This little piggy

If you look hard, you can just make her out: a pink plastic piggy, cheerfully centred on a crocheted doily in the middle of the table which serves as pulpit and liturgical centre. She stood there waiting as the worshippers arrived for the inaugural service this morning at the chapel of Vovokame, waving a silent but cheerful welcome with her pink plastic piggy ears. Someone, probably Fidèle, the fourteen year-old worship leader standing to the left of the table, had placed her there. I imagine this pink plastic piggy proudly displayed on a shelf in the bedroom Fidèle shares with her brothers and sisters, a prized possession in a life devoid of toys or ornaments or any other luxury. And then early this morning, as Fidèle left home to sweep the chapel’s newly laid concrete floor, being taken along as a special gift for this special occasion; wrapped in the doily which can only have arrived a consignment of the discarded European clothing which is sold for a poor man’s price on the market at nearby Dogbo. This little piggy didn’t stay home, this little piggy went to church. Glory to God!
Glory to God for the opening of the new chapel. Total cost of construction €277.40, far beyond the means of the small group of young Christians who have been meeting each Sunday morning since the end of last year for worship, and each Sunday afternoon for Bible study and instruction in the Reformed faith. Grégoire, who is originally from this village, a few kilometres outside of Dogbo, donated the plot of land on which it was built. (Back in November, the 25^th to be exact,  I told you something about his love for the Lord and for the young people of his home village, see my blog entitled Miracle.) Things had gotten complicated since then. Some of the original participants had proved to be less than genuine. But a core group of about 6 teenagers, one adult male, and several women had continued to meet together in the shelter of a palm frond hut. Then Jurrien got involved, Jurrien is Marijke’s brother, and with two visits to Benin under his belt, by now a very good friend of Grégoire’s. Within his church at Groningen-Zuid and among his acquaintances it had been embarrassingly easy to find the money required. Gifts, large and small, poured in. For the purchase of corrugated roofing, nails, cement and the wages of a carpenter.

The members of the congregation contributed their man- and woman power. Levelling the terrain, harvesting and stripping the teak poles, making split-palm panels for the walls, cooking meals and bringing water for the labourers. Two weeks ago, the construction was completed; with Jurrien’s third visit imminent, the inauguration was held off until today.

We drove into the turn-off to Vovokame. There stood the sign which had been made by another friend of Jurrien’s in Groningen. The churches of Vovokame welcome you. And, with reference to the artesian well which marks the centre of the village, “Jesus said…"If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink.” (John 7:37) We went past the ever-streaming water in front of the Pentecostal church where Rigobert is elder and on to the small courtyard where we usually park our vehicle. We saw the fetish poles and the horned legba which continue to mark the pagan presence in Vovokame. We heard the sound of drumming from the chapel around the corner. And then there it was, at the foot of a tall palm tree, the Salle de l’Enseignement Reformée, not yet a church (because a church is more than just a gathering of disciples or a building in which they come together), but definitely a place of worship. There were flags, there were streamers of linked paper rings, there were balloons, and there was this little piggy.
African time is relative, as by now all of you are probably aware. We spent the first half hour of it greeting and being greeted, admiring the labour of love which had gone into the construction and the decoration, discussing with the young dirigeant Charles who would be doing what and when during the service, and waiting for the arrival of others who had been invited.

When we finally began it was Charles who took the lead and Romain who translated into Adja. Our help is in the name of the Lord who created heaven and earth, Charles began. And the people said Amen. The order of things was what we had come to expect. All the elements of a Reformed worship service were there. And Charles (barely eighteen, if that) never opened his liturgy booklet once. He spoke, he improvised, he recited, fully by heart. And by heart means, in this case, from the heart as well as from memory. That was obvious: as he spoke the covenant law of ten commandments, for instance, he never faltered. Now and then he didn’t used the exact words of the book, but his substitutes were equivalent in meaning. He knew what he was saying, it was not by rote. Fidèle led the singing, with a voice strong and pure. Rigobert, present with several elders from the other church, prayed for God’s blessing on the preaching of the Word. Romain preached and Bertin, elder from the ERCB in Dogbo, translated. It was from Romans 12.1,2. “Therefore, I urge you, brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

