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| A Little Coffin in Use |
Nineteen years of memories – What do I see when I close my
eyes?
The
dearest of Africa’s Great Lake’s memories – dance, celebrations, bountiful
meals, weddings, baptisms, Christmas, Palm Sunday, Easter, football (soccer)goals,
cheering crowds, and children’s laughter.
Yet a
few memories haunt to the deepest part of my soul. Some memories still cross my mind that
causes my body to jerk and shake. Old
pastoral literature occasionally pulls the veil off of pastor’s souls to disclose
that we are wounded healers (David Hansen and Henry Nouwen have written wonders
on these matters.) Some have compared
our wounds to those of wounded soldiers in a war. Old missionaries remind me that we came to
a battle. We’ll be scared if we wade
into the fight. In the still moments we
close our eyes and feel again the wounds of battle.
Pastors
are to be men of love. Yet sometimes we
hate. The dictionary defines hate as
to dislike intensely or passionately; feel extreme aversion for or extreme
hostility toward; and detest (
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/hate.)
The dictionary does not do justice to
pastoral hatred.
The things I hate I
hate with much more intensity than words can describe.
Memories
of missionary pastoral hatred occasionally waken my sleep. I hate little coffins.
Before
getting on a plane to Kampala, Uganda in 1993 I read the news. Some research concluded as much as 30% of
Uganda’s adult population in the early 1990’s was HIV positive. Could such startling statistics be true?
Jana,
Sophia, and I arrived in Entebbe Airport in March 1993. Light bulbs hung from wires in customs. Uganda was recovering from years of chaos. Debra Tarbet Carr met us. We bundled our luggage in a Toyota Corolla
Hatchback. Then we began the
journey. We left “the new airport,” and
drove past “the old.” Debra knew my
historical mind, and pointed out the airport where Israel’s famous “Raid on
Entebbe” took place. Then we drove past
the banana plantations and small dukas (kiosks and shops) that dotted the old
Entebbe road.
Then we
reached Katwe, the edge of Kampala.
Katwe was the small scale industrial hub of Kampala. Expatriate friends referred to it as the wal-martization
of Uganda. (Kampala was just a big Wal-Mart
store. All you needed was to find the
section of town that sold what you needed and start looking.) Katwe had a
section of gates. The competitors were
right next to one another with a plethora of options. Katwe had a section of furniture. Again, the competitors were next to one
another with bountiful options.
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| Coffins being manufactured in Kampala, Uganda |
Katwe also had a startling coffin
section. I hope my memory is colored
by years and culture shock, but I remember it stretching for hundreds of
meters. The number of coffins was
sobering. AIDS was obviously
devastating Uganda. I believe in the
theory of understanding called, “Follow the money.” If one followed the economic boom of Uganda
in the early 1990’s one had to notice the booming funeral industry. Death was everywhere. Within the hundreds of coffins were small
child sized coffins. Hatred for those
coffins was the only emotion I could feel.
AIDS was an indiscriminate killer.
Our first missionary task was “office
bouncing.” Most missionaries hate
it. I thoroughly enjoy it. Office bouncing is the gathering of legal
documents. It involves registering
organizations, keeping their documents current, getting visas, paying taxes,
etc… The pragmatic key to office
bouncing success is pastoral – make friends, pray, see the mundane as an
opportunity to speak good words for the Lord.
Over time those who bounce offices
well are those of great influence.
Yet, office bouncing in Uganda in the early ‘90’s had one glitch to
efficiency – the commonality of death.
Africa’s Great Lakes culture at her
best is one of community compassion.
We live in a web of social obligation. When a member of our community is in
trouble we drop everything and go to help.
Funerals are one of those
moments. Yet there is also a dark side
to the practice of community compassion.
Some put on illusions out of fear.
For instance, if one does not attend a funeral some in the community
will assume that missing one was actually the cause of another’s death. AIDS changed Africa’s culture rapidly as
urban myths were created. Why did we have so many deaths? Some concluded it was witchcraft and
poison. Thus from both fear and
compassion each death stopped all in the deceased’s social web.
