Followers and Fishers
Stories of the Emerging Mission Movement in Africa
Published by OM Books at Smashwords
compiled by Anneretha Combrink
This book is available in print at OM Books
Copyright 2011 OM Africa
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We should
get out of the box of believing “mission is just for the
Westerners”. No! It is for us too. I am convinced that if we
combined our efforts, we could do more with the available resources
and the world will never be the same again. We could do so much more
if we had the desire to reach out to the unreached. God has blessed
Africa with abundant natural resources, and we can utilize it to help
enhance God’s Kingdom.
Kelvin N’gambe, elder at Ndeke Brethren
(Zambia)
Discipleship
is rightly being addressed, not only as Africa’s greatest
challenge, but our greatest challenge! People are looking for actual
examples of transformed lives.
Suria Scholtz, OM Africa leadership
The Lord
wants us to take the gospel back to places like the UK, America and
the Arab world. I want to challenge myself, the African church, even
the universal church: the Lord is expecting more than what we are
doing.
Lewis Musonda, missionary (Lake Tanganyika, Zambia)
People
always speak about sacrifice, but compared to what the Lord has done,
nothing is too great a sacrifice. Because He loves us and we love
Him, it is not a sacrifice. Because of that I can go anywhere; I can
carry on.
Hanitra Andrianomanana, missionary (Madagascar)
To all passionate followers of Christ in Africa; those who fish for men in her villages and along her shores.
Content
A new season for Africa – Francois Vosloo
Ask of me – Coen and Suria Scholtz
Following in our fathers’ footsteps – Coen Scholtz
In the footsteps of elephants and angels – Helen Chibwe Mpanganyonse
The Weaver – Alfred Mpanganyonse
The teachers – Christopher and Lorrin Kasale
The headman’s daughter – Isaac N’gambi
Discipleship: being a people of integrity – Suria Scholtz
It is time for Africa – Melvin and Veronica Chiombe
Senders and sustainers: the involvement of the African church in mission – Kelvin N’gandwe
The soul stirrers – Lameck and Joan Masozi
The voice of the African church – Ndeke Christian Brethren
A global mission movement – Coen Scholtz
The Good News II: A Livingstone-legacy – Anneretha Combrink
The builders – Div and Eleanor du Plessis
Salvaging of the Nyati – Riaan du Plessis
The dwelling place – Charles and Hellen Chansa
He sent the missionaries – Kopala
Are you stealing? W.S.V. Ntenda
Growing into fatherhood – Peter Syfert
Love is the best teacher – Holly Steward
To such as these belong the Kingdom of Heaven – Holly Steward and Anneretha Combrink
Harvest of kindness – Eleanor du Plessis and Anneretha Combrink
Binding up the broken-hearted – Holly Steward and Anneretha Combrink
People of peace – Joshua Chishala
Africa – new and greater things! Peter Tarantal
The book of miracles – Antonio Nipueda
Rocks will cry out – Eugenio Ernesto
To run faster and fly higher – Hanitra Andrianomanana
Preface
As I sat with Lewis Musonda in his thatched hut on the shores of Lake Tanganyika in July, 2009, the sun glittered brightly on the blue water outside. Every now and then, children poked their heads through the door, curious about our conversation. They pointed at the camera and stared at the small recorder lying on the reed mat between us. Lewis laughed and made a sudden movement; the children scattered quickly.
As I visited Lameck and Joan Masozi in Zambia and stood in the vegetable gardens they have planted, as I walked with Joshua Chishala, and later with Muhandu and Grace between Yao villages in Malawi, this book was recorded. One story at a time. Each story spoke of courage, faith, and following Jesus recklessly. I met African leaders, living simply and with integrity, vision and passion. The external journeys I took to fill these pages soon became an inward journey. I learnt about God’s plan for Africa and its people—my people—and realized that I was part of history in the making. These men and women of faith are God’s instruments for transforming their communities. They live strong stories, every day, and I am honoured to have witnessed parts of them. Some were originally written by the missionaries; some were recorded by me to be transcribed.
The importance of stories like these, especially in the African context, cannot be overstated. Stories have the power to change lives and, in the words of Bruce Jackson, are used to texture and contextualize our lives. The stories in this book have enriched the texture of my own life. In the end, this truly has become, in the words of Mozambican Antonio Nipeuda, a book of miracles. Photographers, editors and co-workers from around the world joined in making this publication possible. I offer heartfelt thanks to everyone who became part of this journey, especially Coen and Suria Scholtz, Frans Hancke (founder of ProChristo), and Francois Vosloo (director, OM Africa); Greg Kernaghan for his invaluable input with editing; Micah Ogle, Alicia Flanagan, and Anita Gehring for capturing Africa in images; Herman Lamprecht, Dian Wessels, and Leona and Chris Moss for the design and layout; and every missionary who shared his or her story.
May the followers and fishers you read about in this book inspire you, as they did me, and may God receive all the glory.
Anneretha Combrink, Editor
Note: In several stories, names were changed to protect the identities of the individuals and their families.
For the past ten years Anneretha has coordinated community-specific creative writing and storytelling projects. Before joining the Communications Department of OM Africa in 2009, she worked at the Creative Writing Department of the North-West University, South Africa. She did her PhD on the role of orality and identity in the promotion of community-specific word-art in South Africa.
Foreword
Coen Scholtz, Associate Director - OM Africa
Note: Due to the merger of OM and ProChristo, we use OM throughout the book, even though some characters began as ProChristo missionaries. We are indebted to Frans Hancke and faithful ProChristo and OM pioneer supporters and early staff who laid a foundation to launch the missionaries you will meet in these pages.
