Phillip's 2004 Journal Letters

Click here to read Phillip's Journal Letters from 2002 and 2003.

Gold he Locks

Journal letter #290
For the week ending: 3 January 2004

Convenience vs. Security

Where should you hide a spare car key? I used to have one of those magnetic doohickeys to stick under my bumper, but I always forgot to put it back after I used it. And doesn’t every car thief check under your bumper for a spare? Finally I decided that the best solution was to have a spare but make it so difficult to get at that I wouldn’t use it unless I was truly stranded. I wrapped my key in torn strips of a plastic Wal-Mart sack, mummified it in duct tape, and tied it with a twisty to the inside of the square tubing of my Jeep’s frame.

The issue here is convenience vs. security. You want the convenience of not being locked out, but you don’t want to make it easy for a thief to break in. That has been our struggle for the last several months here in Mbale. We’ve had a rash of petty and not-so-petty thefts of money from our house. No matter where we hide or lock away our cash, it manages to walk off when we’re not looking.

“Why don’t you keep your money in a bank account?” you ask. Well, it’s a convenience issue. Every morning that I drive through town, there are lines from every bank door down the sidewalk and around the corner. People routinely stand in line for 3+ hours to see one of two tellers to make a deposit or withdrawal. I thought that the introduction of those newfangled ATMs at three downtown banks might solve the problem—but the lines are almost as long (and electronic devices are even more notorious for breaking down in Uganda, where there are no 1-800 help lines or licensed service technicians).

Then there is the problem of not getting bank statements except on the fifth Friday of every seven-lettered month. And enormous hidden charges for things like speaking English or blowing your nose while you stand in line. I’ve had two bank accounts in Uganda. I closed the first one after it took six weeks to cash a check. The second one closed itself after the bank changed the minimum balance (without notifying me) and then minimized my balance with monthly charges.

In a country where no one takes credit cards and personal checks are as rare as bank statements, cash is the only method for financial transactions. And when you consider that the largest bill until recently was worth $10, you realize that a body has to keep stacks of the stuff somewhere. My monthly work fund is five inches thick and certainly won’t fit in my wallet.

We tried locking doors, locking drawers, hiding, disguising, and everything else but ingesting our funds for safe-keeping, but we were always bitten by either theft or inconvenience (there’s only one key and she has it, the cabinet is in the same room with the sleeping baby, I can’t remember which rock in the garden is the fake one!). It was almost impossible to determine who could have taken money or when it disappeared.

But then this week I was pleasantly surprised to find a wall-mounted metal tool cabinet for sale in Kampala. I bought it for $12.50 and battened it down with a combination lock. Combos are a mystery deeper than Revelation to most Ugandans, so I think I’m safe. Now if I could just convince the folks around here that I’m not Bank of America…

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Up on the Mountain

Journal Letter #293

For the week ending: 24 January 2004

Kaworyo

Donkeys. Donkeys that bray on the hour, half hour, or even every 15 minutes! You know that you have entered Sebei Land when you start seeing donkeys on the side of the road. Patrick Mangeni, my 19-year-old passenger for Sunday’s church visit, said that donkeys make noise every hour on the hour in Kenya. The first time he heard one on our trip, he checked his watch and, sure enough, it was 9:00 sharp. At the end of the day, he said that he had been paying attention all day and could confirm that Sebei donkeys bray every quarter hour. Go figure.

Sitting in an elder’s home before service, I was given my first chance to drink cheggo—fermented cow’s milk. The Sebei people were originally pastoral, and cows are still central to their society even as many have taken up maize farming. Cheggo is a traditional drink prepared by storing milk in a gourd for a long time until it has lots of chunks. In Kenya, they often add crushed charcoal from a certain tree and sometimes cow’s blood. Fortunately mine was plain. Patrick drained his cup while mine languished after the first two sips. I cleverly distracted my host from noticing my brimming chalice by drilling him with questions about how to greet people in Kupsabiny.

The last time I went to Kaworyo was over five years ago. Dave Vick brought me along when he was first starting some Bible studies with a few guys up in the high mountain village on the north side of Mt. Elgon (Journal Letter #26 if you want to refresh your memory). A lot has changed in that time. Before the Vicks returned to America, Dave helped the church ordain two elders in Kaworyo. They has grown from three men and several women meeting in a rented maize mill shack five years ago to over 130 men, women, youth, and children meeting in their own building on their own land this Sunday. There were more people in this one church than I am used to seeing when five churches get together in other clusters!

Before I preached, almost twenty adult men stood up to sing a special song. Most rural churches are thankful to have ten grown men even come to a service—much less practice a song together or participate in ministry. Kaworyo church of Christ had close to thirty. The women, youth, and children had all prepared songs for the occasion of my visit as well. One of the four youth who attended Camp Saaka from Kaworyo gave a report.

I was not prepared for their response to my message. As the Holy Spirit convicted their hearts, dozens came forward for repentance. The two elders and another leader prayed with each one while the church sang. When the penitent crowd grew too large, they called me to help them pray while the congregation sang.

Outside the church building, I noticed row after row of wooden benches hammered into the ground three aisles wide. Around them stood rough-hewn poles forming a framework that could support several large tarps. This contrivance was for their regular area-wide church meetings. Several missionaries on our team have had the opportunity to attend one of those meetings—and their reports are nearly incredible. Attendance runs between 800-1,300 people. The Christians sit outside all day (10a-10p) while as many as 5 or 6 preachers give the Word. Everyone eats together (the host church’s treat). And offerings are taken for the poor and distributed on the spot. Donors have been observed removing their own coats and giving them to those who don’t have anything to keep warm.

What is the secret to their success? I believe it comes from three things: David Vick laid a solid foundation of Jesus Christ when he taught and nurtured the first converts, they have been unable to run to the missionaries every time they have had a problem since the Vick’s left 21 months ago—teaching them self-reliance, and they have learned to depend on God’s guidance through his Holy Spirit. Kaworyo is not perfect or mature in every area—but they have taken significant steps ahead of most other churches. Their primary weaknesses are their lack of biblical and ministry training for their leaders and their disconnectedness from the rest of the mission work.

During lunch with the church leaders, I was peppered with questions. Kaworyo wants a closer relationship with the mission in Mbale. That is more likely now that the rugged drive that used to take three bone-jarring hours has been tamed by tarmac that stops only 14 miles from the church (it only took me 90 minutes to drive home). They asked for advice and more visits from the missionaries. I encouraged them to work with their sister congregations to plant more churches and attend the Bible school in Mbale. I expect to see some of them at the courses next week.

Pray for the church in Kaworyo. And thank God for the growth of the seed Dave Vick planted five years ago.

Copyright 2004 Phillip & Laura Shero

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Camp Saaka Report

Journal Letter #291

For the week ending: 10 January 2004

Lake Saaka surrounded us on three sides as we set up our tents in the dark Tuesday night. In spite of brake repairs and an oil change, our caravan of four buses made the trip across Uganda in only 12 hours. Walking by moonlight, our singing and praying band of 120 youth and sponsors covered the last mile across a swamp in under an hour. Jeff Cash and the Faith Quest team from the Northwest were ready for us when we got there. Four huge canvas tents housed the boys on one side of the peninsula, while two others housed the girls on the other side. A bonfire was raging down on the lakeshore at the bottom of an amphitheater carved out of the bush only a few weeks before. Alfred, our hardworking head cook, went to work on supper immediately, boiling maize meal and veggies in three huge pots on the ground (they had dug out fire trenches in the earth). I was so excited to see young people from all five mission points: Ft. Portal, Mbarara, Kampala, Jinja, and Mbale. All together, we were 270 youth, sponsors, and missionaries—far more than my estimate of 200. We scrounged family tents and tarps to hold the overflow and ended by cramming still more people under the canvas of the biggest tents. The youth spread out woven mats, blankets, and a few foam mattresses right on the bare ground in the tents. Toilets consisted of four rough planks with two gaps over a four-foot deep pit. The middles were springy to squat on—demanding a delicate balancing act. Walls on two sides provided a bit of privacy—but the view towards the lake was wide open! Rain poured into the tents on the second night—soaking the girls more than the guys. And the food line stretched over 150 feet. But I never heard a single complaint! The team from the U.S. taught the youth about 12 different kinds of prayer: praise, thanksgiving, adoration, petition, intercession, etc. Each session was followed by small group meetings to practice the prayers they had learned about. But the main activity of the camp was singing! They sang in the amphitheater, sang during meals, sang in small groups, sang until midnight, and got up at five in the morning to sing again! A former A Cappella singer taught new songs and gave nightly mini-concerts that really connected with our young people. His voice and the fortuitous color of his skin (he’s black) opened a wide door for the whole team to minister and teach. The spirit of the camp was incredible. I have never seen a group of young people so willing to endure difficult conditions while praising God and playing together. When I asked several youth whether they would like to come back next year, the response was always the same—an gaping look of surprise (could we really have camp again?!) followed by an enthusiastic “YES!” I believe this is the most positive and influential ministry we have ever done for our young people. Jeff is already making plans for Camp Saaka 2005, and we hope to be there. But there’s a lot of work to be done between now and then. Below I’ve included a financial statement for the money we received, a tentative budget for next year, and a list of things the camp needs. Thank you for praying and contributing for Camp Saaka this year!

