who lived in a straw house after her village was burned down by Islamists. I gave her family a tarp to put over their shelter and she gave me a bundle of peanuts in thanks. Have you ever received a gift of food from a starving child? It will break you. A year later, I attended a church service nearby and noticed Owida singing on the front row of the choir. Jesus was so right when He instructed us to become as little children. When I read that verse, I think of Owida.

I remember Dr. Ahmed Zakariah, who took an abandoned clinic and turned it into the Gigaiba Referral Hospital. When Brad and I met him, he had literally just survived a horrific bombing which killed a man next to him and put dozens of pieces of shrapnel in Ahmed’s back. Ahmed labored vigorously under extremely stressful conditions to heal the broken bodies pouring into his hospital. Later, Dr. Ahmed would tragically lose his life to a flash flood.

I could go on and on giving little biographical sketches of my extended family members in Africa. I want to tell their stories to you because they’re your family as well. Mattabush was your spiritual father, too. Dr. Ahmed was your brother. And Owida is your child.

I personally embarked on this mission out of a sense of duty. But I was surprised by love, because love has kept me here 25 years later. Not so much my love for the persecuted church… but yours.

Without your love and commitment to our family in Sudan, they would likely still be a collective blob in my mind. But your generosity has allowed me and my colleagues to build amazing relationships with so many people— and be shaped by them.

But just like our brothers and sisters in Sudan, we want to see you as part of the family. We try to connect with as many of our ministry partners as we can, but we need your help.

Would you share some of your own story with us? What draws you to this mission— this relationship? You can use visit our website and send us a note. (persecutionproject.org) We want to know how God has worked in your life to connect you with ours and our extended family in Africa.

We want to hear how you have been surprised by love.