The sound of bells from local cows drifted lazily up the valley. Voices rang out in the early dusk. Our fire’s smoke curled into the tinted evening sky. Makesure, our Zimbabwean friend, was telling us stories of his recent 50-kilometre walk to share the gospel in another village down the Angwa River. We knelt and rejoiced—more people had come to know Jesus.
It was in the mid-1990s that the Lord touched our hearts, showing how He was stirring Africa, Asia and South America into mission. The needs and brokenness of the lost masses gripped our hearts, but the beauty and simplicity of authentic followers of Jesus excited us with possibility. God was raising up His people.
In those days, the majority of cross-cultural missionaries came from the Western world. As we prayed for more workers to go into ripe harvest fields, our minds drifted to the many Christians in Africa that were seemingly not mobilized beyond their immediate vicinity. Even as we dreamed of transformed lives and communities, we celebrated the fact that Africans were part of this invitation.
The Lord brought Frans Hancke, leader of ProChristo (a South African-based mission organization) into our lives to help us understand the beauty of the Church and the invitation and privilege of the Church to be available to the Lord in a deeper way. Joining ProChristo, we went to northern Zambia, and since then have seen the Lord calling many Africans in ProChristo, OM and other organizations into His plan. This synergy later gave rise to a merger between OM and ProChristo.
This book will introduce you to the Lord’s activity in the world and in Africa in particular. You will encounter courageous African pioneer missionaries and faithful African churches with great stories to tell. I count them all heroes that have deeply impacted my life. You may begin to see the needs of the world differently. We pray that you will be encouraged and inspired as we celebrate the Lord’s work in and through our lives. Enjoy Followers and Fishers. Soli Deo Gloria.
A new season for Africa
Francois Vosloo, Director - OM Africa
There are seasons in our lives individually, but also for our ministries, nations and continents. Africa is entering into such a season of “spring” or new life. The sons of Issachar from 1 Chronicles 12:32 understood the times they were living in and knew what to do. In preparation for the season that God has in store for Africa, God has brought OM and ProChristo together to play a small part in bringing new life to Africa. God is calling the church in Africa to take responsibility for the continent to see lives and communities transformed. This responsibility and privilege also involves the sending out of workers. Followers and Fishers tells the stories of how God has been working in this new season in Africa. May we see many, many more churches joining God in His season for Africa.
Ask of Me
Coen and Suria Scholtz, Associate directors - OM Africa
A head popped around the door. “There’s somebody going through the rubbish. What do we do?” I look up from my work and rush out to find an elderly man rummaging through the black bags in front of our house. It is such an uncommon sight in our middle-class Pretoria* neighbourhood that I find myself at a loss for words.
“Sir, please stop doing that! Are you hungry?” I ask, full of sympathy as I look at the haggard man.
He nods resignedly while returning the last bags to the bin. I tell him to wait while I return to the house to collect various things from my cupboards and refrigerator. I don’t want him to leave, but I also don’t want to give him just anything, so I work fast. It needs to be nutritious, well-balanced and something he can keep for tomorrow without needing a tin opener. Something to drink; something sweet. I wonder when was the last time he had something sweet to eat. I have failed so many of these tests before: giving reluctantly, giving without love, giving with selfish motives, or simply not giving while trying to ignore the persistent prodding in my heart.
Today, as I hurry towards the old man outside the gate, I am quite pleased with myself. As I hand him a bulging bag, he takes it with both hands and immediately starts to move on. I did not expect a thank you—another mistake made in the past. Yet I was totally unprepared for what was coming. He suddenly stopped, grumbling and sighing as he looked at all the other rubbish bins ahead of him. “Now I still have to keep on looking through all of them to find something to smoke.” Then he went off, a lonely figure limping wearily away.
Completely taken aback, I turn around and slowly return to my work. “What was that all about, Lord?” I ask. “I put in fruit juice and vegetables, proteins and starches and something sweet with extra fruits for tomorrow and bread and…it was the best bag of food I have ever put together—and he wanted something to smoke?”
You need to remember, my child, that people are empty, starving for love, happiness and justice. They walk around in tatters, rummaging through rubbish bags looking for something to smoke. I often give them what would benefit them, something to strengthen and nourish their bodies and souls. However, unable to recognise the value of the gifts I place in their hands, they choose to ask for something to numb their emotions and bring temporal relief, while ignoring the eternal blessings I desire to pour out over them and the generations after them.
As I reflected further, it became more personal. What if that old man is a walking metaphor—not of the world, or the church, or even other Christians, but of Coen and me? Have we become like that old man, asking God only for things small, fleeting and comfortable? There was a time when we lived boldly and asked boldly!
***
The jewel in His Majesty’s crown
It was early 1996. My first mission destination as a single woman was India. A wealth of stirring historical epics, impressive literature contributions, magnificent architectural feats, pungent spice bazaars, and richly embroidered cloth encroached on my prayers for the poor, the destitute, the sick, the beggars and the horrific need I was going to encounter on every street corner of every city.
Within hours of our team’s arrival in Chennai, I bent over a frail old woman, flimsily clad in a threadbare cotton dress, lying in the middle of the sidewalk, seemingly dead. The flutter of life in her weakened body prompted us to look for help, but the locals sped past, apparently unconcerned. When I helplessly returned my attention to her creased face, a fly climbed leisurely from her eye. I recoiled, speechless and stunned.
Three months later, an old man living alone in a reed hut on a bridge that we crossed daily on our way to school was found seriously ill by team members. His extremely enlarged elephantiasis legs and his guru-like appearance made him unapproachable to many of us. God prompted a young girl to put her hands on his legs to pray for him as he lay feverish and weak, tears rolling down his cheeks. Within a couple of weeks, a spiritually and physically transformed Tata, as we called him, joyfully moved into our house for the remainder of our five months in India.