Financial Statement Funds Received: $3,500
*Personal Contribution: $212
Total Funds Raised: $3,712
Hiring Buses: $2,425
Camp Repair: $ 500
Meals on the road: $ 323
Camp Scholarships: $ 235
Blankets: $ 13
Photocopies: $ 4
*Theft: $ 212
Total Expenses $3,712
• Some money was taken from my bag before the trip, so I put it back in from my own work funds to balance the expenses.

Camp Saaka’s Needs:
1) Water tower and well (there is no running water and no drinking water available at the camp—Jeff spent a lot of money hauling in water from the town on trucks).
2) Latrines and bathhouses
3) Cabins or huts for sleeping
4) Pavilion for eating/meeting under in rain
5) Security wall and gate across entrance to campgrounds If you’d like to help us build some of these things on the camp, write and let me know. I am not overseeing Camp Saaka myself (that’s Jeff Cash’s job), but I do have a strong interest in building a great Christian Camp for the young people of Uganda.
 

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Superstore(r)s

Journal Letter #294

For the week ending: 31 January 2004

A few weeks ago I installed an American-style attic access ladder in our hallway. I even decked part of the attic to make it easier to stack boxes that won’t fit in any of the 12 closets in our home (some of those closets are kind of small). It’s a good place to keep the Christmas tree and other decorations for the 11 months of the year that we don’t need them. I also store a high chair, saucer, car seat, and other baby equipment up there until the next infant comes along (by the way, Laura is expecting our third in early August). Last time I looked, I had an extra bathroom sink from Home Depot, a few pieces of second-hand carpet, and a broken halogen lamp, too.

Jesus said rather pointedly, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal” (Matthew 6:19).

I used to think that applied mainly to bank accounts and mutual funds. It was easy to deflect Jesus’ command from applying to me since my assets are modest and set aside specifically for expenses I know I will incur in the future. But my perspective changed when I began to consider the stuff I store up in my house. Of course, all of us have our junk drawers and collections of miscellany that occasionally cause pangs of guilt. But I’m not talking about that kind of stuff. I mean rather the good, unused stuff in our pantries and hall closets.

For example, after five and a half years, my original stock of 800 rolls of Charmin has dwindled (through judicious use) to approximately 140 rolls stored in one bedroom closet. I bought it at Sam’s and shipped it to Africa so that I could pamper my hindquarters in cases of Ssebagala’s Revenge (Ssebagala is an African cousin to Montezuma). I feel good knowing that I can go to the closet and get down another package whenever I want.

I have one package of socks, two un-opened packages of boxers, three pair of jeans with the tags still attached, and four un-worn pair of Dockers in another closet for when mine wear out. Some of them were purchased in 1998 (there was a great sale on at the outlet mall).

In my garage I can easily put my hands on several cellophane wrapped rolls of duct tape (awful to think of running out!), three cans of WD-40, and enough cotton gloves to outfit a construction crew. And I have screws and nails in all sizes in case I might need them.

What’s the problem with all that, you might ask? Aren’t you going to use it eventually? Isn’t it better to not run out? Shouldn’t you, of all people, get a pass for living in Africa where some goods aren’t readily available? Good questions, all. But the problem is exactly what Jesus talked about: moth, rust, and thieves.

I am embarrassed to think about the waste that I’ve generated through my storage habits. Thirty cans of Amway cleaner rusted through until the pressure leaked out. Rats chewed into several bottles of Pepto-Bismol, Downy fabric softener, and sticks of Right Guard anti-perspirant. All of our gallon-size jugs of liquid Dial anti-bacterial soap developed cracks and had to be transferred to other containers—one leaked all over the bottom of my closet before we noticed. Six cans of expanding foam won’t spray after the pressure changes of a trans-Atlantic flight. Cake mixes expired before we could use them (those little black bugs and cardboard smell are not appetizing). Stacks of educational computer games I bought years ago (on sale) for children I did not yet have will not even run on today’s operating systems. Not to mention how many plastic cups, hand towels, and tools have gradually gone missing over the years. We have so much stuff that we don’t realize when something has been stolen or “borrowed” indefinitely.

Our superstore-age habits are problematic for several reasons. They indicate a misdirected desire for security, a misplaced focus on the material, and a misunderstanding of the temporary nature of this world.

In our culture’s fetish for security, we have reached the point of being anxious when we get down to our last full can or bottle (we rarely really “run out” of anything anymore). Our security is in having another one already on the shelf. It’s instructive to think about the Y2K hoarding sprees several years ago—not because some people bought enough food for six months, but because most people ALREADY had enough food for several months in their pantries.

I chafe every time I have to sort, pack up, or rearrange my “stuff,” because I know that I am being distracted and exhausted by material things instead of focusing on spiritual matters. How much of our time is taken up buying, arranging, managing, and protecting our stores?

And when I consider that almost everything I buy and store has a shelf life, an expiration date, or even a likelihood that I will not ever get around to using it, I am appalled at my shortsightedness. All “things” in this world are going to burn. They will not, indeed cannot, last forever.

All of this is helpful to think about as we contemplate a furlough later this year. What will I buy this time? How many trunks will I check through at the airport? Will I be able to resist the temptation to buy two or three when I only need one?

You might be surprised to learn storage is not a uniquely American issue—we’re just the world’s best at it. Jesus’ first audience didn’t have Cosco or Sam’s, but they stockpiled just the same. Most African homes I have been in show ample evidence of accumulation. Though most huts and houses don’t have ceilings, the rafters still provide a handy place to keep one’s stuff. Lumber and iron roofing sheets for future construction, dusty sewing machines from failed community development projects, and seed for the next planting season occupy the spaces overhead. I am always asked for boxes and trunks so that my Ugandan friends can have more places to store their own treasures.

If I am to preach the gospel of eternal life to them by my actions and not just my words, I need to change my purchasing plans. My closets and attic need to represent the truth that my security is in God my Provider, my focus is on the spiritual, and my long-term storage includes treasures in heaven instead of toilet paper for the next 18 months. Perhaps you’d like to join me.

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We are Sudanese if you please

Journal Letter #295

For the week ending: 7 February 2004

Murchison Falls National Park is a refuge for all types of African animals. Elephants, giraffe, hippos, monkeys, Cape Buffalo, crocodiles, and various DLAs (Deer-Like-Animals) find sanctuary there from the poacher’s (or soldier’s) gun. During Idi Amin’s time, the army slaughtered Uganda’s wildlife for food or for fun. Now organizations around the world work to bring lost species back into Uganda and protect the ones that remain.

Just outside the borders of the Park is another refuge—this one for endangered people. Joseph Kony and his misnamed Lord’s Resistance Army (recognized by the U.S. and U.N. as a terrorist organization) have maimed and massacred their own people for almost two decades. The Acholi tribe is found on both sides of the Uganda-Sudan border, but Uganda has generally been a safer haven from the LRA, which has often received arms and support from Khartoum. In 1989, the government of Uganda agreed with the UNHCR to establish the Kiryandogo Refugee Settlement in Masindi District. Kiryandogo was our destination this Tuesday.