Someone, a village elder had I think he must have been, spoke words of appreciation. He started graciously, thanking the leaders of this little group for their kind welcome, but then his tone turned serious. A sign has been erected at the junction, he said. And I thought, judging by his tone, that he might have some problem with that. When we heard about it, that caused us some preoccupations. We thought that it would show the name of the Reformed church, a newcomer to our village. But when we saw it, there no church was named at all. Just this: the churches of Vovokame welcome you. And then we understood. The whites have come, not in competition with the church which is already here, but simply to help bring people to Jesus. Thank you for the sign, the first which marks the direction to our village. And thank you for being here! Bertin spoke. He couldn’t resist promoting his CD. He also testified to the power of Jesus in his own life. Of course I took my turn as well. The whites came, I heard my brother say, I began. And yes, here we are. We are white. And you are black. There is no denying it. But think of it: that is God’s wisdom. Without the whites, the blacks are nothing…  I paused. Marijke looked shocked. And without the blacks the whites are nothing. Everybody started breathing again at once, it seemed. Look at this page in the Bible. What colours do you see? Julien, front row, was quick to respond: white and black! There was agreement all around. What if the page was completely black, would it transmit God’s Word to us? I asked. The smiles started coming as everybody shook their heads. And if the page was completely white, what would it say? There was no doubt in anybody’s mind. Black and white, both are indispensable in God’s plan. And here I have, in black and white, the story of your salvation. Twelve texts, printed as large as would fit on one page at a time, laminated in clear plastic to preserve them for as long as possible. Starting with In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, and ending with and surely I am with you, to the very end of the age.

One by one I gave a short explanation and someone hung them up along the walls of the chapel, the Old testament story to the left, New Testament to the right. Then, finally, Solomon’s prayer in I Kings 8.29: may your eyes be open towards this house night and day, to be hung over the entrance.
There was more, much more. By the time the service was over, we were three hours on. And it seemed that half the village had crowded into the chapel or stood just outside the doors.

Jurrien later said that he stopped counting at 50. And it was a loud Amen which sounded in response to the blessing: “Que la grâce du Seigneur Jésus-Christ, l’amour de Dieu, et la communion du Saint-Esprit, soient avec vous tous !” And all the while, Fidèle’s pink plastic piggy had pride of place.

(Photos by Jurrien Jongman)

Les souffrances de l'Afrique

Poverty! Mahouna is the first to answer when I ask about what Africa suffers from. We’re at Noumonvihoue ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsx0RjkVozc ) for worship. Mahouna is about 18 years old, one of the leaders of this small church group. Emile, elder on loan from Dogbo, to my left, nods in agreement as Mahouna continues: but, before we came to know Christ, our greatest suffering was not being pardoned. For Mahouna this ‘before’ is no theory. He grew up animist, pagan, as was his whole family until a few years ago. Fetishes dominate the  villagescape at Noumonvihoue: guardian poles marking the maize fields surrounding the village, bones and feathers bundled together and fixed above doorposts, blood, cornflour and palmoil sacrifices covering the horned legbas. Leah is quick to point out that Africa suffers from high infant mortality. There is AIDS, I suggest, and Mahouna’s mother gathers up into her arms a sickly three- or four year old sitting beside her to whom all eyes have darted. His distended belly is covered with a pattern of numerous incised scars, remnants of a healing ceremony intended to drive out his particular demon. The list of Africa’s woes goes on. Malaria. There was slavery, centuries of it, before and after the coming of the white man. There is corruption. There is hunger.
I had introduced the scripture reading by noting that we were but few. But that in God’s plan that didn’t matter. My task this morning is to preach, I said. And your task is to multiply this preaching, by sharing the message with your neighbours. And God will do what He has always done. I continued: perhaps some will say, as many do, this Christianity is the white man’s religion. But that isn’t true at all. Do you know who first brought the gospel to Africa?