Within one year, I returned to India as a married woman. As Coen and I travelled from south to north and from city to city, the same see-saw of emotions jostled us. Yes, we had impacted two or three people‘s lives, yet we remained haunted, even immobilised, by the faceless and suffering masses that moved about the streets of each city we visited. How were we ever going to make a difference in this sea of humanity?
As young, single missionaries we worked in a number of different countries: Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco, Nepal, Lesotho, Zimbabwe and Zambia. Repeatedly the Lord showed us not merely multitudes, but sheep without a shepherd, broken reeds, lost people. We lived our calling passionately and did what we could. Within us was a growing hunger for greater impact and effectiveness. We knew what it meant to be unsaved, caught up in patterns of sin and hopelessness, aimlessly drifting without an anchor and bored with the world and its fleeting wonders. The burden and bounty of India challenged every preconceived mission strategy we ever heard, had, or entertained.
“The harvest truly is plentiful, but the labourers are few. Therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into His harvest.” (Matt 9:37-38 NKJV)
The Lord’s solution had been staring us in the face. It was in a Jammu slum that He lifted our eyes to look beyond the ripe harvest fields, which had become our sole focus, towards God’s simple but well-proven strategy: “Pray to the Lord of the harvest!” Oh, joy of discovery!
Crying out to the Lord for more workers during both formal and informal prayer times became an obsession. It headed every prayer list people asked us to send them. God captivated our hearts and minds with this pearl of heavenly wisdom. Without realising it, we were soon to find the key to a new ministry in a new country with a new mission organisation.
Can anything good come from Mporokoso?
In early 1999, we were living in Chandamali Village on the outskirts of a tiny town called Mporokoso, 200 kilometres from Kasama, the main town in the Northern Province of Zambia. A dilapidated and abandoned “Village Inn for Accommodation, Bar and Restaurant,” would be our home for the next three years. Mporokoso had no bank or fuelling station, but, within weeks of our arrival, a Congolese refugee camp was set up about 20 kilometres away. Suddenly, business boomed as UN trucks and other NGOs poured into the area. We were granted permission to present discipleship training in the camp. For three months, we taught ninety church leaders from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon. It was our first time to work with two translators. From English they translated into Bemba, the primary Zambian language, then from Bemba into Swahili. It was an enriching experience in spite of challenges, like a dot-matrix printer which had to be fed each page manually. Some days it took four hours to prepare notes for the following day. We were inspired, yet humbled, by the people’s hunger to absorb God’s truths. So eager were our students to learn that literally anything was good enough to take notes on: the soles of broken shoes and carton boxes to name just two! We often asked ourselves how many people we were reaching through these ninety pastors and elders, who each represented thirty different churches with large congregations. Unknowingly, God was moving us a step closer to the next phase of His plan.
“It shall come to pass that before they call, I will answer, and while they are still speaking, I will hear.” (Is 65:24 NKJV)
Some local church leaders faithfully accompanied us on daily trips to Mwange Refugee camp, helping with translation and teaching. Melvin Chiombe was the pastor of a vibrant and growing Assemblies of God congregation with 600 members. He had already been to the UK and Jamaica for mission training, a wise man whose family’s support and friendship meant much to us in those years.
Christopher Kasale, a local teacher and young upcoming leader from Melvin’s church, often visited. He had a keen mind, asked many questions, was always brimming with ideas—a live-wire for Christ. Not only did Chris have a booming carpentry business, but his vegetable gardens were equally impressive! Together, Coen and these two men would talk and discuss mission and mission strategies for hours. This trio’s friendship was a surprising gift from God in this remote part of Zambia.
It was during these formative years that God started to weave another important thread into the tapestry of our ministry. One could not work in India without being challenged by Amy Carmichael and her orphans. Soon after our arrival in Chandamali, Zambia, we became parents to Christopher (14) and Joseph (13). Through Veronica, Melvin’s wife, we became more involved in the African orphan dilemma that is making huge inroads into already vulnerable societies. She came to see me one day about Rachel, another orphan whose over-burdened family could not support her.
Rachel’s parents were already divorced for some time when her mother became sick and died. At fourteen, she became the sole ‘breadwinner’ for her family of young brothers, foraging in the forest for roots and other edibles while waiting for family members to get enough money together to travel the thousand kilometres to remote Mporokoso. With her brothers safely in the hands of aunts and grandmothers, beautiful and clever Rachel was left behind with the promise that as soon as the family had enough money, they would send for her to join them. Four months had passed by the time Veronica approached us with Rachel’s dilemma. In the meantime, the lady with whom she stayed had no money to put Rachel back into school, and there was no word from any of her family members regarding her travel money. Rachel’s future looked even bleaker when the landlady suggested that she might have to find alternative ways to earn her keep. In this culture, where HIV/AIDS is rampant, it was the equivalent of a death sentence.
We were very poor in those years and could not see our way to both feed her and pay for her education. Thus Melvin and Veronica took her into their house while we covered her school fees. Within the next few years, we were also blessed with two of our own biological children, but we never stopped taking orphans into our home. Altogether we took in fourteen orphans, of which two are disabled. I can tell you from experience that children do not come ‘cheaper by the dozen’!
At this point, we felt eager to move on…but God was not going to perform His first rush job on us! There was much character work to be done in our lives before He could entrust us with more responsibility. For the remainder of our three years in Mporokoso, the principles of unity and mentoring, lessons on faith and failure, insights into pioneering initiatives, networking strategies, educational programmes—and that ultimate test, dying to self—were all sent our way. With hindsight comes insight. Looking back we refer to it as “together with God in the school of life,” but at the time it was simply tough going!