In the past, the Prime Minister’s office refused to allow foreigners into the refugee camps because of fears that the outside world might somehow disapprove. But this time Dave Jenkins was successful in getting permission. Together with my dad and another missionary from Kampala, we drove up to Masindi to visit Isaya Jackson, himself a missionary working with churches of Christ in Uganda. Isaya is a Sudanese Acholi who was one of the few chosen for resettlement to the United States in 1993. He applied for and gained American citizenship while he studied at Sunset School of Preaching in Lubbock, Texas. Now he is planting churches among his own people who are the temporary guests of Uganda.

The camp was nothing like what we had expected. Over the past fifteen years, it has gradually improved into what the government prefers to call it—a settlement. Uganda’s refugee program is based on their desire for the persecuted to live as near a normal life as possible. Kiryandogo looked much like every other village I visit in Mbale area. Schools and health centers have been set up (about half of the people could understand basic English). Markets sold basic goods and produce. And the refugees had even been given land to farm--only 1 out of 15 still receives food subsidies from the U.N.

The church seemed to be flourishing as well. We visited three of the 14 or so congregations Isaya has planted since his first trip in 1997 (he moved to Uganda in 2000). Each one had well over 100 adults in attendance for our special mid-week visits. Fifteen to twenty church leaders from the area accompanied us during our three-day tour—all men that Isaya had trained.

There was a positive atmosphere everywhere, due in part to the people’s expectations of returning home to Sudan later this year. The northern Muslim government recently signed a wealth-sharing agreement with the Christian rebel leaders in the south. A power-sharing agreement is expected in the next few weeks that will open the way for Southern Sudan (commonly called “New Sudan”) to become an independent country in the next five years. If these refugees are repatriated, the churches of Christ will suddenly have over a dozen churches and numerous evangelists in New Sudan.

The Mbale Team was blessed last year with a document from the current leaders of New Sudan recognizing the churches of Christ. This document gives us permission to teach the Bible and carry on other mission activities within their borders. The timing could not be better for the gospel to reach our northern neighbor.

We were hoping that this trip would mark the beginning of a closer and more positive relationship between our missionary community and Isaya and the churches he is working with. I believe God helped us to accomplish our goal. Isaya will be visiting us in Mbale at the quarterly missionary meeting in early March. He will go back with 1,000 Easy-to-Read English Bibles (donated by the World Bible Translation Institute in Fort Worth). I pray that this is another Kingdom step towards Sudan.
 

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Sonscape in Uganda

Journal Letter #296

For the week ending: 14 February 2004

Some of you remember the difficulty of our first two years in Uganda when it seemed like the whole universe (or at least all of Africa) was against us. It was at that time of greatest need that God provided. He sent angels to minister to his Son in the garden, and he sent us to Sonscape in Colorado (JL #s 130-131). Now, just over three years later, he brought Sonscape to us in Africa.

Jesus said, “Come to me and I will give you rest.” He did not, of course, mean that Christians would have a permanent spiritual vacation after their baptism. He did mean that he would take off every burden of sin and self and enable God’s children to minister from a place of rest and strength in him that is ever so much more powerful than the human works we manage to put forth. “Rest” as God defines it has been a theme in our home since we were married, but it was at Sonscape that we first began to understand how absolutely essential it was that we become still in God’s presence if we ever hoped to be effective for him in the world.

Larry and Barb Magnuson have accepted the leadership role at Sonscape nearly 20 years after its founders pioneered this unique kind of ministry to ministers. And for the first time, they have taken Sonscape’s renewing and restoring work to missionaries on the field. Beginning with the team in Mbarara and then coming across the country to Mbale, Larry and Barb field-tested the idea of doing Sonscape “on-site.” The results in Mbale were tremendous.
 

They spent time with each couple and individual, counseling and directing us back to God and dealing with the build-up of bad habits and faulty thinking that seems to settle over our lives like spiritual plaque. Brushing, flossing, and home-care are great preventative maintenance. But periodically you really need the hygienist to scrape and probe to clear away harmful deposits. Larry and Barb are gifted at gentle and yet deeply penetrating insights and correctives. Few are willing or able to call ministers and missionaries on the carpet for their own misplaced priorities and self-destructive habits. Fewer still know how to do it effectively. The Magnusons do it in such a skilful way that you love them for it. And who would think of loving the person who picks, prods, and pries with a sharp metal hook?!

The time with our whole team was equally helpful. We enjoyed multiple light-bulb-moments at every session. And every time the lights came on for someone on the team, our relationships became closer, clearer, and more understanding.

Laura and I continue to highly recommend Sonscape for EVERY minister and missionary, whether or not they are in crisis. Larry and Barb reported that 10 couples had come to Sonscape directly or indirectly through our endorsement. According to them, at least four of the ten would either not be in ministry now or be severely crippled had they not had the benefit of personalized ministry and counseling. We would have been a fifth couple ourselves three years ago.

As you may have suspected, there is more to Sonscape than the ministry of Larry and Barb Magnuson. In fact, their work would not be possible without the efforts of the whole Sonscape team. Bob & Sandi Sewell (the founders) are a vital part of the ministry along with Roy Fitzwater and
Connie Paul. For every session, one couple comes as volunteers to be the "host couple" and care for every guests needs, whether great or small. And professional food scientists prepare all of the wonderful meals for every session. We have met most of the team and continue to have regular contact with them.

Please pray and thank God for providing such a ministry to the under-shepherds of God’s flock. When you do, ask him to bless and protect Sonscape in this time of growth and expansion. And while you’re at it, think of someone in ministry you might send.

For more information, visit their website at www.sonscape.org
 

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Devil Water

Journal Letter #297

For the week ending: 21 February 2004

Destroying the Devil’s Work

Mary Opolot held out her wrinkled hand to show me five crusty coins. Four had holes in the middle (so they could be carried on a string) and have not been in circulation for at least 50 years. “People have been going to this well since before I was born,” Mary told me, “especially women who want to get pregnant. They pray and leave money behind so that they will have children.” Mary and a dozen other Christians had just returned from destroying the Nyadira Shrine—a powerful center for witchcraft and spirit worship in Kumi District.

Mary is the wife of an elderly church leader from Kotolut village. Peter stands ramrod straight, except when he is humbling himself to pray. The two of them are the legitimizing backbone for a new movement of young church plants in the western part of the district. Unlike many married couples in Uganda, they are not ashamed to point out their matrimonial connection. Whenever they stand up to introduce one another in church, they beam smiles across the aisle separating the men from the women that would make you think they are newlyweds.

At first, I was a bit alarmed to hear of such bold action by a church only a few weeks old. I was concerned about the wisdom of destroying a cult shrine without the consent of the community. Of course, the people of Israel pulled down Asherah poles and Ba’al idols without asking permission, but they were truly a nation “under God” and were bound by the covenant to tear down any potential competition to the worship of the Most High God. So I was pleased when the Christians of Kajamaka assured me that their community was behind them. They told me that demons often attacked and tormented people in that area. The local chief, though not a believer, was happy to give the Christians his blessing and escort them to the shrine.

There were some objections, though, from the people who lived near the well that formed the center of the shrine. They were used to getting up to a week’s wages from witchdoctors by selling the magical waters of the well. Some sorcerers traveled 100 miles to get water from Nyadira for their witchcraft ceremonies.

The Christians burned charms and other items of witchcraft, uprooted panyi (special plants where demons could live), prayed for God to break the power of the place, and even killed a snake (snakes are often taken to represent spirits in Uganda). By the time I had arrived at the temporary grass house where the church was meeting, they had already finished a good morning’s work and were on their way back, sweating and praising God.

Now, I realize that all of this may sound very strange to American ears. Though there are some people who worship Satan in the U.S., most Americans still consider Satanism evil, fringe, and weird. In Uganda, however, witchcraft is woven into every corner of life. Thankfully, Christians are not defenseless. In fact, the apostle said, “The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil’s work” (1 John 3:8b). By his cross, Jesus “disarmed the powers and authorities” (Col 2:15). And by that same cross, our Ugandan brethren stand firm against the darkness and shine the light into places that have never known it.