And then we listened to the history of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. The latter on his way back to Africa from Jerusalem with a copy of the prophecies of Isaiah. Reading, without full comprehension, about the suffering Servant: like a lamb… Asking for help and receiving it from Philip, who began at that very passage of Scripture and told him the good news about Jesus. Baptized along the roadside – just as Mahouna had been baptized a few months ago – and then going on his way rejoicing. Back to Africa, with good news to share for the whole continent. That’s the good news you will be hearing this morning, to share with everyone who will listen, I said. The good news that “the Lamb of God took up the infirmities of Africa and carried its sorrows.” As the Ethiopian could henceforth explain the words of Isaiah 53: ce sont nos souffrances qu’il a portées, c’est de nos douleurs qu’il s’est chargé… Sufferings of such proportions that we know of no continent in greater need than Africa.
I didn’t preach for long. The words of Scripture were there and were sufficient without the need of more than a few amplifications. The – for now – nameless One spoken of by Isaiah: growing up before the LORD as a tender shoot, like a root out of dry ground. I pointed to the straggly maize plants just outside the unwalled chapel. Nothing of beauty or of majesty to attract us… Despised and rejected, man of sorrows, familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces… Not far from here there is a leper colony, as the inhabitants of Noumonvihoue know. Scarred, missing toes and fingers, nose and ears, and eventually more than just these extremities. Unfortunate, impossible to look upon without the gorge rising, cursed to a long wait for death. The images of Isaiah are never far away in Africa. And we esteemed him not.
He suffered. All the sufferings of Africa. And why? A logical conclusion might indeed be: we considered him stricken by God, smitten by Him and afflicted. But no, the words of Scripture went on: he was pierced for our transgressions, pierced for our iniquities… Not he, the lamb of God, but we all, like sheep, had gone astray. Behind me, one of the many small village moutons raises a plaintive cry. Strangely like an abandoned child calling out for comfort. And the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all. Oppressed and afflicted, like a lamb to the slaughter…
I will never again read this passage without being transported back to Noumonvihoue.
It was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer, and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering, he will see his offspring and prolong his days, and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand. Yes, I know who that offspring is, nodded the teenage girl sitting right in front of me. That’s us. And so it is. These young African believers: God’s children through the amazing sacrifice of the Lamb of God. Suffering followed by redemption, seeing the light of life and being satisfied, justifying many by his knowledge and bearing their iniquities.
And the best is yet to come. A truth rarely fully sensed by a westerner who isn’t truly and probably never will be familiar with suffering. He bore the sin of many and made intercession for the transgressors. That’s the Lamb of God. Intercessor. He is the joy of the Ethiopian. The Sudanese. The Ugandan. The Nigerian. The Beninese. When God’s word says that he took up our sorrows and carried our infirmities, it wasn’t theory. He’s standing there before the throne of his Eternal Father right now, I explained to them. With the sufferings of Africa on his shoulders. Father, don’t you see how your African children are suffering? Of course you do. Here they are, all of their sorrows, all of their infirmities. I died for them. Redeem them, deliver them just as soon as your time can come!
God’s time will come. You can be sure of that, the gospel reassured the people of Noumonvihoue this morning. You may have to wait a while. But God’s time will surely come. As surely as the Lamb of God is praying for you. There will be more for you than just forgiveness now, great as that is. There will be an end to all the sufferings of Africa.
( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce5hr9vjWCo )

Calixte

Liver. The heavy sweetness of raw liver permeates the air. Marijke says: no, what you smell is Vitamin B injections. But to me it’s the smell of liver, thick and cloying, in the oppressive warmth of the hospital corridor. At the other end, where we started our by now two-hour wait, there was more of chloroxylenol, better known to most as the disinfectant Dettol. But where we are sitting there is nothing antiseptic in the atmosphere. Three or four doors down, a woman is calling out in pain at increasingly short intervals. I can only guess at what sort of butchery is happening there. No one else pays any notice. Not the little girl sleeping, upright, on the bench beside us. Not the family huddled together a little further along. Not the mother at the end of the hall breastfeeding her little boy.
We’re in Lokossa, waiting for our medical file, dated 1 – 3 february 2012. Together with Grégoire - brother, friend and guide - we arrived here this morning at about eleven. We had been with the commissaire in Dogbo, expecting to accompany him to the procureur in order to deliver the dossier on the case against Calixte, the man who drugged and robbed us now a year and five months ago. But commissaire David’s office had been full of agitated women. One after the other had been acknowledging or denying involvement with the man huddled on the chair before the police chief. This is quite normal here, in Benin: to arrive for an appointment and to discover the person with whom we have made it quite occupied with other things. No rules concerning privacy, either:  we were waved to a chair beside the commissaire and allowed to share in the joys of police investigation. After about 20 minutes of this, we suggested to the police chief that perhaps it would we better if we returned later, since there was the matter of our medical file to take care of as well. Permission granted, we left for Lokossa. Gregoire had called ahead. Gregoire knows an incredible variety of people, in this case the chief receiver at the hospital, who had promised to introduce us to the majeur in charge of emergency admissions.

