Come closer, children of the hearth. Let the fire burn brightly and let the night settle around us. Let the elders rest their walking sticks beside them. Let the children sit quietly and listen with both ears. Let the wind carry these words beyond the ridges, for wisdom grows only where it is heard. Tonight, I bring you a story. Not about a lion. Not about a clever hare. Not about a king or a warrior. It is a story about drunkenness. But listen carefully, for not all drunkenness comes from a bottle. As the elders say, "The person who stumbles is not always the one who has been drinking."
Long ago, when the trees still listened and the wind carried news faster than drums, our church gathered beneath a wide tin roof. It was a special day. A day of celebration. A day of transition. A day when old responsibilities would be placed upon new shoulders. The church had elected new leaders. Deacons. Committee members. Ministry heads. Men and women entrusted with the care of God's people.
People arrived early. Women wore colorful lesos that brightened the church like flowers after rain. Men sat proudly in their best jackets, some leaning on walking sticks polished smooth by years of use. Young people filled the benches. Children sat near the doors where they could see everything and still escape quickly if boredom arrived.
The atmosphere carried excitement. Songs were sung. Prayers were offered. Hands were laid upon the newly elected leaders. The congregation rejoiced. Then came the time for speeches. Several leaders spoke. Some offered congratulations. Others offered encouragement.
Then it was announced that Retired Elder Ng'ang'a would speak. Immediately the church grew quiet. Very quiet. For Elder Ng'ang'a was not an ordinary elder. He was the last remaining elder who had witnessed the church's entire journey. He had seen the church when it was merely a dream. He had seen it when believers gathered beneath trees. He had seen it when the first iron sheets were purchased. He had seen it when walls were raised. He had watched children become adults and adults become grandparents.
The elders say, "The person who planted the tree understands its roots better than the person enjoying its shade." That was Elder Ng'ang'a. His hair was white like cooking ash after a long night of fire. Here and there, small dark strands remained, like charcoal refusing to surrender completely. His eyes were calm. Patient. Observant. The kind of eyes that had watched many seasons arrive and depart.
When his name was called, he rose slowly. The congregation waited. He adjusted his long cream coat. Cleared his throat. Then stood silently for a moment. The silence itself became a lesson. For elders understand that wisdom walks slowly. Finally, he spoke. "My children," he said. The church listened. Then he asked a question. Not a statement. A question. For wise elders know that people remember lessons they discover themselves.
He asked, "Tell me, what happens when a drunkard has no money?" The church stirred. People smiled. Some laughed softly. The newly elected leaders exchanged glances. The answer seemed obvious. One leader stood and replied confidently, "A drunkard sells valuable things." Another added, "He sells his television." Another said, "He sells his mattress." "He sells his bed." "He sells his sofas." "He sells goats." "He sells cows." "He even sells land." “all at a throw away price. Just to get money for beer.” The church nodded. Everyone had seen such things happen. The elder smiled. Then clapped his hands once. Sharp. Clear. Satisfied. "Perfect," he said. "You are excellent observers of life." The congregation laughed.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a leaned slightly forward. His smile faded. His voice became lower. Heavier. The way thunder becomes heavier before rain. Then he asked another question. "What would happen to a nation whose president is a drunkard?" The church became thoughtful. The elder continued. "What would happen to a county whose governor is a drunkard?" "What would happen to a constituency whose member of parliament is a drunkard?" "What would happen to a ward whose MCA is a drunkard?"
This time nobody laughed. The room became serious. After a moment, someone answered. "They would sell the nation." Another replied, "They would sell the county." A third added, "They would sell the constituency." Someone from the back shouted, "They would sell everything valuable at a throw away price." The elder nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. The tin roof creaked softly above them, as though it too was considering the answer.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a raised his walking stick. Not threateningly. Just enough to emphasize his next words. He pointed gently toward the newly elected leaders. Then he asked his final question. "What will happen to this church if you become drunk?" Silence. Deep silence. The kind that settles when people realize they are being taught something important. Nobody answered. Nobody needed to. The elder had already opened the door. Now he stepped through it.