I suppose my sermon Sunday morning was rather anti-climactic. But nevertheless, the church sat and listened for two hours to the Word of God. After all, it was through the “foolishness of preaching” that they first found freedom from the devil. Then we drove to the river and immersed 14 more people into Christ, including a leathery old man who surrendered a bottle of powder the witchdoctor had sold him to treat his swollen foot. “It only made things worse,” he said when he asked me to pray for him. Isn’t that the truth?! The devil only makes things worse. From the waters of the devil’s well to the waters of baptism in one day—I look forward to seeing what Jesus will do for the village of Kajamaka.
 

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It's Just Greek to Them

Journal Letter #298

For the week ending: 28 February 2004

Students of the Words

“I thought I knew a lot until I took this course—now I realize that I know nothing!” That was the cry of a student enduring our Advanced Certificate course on Research Tools and Methods this week at MTI. After last November’s graduation exercises, we have a pool of nearly 50 students eligible to take Advanced level courses at our Bible school, Messiah Theological Institute.

Twenty-six showed up this month for the toughest course they have faced so far. Most of these students are from rural backgrounds—their parents were farmers. Many of them still support their families from agriculture. Some do not own a book besides their Bible. But we wanted to introduce them to something new.

In the foyer of the church building that houses MTI until renovation of our new building is complete later this year, Ian had spread out dozens of volumes with grand-sounding titles like: New International Commentary on the New Testament, Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia, and Anchor Bible Dictionary. In the first session, I started off by introducing the students to the tiniest fraction of the years of scholarly labors collected in those thick tomes.

Our Bible school currently runs on three levels: Attendance, Basic, and Advanced Certificates. The Attendance level is for church leaders who have never been to school. They sit and listen to the 15 hours of instruction, which is translated into the local language(s). But they cannot read or write and do not take the final exam. Basic Certificate students must complete a project and take a final test at the end of each three-day course, aimed at a junior high academic level.

But Advanced courses require a good deal more from the pupils. They sit for 30 hours of instruction over five days. We teach completely in English and require them to complete a project, a midterm, and a final exam. These courses are geared towards a high school level. Some of our Advanced students could not speak English when they began the Basic program, and their language skills still need a lot of work. But they are willing to try.

We knew that the Research course was going to stretch most of them beyond what they could manage, but we thought it would be worth it to take them to a new level. We divided them into small groups, mixing more capable students with those who were obviously over their heads. And we stopped to help and answer questions quite frequently. The course project was to research a scripture passage using as many of the new tools as possible.

Students began by reading their selection in several translations (something new to many of them). Then they identified key words and began to study them through English dictionaries, concordances, and theological wordbooks. Then, using Strong’s numbers, they looked up the Greek or Hebrew words and read lengthy articles in Theological Dictionaries and Bible Encyclopedias. They wrapped up their research by delving into commentaries and other secondary literature. We gave them an outline format at the end to share their findings.

I confess I was skeptical that any of the students could manage this level of academia. While I find theological research stimulating and spiritually edifying, I doubted our students from rural Uganda, Kenya, and Sudan could even complete the project, much less get something out of it.

But miracles never cease. On the third day of the course, I saw Johnstone Kapa, a 60+ year old man with a elementary school education, reading an article in Bauer’s Greek Lexicon. Johnstone surprised everyone by being our valedictorian last November and giving a moving speech about his journey from ignorance to learning through MTI. This week he mastered the Greek alphabet (upper and lower case!) and completed a course I didn’t face myself until I was a Bible major at Harding University.

And of course, that is where we are headed—a Christian University for East Africa. Not everyone will be able to reach that level. The majority of our students for the next generation or two will max out at the Attendance, Basic, or Advanced certificates. And we will teach those courses as long as there are rural church leaders to take them. But our dream is to develop a broad base of academically and spiritually trained African theologians. It has been too long since the last great African Christian thinker (Augustine) taught in Alexandria, Egypt. The future holds monumental challenges to the African church, and they will need their own leaders to guide them through. We hope to have a part in equipping those men and women to serve the people of the “dark continent” with the light of truth.

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Racing for Rhinos

Journal Letter #299

For the week ending: 6 March 2004

Run with the Bulls? We Raced for the Rhinos!

There was no starting gun in the pre-dawn darkness last Saturday, but sixty people took off running. Our team of four stayed behind for a few minutes to consult a hand-drawn map and mark off checkpoint coordinates. The map was our only guide to completing our first “Adventure Race.”

Headlamps and dim flashlights bobbed and danced on the dirt road as we ran the first 10k out to the main road and back to the Kingfisher Resort where the race began. From there, the teams were to mount bikes and cycle at least 20k, crossing from the western to eastern banks of the Nile River in Jinja, Uganda—supposedly over the main or railway bridge. But the race rules were flexible. And our team opted for a different strategy.

We ran down to the water and hired out a wooden skiff. Armed with two homemade local paddles, we ferried our bikes across the mouth of the mightiest river in the world to the next checkpoint. Laura (4 months pregnant) and Ashley (one of the teachers for the missionary kids) sat in the front while Ian and I stirred the calm morning waters into froth.

Back on land, we pedaled through neighborhoods and across town to successive checkpoints, stopping every so often to consult the map. Checkpoint marshals were almost invisible until you were right on top of them, and Jinja is not known for having street signs on every corner (or tarmac on every street, for that matter!).

Race contestants were not allowed to get more than 200 meters from their teammates, which kept us to the pregnant lady pace on our bikes. But it was I who slowed the team during the swimming leg. Our 1/4-kilometer downstream swim turned into a half hour nightmare as our shoes filled with water and eddy currents kept us stroking in place or swept us back to where we had started. I clutched the map in my teeth and kicked furiously—and went nowhere. The rest of our team managed to exit the eddy and reach the rafts for the next stage long before I finally found the shore.

Our worn out muscles were no match for the current in the raft, either, and we narrowly avoided going over a small falls before gaining the first checkpoint (a small island in midstream). There, a Ugandan kayaker presented us with proof positive that we had completed that section—a beer bottle cap. One more island and we returned the raft before slipping and sliding 100 feet up the steep, loose dirt embankment for our next challenge.

Back on our bikes, we perspired and pedaled another 10k under an increasingly hot sun. Dirt roads and narrow tracks through the woods brought us back to the Nile High Bungy where we would conquer our final fears.

Ian and Ashley took the modern day leap of faith from 150 feet above the Nile, springing back up into space, hair dripping from the short dip at the bottom. Laura and I elected to climb the 35-foot vertical wall, which proved to be our only competitive event (we were fifth fastest out of 15).

In the end, sunburned and sweaty, we claimed the dubious honor of Last Place, for which we all received Polo shirts and a certificate. Laura managed to snag a free night at a Jinja Resort (full-board!) for her exploits as a pregnant participant. And we all got our picture in the paper.

The Adventure Race fees supported the noble cause of re-introducing the black rhino to Uganda (driven to local extinction during Idi Amin’s days). It will likely become an annual event. While Mom and Dad kept our boys, we slipped away for a long weekend of aching and moaning and aloe vera lotion. Who says mission work is no fun!

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Africans Become Missionaries

Journal Letter #300

For the week ending: 13 March 2004

Kenya Visit

I doubt that I will be able to trek anywhere this year. I have been wanting to bike across Lira District, but that probably won’t happen until the rebels are completely defeated and cleared out of the North. And our furlough is coming up fast. I did, however, get my wife to agree for me to tack on four days in Kenya after the men’s retreat. Though it was not easy for her to keep the kids for seven days (and not easy on Dad’s heart to be away from his boys), it did allow me to travel to some new areas and have multiple productive church visits.

I had asked the Kitale Ministry Team to plan my visitation schedule and meet me at a roadside hotel. We started out by driving down to Busia District, right on the border with Uganda. There are three new churches trying to form a cluster and get a church started in Busia Town (a major border crossing). At last year’s National Fellowship Meeting in Kitale, one of the speakers encouraged the Kenyan church to accept the challenge of taking the gospel beyond their own borders to all of East
Africa. One way to begin is to plant vibrant, urban churches in the border towns. Anyone who travels between the countries of East Africa has to pass through one of only a few border crossings—ideal places to set us a highly visible ministry.