But perhaps I should take a step back and tell you what has been going on. Last Friday, Grégoire had arrived with news: KPOGLOZOUN Calixte had once again been arrested, and was in the prison civile at Lokossa. Calixte is the man we had known as Ben Ali. After the incident last year he fled. Several months later, however, he had been implicated in another crime, the theft of a laptop, and had been condemned to a year in the prison at Ouidah. There we were taken to identify him, as the evidence against him was being compiled. Going back in October, however, to complete the dossier, commissaire David and we were shocked to discover his early release from the prison. A presidential pardon for petty criminals throughout Benin had by mistake been applied also to Calixte. Since that unfortunate error, the manhunt was on, but we had long given up hope of its successfully being concluded.
Until last Friday: Grégoire, with several acquaintances and police informants, had continued to search out Calixte’s whereabouts and had worked to achieve his capture. A breakthrough came when a one-time friend - it’s probably best to keep him nameless - had also become victim of Calixte’s. In search of vengeance, this man had agreed to become part of the effort. And last Thursday, Calixte had been taken.
Yesterday, we went to the prison for the second confrontation. That took some doing, as we by now have come to expect. First of all, just as before, we were expected to provide transportation for the police chief and those who would accompany us. But not before an interminable wait in his office, while he dealt with assorted other matters. We loaded the HiLux with ourselves (front seats) and the police chief, his second-in-command, a constable, and Grégoire. Four big men on the back seat was a tight squeeze. But halfway to Lokossa we stopped to pick up yet another passenger: the one-time friend who was coming along as well. This man was even bigger than the commissaire. No problem, said the commissaire, he would sit in front with Marijke on his lap. I think not, said Marijke. Grégoire’s lap, maybe… In the end, Marijke and I shared the passenger seat and Grégoire took the wheel. He is chauffeur, after all. And I ‘d rather be uncomfortable with Marijke than subject her to any of the alternatives.

Arriving at Lokossa, we didn’t go the prison directly. Instead, we drove through any number of back streets in search of a barber. Commissaire David had decided he needed a shave. Half an hour later we finally drove up to prison gates. Gathered under the trees were thirty or so visitors, each with a number indicating the order in which they could visit with their particular son or husband or father. Plan was for the one-time friend to join them, wait for his turn, go in to visit Calixte in order to ‘make up’, and then for the commissaire to coincidentally interrupt the conversation. The point was to have the friend identify Calixte as the person the police had been looking for without giving his own collaboration away. (No, don’t ask me about the exact relevance or logic of this identification.) Only: even in African time, it seemed problematic to have to await his turn with thirty or so ahead of us. So the commissaire decided to call the chief of the prison. Indeed, it might have been handy to have done so ahead of time, but time management is not one of the subjects taught at the police academy, it seems.
The prison chief was helpful. He said: why don’t you try this: take your informant in as your prisoner, and pretend you are compelling him to respond. Surprise all round. What a good idea! said the commissioner. So we drove out of the parking lot to allow the chief to get things set up. Hold it, said the commissaire, for this to work, we need to cuff our friend. And we don’t have handcuffs with us. We parked the HiLux along the road leading to the prison and waited for a constable from Lokossa station to arrive with cuffs.

Twenty minutes later, there we were again. Suitably cowed, the one-time friend turned actor allowed himself to be pushed into the prison chief’s office by the burly constable, with the rest of us in their wake. And there sat Calixte, eyes wide with surprise. Do you know this man? the interrogation began. Y-y-yes, came the answer. What is his name? Silence. The constable faked a cuff to our friend’s head. Calixte! His name is KPOGLOZOUN Calixte! And so it went. Things Calixte had told him. Also about what had happened that fateful day in February. Calixte listened. His initial confidence faded – for he had bugn by denying everything. He had never seen us before in his life. He had no idea who we were. No, he did not recognize the house on the photo. Yes, this other man was his friend, but no, there had never been a problem between them. But as the interrogation progressed, he shrank and shrank. There was no admission of his crime against us, but in the end there was no denying that yes, this was his house, and yes, he was the Calixte at Agame who had been identified by the chef du quartier, etc. etc.
What did we feel, as we saw this steady deconstruction of a hardened criminal? No fear. No discomfort. Not like the first time. He avoided looking at us. There was nothing left of bravado, of defiance, of cunning. What we saw was the pitiful remnant of a man we had once known. What a waste of a life. And what a shame that his children had this for a father. We left the prison not feeling very much of anything at all. Not even satisfaction that justice would be having its way.