“For you see your calling, brethren, that not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called.” (1 Cor 1:26 NKJV)
It was around the middle of 2000 when Coen finally grasped God’s plan: Africa was His answer for more workers. So we made a final mind shift: away from being pioneer missionaries towards mobilising, training and sending Africans as missionaries to those who had never heard the gospel. It now made sense why God had sent us to Zambia, a Christian country.
Mporokoso was situated in an isolated corner of the Northern Province. How would we advertise mission training like this? Who would join us? Where would the campus be? God tells us in the Bible to “pray without ceasing”—something more likely to happen during hard times!
During these uncertain days, Lasarus Kapasa, a Tabua Bible translator, stopped by. He worked with a friend of ours some 400 kilometres away. As usual, there was much news to share. Lasarus was sincerely interested in Coen’s training vision and had questions about the curriculum, outcomes, duration and cost. Shortly afterwards, we received the first applications from friends and acquaintances mobilised by Lasarus. Other students also applied, but the majority of the class of January 2001 joined because one man found time in his busy schedule, and space in his heart, for someone else’s dream.
Zambia’s best kept secret
“Let’s take a short break,” I said. “We just said goodbye to one outreach group and another one will be here shortly! Besides, we have to make a trip to Kasama; that’s already halfway there. It will be only for two days and one night, so it won’t be very expensive either!” I tried to convince Coen of the unthinkable—to take two days out of his schedule.
“Lake Tanganyika is Zambia’s best kept secret,” a friend whispered at the missionary fellowship in Kasama. And yet neither my built-up anticipation nor my friend’s lingering whisper prepared me for this vast, deep-blue piece of inland sea gently lapping the pebbled shoreline around Mpulungu, Zambia’s only harbour town on the lake. Lake Tanganyika, in the Great Rift Valley, is the longest freshwater lake in the world and the second deepest after Lake Baikal in Russia.
On the afternoon of our first day at the lake, I bumped into a fellow South African at our lodge. Recognising each other’s distinct accents, we exchanged pleasantries. He was helping with the construction of the new harbour. I shared that we were missionaries in the Mporokoso district, not far as the crow flies but a good 400 kilometres by road. He remained quiet, staring into space for some awkward moments before telling me about a brand new 4x4 piled to the roof with literature that the Jehovah Witnesses were putting on the MV Liemba every other Friday. Destination: war-torn Burundi.
It was a knockout punch. I remember feeling nauseated for the remainder of the afternoon as I played that one sentence over and over in my head: “A brand-new 4x4, piled to the roof with literature, travels to Burundi every other Friday.” That was all the motivation needed for Coen and me to pray and talk well into the night.
“Let’s put a boat on the lake,” I said at one stage.
“A medical boat!” Coen echoed.
Thus we embarked on a new adventure. We were stretched with the demands of caring for our newborn baby, running a pre-school, hosting numerous outreaches and organising the daily running of the mission college. Coen and I shared the responsibility for the bulk of the teaching during that first year. We continued to pray and dream for people in the many villages around the lake, and for a boat, missionaries, godly leadership and effective strategies.
Once again we lacked more hands and feet! Only in 2005 were we able to send our first team of six people to Mpulungu to build relationships with existing churches.
“Your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, “This is the way, walk in it…” (Isaiah 30:21 NKJV)
Our first students had a strong pioneering spirit. There was Alfred Mpangayonse who joined us a little late; Charles Chansa, a keen student always putting theory into practice; Callen Silwamba, a gifted evangelist, and many others.
Coen and I seldom made a decision without first consulting our mentors, Mark and Shirley Davies, Brethren missionaries living in Kasama. We prayed, talked and dreamt together for hours. Both regarded Coen’s growing passion to train African missionaries as a particularly strategic calling within the Zambian church.
Although the college was the best thing that had ever happened to us, we doubted whether remote Mporokoso was the right place. Approaching the end of our first year, one question changed everything: “So where is the centre of the country? Perhaps we need to go there.”
The African church: a sleeping giant awakens
It was December 2001 when we reached our new home: a four-hectare camping site on the outskirts of Kabwe (formerly Broken Hill), the main town of the Central Province. Pastor Melvin Chiombe, his wife, Veronica, and their two children joined us from Mporokoso. Later, among the second intake in 2002, were newlyweds Christopher and Lorrin Kasale as well as a charismatic biology teacher by the name of Isaac N’gambi.
Together, Coen and Pastor Melvin voiced a wake-up call to the Zambian church to take up their responsibility not only for their congregations and nation, but also for global mission. Initially, theirs was a voice crying in the wilderness, but they persevered and slowly we saw the sleeping giant awaken.
Churches sent their elders to attend the World Perspective Course we regularly presented, and they started to host mission weekends, prayer meetings and to financially support their missionaries. Some even organised outreaches.
“Ask of me, and I will surely give the nations as Your inheritance, and the very ends of the earth as Your possession.” (Psalm 2:8 NKJV)
The dream to multiply our hands and feet in the service of the Lord came true above and beyond what we could have dreamed or imagined. Our discipleship approach to training forms a big part of our organisational DNA and has attracted more and more people from outside the participating African culture. At our Kabwe base over the last decade, we have had the privilege of hosting people from China, Ukraine, Canada, Germany, Great Britain, New Zealand and Australia. These individuals not only completed training but have become lifelong friends. Many joined the work while others returned to universities and jobs.
