June 23, 2003

Ministry in Lipembe, in Zambezia Province, Mozambique

In my tiny room—and there is no "more upscale'' hotel in Milange, Mozambique—I count five hours of hard bush driving that Saturday, June 14, 2003. Too tired to think, I ask God to wake me and give me Sunday's message, and I shut the light off at 8:45.

Now wrapped in blankets in the early-morning cold, I wonder how I'll make it through the day without more sleep. An incessant hacking, barking cough, torture to the ears for hours, has come from a room somewhere. If I could get back to sleep, if only for an hour more, if only.

I begin to wonder. Is all this doing any good—this going out and preaching? Things appear gloomy, I struggle a bit. I remind myself: Jesus is my only hope. Whoever has that horrible cough needs Jesus too. I intercede. "Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered" (Romans 8: 26). The more I intercede the more I feel interceded for. Words rise up, lyrics of a simple new chorus when I arise at 5:00 a.m. The more I sing the better I feel. This is what I will preach:

Jesus you are my hope
Jesus you are my only hope
Jesus come live in me
Jesus come set me free
Jesus hope and glory
Jesus

In the lounge I see the coughing finally easing, from a street boy, a teen in a ragged jacket, burrowed into an easy chair. His mouth gaped open, he had evidently sneaked up during the night.

Leaving Milange at 7:45, at 9:00 I turn off a trail onto a foot path, finding the way through tall, dense elephant grass. Descending about a kilometer, relief comes with the way broadened. The pastor explains that the members of the Lipembe Presbyterian Church are devoted Christians, and they had cut the grass for us.

Nearby Mount Lipembe is pointed out, unimpressively squat but broad, covered with grass and not rocky. Maybe in times past it was a lookout camp for hunters and warriors. We creep down to the base of the mountain toward the little Rio Tambe, sprung from the side of Mount Lipembe. Women, seeing us coming, break out dancing beside the river.

The passengers get out of Rover. No longer rainy season, the river is a stream running through a narrow ravine. Here is definitely the best place to cross, the banks worn down. On this side the bank neatly meets a large flat rock jutting into the river, ideal for crossing. On the other bank, joined to the rock, small timbers, hewn, are jammed down to fit, and all is covered with bamboo matting (Zambezia's version of a red carpet).

Amid hullabaloo I am told by Rev. Manuel that this is the first time the Rio Tambe has been crossed by auto. He exclaims, "You again make history!" I reply that well maybe, thanks to his excellent job of engineering—not to mention mostly God! "But,” I tease, "who will write the history book—you? Maybe you should put yourself in the book too!" We laugh. Then feeling a sudden touch of sobriety, I pick up the bamboo matting to inspect the timbers again. I do not want to be known as the first fool to cross the river, not able to cross back over.

We slowly drive a half-kilometer behind a train of colorfully garbed, singing, dancing ladies. The thatched-over sanctuary is nestled in the side of a foothill of Mount Lipembe. There is a long wait for people to arrive. Many walk over many hills, many kilometers. Gazing down over the bush, maybe I'd not be so surprised to see a man dressed in camels' hair, eating locusts and wild honey.

I smile at the multitude of children staring. Probably most if not all have not seen a white person before. I feel like the representative of the entire Caucasian race.

A messenger calls me to a crowded back room of the church amid a meeting with about 25 elders from area churches. The elders are already informed that I will hold a three-day evangelism seminar at the Simbe Presbyterian Church next month. But the question now raised is: how to feed the 150 leaders attending? Hubbub precedes a familiar request that I provide the food.

I remember a teaching on breaking the indigenous church from dependency. It advises missionaries not to attend business meetings of the church as much as possible. Simply by a missionary's presence the business is affected.

I say that ''Reverenda Diana'' and I believe host churches need to provide the food, not the guest. "But," I am interrupted, "you do not understand. We are very poor!" Hubbub and nods of agreement. I continue, "We believe if the church plans to do something, the church needs to have the faith to do it, and not miss out on the blessing in doing it." After discussion, it is resolved the churches will bring the rice. "All you have to bring is the relish," I am informed.

An elder counts 387 persons inside the overcrowded sanctuary and Rev. Manuel estimates 100-200 outside. I agree to do the baptisms upon request by the pastor. He informs me that synod regulations dictate that sacraments must be officiated in the black robe with white frock, confirming ordained status. So I wear the pastor's robe and baptize 37 souls during the more-than-four-hour service.

Four or five adolescent heads peer through each of 12 open windows, a dozen through a doorway, blocking the light. Bursts of sunlight flash into the darkness as new heads and shoulders switch with old. The new constructions have their window interiors latticed with cement scroll-like designs. It prevents this kind of informal attendance, and yet also blocks infiltration of light.

My text is from Romans 8. I begin by singing my new chorus. It presents a challenge to the "new" translator (the "old" having gotten "cold feet" in front of such large a number of people). I preach on "following the pathway of hope," naming the bridge just crossed "Hope” as we follow Jesus our hope of glory.

Sunday at Lipembe is thoroughly unforgettable. Hallelujah!