Pragmatically, it meant office
bouncing was frequently a hurry and wait, start and stop, series of
visits. Office bouncing frequently was
met with vacant offices as bureaucrats left work to attend funerals.
With much of the death one could find
marginal reasonableness, self-justification, and the illusions of prophetic
hope. I remember messages in Balokole
(evangelical / “saved”) churches that predicted a glorious Balokole coming
day. “You see AIDS kills the
immoral. It is God’s judgment. In a time to come only “the saved” will
remain. We will rule.”
Little coffins were not so easy to
justify. How does one explain the death
of children in a world of self-justification?
I hoped to never know a little
coffin.
Besides the first days in Uganda’s
startle of little coffins I also first heard automatic gun fire while staying
at Rubaga Social Training Centre (a guest house run by the Catholic
Church.) I pushed Jana and Sophia to the
ground while the crowd laughed at me. The
sound of gunfire would become ordinary over the years, but at first it was
startling. My Ugandan friends
explained that gunfire is usually just watchman or police shooting in the air
to frighten a suspected thief. The
wise were home at night inside a locked door, a gated compound, and employed
someone to watch their home through the night. For our first year in Uganda many privately
hired policemen to be personal body guards.
Our first home was located just two
doors down from a police post so I hired policemen to guard our home. They were disappointing. I found them asleep. I found them drunk. I needed to make a change.
One of the wonders in the early ‘90’s
Uganda was the RC system. When
Museveni was in the bush fighting a guerrilla war (1981-1986) eventually the
hit and run maneuvers faced the pragmatic task of governing. When Museveni’s enemies were thoroughly
defeated in a region there was no need to run after the attacks. Now the civilian population needed
leadership with roots. His guerrilla
army could not step into the void of governing and continue the battles. Thus he instituted a highly empowered local
leadership structure called the Resistance Committee (RC) System. Among roughly 4,000 people in a community nine
would be elected locally to manage the affairs of a community. Their responsibilities ranged from repairing
roads to marital counseling to maintaining the security of a community. After January 26, 1981 when the National
Resistance Army captured Kampala, the RC system became the governing structure
of Uganda.
My Abilene Christian University
days were shared with Charles Guma, a Ugandan student. Guma was with us in Uganda as we
started. One of his counsels was to quickly
introduce ourselves to our RC Committee.
We became friends quickly with David Muwonge, our RC Chairman. David became a father like figure to us.
As we struggled to know what to do
with the drunken and sleeping policemen guarding our home, David suggested
making a new hire. He brought to our
home, Mzee (wise old man) Lasto. Introductions
were shared. Lasto had immigrated to
Uganda from Tanzania many years prior.
He had married a Muganda woman.
He had children and grandchildren.
He had made his living as an askari (watchman). David told me that Lasto did not drink,
could stay awake long hours, and was faithful.
I chose to trust David thus I chose to trust Lasto. We surprised Lasto by telling him the job
started that night. He asked what weapons
we would provide. At the time we had
none. Lasto surprised us as he began
collecting rocks, and making piles at strategic locations. If a thief entered our compound that night he
would have been pelted by rocks from our askari hidden in shadows. Lasto was resilient and would not be caught
off guard.
The following morning I greeted
Lasto with my limited Kiswahili, “Mzee, habari ya asubuhi? (Wise, old man; how was your night?” He responded with, “Mzuri sana (Very good.)” The next evening when he came to work, I
greeted him, “Habari, mzee (Wise, old man; how are you?)” He responded, “Mzuri sana (Very good.)”
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| Sophia playing with Lydia Bagira's son, Joel |
These greetings became our daily
rituals. On occasion, Lasto would interrupt
ritual and protocol. One night came
Jana and I attempted to parent infants like Americans. Sophia was always a snuggler. She was also a “snack and nap kid.” Parenting Sophia as an infant meant she was
always in physical contact with us.
When she was hungry she cried.
By Jana nursing Sophia she was quickly appeased and fell asleep. Then a short time later the process began
again. As we moved to Uganda we
finally concluded it was time for Sophia to sleep alone. American Christian parenting books assured us
this was the right step. We must place
Sophia in her crib and let “her cry it out.”