Those who felt called to work with us have been placed in areas like the Okavango Delta of Botswana amongst the Bushmen, in Malawi amongst the Yao, in the Umusangu Valley in Tanzania, in Antananarivo, Madagascar, and in a North African country amongst a nomadic, unreached tribe. Our largest and fastest-growing work, however, remains around Lake Tanganyika.
These missionaries plant churches, start schools, give discipleship training, share their food with the poor, take in orphans and assist with community projects. They teach literacy classes, start youth groups, and train Sunday school teachers. They lead Bible study groups, offer quilting and sewing classes, and visit the elderly and the sick. They start soccer clubs, reach out to the disabled, evangelise, and work in prisons. They live Jesus Christ, they preach Jesus Christ, and wherever they go they help bring in the harvest.
Melvin Chiombe and his team currently lead the work in Kabwe, Zambia, while Christopher Kasale spearheads the work around Lake Tanganyika. Many new people have joined us and have grown into leadership positions, but it is the original Mporokoso trio that is the glue for much of the work, carrying the burden and blessing of leading a new generation of missionaries into the next season of ministry.
Two years ago, ProChristo merged with Operation Mobilisation. These days we live in a middleclass neighbourhood in Pretoria, South Africa. Part of our calling in this new season is to be a voice for the orphan and widow, for the uneducated and disabled, and for many caught in the modern-day slave trade. We are always looking for more labourers to work in the ripe harvest fields of the world. The same passionate cry coming from our hearts—“pray to the Lord of the harvest!”—has never left us.
Rice people or salsa people?
One of my children’s teachers encourages them to use ‘salsa’ words instead of ‘rice’ words. Words that are general and common, like rice, should be replaced by words full of spice and flavour, rich in colour and taste—words with a bit of kick in them: ‘salsa’ words!
This prompted a new philosophy for living, working and dreaming in our household. We often ask ourselves whether we are ‘rice’ people or ‘salsa’ people, or whether we make ‘rice’ decisions or ‘salsa’ decisions, for the good is often the enemy of the best.
“When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.” (James 4:3 NIV)
This brings me back to that late summer’s morning and the elderly beggar with a bulging bag of food in his hands, asking me for something to smoke. It is God’s gentle reminder that there is much more He desires to give His children. Is it life back in our home culture or the sudden comforts of the city that we had to adjust to after fifteen years? I do know that the Lord reminds us again that He wants us to continue to boldly search and knock, pray and ask!
“The real reason why we do not pray is that we have nothing to pray for! We have everything we want without praying. The supreme tragedy of most people is that they want so little, and they are satisfied with almost nothing.” (Charles Allen)
Following in our Fathers’ Footsteps
“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” (Paul)
The seed of the pioneers
“I have one passion— He and He alone. The world is the field and the field is the world and henceforth that country shall be my home where I can be most used in winning souls for Christ” (Count Von Zinzindorf).
The first missionaries to Africa were aflame with a passion for the Lord, ablaze with a dream to see its nations know and worship Him. Though human and thus imperfect, the overwhelming impression of these men and women is that of faith, commitment and faithfulness. They were passionate pioneers who lived their lives to the full. Their words, faith, love and sacrifice inspire us still.
“I remind the committee that within six months they will probably hear that one of us is dead. But, when that news comes, do not be downcast, but send someone else immediately to take the vacant place” (Alexander Macay, CMS missionary to Uganda).
Within three months, one missionary to Uganda died. Within a year, two more had perished. Within two years, Macay was the only missionary still alive.
“I will open Africa to the gospel or die trying” (Rowland Bingham, missionary to Nigeria).
“Though many missionaries may fall in the fight, yet the survivors will pass over the slain into the trenches and take this great African fortress for the Lord” Johan Krapf (missionary to East Africa who lost his wife and two children within months of arriving in Africa).
The Lord honoured these men and women and their sacrifice, proven by the many Africans who know and love the Lord today.
Alistair Brown wrote in tribute to these missionaries:
“It’s impossible, for example, to read the statistics of illness and death amongst those who set sail last century for the Congo and not be moved. I’m stirred by the courage and sacrifice of those who went first. I’m almost more moved that, when news seeped home of their deaths, others went to take their place.
The dangers were huge. When Stanley entered Africa in 1874, he was with three other white men and over 350 porters. Within three years, he was the only white man left and the porters numbered only 114. Fever, dysentery, battles, kidnappings, floods and starvation had wiped out more than two-thirds of their number. Into those same conditions were going missionaries tough in spirit but desperately unprotected in body. In 1876, my own Baptist Missionary Society sent twenty-four-year-old Thomas Comber to the Cameroons. Along with George Grenfell, he made some remarkably brave journeys into the heart of the Congo, sometimes attacked by cannibalistic tribes. After a couple of years, he came back to Britain to report on progress and challenge more to come to that part of Africa. There were many chances to spread the gospel, but others were needed to share the work. In 1879 he returned, taking his young bride. They were in love, and looked forward to years of happiness. Neither saw them. His wife died within four months of arrival in Africa. In fact, within the first 40 years of BMS missionary work in the Congo, 61 missionaries died. When Comber returned again to Britain in 1885, his frail body shocked audiences. He seemed like an old man, but was in fact only thirty-two. Yet his words reflected the spirit of those missionaries as he preached from the text ‘Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it dies, it brings forth much fruit.’ He sailed again to Africa, but was dead within two years…
Without question these missionaries had immense courage. They knew before they went that there was a high likelihood they would die. Some are reputed to have packed their belongings in crates that could double as their coffins. They went because God had called them and the possibility or even probability of death was no reason not to obey.” (I believe in Mission, Alistair Brown).