"My children," he said, "being drunk is not only about beer." The congregation leaned forward. "A person can be drunk with power." He paused. "A person can be drunk with position." Another pause. "A person can be drunk with praise." The church remained silent. "A person can be drunk with self-interest." The words landed heavily. "A person can be drunk with money." "A person can be drunk with influence." "A person can be drunk with popularity." "A person can be drunk with the things of this world." The church was now completely still.
The elder continued. "The biggest problem is not what the drunkard sells." "The biggest problem is becoming drunk in the first place." Then he lifted his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like a teacher underlining an important sentence. "Because a drunkard does not know the value of what he is selling." The words settled upon the congregation. Like dust settling after a herd has passed.
The elder looked at the new leaders. One by one. Face by face. As though speaking directly into each heart. He said, "If you become drunk with power, you will sell unity." "If you become drunk with praise, you will sell humility." "If you become drunk with money, you will sell integrity." "If you become drunk with position, you will sell service." "If you become drunk with self-interest, you will sell the very people you were called to help." The elders say, "The person who loses his head soon loses his harvest." The congregation listened. No one moved. No one whispered. For truth had entered the room. And truth always commands silence.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a spoke his final words. "As you take over leadership of this church, purpose to remain sober." "Remember why you were chosen." "Remember who you serve." "Remember what belongs to God." "And remember that the most dangerous drunkard is the one who believes he is sober." Then he sat down. The church remained quiet. Not because there was nothing to say. But because there was too much to think about.
Years have passed since that day. Some leaders came. Others left. Some succeeded. Others failed. But the words of Elder Ng'ang'a remained. For they were not only for church leaders. They were for all people. For a father can become drunk with authority. A mother can become drunk with control. A businessman can become drunk with profit. A politician can become drunk with power. A preacher can become drunk with applause. A young person can become drunk with ambition. And whenever we become drunk, we begin selling valuable things without realizing their worth.
We sell relationships. We sell trust. We sell integrity. We sell character. We sell peace. The elders say, "The person who is truly sober knows the value of what he carries." And now, children of the fire, I turn the question toward you. Are you sober? Or does your behavior reveal that something has intoxicated your heart? Look carefully. For the drunkard rarely knows he is drunk. That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
Long ago, when the trees still listened and the wind carried news faster than drums, our church gathered beneath a wide tin roof. It was a special day. A day of celebration. A day of transition. A day when old responsibilities would be placed upon new shoulders. The church had elected new leaders. Deacons. Committee members. Ministry heads. Men and women entrusted with the care of God's people.
People arrived early. Women wore colorful lesos that brightened the church like flowers after rain. Men sat proudly in their best jackets, some leaning on walking sticks polished smooth by years of use. Young people filled the benches. Children sat near the doors where they could see everything and still escape quickly if boredom arrived.
The atmosphere carried excitement. Songs were sung. Prayers were offered. Hands were laid upon the newly elected leaders. The congregation rejoiced. Then came the time for speeches. Several leaders spoke. Some offered congratulations. Others offered encouragement.
Then it was announced that Retired Elder Ng'ang'a would speak. Immediately the church grew quiet. Very quiet. For Elder Ng'ang'a was not an ordinary elder. He was the last remaining elder who had witnessed the church's entire journey. He had seen the church when it was merely a dream. He had seen it when believers gathered beneath trees. He had seen it when the first iron sheets were purchased. He had seen it when walls were raised. He had watched children become adults and adults become grandparents.
The elders say, "The person who planted the tree understands its roots better than the person enjoying its shade." That was Elder Ng'ang'a. His hair was white like cooking ash after a long night of fire. Here and there, small dark strands remained, like charcoal refusing to surrender completely. His eyes were calm. Patient. Observant. The kind of eyes that had watched many seasons arrive and depart.
When his name was called, he rose slowly. The congregation waited. He adjusted his long cream coat. Cleared his throat. Then stood silently for a moment. The silence itself became a lesson. For elders understand that wisdom walks slowly. Finally, he spoke. "My children," he said. The church listened. Then he asked a question. Not a statement. A question. For wise elders know that people remember lessons they discover themselves.