The Busia church of Christ is meeting in a rented storefront far from the center of town, and they have been losing members when they ask for collections to pay the rent—not an auspicious beginning. But the echo of James’ challenge at the National Meeting may return with some funds
from other churches in Kenya. We slept in the home of a church leader in Mundika. His congregation is a few miles outside Busia Town. We pray that this fledgling cluster will develop a sense of mutual cooperation meet the challenges of border ministry.

The following day, we drove an hour and a half to the new cluster in Lutaso area. After briefly greeting the gathered believers, we set out on an unusual trip for me. In just two hours, we drove to every church building in the cluster. At every church, we got out of the truck, walked in to the building, prayed, and shook hands with the local leaders. Then it was on to the next place. Being somewhat familiar with East African values and customs, I was not surprised that they wanted
my feet on the ground in every church. But it was an interesting sort of circuit and one that I have never done before. Every time I put my schedule in the hands of African brothers, I end up doing interesting things that I never would have done had I planned the day.

The third day, we assembled with church leaders from all over Western Kenya at the Kitale Children’s Home. They normally meet every month to pray together and discuss issues that affect the whole area. This Saturday, the major topic was what to do with the 10 empty rooms on the
Children’s Home property that had recently housed a Christian primary school. The Kenyan government introduced free elementary education last year, and private schools have been going belly up all over the country as paying students flock to free government schools. Bahati Academy had been providing the orphans with education, since outside students paid enough fees to meet operating expenses. But now, the rooms were empty and the local leaders were seeking a new project.

At the end of the meeting, I had the privilege of standing up and announcing the gift of 2,000 East-to-Read Bibles for the Christians in the Kitale area. Last year we received a container of ERV Bibles compliments of the World Bible Translation Center in Ft. Worth. After sharing them with the other mission points in Uganda, we began distribution to churches around Mbale. We still had enough to share with Kenya. I received the applause on behalf of WBTC and pray that the Word will not return void.

But my final day in Kenya was the best. I spent the night with David Bikokwa and his wife, Anne. They are scheduled to move to southern Sudan as pioneer missionaries with another Kenyan family later this summer. Sunday was their sendoff from the church (Kapkoi) where David has preached for the past two years. The building was decorated inside with colorful flag streamers made from bits of cloth tossed aside by tailors and seamstresses.

Many things made the day special: a couple converted by missionaries becoming missionaries themselves, believers from a dozen or more congregations gathering to send them off, a group of six Kenyan elders joining hands around the new missionaries, the fact that I was merely an observer rather than the organizer, and my memories of our own send-offs from American churches. I spoke briefly on the challenges they would face: different languages, customs, living conditions, being
far from family. It felt strange to warn their bright faces of the hardships that will come. But it was also exhilarating.

At the conclusion of the service, the congregants formed a greeting line up to the front. Each one shook hands with David, Anne, Kennedy, and Mary and then gave them gifts to help them on their journey: chickens, a thermos, cups, blankets, money. They wrapped up the day with a feast worthy of a wedding.

Praise you, Father, for your marvelous works!

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Mzee Plans His Funeral

Journal Letter #301

For the week ending: 20 March 2004

Tennis shoes with a coat and tie usually mean only one thing—door-to-door sales. If you can believe it, I spent six months in 1996 attempting to sell pre-paid funerals by making cold calls from house to house (we were looking for sponsorship at the time, and I had to have work). I say, “attempting,” because I never closed a deal. My one near-sale came after supper one evening in a suburban living room. The mood was somber as we paged through my full-color book of casket designs, identified plots on a map, and talked about “sparing your loved ones difficult decisions at an emotional time.” They wanted to “sleep on it” before writing a check, but the next day they wouldn’t answer the doorbell or telephone (their cars were in the driveway!).

Thank the Lord, the Midtown (now Heritage) church of Christ rescued me from pounding the pavement and gave me a job as a youth minister, which is, I must say, a step up from death sales. I went from one end of the generational spectrum to the other with that job change! (To this day, Heritage is one of our faithful monthly supporters.)

Back when I was in high school, I was one the grounds-keeping team for Roller Daniel Funeral Home in Mt. Home, Arkansas. Most days I manned the weed eater (“Go getcher weedie!” the more senior staff would holler as they mounted the riding mowers). But I also poured cement vaults, set up chairs for graveside services, and even loaded cardboard caskets and their contents into the crematorium. Heavy stuff for a teenager. The worst part was trimming around the infants’ and children’s markers in the “Angels Area.”

But my association with funeral homes began even earlier. My father is still a licensed mortician, and I used to ride on the vacuum cleaner as he swept up at the Kentucky funeral parlor where he was the manager, minister, embalmer, grave-digger, and custodian all in one.

All that background may help to explain why this article in this Saturday’s New Vision caught my eye: “Mzee [old man] plans his funeral.” In East Africa, death and burial is a big deal. They way you are laid to rest affects your eternal destiny in animistic belief—the more respect and “to do” they heap on you, the better your chances of being “called back” to rejoin the living later on. Many people maintain membership in the Catholic and Anglican churches for the sole purpose of insuring that a priest will give them a good burial. But times they are a changin’.

Mzee Amooti is evidently fearful that he won’t get his due when his number comes up. According to the New Vision staff writer, Amooti has drawn up a budget for his funeral and is paying for it himself. He even bought his own casket and carried it home. In the article, the mzee explains his actions by saying that his relatives had “turned so selfish.” Amooti is not trying to protect his children; he’s trying to save his own hide.

I find this a great opportunity for a study in comparative cultures. Americans are increasingly willing to plan their own funerals. And in spite of not liking my old sales job, I think it’s a great idea. We want to spare our closest family members (usually a spouse or children) the pain and difficulty of choosing casket colors, costs, and choir members when they are most vulnerable. The moment of a loved one’s death is hardly the time for rational thought—how can you assign a monetary value to the lifetime of feelings you have for the departed? Not to mention that being able to have some say in how we will be memorialized gratifies our sense of self.

But in Uganda, death is a whole different deal. No doubt the bereaved feel the same sense of loss and pain that we do, but their expressions are ratcheted up for a different purpose—if you don’t cry and wail, perhaps you were the “killer” (through witchcraft or poison). The spirit of the deceased is thought to hang around for several days, and he/she will be watching to see how sincere are your tears and how proper your respect. It is the solemn duty of the family to cook great mounds of food to feed innumerable guests for several days; buy the best clothes, casket, and beer; make appropriate sacrifices; and cover your grave with cement for remembrance. One year after the death, there is a memorial service where many of the same elements are repeated. Your ancestors can affect your life for good or ill from the realm of the living dead—you’d better treat them right.

In Uganda, funerals are all about the departed. In America, they are increasingly pre-planned for the sake of those who remain behind. Ugandan families are often financially devastated by the death of a grandfather. American families are likely to either have insurance or a paid-up funeral already in place.

Certainly there is more to be said than simply making a value judgment between these two very different cultures. Ugandans could consider alleviating the suffering of the bereaved by lightening the load of cultural and financial expectations. Indeed, this is already happening in the church, where members often share expenses even for funerals in other congregations. And Americans could take a lesson from the way Ugandans do not idolize youth or shy away from death. But I wonder if there isn’t something that Christ would say to both cultures. Perhaps it would even be the same thing. Perhaps he would say, “It matters not how (or even if) you are remembered on earth—it only matters how I remember you.” In the end, we are committing our spirit to him alone.

May our lives and our deaths be performed before an audience of One.

Isaiah 49:15-16

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Birthing Triplets

Journal Letter #301

For the week ending: 27 March 2004

Sunday made me a proud papa. No, our baby didn’t come early (he or she is due Aug 4). It was the Central Cluster that gave birth, and we were blessed to have visitors from the Richland Hills church of Christ to witness the delivery.

Four years ago, we prayerfully set out to connect the multiple village churches together in clusters, a strategy that has proven successful all over Africa (see JL #83 for a full description of clusters). The Central Cluster in Mbale District began with four or five little congregations in March 2000. Only two of the churches had land or buildings, and their leaders were inexperienced and immature—but they were zealous! Four dry seasons later, the picture is quite different.