A force to be reckoned with
Mission trends today suggest that the Lord is increasingly calling the church in the Global South and East to take responsibility to cross the modern frontiers with the gospel.
Some statistics will be helpful. In 1900, there were 8.5 million Christians in Africa. By 2010, this figure had reached 500 million. In 1990, 91% of the cross-cultural mission force came from the Western part of the Body of Christ and 9% from the Non-Western part. By 2000, this had shifted to 79% from the Western part and 21% Non-Western.
The church in Africa is strategically well-positioned for modern mission frontiers for several reasons:
• The resistance of many Muslim peoples makes it increasingly difficult for traditional missionaries to enter their countries. Traditional mission to Muslim peoples should not therefore cease, but the whole church together—African included—can be more innovative in reaching these peoples through strategic partnerships that strengthen effective outreach.
• Spiritually hungry young people in the West are open to listen to truth from cultures with a more mystical background.
• Language learning comes natural to oral cultures.
• Africans come from a storytelling, family-oriented culture. The majority of the least-reached people groups today come from such cultures.
God has graced us in Africa with so many gifts to share. We need to ask ourselves fundamental questions about the depth of our love for the Lord, discipleship and obedience. We need a deep look at our reasons for not being known as a mighty missionary sending church… yet. How will we respond?
The response
The spiritual sons and daughters of the first pioneers face some of the same obstacles their spiritual parents encountered. African missionaries today know that the missionary mandate to take the gospel to those who do not know the Lord yet will be challenging. The economies of many local congregations are not strong. Therefore, support will be small, if it exists at all. Are we willing to stay in substandard accommodation, because we cannot afford better, in order for unreached people to hear about Jesus? Are we willing to be creative in our approach to missions? Will we love the Lord enough to be His hands and feet in hard places? Will the African children follow in the footsteps of our missionary fathers?
There are abundant positive signs and examples. I include excerpts from a letter of one African missionary that took up the baton. Do we hear something of the same heart that burned so brightly in the lives of the pioneers?
Charles Chansa wrote:
“Maybe the sickness of my wife and the many other things we are passing through have something to do with our preparation for the hard grounds of the future.
Our house caught fire on 16 July. It was around lunch time when my wife was cooking outside. A strong whirlwind came blowing towards our house from the east. As it passed our house some metres away, it turned and started coming towards our house. One side of the roof was blown off where my wife was cooking. The grass fell on top of the burning firewood. The fire proceeded to burn the roof also. The villagers came to our assistance, but we have lost everything. So, please, we need prayers more than ever before.”
Charles also writes: “In whatever situation we are passing through, we will never lose our focus upon the Lord Jesus Christ. For He is our guide in everything He is doing here through us. There is nothing that we are passing through that the Lord Jesus Christ did not pass through Himself. So, we will endure to the end. We will continue moving ahead until the Lord will be satisfied with His work through us. No more looking back; it is a forward motion. There is nothing impossible with God.”
John 4:34–35 “Jesus said to them, ‘My food is to do the will of Him who sent Me, and to finish His work. Do not say, ‘There are still four months and then comes the harvest.’ Behold I say to you, lift up your eyes and look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest!’”
Botswana
In the footsteps of elephants and angels
“A religion that is pure and stainless in the sight of God the Father is this: to take care of orphans and widows in their suffering and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” (James)
In 2003, the first OM mission team was sent to the Okavango Delta to work alongside Delta Cross Ministries. Chris and Lorrin Kasale, Isaac N’gambe and Joseph and Theresa Mwanaliti focused on fourteen unreached villages in the Delta mainly around Seronga in the northwest. Helen Chibwe started working in Gunotsogo in 2007, about 20 kilometres east of Seronga. Immorality and animism are practised widely amongst the inhabitants of the Delta.
Alone
The elephants were here again last night. I heard their footsteps around my reed fence. Now I lay awake, with the soft red dawn creeping through thin curtains. The birds were waking up the world outside, and it was still cool. Not for long, I knew—in Botswana, the simmering dry heat returns soon after dawn.
After breakfast, I walked the narrow footpath towards the small clinic. This was where the people of the village often gathered for conversation. I was still learning to make myself understood in Setswana, and I hoped the young girl I met there last time would come again. She understood some English and could translate for me. The sand burnt my feet through the thin soles of my shoes. I saw the footprints of elephants along the way. Stepping inside the prints made me feel insignificant, small. Meeting people on the way, I smiled and greeted them, “Dumelang!”
“Agêe,” they greeted back, not smiling. I sighed. In Zambia, where I come from, people are much friendlier and more open to strangers.
Today, walking down this sandy path, the loneliness engulfed me. Even in the midst of people, one can be alone. When you don’t know the language and the people aren’t friendly, the loneliness can sometimes seem overwhelming. I remember the day I first came to this small village near Seronga in the middle of the Okavango Delta. It felt like walking into oblivion: no cell phone network, no shop, no post office – no connection to the ‘outside’ world. It was even difficult to get a letter to Seronga. If something happened to me, who would know? I was terrified when I saw elephants for the first time, right next to the road. I could have touched them if I wanted to. And there were other wild animals too! Here I stood, twenty-one years old—surely I was going to die.
I put one foot in front of the other and started walking in the footprints of the elephants. I will make friends with these people. I already had one friend: the elderly Mama Moeti who had no children. I will help her again tomorrow to clean her land and carry water. She smiled at me, and we talked with hand signs and laughter. Later she became my mother in this foreign land.
At first, because I didn’t know the language, I would go for prayer walks around the village so that people would become used to my presence. I wanted to connect with the influential people and share the gospel with them, such as the headman’s wife, hoping that she, in turn, would influence him. The problem was that he had three wives! I discovered that he was legally married to only one woman, and so I focused on her. My second problem was the language barrier—Simbukushu, Sisarwa and Shiyeyi sounded the same to my untrained ear!