The following morning, Lasto
followed the greeting with, “Habari mtoto (How is the child)?” When I responded, “Mzuri (good),” Lasto connected the dots. We had let a child cry through the
night. All African protocol and
employer / employee institutional authority was lost. I’m sure Lasto’s mind was filled with
questions about what kind of cruel race and family we must represent. African wisdom insists on nurturing and
touching children. Only in the most
destitute of situations would one not do all one could to comfort a crying
child. Lasto let me have it. My Kiswahili was not good enough to follow
Lasto’s tirade, but I learned my lesson.
Sophia would never again cry through the night. She would sleep with us and snack and nap
until she decided that she was old enough to sleep on her own.
Mzee Lasto loved children.
Sophia began to walk beating and dancing
to an African drum. Sophia began to
speak. She quickly caught on to
preferred languages. Jana and I
preferred English. Her first words to us were in English. Our Ugandan staff preferred Luganda. Her first words to them were in Luganda. Mzee Lasto preferred Kiswahili. Her first words to Lasto were in Kiswahili.
Our family settled into routine.
One evening the routine fell into
tragedy. When I greeted Lasto with, “Habari,
Mzee? (How are you, wise old man?)”
Lasto responded, “Mbaya. Mbaya
sana (Bad. Very bad.)”
I inquired with my best Kiswahili
and heard the word I hoped to never hear, “Mtoto (child).” Something very bad had happened to a child.
I called Jana and Lydia Bagira
(whose Kiswahili was better than mine) to inquire what misfortune had befallen
a child. The startling translation was
death. Mzee Lasto’s infant granddaughter
had died. In fact, she had died of
AIDS. Mbaya. Mbaya sana were the only words fitting to
describe such tragedy. We would see a
little coffin in use. I hate little
coffins.
When my hatred for little coffins
met pastoral love I volunteered to transport the little coffin with an infant’s
body to the home village. I also
offered to preach the funeral sermon.
Pastoral hatred is a haunting
journey. Memories of old filled my
mind.
One of my favorite missions’
professors at Abilene Christian University, Wendell Broom once remarked, “There
is no problem the resurrection cannot solve.”
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| Jesus raises Jairus' daughter |
The Senior Minister at our
overseeing congregation at that point in our Uganda journey, Dr. Royce
Dickinson seemed to always find his way to stories of the resurrection as he
preached.
The only way to make sense of the pastoral
hatred of little coffins this side of heaven was in the resurrection.
Death is a separation of the spirit
of life from our bodies. It can be a
sweet transition. Some are so privileged
to live upon this earth that they can remark, "LIFE
SHOULD NOT BE A JOURNEY TO THE GRAVE WITH THE INTENTION OF ARRIVING SAFELY IN
AN ATTRACTIVE WELL PRESERVED BODY... BUT RATHER TO SKID IN SIDEWAYS, CHOCOLATE
IN ONE HAND, BIBLE IN THE OTHER, THOROUGHLY USED UP, TOTALLY WORN OUT &
SCREAMING, "WOO HOO ... WHAT A RIDE!
(Again a Wendell Broom quote.)”
Yet, death
also is horrible. In a world without
morticians it stinks. It is
painful. It is final. Death of innocent children to a disease that
sucks out all pleasures of this earth is atrocious. I hate little coffins. I believe my boss also hates little coffins.
There are 4
stories of resurrection in the Gospels.
Two are of children. One is of
Jesus’ friend, Lazarus. The final one
is of the Lord Jesus himself. My Boss
is the Resurrection. He also hates
little coffins.
A sick
child on the verge of death makes us drop all pretension and protocol. A Jewish religious leader named Jairus came
in desperation asking for the Lord’s healing of his daughter (Mark 5:21-43). At first it seemed too late. When the crowds told Jairus that his
daughter had died and it was time to cease bothering Jesus, the master teacher;
Jesus, the BOSS OF THE LIVING AND DEAD told Jairus to not fear but
believe. Then the Lord went with an
intimate group of mentorees and family to touch the 12 year old little girl. Then he pulled her by the hand to her
feet. The crowd initially laughed at Jesus courage
to proclaim the girl was just asleep.