Last month we counted 11 “registered” churches in the Central Cluster (those who have completed the first three of four foundational seminars in our church curriculum). And there are six more “preaching points” where we expect churches to form. Of these 17, three have appointed elders. From one end of the cluster to the other is over 10 miles—quite a distance to walk for monthly fellowships and leaders meetings.

The time has come for this very pregnant and distended cluster to “birth.” Like many cell groups in the States, we try to avoid talking about “dividing.” In Lugisu, we swapped the word “khuSala” (to birth or produce) for the word “khuHala” (to divide or cut). As over 100 church members from the whole cluster squeezed into the tiny mud church building on top of a mountain, I praised God for the growth of his Kingdom, certainly not because but perhaps through our feeble efforts.

Ron Holland and Mike Washburn team-preached a very good lesson on the woman at the well in John 4. I was really pleased with how well the connected with the audience. Everyone’s eyes and ears were focused on the message.

The church was so packed that we ended up passing both the communion elements and the collection tray. In Uganda, churches usually call everyone up to the front for both the Lord’s Supper and the offering. That way, a visitor does not feel pressured to take the bread or cup, and no one is tempted to take something out of the unguarded money basket. But it was impossible for anyone to do more than stand up in the building (which we all had to do in unison). I filled all the little plastic cups and then re-filled several of them before we finished. In the end, I had to water down the “juice” to stretch it out so everyone could partake.

At the end of the service, everyone agreed with the elders’ suggestion that the Central Cluster birth into three smaller clusters. Each one will have a church with elders. Each one will have its own evangelists, teachers for church seminars, and teachers for the women’s ministry. And each one will be better able to work together to care for their own and to plant new churches.

I expect a short period of shock and pause in the ministry—much like a plant that has been removed from the pot and transplanted to the garden. These churches have come to depend on one another and truly enjoy their mutual fellowship. I cannot count the number of times they have helped each other perform weddings, pay for funerals, take the gospel to new areas, and resolve disputes and quarrels. In fact, the major concern expressed at the last leaders meeting was how they will manage without being all together. They unanimously resolved to continue their habit of leaders from ALL the churches meeting together monthly for prayer and Bible study—wow!

One other cluster in our ministry has already birthed, and I expect the Southeast Cluster to birth later this year. The once struggling Tororo District work has taken off, producing five clusters in the past two years with James and Noeli Luchivya’s attention. And the Pallisa District clusters are finally working and meeting together on a regular basis (also due to the Luchivyas). I believe more firmly now than ever before in the effectiveness of the cluster concept. Universally in our experience, churches that are in fellowship with other churches do better than churches that are alone in their areas.

Perhaps in a few more years I’ll write a book about clusters. I am certainly not the first to use them, but I have seen them develop and grow in perhaps new ways in Mbale. But for today, I am as pleased as a daddy in the delivery room. Cigars, anyone?

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The Making of Many Books

Journal Letter #303

For the week ending: April 03 2004

A few weeks ago marked the 300th week that we have called Uganda home and also my 300th journal letter (though some still remain naggingly unwritten). Through the years, I have grown to love the writing part of my ministry more and more. And surely it is a ministry, since it is the primary means whereby I keep you—the prayer engine of our work—informed and appraised of our African mission.

Many of you have responded and encouraged me to continue writing and even to publish. I must confess, I have a list of more than 10 books I would like to write—and more ideas come all the time. I have set aside about two hours per week for writing—mainly journal letters, and I wonder where I could get the time to write more in the midst of raising children, preaching the gospel, and discipling church leaders (not to mention the growing burden of administration). Perhaps that’s one practical reason why many writers don’t begin in earnest until later in life. And perhaps, too, it is a good thing to let youthful ideas marinate in the salty juice of life experience before committing them to the permanent published page.

In any event, I would dearly love to publish my journal letters in a suitable volume. To do that well, I will need an interested publisher, a good editor, and whatever funds it takes to get that sort of enterprise off the ground. I have thought about doing that soon or waiting until I reach Journal Letter #500, which will come somewhere around the 10th anniversary of our Ugandan ministry—four years from now. God knows.

In the meantime, I do solicit your prayers. I normally pray before writing each journal letter, in hopes that my words will be bigger and truer and more engaging than they might otherwise. So when you think of it, please pray for me for the following things:

• that I become a better writer.
• that I grow beyond cleverness to truth.
• that I be led by the Spirit in everything I write.
• that I find and make time appropriately for writing worthwhile stuff.
• that my writing will serve the church that I love and have loved all my life.

The Teacher wisely wrote: “of the making of many books there is no end.” And for all his wisdom, only a handful of pages of his poetry and prose are preserved in our Bibles. I read recently that over 52,000 new books were published last year. Statistics like that one make it seem awfully arrogant to think one could add something to the deluge of ink that already drenches the bookstores. I personally have dozens and dozens of books sleeping on my shelves, waiting to be read. Do I really want to contribute to what one of my high school teachers referred to as “diarrhea of the pen?” I guess I do. There are too many words in me that want to come out.

As with my teaching, for which I believe I have a gift, I want my writing to encourage and instruct, to entertain and uplift, to reveal and to inspire more seeking. Well, there’s my ambition, all laid out for you to squint at and evaluate. If you think I’m on to something, feel free to encourage and make suggestions. Then again, if you think I’m ON something, don’t hesitate to bring me back down to reality!

Whatever comes, I do thank you for being faithful readers and prayers. It means a great deal to me.

May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.

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Death and Easter

Journal Letter #305

For the week ending: April 17 2004

Death and Resurrection on an Easter Afternoon

The body in the ditch was of a boy no more than 20 years old. Evidently, he had been caught in someone’s house last night and was presumed a thief. The alarm was sounded, and the community came out to participate in Africa’s gruesome form of a Neighborhood Watch program—they all beat him senseless. They continued beating him all the way through the village and out into the swamp until he fell down and died. By 3:00p this afternoon, no one had come to claim the corpse.

Then, as I passed by the town church building on my way home, the rising flames of a fire across the street caught my eyes. I quickly realized the source—the pillared dome that is the Hindu crematorium. Dozens of mourners and hundreds of interested by-standers were gathered to watch the remains of a Hindu ascend the local heavens—ashes born up by the heat to be scattered on the wind. Asian Indians form a tight-knit society here and often maintain the religious practices of their homeland (there are plenty of fancy temples in Uganda).

I had celebrated the resurrection of our Lord Jesus with a group of about 60 believers in a church just a few miles out of town. The building was old. The mud plaster was cracked in many places, revealing the un-fired mud bricks and mud mortar underneath. The corrugated tin sheets overhead were rusted and bent in places—this probably wasn’t the first roof they had covered. According to our church leaders in the area, some ministry long defunct put up the building and then left. The church had dwindled to a handful of members and had no preacher. When they heard of the churches of Christ and our active work in the North Mbale Cluster, they invited us to come and revive their church. I can’t think of a better Sunday to start a revival than Easter!

Following the service (5 hours), we drove a few miles to the river, where two young adults were immersed into Christ. I couldn’t help notice the bittersweet poetry of the day. Two dead bodies illustrating the very reason Christ had to come and die—sin and idolatry—and two raised to new life in his Name. (Not to mention a church rescued from dying.)

I think you could say that I had a good Easter.

He is risen.

He is risen, indeed!

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The Purose of Roads

Anthropo-Logical? #1

Journal letter #306

For the week ending: April 24 2004

Sometimes the behavior of people in other cultures seems to make no sense at all. I am sure that my own conduct often confuses my Ugandan friends. But the longer you stay in a place, the more you are able to discern the internal logic to actions that outwardly seem bewildering. From time to time, I may write up my best understanding of cross-cultural reasoning.

I have often expressed frustration with the roads in Uganda—they are clogged with bicycles and pedestrians, full of potholes, and demand all my attention to navigate safely. Only recently did I realize my fundamental problem—I had not grasped the real purpose of roads in Africa. Perhaps this poem from an African perspective will communicate my enlightened discovery.