It took a year for me to converse in Setswana, the common language. My time at the clinic helped me to build relationships and learn the language. Still, sometimes I would come across a group of women who, knowing I understood Setswana, would switch to Simbukushu. It made me feel isolated.
I knew that God had put me here to live as an example of a pure and holy life in the midst of widespread sexual immorality. Men of all ages made all kinds of suggestions. Some even wanted to marry me. I learnt to trust God to protect me as a single woman living on my own. Later on, friends among the teenagers began changing their ways as I shared how Jesus brought true love and fulfilment.
“Where were you when we were getting involved in these things?” they asked. Promiscuity was a culturally-ingrained practice: when a girl turned twelve, custom was to give her a hut separate from the family, in order to prove her fertility. This led to the spread of HIV/AIDS and to a community with almost no remaining young adults.
My strong convictions about purity had accustomed me to saying “no” to men, having learnt to judge their motives. One day, a policeman stopped me. “I want to come to your house to ask your advice about something,” he said.
Really? “You can ask me now,” was my standard reply.
“No; I want to come tonight.”
“Listen, if you don’t want to tell me now, that’s up to you.” I wasn’t very friendly.
The man didn’t come that night, and he didn’t bother me again: two days later, he hanged himself. How was I supposed to process that?
God gave me an open door with elderly people with whom I developed close relationships. They often had no one to help them with their daily tasks, and it was a joy to help in their fields or carry water. Often we would simply visit together.
Fire by night
I knew with my mind, but not with my heart, that God was my Protector. Here in Botswana, I came to face fear in different forms. Yet even in loneliness, hunger, and danger I saw how God was there for me.
One day, I went to help the headman’s wife, Mma Kgosi, pound grain. After almost one year, she in recent months began to open up to me, although her husband, Moshite, was still hard as stone. From the beginning he had made me feel threatened. I never knew why, although his involvement in witchcraft increased my uneasiness.
“Who is your father?” Mma Kgosi asked me suddenly.
Why would she ask that? I tried to explain again that I was from Zambia, and that my father had died long ago.
She shook her head and frowned. This was not what she was asking.
“Is your father a witchdoctor?”
Now it was my turn to frown. “I do not understand.”
Then she told me a strange tale to raise the hair on my arms and neck. “The day you arrived, you came to greet my husband. You remember?”
I nodded. I was really scared of the headman, who was feared and respected by all the people. What he said was law, right or wrong.
“That day, my husband told me: ‘Here comes a trouble maker.’ Since that day, he has sought to kill you.”
Kill me? I could only stare at her.
“Then last night,” she continued, “he took some of the men who do black magic with him. They are strong witches, you know,” the woman smiled with pride. “They went to your house, seeking to kill you with their magic. But they saw that there was fire around your house! So much fire!”
She stopped to look at me intently. I stared back, speechless. My mind was in turmoil. Fire around my house? Then it dawned on me. God, you sent your angels to protect me! I felt His presence and indescribable peace come over me.
“So another witch has already come, they thought,” Mma Kgosi continued. “You will be dead this morning. They were satisfied. They were waiting to go and look at your corpse. And then, when my husband went to your hut, there you were, sweeping your yard! He was furious when he returned!” She shook her head, clearly not understanding.
Now it was my turn to smile.
Moshite had told his wife to coax me for information. To them, the only logical explanation was that my father had to be a very strong witch. She had to find out, for then they could go to him for stronger magic to increase their own power.
I realised this was an open door for the gospel. “Yes,” I told her, “My Father is stronger than the world’s strongest witch. His name is Jesus Christ.”
That’s how the headman’s wife came to faith in God—she could see His power.
Not long afterward, there was a revival prayer meeting, organised by missionaries in the region for people throughout the Okavango Delta. While we were praying, Mma Kgosi started manifesting demons, rolling around like a snake and vomiting. After praying with her, she came to herself. We knew it was time for the Truth.
“It is one thing to believe in the power of God,” we told her, “but if you want to be delivered completely, you have to tell us everything you have been involved in. Otherwise these demons will come back again and again, and you will go back to the same practices.”
That night she confessed many things, and the power of darkness was broken in her life. Together with her husband, she used to bewitch people. They used spoons to astral travel in the night to whatever country they chose. One by one, she renounced all these practices, declaring: “I’ll follow Jesus Christ alone from now on.”
To live or die is Christ to me
This great victory was followed by great persecution. Mma Kgosi was truly a Believer, and Moshite could see the changes in her. To him, I did bring trouble to his household, as he predicted.
By now I had already befriended many people who were hungry for Truth. I thought about starting a church but, as a woman in traditional African society, this was difficult. When decisions had to be made in the community, women were not invited to the meetings. Should there be something like a church meeting, women sat on the ground, with the men on chairs. How would they respect and follow a woman’s lead?
Nevertheless, I started presenting a Building on Firm Foundations course at my house and, surprisingly, it was attended by several men as well as women. At this stage, Moshite and his wife were in conflict over her choice to disobey him in this matter. She made the mistake to attend one of our course meetings.
The meeting was well underway and the suffocating afternoon heat made it a challenge to concentrate. Suddenly, we heard a loud noise beyond the reed fence. I stopped, thinking that an elephant was disturbing the peace. Then I saw him and, unable to keep the fear out of my voice, I said: “It is the headman.”