Now they were astounded.
Because Jesus hates little coffins He is the Resurrection.
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| Jesus Raises Widow's Son |
Another
time my Boss entered the town of Nain.
It was a chaotic moment. Jesus
entered with a crowd. Another crowd was
leaving. Jesus’ crowd of anticipation
met a crowd grieving with a widow who had lost her only son. I can’t imagine this woman’s grief. Academic minds will quickly point out that
a widow who lost her only son was completely on her own after the funeral. Economic disaster with utter loneliness
would follow this widow to the grave. Jesus
must have hated that coffin. He told
the widow not to cry. He touched the
coffin. He commanded the young man to
arise. Because Jesus hates little coffins He is the Resurrection.
Shortly
before Jesus entered Jerusalem to begin the Passion he met dear friends, Mary
and Martha, who had just lost their brother, Lazarus (John 11). Again, the situation is full of
confusion. Grief throws humanity into
loss and despair. In the midst of this
mystery, timeless truths are spoken and lived. A Resurrection day is coming. Jesus, my Boss is the Resurrection. My
Boss hates coffins. My Boss loves from
the deepest part of His heart. He wept
for His friend’s loss. He weeps for our
loss too. Out of this Divine Anger and
Grief comes true Power. He commanded
Lazarus to arise. My Boss is the Boss
of the Living and The Dead. Lazarus
rose.
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| Jesus Raises Lazarus from the Dead |
All four
Gospels tell the story of Jesus’ Resurrection.
I believe it to my core. My
hatred of little coffins only can be consoled by the hope of a
Resurrection.
Thus early in
the morning in 1993 I went with David Muwonge to Mzee Lasto’s home. We picked up a little coffin that contained
the infant body of Mzee Lasto’s granddaughter. We placed it on the roof rack of my Toyota
4WD Lite Ace. Then we preached the Resurrection
in deed.
The funeral
industry in Uganda made a killing on transporting bodies. Many AIDS sufferers came to Kampala in the
closing days of life to get whatever medical treatment could be found. The treatments were generally better than
the village, but still pathetic compared to North America or Western
Europe. After the dying breaths the
deceased’s community would need to transport the body to the home village for
burial. Only the richest of rich had
their own transport. Some relied on connections
with Kampala’s elite who may loan a vehicle to extended family for
transport. However, many were
stuck. Thus the opportunistic business people
gouged the grieving with extravagant prices to transport a body to the home
village for burial.
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| Our old Toyota Lite Ace at Work |
David and I
tied the little coffin to the top of my roof rack. The fuel was my gift. None of my friends would be gouged in
grief. I hate little coffins and the
actions of little coffin profiteers.
A crowd
gathered around my vehicle and began to place eggs under the wheels. Thankfully, I had sat at the feet of
missionary bzee like Shawn Tyler, Monte Cox, Gailyn Van Rheenen, and Gaston
Tarbet. I knew the message of the
eggs. It was pure animism, paganism,
and an affront to my Boss. The eggs
were sacrifices to hovering spirits.
They were an attempt to appease malicious spirits intent on bringing
misfortune to our journey with a community of those grieving for the loss
contained in the little coffin. I spoke
an angry message. It is one of the few
times where I’m still convinced my anger was my boss’. The eggs were gone. We said a prayer trusting my Boss’
protection.
We reached
the home village. I was seated on a
chair among the bzee (wise old men).
The community offered a chair to Jana.
My wise wife refused the chair.
She sat on the ground with the women and children. The crowd giggled and then clapped. My wise wife’s humility had earned both her
and me immense moral authority. She
refused to take honor that was simply about race. She knew by sitting with her Ugandan peers
she showed honor to the family. By
giving honor to the family she won their respect.
Mzee Lasto introduced me to the village crowd as, "Mukama wange, Daudi Jenkins (My Lord, David Jenkins.) I was shocked to be assigned a title of divinity. Then I asked David Muwonge quietly if I had hear correctly. "Yes," he replied. "You are mzee Lasto's boss." The simple introduction would have profound impact on my view of discipleship.