“What a Road is For”

What is a road for? I’m glad that you asked me!
In Africa we don’t whiz by at near sixty.
So sit and I’ll tell you the purpose of highways
And trails, lanes, and goat paths that some would call byways.

Roads are for spreading cassava to dry
And selling potatoes to those who pass by.
Roads are for chickens to cross both directions.
The joke tells the truth of their fowl predilections.

Roads are for young boys-cum-men to herd cows.
Don’t rush towards the future—slow down for the now.
On market days roads are just shopping extensions
For great crowds of people with trading intentions.

The road is a stage and a good place to go
If you fight with your co-wife and want folks to know.
A road can be witness to business transactions
Or arguing long-standing family factions.

Roads are for running in mob-like procession
To show off the young men who want circumcision.
Please don’t mind the cow-dung and bare-chested women.
They’re there to give courage for losing your foreskin.

The weary who need to sit down don’t despair
Cause the edge of the road works just fine as a chair.
The bushes that grow by the road are good, too,
If you’re hit by the urge to go tinkle or poo.

Roads are for stopping to talk with a traveler
And perfectly good spots to leave a cadaver.
(If he has been knocked by a big speeding lorry,
Just pile up green branches and wait for the family.)

Roads are for walking or riding bicycles
On shoulders, in both lanes, and often the middles.
Roads are for children who walk home from school
The road is for them, so slow down, it’s the rule.

Roads are for testing the top speed of tractors
(an un-lighted sugarcane trailer’s a factor).
The asphalt gives traction to push-start jalopies
(Especially those with no jumpers or batt’ries).

If big trucks break down they just stop (why pull over?).
The lane is much smoother and sure beats the shoulder!
Drop your transmission or pull out your engine
Or nap while the shade tree mechanic is wrenchin’.

I hope that you’ve caught on and have ears to listen.
Please slow down and notice the life you’ve been missin’.
Roads are for going and not just arriving.
But there’s one thing the roads are NOT for: and that’s driving!

…unless you stop and give me a lift! : )

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The Big Questions

Journal Letter #307

For the week ending: May 1 2004

Throughout history, philosophers and theologians have debated the “Big Questions” of human existence. Inquiries like the following have caused the ink and orations to flow for centuries (if not millennia):
 

Why are we here?

What is the meaning of the universe?

What does it mean to be human?

In fact, the ministry of reconciliation often prompts me to deal with these questions—even if they are not stated so succinctly. But our work often brings up other questions that, while perhaps not as weighty, do have a more immediate bearing on our earthly existence. I have endeavored to compile a list of several such questions in an effort to contribute to the wisdom and practice of missions in other similar contexts (and to give you a few chuckles). Here goes:
 

We welcome creative answers to these questions or others questions that should be added to the list.
 

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Crime and Punishment

Anthropo-Logical? #2

Journal Letter #308

For the week ending: May 8 2004

“The punishment should fit the crime.”

I think most folks agree with that statement. Murder deserves more severe punishment than shoplifting. Rape should earn a tougher sentence than running a red light. Some crimes demand jail time or even the death penalty, while others can be atoned for by so many hours of community service. But have you considered that your ranking of criminal activities may not be the same as someone’s in Africa?

One of the shocking realities of life in Africa is the vigilante “justice” done to thieves. It is not uncommon for a thief (or someone accused of theft) to be beaten to death, hacked with machetes, or immolated inside stacked tires. More than one missionary has been forced to back down from protecting an accused thief because of the viciousness of the mob. The beating death of a thief Easter eve (JL #305) got me thinking about the African view of crime and punishment.

I asked some Christians why thieves deserved death. Their answer was simple, “If they are put in jail, they will just get out and steal again.” One would think that summary execution would be a strong deterrent to theft—but apparently many think they can still beat the consequences. In a surprising twist, a clever thief is sometimes lauded for his wiles—as is a poor thief who robs the (relatively) rich. And a family member can often steal from more prosperous relations with impunity.

I am reminded of the renowned Western historian and novelist Louis L’amour’s depiction of justice on the American frontier. Horse thieves were universally strung up, since leaving a man without a horse in the wilderness was as good as killing him. Perhaps it is because most Ugandans live so close to the economic edge that they react so violently to theft. Convicted thieves and murderers are still hung in Uganda if they manage to escape the mob.

Another crime with a surprising punishment is rape. Defilement of an unwed daughter is a relatively simple matter, requiring only the payment of a fine (and negotiation of brideprice if the offender’s desire hasn’t cooled). This part reminds me of the Old Testament penal code. Rape of a wife demands a stiffer fine in Uganda, while the OT allowed the death penalty for the rapist (and in some cases for the wife!).

In fact, fines constitute the vast majority of punishments meted out by local judges and authorities. Most people know the fines for different offenses, but negotiation between the aggrieved parties is always a factor. Bribery is rampant and universally assumed to be proper protocol. Adjudication usually favors the one with the higher kickback. The criminal justice system is understood to be an economic system. And prison usually serves another purpose altogether.

While there are a few national or municipal prisons, they are nowhere near large enough to hold the criminal population. Most jails are simple mud huts on a police compound in the village. One cannot expect to be catered for in such cells. Family members must provide food, medical treatment, and all other necessities. One doesn’t want to stay long in such conditions—nor is it required. Rural incarceration seems to be primarily a lever to get the family to comply with the law. For instance, the husband/father will be locked up (whether or not he committed the crime) until the offending party appears before the court for justice, pays the fine, or confesses to his evil deeds.

All of this contemplation leads me to another insight. If Ugandan thought on crime and punishment is comparable in some respects to the worldview of biblical times, what does it mean that our Lord was crucified between two thieves? (I have often wondered why a thief would deserve crucifixion in the first place.) Understanding the Ugandan view of justice may help me present the just demands of a holy God—and his incomparable mercy—more clearly. For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life.

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Jesus and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance

Anthropo-Logical? #3

Journal Letter #309

For the week ending: May 15 2004

The Significance of Bicycles

To me, a bicycle is an amusement. It doesn’t go very fast or carry passengers, and it requires effort and sweat to operate. I use my bicycle for exercise or for fun. Once or twice I have ridden my bike to the village—just to watch people’s reaction and prove that I could do it. And I have ridden bikes on two treks through the bush (not to mention the 150 mile bikathon in December!). But mainly, I don’t use a bicycle for locomotion.

I noticed recently that I have transposed my view of bicycles onto the people of Uganda. When they come to me with a broken spoke or pedal, I didn’t take it very seriously. When they block my way on the road, I tended to feel that they had no business there and wondered why they couldn’t move over to the shoulder (or off the road) so I could pass. I am ashamed to admit that I have even taken satisfaction at passing closely to frighten cyclists who refused to give way.

But my Ugandan friends see their bicycles from a completely different perspective. As best I can understand, they look at their bicycles the way I look at my truck. A car is so far out of reach that most Ugandans never even dream of having one. But a bicycle, well, that’s a necessity if you can possibly afford it. Without a bicycle, town is a day’s walk or a day’s wage away.

A bicycle is often a means of earning money all by itself. The big trucks that collect produce in the village pay half of what the crop is worth in town. So if you have a bicycle, just load it up with seven or eight big stalks of bananas and push it to town for top prices. On the way back, you can carry manufactured goods produced only in town for sale at your shop in the village. Or, you can fit the luggage rack behind the seat with a piece of canvas-covered foam and charge money to pedal people around!

It is amazing what these guys can carry on the back of a bicycle. I have seen: furniture suites (bed, chairs, and couch) stacked and strapped down, 220lb sacks of flour, pigs or goats tied to a board, 360 eggs in stacked trays, chickens bound by their feet (hanging off handlebars, crossbars, and rear rack), 100 liters of water in plastic jerrycans, four crates of sodas in bottles, and the aforementioned stalks of bananas cruising down the road on the backs of bicycles. I have seen men riding with their whole families, riding (on the highway!) with one hand while steadying a load, and riding with 20’ sections of angle iron or lumber sticking out into the roadway. As the advertisement for Roadmaster Bicycles claims, they are truly built for “Any Load, Any Road.”