We went to a buvette with the commissaire and his men to have lunch. By now it was around one-thirty. We paid for the rice, goat, sauce, and beer. No questions now, said the commissaire. Not until after we have eaten. Sharing a meal in Africa is not a companiable thing. It’s only about eating. And after lunch we went back to Dogbo. No one had much energy for talking.

Back in Dogbo we discussed what would be happening next. Bring me all your medical receipts, said the commissaire. Of course we had none. But I told you last year that you should keep them all. Not that we can remember, Marijke and I both agree. Whatever. Everyone, including the commissaire himself, was there in the hospital while we were in coma. No doubt about the condition we were in, is there? But there was no relenting. You’ll need to go to the hospital in Lokossa and obtain your medical file. Proof of the seriousness of the state you were in. And after that the files from the Mahouna Clinic in Cotonou.
So that’s what we were doing this morning and afternoon at the hospital. Through the chief receiver, acquaintance of Grégoire, to the majeur. From the majeur to the central registry. From the central registry to a doctor. From the doctor… That’s the short version. Hours of waiting. Hours of the smell of liver and chloroxylenol. Hours of reflecting: this was where we had been. Unconscious from our admission in the early evening of February 1^st until our discharge on the afternoon of the 3^rd, when Richard overruled the doctors and had us transferred to Cotonou.
Marijke has absolutely no memories of our stay in Lokossa. I remember three things, vaguely. The rude shock of a urinary catheter being pulled out and the tiny flow of clotted blood which followed. Getting pushed back down on my bed by I think it was Mariette when I wanted to get up to go to Marijke in her bed on the other side of the room. And a night excursion which I made through the courtyard. I remember that, but in a strange dreamlike way. You know the kind of dream where you are half aware of being in strange surroundings, with no sense of where you were coming from or where you are going, why you are there, how this event connects to the rest of your life or who the people are whom you might be there with. I stood there this afternoon as we were waiting for the doctor and I remembered walking past the arched veranda around the courtyard in the middle of the night. All was dark, all was silent. I don’t remember getting back to our room, although I obviously did. Mariette, who had been spending the night with us on the ward, had been sleeping and woke up with me gone. She had called the nurse, and they were about to organise a search party when I showed up, blissfully unaware of their fear. Being there in the hospital today and allowing the memory to wash over me, I realized: it really happened to us. We were here. We could have been dead, but thanks to God and thanks to some awesome people, here we are today.
Later this afternoon, Marijke and I both had another moment like that. We were back with the commissaire for the fourth time in two days. He had discovered that the dossier did contain a statement by me, but not by Marijke. So now it was her turn. That went well, actually, with no discomfort for either of us. Except that I did realize for the first time that Marijke’s memory of the incident ends so much earlier than mine.  
But after that, the commissaire decided to read my statement, from last February, back to us. Hearing someone else read what I had recounted then was unexpectedly confronting. All the events unfolding, one after the other. My meeting Calixte for the first time. The way in which he gained our confidence by showing interest in the Bible. The invitation to his little boy’s birthday on the afternoon of February 1^st. Him giving us degue to drink, the yoghurt-like drink which had been laced with whatever it was that almost killed us. Marijke losing consciousness and me thinking only that that was curious. Me driving back to Dogbo and arriving there in one piece despite my own increasing intoxication. Our carrying Marijke into the house together, and then the falling curtain of darkness for myself. For a moment this afternoon I thought, and I said that to Marijke: he wasn’t a very clever thief, was he? Doing this to us in his own house, which we would be sure to be able to identify.
Until suddenly I realized: but it wasn’t his intention that we should ever get back home to Dogbo. It was only because I wasn’t as affected as Marijke and insisted on driving home, that that is where we ended up. And that we were found by Joseph. And taken to the hospital. And that we woke up when we did. Sitting there this afternoon, and now again, as I write these words, I realize how real it was what happened to us then. And that we’re not finished working through these things yet. We’re past the fear, really and truly. But the impact is still there. And it has affected us and it will continue to affect the things we say and do and feel for probably as long as we are here in Benin. We’re committed to being here and we’re convinced of what we’re doing, for the benefit of God’s people in the ERCB. But when the time comes to leave for good at the end of November, that will God’s time for us as well as for the churches here, and God’s time will be the right time.
And as for Calixte? His time in prison will be long, everyone expects. We sincerely hope that God will give him enough time to come to a change of heart, to learn to live for Christ and to look forward to a better life. We know you are praying for us. Could you spare a prayer for him as well?