I remembered Royce Dickinson discussing church worship debates in the USA. He pointed out that American culture has no gestures to communicate honor. Americans also seem to have no language to communicate submission and honor. Lasto in one introduction taught me that Lordship is about honor and submission to a boss as well as to divinity.
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| A Young Dave Preaching in a Ugandan Village |
Speeches
were made. I was asked to preach. I spoke the simple old message of the
Gospel. I told the stories of the
Resurrection. I prayed the 23rd Psalm to comfort. I sat down.
The little
coffin was lowered into the grave. We
each threw a handful of dirt into the grave.
Then the village laborers filled it to the top. It was over.
We had a
meal. We drank chai. We journeyed back to Kampala.
A few
months later, Mzee Lasto again told me, “Mbaya. Mbaya sana (Bad. Very Bad.)”
When I inquired I was told, “Mtoto.”
When Jana and Lydia translated we found that Mzee Lasto’s daughter had
died of AIDS. Her coffin was not little. We went through the same ritual with the
same message again.
My most
startling memory of the day of Mzee Lasto’s daughter’s funeral was lifting her
coffin to the top of my car. The coffin
was light. The lift was easy. Ugandans called AIDS “Slim.” Mzee Lasto’s daughter had the substance of
life sucked from her body in her last days.
Her coffin was so light it seemed to not hold an adult body.
A few
months later we were in the USA on furlough.
News came to us of an impending great tragedy. Mzee Lasto was sick. A short time later news came that Mzee Lasto
had passed. Slim had caught him. Mzee Lasto died of AIDS. In one year a granddaughter, daughter, and
grandfather had all died. AIDS was an
indiscriminate killer.
I hate
little coffins. My Boss is the
Resurrection.
Pastoral
hatred does many things. Those who
know me best remark of my remarkable ability to give and receive love. I know my own dark demons too well to take
that title. Yet, those few intimate
friends also note that my love sometimes comes out as hatred.
I hate
little coffins. That hatred comes from
my Boss. Here are some other matters
that I hate:
I hate
listening to religious gatherings that judge victims and superimpose
victory. AIDS would not develop a
master Balokole race in Uganda. All would suffer. All would someday bow to my Boss. He is the only One Righteous.
I hate the
practice of polygamy. I’ve loved many
polygamous friends. Yet, the consequences
of polygamy are family dysfunction and death.
Little coffins thrive in polygamous families.
I hate my
Kizungu (Western) culture of serial adultery and divorce. It is ethically one step below
polygamy. My polygamous friends attempt
to care for all their wives and children.
My Bazungu (White race) friends who practice serial adultery and divorce leave more
shattered relationships and lives than my African friends. If they are Balokole serial adulterers they
also become masters of manipulation and deception. The consequences to children are horrendous.
I hate
discos and bars that lure youth into sexual immorality. Even with condom proselytism we cannot escape
that a thin piece of plastic can never protect the human heart. We were designed to mate for life. Any relationship that denies that truth of
created order will become a disaster.
I hate
little coffins.
Yet, those
little coffins have given me startling love.
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| Jesus After Resurrection Sharing Holy Communion with Disciples |
I love the
faithful. I cannot conceptualize that
anyone seeking the spiritual is my enemy.
Little coffins showed me the profound commonality of human life. Denominational identity is irrelevant
squabbling for those who trust in my Boss’ Resurrection.
I love
children. I’ve always done all I can so
they can thrive. I want to build
institutions to bless them for generations.
I love
youth. I love their athletic feats. I love their music and dance. I love their courage. I love their intelligent search for
knowledge.
In these painful
moments I close my eyes. My memories
overwhelm me. As my body shakes comes
forth my deepest beliefs, hopes, and actions.
In 19 years
in Africa I’ve only twice performed a funeral with a little coffin. I’ve begged God for children’s lives many
times. I can’t answer the question of
why twice God was silent. Yet, I do believe
in my Boss’ Resurrection.
Though I
hate little coffins, my Boss is the Resurrection.