Compared to walking, riding a bicycle is no work at all. Even on the most grueling hills of the bikathon, the Ugandans were pedaling with as much detachment as I hold a steering wheel. They would drop down to the smallest sprocket and pedal till their feet were a blur—without breaking a sweat! I have known Africans to ride their bicycles dozens of miles one way for leadership courses or special meetings. My night guard used to ride 80 miles round trip every week just to work at our house.

Most of our church leaders depend on a bicycle to preach and visit congregations. If they don’t have a bicycle, they will borrow or hire one from a friend or neighbor to ride to a meeting (another way to make money from your bike). Men often carry their wives to ladies’ meetings on their bicycles. And once two church leaders rode a half-busted bike 50 miles to warn me not to drive into a rebel-controlled area to a scheduled church meeting. I probably underestimate the importance of helping a preacher buy a bicycle for his ministry.

When it’s broken, a bicycle will still be ridden if at all possible. I have known people to ride (barefooted) on the pedal stem when the plastic pedal broke off (or even ride with only one pedal at all!). I have seen them stop every few miles to pump up bald tires. I have seen many bicycles where the front tire is canted 10 degrees to the right and the back tire 10 degrees to the left. Money given to repair a bicycle is as valuable as money given to treat the sick or feed the hungry. I have seen men get tears in their eyes when I gave them a few dollars for repairs.

Interestingly, many Ugandans show affection towards their bikes. My former night guard inherited his bike from his father—who purchased it new in 1965. That was 40 years ago! I recently visited his home to find him disassembling a nearly new bike to replace parts on his old one. And it is not uncommon for a man to name his bike—often giving it the moniker of a big, expensive automobile, like “Landcruiser.”

In short, I have severely underestimated the significance of bicycles in Uganda. As I come to understand the people God has sent me to more and more, it should change the way I live, think, give, and drive. And maybe it will make me a better missionary.

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Sent Packing

Journal Letter #312

For the week ending: June 5 2004

Packing Up

Times of great transition offer us hope of becoming wise for a while.  Great transitions come when our children are born or leave home, when we lose a job or graduate from high school, when we move from one place to another, or when someone close to us dies. Wisdom is temporarily
within reach because great transitions strip away all the layers that claim to be life but are finally unimportant. Appointments, deadlines, projects, endless cleaning, straightening, and organizing—these are not the flesh of life; they are the peel.

If, during a great transition, we will let go of the peripheral instead of clinging to it, we have a chance to learn something deep and lasting—something true. Too often, however, we are so in shock at the change in our immediate surroundings and daily routine that we are unable to lift our eyes up to see what is usually obscured. Instead, we frantically dive to the floor to pick up the shards of our shell and do not realize that the prison walls are also broken down.

Fortunately, most great transitions last long enough for us to accept the futility of trying to put our lives back together the way they were. When we sit back on our heels in despair, we are astonished to find a much deeper truth, a more significant reality. We have all heard or read the stories of those who have experienced this. The cancer patient in remission who “doesn’t sweat the small stuff” anymore. The husband and father unemployed for six months who finally remembers that
he has a family at home who need him. The graduate who realizes how good he had it at home and that his parents actually were intelligent and loving.

Well, we are smack in the middle of one of those transitions. Every couple of years, we close down our house, pack up our worldly goods, and move our whole family across an ocean and eight time zones for a while. This time, that “while” is rather lengthy. Compared with the lifetime that we have already given to God and the decades that we may be on the mission field, seven months is not very long. But it’s long enough to knock us loose from our routine and peel back several of those layers I mentioned.

Just to give you an idea of how this transition affects us, consider the following factoids:

It’s quite amazing to me to think about just the fact of living in a house. Very special people at Richland Hills church of Christ are already moving in borrowed furniture, spatulas, bath towels, and a vacuum cleaner—since we own none of those things in America. It seems to me that we live at least two lives: one in the third world and one in the first. One of our teammates, Linda Tyler, has often commented that Heathrow Airport in London is like the Wardrobe in C.S. Lewis’s The Chronicles of Narnia. There are two remarkably different worlds connected by that wardrobe, and there is always a sort of disorientation when one passes between them.

If this is a transition time, the question becomes, “Will we learn anything?”. Will we—in the midst of packing trunks, leaving instructions, and paying bills—will we stop and take a look at what is real and what really matters?

Maybe. I am bringing the Bible I use for daily devotionals (some things need to remain the same). And I have been talking with my two sisters on the phone much more than I ever do. In handing off the rural ministry to my coworkers, I have been startled and sobered by the thought that this is not and never has been “my” ministry. Even as I made some changes, I was brought up short by the truth that this work is not mine to change. If my adjustments were in line with God’s own desires, then I have done well. But if not, I am nothing but a meddler in someone else’s business! Though I remember having known this before, I had forgotten that God prefers me to ask for his permission and not just his blessing. That’s a bit of wisdom.

But all in all, I am not looking up from the dust nearly enough. I get the feeling that I could be much wiser than I am—that wisdom is there for the getting. Which all makes me more determined to cast off everything that hinders (not to mention the sin that so easily entangles) in order to run this race with perseverance and more than average discernment.

Transition—change—is a gracious gift of God. May it last long enough for us to get the point.

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Jiggity Jig

Journal Letter #313

For the week ending: June 12 2004

5-4-3-2-1!

5 airports.
4 flights.
3 planes.
2 kids.
1 big thanks to God!

Our last plane touched down at DFW Thursday night around 8p. After being greeted by our liaisons (John Paul and DeeAnn Brownlow) and missions chairman Ron Holland, we picked up our luggage and rode the last twenty minutes of our journey home that began almost four days earlier.

Aside from the length, our trip was wonderful and attended by blessings at every stage. Our six heavy trunks were checked all the way through without charge. We were bumped up to Economy Plus for the London-Chicago-Houston leg (roomier, comfy-er seats!). The kids were calm and behaved well both days of flying. We got a good night’s sleep in London on the way. We are grateful for your prayers for “journey mercies” as they say in Uganda—we had lots of journey and lots of mercy!

When we arrived, it became clear that the welcome mat had started unrolling weeks in advance. We were picked up in our “own” car (a ’95 Suburban) with car seats already buckled in. We were driven to our own house (rented). In the fridge was enough food to fuel us for a week or more (including root beer and Dr. Pepper, thanks to Brenda Vick). The phone, water, and electricity had already been turned on (air-conditioning!). And the whole house had been cleaned by an army of
volunteers.

Not only was the house already furnished, it was decorated in themes! The boys’ room was “cowboy,” and their names were written in rope on the walls. There were sheets on the bed and towels in the closet, magazines by the fireplace and video games (for the kids, of course) by
the TV. Scented candles and nightlights were throughout the house, and a bouquet of flowers graced the dining table.

All of this work was done by one of the young marrieds classes at RHCC. The Cornerstone Class has adopted us as their missionaries. I told Ron that missionaries had not been better cared for since God sent angels to minister to Jesus! We feel very blessed and welcomed to our new home
for the next several months.

We do hope to meet most of you face-to-face before the year’s out. Please do contact us so that we can get together.

Our address is:

4145 Spindletree
Ft. Worth, TX 76137

(817) 306-0420

Hope to see you soon!

Phillip, Laura, Malachi, Israel, and Little Miss

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Dreams of Freedom

Journal Letter #314

For the week ending: June 19 2004

Just up Highway 67 from “Your Dream Hometown” (Beebe, AR) lies the growing community of Searcy—home away from home to 4,000+ Harding students, a dozen traveling preachers, and not a few missionaries. It is also home to the host for one of my jr. high track meets, the dealership where I got my “college car,” the bank where I signed my first big loan, and the family that raised my beautiful bride. Laura was a Harding student from pre-school through college graduation before
returning to teach while I completed my senior year. At Harding, I met my Lord in new ways and heard more clearly his claim on my life for ministry. All those reasons and more were sufficient to make Searcy our first trip outside the great state of Texas on this furlough this week.

Not everyone who comes to Searcy has the same experience I had. I met several students during my semester on the discipline committee who chafed over the very things I loved. And not everyone who leaves Searcy wants or is able to come back. But I must confess that I have a love for Harding and Searcy that I cannot always explain. So in this journal-entry, I will dispense with caveats and simply express my tha