The people looked at each other and started whispering, then talking loudly. Now what? We found out soon enough. Moshite burst into the small room, a wild look in his eyes. He was shouting in Simbukushu, holding a big cooking stick. Grabbing his wife by the hair, he dragged her outside. Chaos erupted: people ran outside, women screamed. I looked on helplessly as Moshite beat his wife, again and again. She was bleeding and whimpering, her hands in front of her face. I wanted to stop him, but I was frozen.
Then he turned on me. I couldn’t move, not even to run away.
“You!” he shouted. “Today, I am going to kill you!”
I knew then that I was really going to die—yet suddenly, I didn’t care. If I had to die for these people to know Christ, fine. I waited for him to do his worst.
He shouted like a madman, and as he approached me, people jumped out of the way. No one was going to help me, I realised. This man or whatever was inside him, ruled by fear. One step, two steps…closer and closer he came, raising his stick.
And then, a man jumped in front of me and grabbed the stick. “Listen, chief,” he said. “Don’t do this. This woman is a foreigner. She has no family here. If she dies today, you will go to jail for murder.”
“I don’t care, idiot!” Moshite shouted, trying to free the stick from the man’s hand. Others, now gaining courage, also spoke up. Some men took Moshite by the arms and pushed him towards the outside of the fence.
“Go, sort things out with your wife.” they said, “Don’t do this.”
Eventually he left, shouting as he went, “I will not rest until I have killed you!”
I looked at the people, shaking. We went back inside. I had to start teaching again, but simply couldn’t. The tears started streaming down my face.
The Rock of my salvation
It was dark. So dark. Had I heard something? Footsteps outside? Was there someone at the door? Maybe Moshite was coming for me…or another man? I was tired and afraid. I had sent a letter to friends in the nearest town, telling them my life had been threatened. They had responded, saying they would come as soon as possible. But that was days ago; I could have been dead by now.
I battled with fear but, by the time my friends arrived a week later, I had won the battle. I didn’t need them to protect me anymore. In the darkest hours of the night, God was there when people couldn’t be.
Sometimes, as I struggled with cutting wood, or lay awake listening for footsteps at my door, I wished for the protection and provision of a husband. Then God would remind me to trust in Him alone. He was there, even when I didn’t know if I would ever marry, or if I was called to singleness. I had to trust that God would provide, here in this desert place.
I often went hungry. As I spent time with children in the village, I would share my food until there was none left. Then I would fast until new provisions arrived, or God provided in a miraculous way. It was almost pointless to try and communicate with the mission team in Seronga; letters took days. God often provided for me through my old friend, Mama Moeti, who didn’t have much herself. I seemed to survive mostly on sour milk, but I couldn’t be more thankful. Food was food. And so I learnt that He alone was my Protector and Provider.
The story of Tsegofatso
Through spending time with the children, I met Tsegofatso. Many of the kids had HIV and lived with grandparents who could barely care for them. I started a Bible Club, and soon many of these children were attending. One little girl crept into my heart: Tsegofatso had sores all over her body, even on her mouth, and ringworm on her face. The other kids mocked her, causing her not to take part in activities. So I took care to always somehow touch her and stand near her, until she became used to me. Later I would find Tsegofatso searching for my hand or shyly coming to stand next to me.
One day I escorted her home, wanting to get to know her better. Tears came when I saw where she lived. Her grandmother was very old, and it was up to Tsegofatso to keep house. I now realised why she had touched my heart so much: she triggered memories of my own childhood. I also grew up isolated and alone. As a six-year-old I had to cook and clean while other children played. My mom was a single parent who was often out of the country on business, and my older cousin would beat me if the house wasn’t cleaned by the time she came home from school.
I decided to do everything in my power to help this little girl. “May I take her to the hospital?” I ask her grandmother.
“Yes, please. I was looking for someone to do that. In fact, you can take the girl if you want to,” she replied.
But I would take it one step at a time.
We took the ferry to the hospital, where the staff confirmed that Tsegofatso was HIV positive, and prescribed ARVs. Her grandmother said that the mother, also HIV positive, had died when Tsegofatso was maybe three. It was a miracle that she was still alive at age ten.
Tsegofatso didn’t want to go to school. This had to change. I told her I would go with her, but the first morning I realised what was wrong. As we entered the classroom, the children started laughing and mocking Tsegofatso. Gently but firmly, I confronted them. After that, I accompanied her to school every morning, until her confidence grew. This also became an opportunity for me: the teacher, Motsetsane, who was my friend, often asked me to pray or to teach the class a song. By now, Tsegofatso had moved in with me. In time, the ARVs and better food helped, and she became much healthier. It was wonderful to see her participating in the Bible Club activities, and how she started going to school on her own. On weekends, we visited her grandmother. When I left Botswana, my friend Motsetsane, the teacher, began taking care of Tsegofatso.
I was a woman in Africa
As a single woman in rural Africa, at first I was daunted by elephants that often grazed around my house at the edge of the village. I was intimidated by men who wouldn’t listen to a female leader. I was isolated by a foreign language and culture. And then…I was astonished to see how the God of miracles could use me—young, inexperienced and female—to change the hearts of leaders. Several pastors from traditional churches began to participate in meetings I initiated. There was one in particular whose whole mindset changed; this had an impact on his congregation, which to this day retains a positive link with the missionaries in Seronga.
When
it seemed impossible, God brought Alfred into my life—a man who was
everything I asked for. We had the same vision and passion for the
lost. The time in Botswana also laid the foundation in my life for
loving people—a very important value for us as a couple. Alfred and
I need to be known for love. Whoever comes into contact with us
should say: “We found people that valued our lives and helped us to
discover what God has invested in us and to put that into use.” We
want to identify potential, and to help individuals to see their
potential and their value, and to be made useful to themselves, their
families and society.