Hangdog

There is something about Guillaume. Somehow he always makes me feel a bit guilty. He doesn’t say much. Not in meetings. And not otherwise either, at least when I’m around. But 3 out of 5 times after a meeting he comes out just as I am leaving, scrunches up his eyes and looks around, and if he can find me sidles up and says, in French even more primitive than my own: Psteur, blblblblbl vous voir… To which I reply: oh, shit… No, that’s not really what I say, out loud. Inside, maybe. With my mouth I have learned to say, when Guillaume approaches: dans quel but (to what purpose?) I say that, because Psteur, blblblbl vous voir translates: Pastor, I would like to come see you about something.
The first few times, I pulled out my planner and made an appointment with Guillaume. And he came to see me. On his bicycle, all the way from Tokpohoue, where he is elder. Guillaume doesn’t have a motorcycle, like most of the others, because he is pretty well blind from some degenerative eye condition. I am not going to say: fortunately so… But his visual impairment does explain why it is (fortunately) only 3 out of 5 times after a meeting that Guillaume comes out after me. The other 2 times he has also been hovering around by the door, but I have been able to slip by unnoticed.
Like I said, the first few times I actually made an appointment with Guillaume, and he came. On his bicycle. Bumping across the red dirt tracks for about two hours. If he didn’t accidentally take a wrong turn, somewhere along the way. And the subject was invariably money. Money which Guillaume didn’t have, but which Guillaume was looking for. It might be money to stucco the walls of the church at Tokpohoue. Or money for a member of his congregation who had fallen on hard times. Or money for a children’s bible quiz which Guillaume had organized but didn’t have prizes for. But as often as not, money for Guillaume himself.
Now some of you might say: well, is there anything wrong with that? To which I must answer: yes. For the past year-and-a-half we have been impressing upon the leaders of the ERCB that there is no direct access to DVN’s account through us. We can disburse money which has been allocated to specific purposes agreed upon in our accord with the ERCB. But only upon request of the church council (or perhaps the deacons) and within the terms of our partnership agreement. It has been an uphill battle, though not without success. With Guillaume, however, it has been an uphill mud-wrestle. Each time I explained that no, I cannot give you money just because you ask he would bob his head and smile with sudden understanding. And the next time he would be there again with another demand for money on precisely the same terms.
I started feeling sorry for Guillaume. No, actually I started feeling guilty. Imagine: this near-blind man, pedalling his way under a gruelling sun, falling over, getting up, remounting his bicycle, two hours one way, two hours back. And not once to any useful purpose. So one time, having again been cornered, I didn’t take out my planner, but asked: dans quel but? He stepped back, shamefaced, and sputtered. Blblblbl vous voir, he repeated. But I shook my head and held firm. No, I have a very full schedule this week, I said, so if I am to make an appointment with you, I really need to know what it is about. And lo, it was the usual. Then it is better you don’t come, I said. You know the rule. Money only that has been agreed upon with the churches. And only when the churches have discussed it and decided to make a request according to our agreement. And Guillaume would always bob his head, and smile, and stand there, waiting for me to say something.
The expression on Guillaume’s face at a moment like this does it to me every time. The only word I know which somehow comes close is hangdog. You don’t hear that word much nowadays. But to me it evokes the look on a black lab’s face when he is told to stay in the kitchen while the rest of the family is having a great time in full view but in the living room. You know that look. Jowls down, eyes brimming with disillusion, nose to the floor just across the line which marks off what is ours and what is his. Hangdog. That mixture of misery and self-pity, trying to get something but not daring to take it without permission.
Guillaume had that look again today. We had had a long intensive meeting of the consistoire. Yes, it had to do with money. But it had been a good meeting. For three-and-a-half hours the brothers had asked, advised, disagreed, concluded, delegated and reviewed. And it was time to go home. Last agenda item: divers… There was a letter. From Guillaume. The chairman, Théophile, said he had received it just before the meeting, and – although it was addressed to the consistoire – it was actually intended for the Pasteur Missionnaire and through him for DVN-GoWa. So he would read it and pass it directly on to me.
It was a well written letter. Clearly, Guillaume has a capable scribe. A flowery appetizer referring to the goodness of God and our gratitude for His provision, the reminder that things in life are sometime good, but sometimes also difficult. And then came the meat. If the consistoire would please render financial assistance for the following two purposes. First of all, the intended marriage of Guillaume to Brigitte. And in the second place, the construction of a workshop so that Guillaume could better carry out his daily work. Théophile was already folding the letter with a view to passing it on to me. Hold it, I said. Why are you all looking at me? The letter is addressed to you, isn’t it? It was silent for a moment. Yes, it is, sputtered someone. But Guillaume said… And anyway, we don’t have the money…
I looked at Guillaume. He had that expression again. Hangdog. And me, I was going to be feeling guilty. Not. No way. Brothers, I said. I have two points to make. This letter, addressed to you, needs to be discussed by you. But not now. The agenda item ‘divers’ is not for any kind of discussion or decision making. Next time. Place it on the agenda then. And do with it, then, what you think best. And secondly, I will not be accepting it on behalf of DVN-GoWa then either. We have just spent hours arguing and agreeing that DVN-GoWa is not a life-line for individual situations, but is here to offer support to the churches. And that’s all I have to say.
It didn’t take long for the brothers to agree. Although there was someone who said: but it is kind of urgent, the first part at least… It turns out that Guillaume is getting married soon. Very soon. Soon as in the day after tomorrow. That’s our Guillaume. Two days before his marriage he discovers he doesn’t have the money. But no worries. Today is Consistoire. And the Pasteur Missionnaire will be there. Surely he will be happy to help out, n’est-ce pas?
I shook Guillaume’s hand as I left the meeting. No attempt this time to slip by unnoticed. Every blessing, Guillaume, I said. For you and on your marriage. He bobbed his head and smiled. And I left him standing there. Looking hangdog.
I hope Brigitte knows how to deal with him without feeling guilty.