He asked, "Tell me, what happens when a drunkard has no money?" The church stirred. People smiled. Some laughed softly. The newly elected leaders exchanged glances. The answer seemed obvious. One leader stood and replied confidently, "A drunkard sells valuable things." Another added, "He sells his television." Another said, "He sells his mattress." "He sells his bed." "He sells his sofas." "He sells goats." "He sells cows." "He even sells land." “all at a throw away price. Just to get money for beer.” The church nodded. Everyone had seen such things happen. The elder smiled. Then clapped his hands once. Sharp. Clear. Satisfied. "Perfect," he said. "You are excellent observers of life." The congregation laughed.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a leaned slightly forward. His smile faded. His voice became lower. Heavier. The way thunder becomes heavier before rain. Then he asked another question. "What would happen to a nation whose president is a drunkard?" The church became thoughtful. The elder continued. "What would happen to a county whose governor is a drunkard?" "What would happen to a constituency whose member of parliament is a drunkard?" "What would happen to a ward whose MCA is a drunkard?"
This time nobody laughed. The room became serious. After a moment, someone answered. "They would sell the nation." Another replied, "They would sell the county." A third added, "They would sell the constituency." Someone from the back shouted, "They would sell everything valuable at a throw away price." The elder nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. The tin roof creaked softly above them, as though it too was considering the answer.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a raised his walking stick. Not threateningly. Just enough to emphasize his next words. He pointed gently toward the newly elected leaders. Then he asked his final question. "What will happen to this church if you become drunk?" Silence. Deep silence. The kind that settles when people realize they are being taught something important. Nobody answered. Nobody needed to. The elder had already opened the door. Now he stepped through it.
"My children," he said, "being drunk is not only about beer." The congregation leaned forward. "A person can be drunk with power." He paused. "A person can be drunk with position." Another pause. "A person can be drunk with praise." The church remained silent. "A person can be drunk with self-interest." The words landed heavily. "A person can be drunk with money." "A person can be drunk with influence." "A person can be drunk with popularity." "A person can be drunk with the things of this world." The church was now completely still.
The elder continued. "The biggest problem is not what the drunkard sells." "The biggest problem is becoming drunk in the first place." Then he lifted his hand. Slowly. Carefully. Like a teacher underlining an important sentence. "Because a drunkard does not know the value of what he is selling." The words settled upon the congregation. Like dust settling after a herd has passed.
The elder looked at the new leaders. One by one. Face by face. As though speaking directly into each heart. He said, "If you become drunk with power, you will sell unity." "If you become drunk with praise, you will sell humility." "If you become drunk with money, you will sell integrity." "If you become drunk with position, you will sell service." "If you become drunk with self-interest, you will sell the very people you were called to help." The elders say, "The person who loses his head soon loses his harvest." The congregation listened. No one moved. No one whispered. For truth had entered the room. And truth always commands silence.
Then Elder Ng'ang'a spoke his final words. "As you take over leadership of this church, purpose to remain sober." "Remember why you were chosen." "Remember who you serve." "Remember what belongs to God." "And remember that the most dangerous drunkard is the one who believes he is sober." Then he sat down. The church remained quiet. Not because there was nothing to say. But because there was too much to think about.
Years have passed since that day. Some leaders came. Others left. Some succeeded. Others failed. But the words of Elder Ng'ang'a remained. For they were not only for church leaders. They were for all people. For a father can become drunk with authority. A mother can become drunk with control. A businessman can become drunk with profit. A politician can become drunk with power. A preacher can become drunk with applause. A young person can become drunk with ambition. And whenever we become drunk, we begin selling valuable things without realizing their worth.
We sell relationships. We sell trust. We sell integrity. We sell character. We sell peace. The elders say, "The person who is truly sober knows the value of what he carries." And now, children of the fire, I turn the question toward you. Are you sober? Or does your behavior reveal that something has intoxicated your heart? Look carefully. For the drunkard rarely knows he is drunk. That is the story. I have spoken. Think about it.