"Si lui nous énerve…"

Yesterday was a good day. High point was a remark made by Daniel, elder at Djakotomey. Daniel and I sometimes have our differences. And yesterday…
But let me start at the beginning. The day began at 5 a.m., across the street, in the house which we have rented as office. Our Mariette lives at the back with her 5 children, in return for cleaning duties, reception of visitors like Théophile during his biweekly stay in the Mono-Couffo, and general caretaking. It was still dark when a neighbour came pounding on the door. Incendie, incendie! Smoke was pouring out of the window at the rear and from under the eaves, and flames were visible inside. Groggy and in their nightclothes, Mariette, Stephan, Louis, Synthia and Exaucé, baby Rabi in someone’s arms, found their way out of the house and watched in terror. The fire was in the storage room, accessible only from outside, but right next to the bedrooms where Mariette and the children had been sleeping. Francois, our night watchman was already half-way inside, throwing bucket after bucket of water in the direction of the flames, which were by now consuming the ceiling. There was plenty of food for the voracious flames, chipboard left over from the crate that our goods had been shipped in, assorted boxes and a 50-kilo bag of charcoal, several plastic containers of cooking oil, and most lethal of all, a jerry can with diesel fuel. Thank God, the latter still untouched by the flames!
All this we have second-hand: we ourselves didn’t wake up until 7.30, oblivious to the drama which had taken place and the incredible danger from which Mariette and her family had narrowly escaped. It wasn’t until after breakfast – our usual Saturday morning treat of freshly pressed orange juice, hotcakes with maple syrup, eggs and ham: yes, some traditions are too important to give up, even in Benin – that a very subdued Mariette came to us with the bad news. She hardly dared tell. True, no-one had been harmed, the fire had been fully extinguished, and the damage was restricted to the storage room and its ceiling, with only superficial blackening of the rafters above. But still. There was real fear in her eyes. Not just fright at her family’s narrow escape. But fear of what might be the consequences. Fear of us and what we might do to her because of what had happened. With our permission, she uses the storeroom as a kitchen when it rains, and the most likely explanation for the fire was that someone had left something not quite extinguished the night before… The fire: her fault. Or perhaps her one of her children’s. What would the pastor and his wife say? Would she have to pay? Or would she be told to find another place to live? Or perhaps even find another employer? Those were the  questions in her dark and troubled eyes.
And there you have it. Even though there is no-one closer to us here than Mariette. If anyone is a friend to us here, it is she. There are few subjects we cannot discuss. She corrects our French, we laugh, we give and take advice. We share our faith and the joys and troubles in our families and whatever else is truly important to us. I daresay we love her and we love her children. And yet, somewhere in a place we cannot reach or fathom there is something insecure in our relationship. What will they say? What will they do? Will they let us go, turn us away, stop being good to us?
This is not the first time, and it will not be the last, that we are confronted with the reality of a basic inequality in our relations with our African neighbours. Because that is what is the matter here. Who we are, and what we are, and how we are here as Europeans pervades every relationship we have. There is dependence, there is a sense of awe, there is the knowledge that if we withdraw our favour they will be left behind and we will move on. It’s not that we are enemies, far from it. But an enemy one can always count on to remain true to what he is. It’s the friend one should beware. Because friends may fall out.
No matter that we have our own insecurities as well. Those are hard to share with anyone here, even when we try. That makes us lonely, more often than we would like. For instance: our uncertainty about what will happen after November. Right now that future is very much up in the air. There are changes coming in the relationship between our respective churches. The permanent presence of missionaries, it has been agreed, will cease.  But it is unclear at this point what role there will be, if any, for Marijke and me. That uncertainty adds to the usual weight of being far away from home, working in a hostile environment and a foreign culture. At this moment, we need to reinvent our task and position, without clear direction or focus. Insecure. But how difficult it is to share that with the people who surround us. One says: don’t worry, God will keep you here for six years. (Not realizing that that is not exactly our ideal any more.) Another hears the word ‘uncertainty’ and is immediately and solely preoccupied with the practical impact on himself, should we depart for good. And a third gets no further than sadly affirming that we will be sorely missed. Yes, you rightly say: but that comes with the territory. A missionary needs to deal with that, each in his own way. With the best support possible from his home base.
But hold it, is your next thought, I thought you were going to tell us why yesterday was a good day? And what did Daniel say? Patience, say I. There was more than just Daniel’s remark. Yesterday was Saturday. School day at Kpodaha. One of the most gratifying things we are able to do here. After a busy school week for most, from throughout the Mono-Couffo, 23 potential church leaders between the ages of 16 and 26 or so come together for basic training in theology. Take Simon, for example. If he cannot organise a ride, he walks. Two hours to get there. Two hours to go back home. Together with a pastor or an elder we offer them a Bible Study or fashion a sermon outline, and then we teach two lessons on the various realms of faith and church life.  Simon has already been introduced to New Testament Overview, Sermon Preparation, Teaching Techniques, Christian Family Life, and Church History, to name just a few. And he is as eager as he was the Saturday last September that we began. Multiply him by 23 and you will understand already why yesterday was a good day.
But the high point truly was: Daniel. It was during the meeting of Consistoire, held in Djakotomey in the morning. I arrived uncharacteristically late, due to the fire and its aftermath. The brothers had already begun, as was only right. My role is very limited during these meetings. I am spectator, offer advice (usually only when asked), but leave the real work to them. Under the leadership of Théophile the brothers had already read and clarified for themselves the documents which were on the agenda. The most important concerned the uncertainty which I have referred to above: the changing relationship between our respective churches. It became clear to me that these church leaders had a very clear idea of what they want, and why. Thoughtfully and with relevant arguments each of the brothers advanced his point of view. Daniel had begun to do so as well. We need to take account of  a number of factors, he said, but one thing above all needs to be very clear. And then he looked at me. Oops, I thought. I hope he says something nice. Daniel and I sometimes have our differences, after all. Si lui nous énerve... he continued. If he upsets us… we tell him. And if we upset him, he tells us. That is something you cannot do with strangers…
That remark really made my day. There is a basic inequality in our relations with our African neighbours. This troubles us and frustrates us. That applies as fully in our inter-church relations. An inequality which will not be going away anytime soon. And which impacts on everything we say to each other or think we hear the other say. But here, yesterday, I heard Daniel clearly. We can be more than strangers. We have become more than strangers.

(PS: blog was written yesterday, internet was down)

At the End of a Perfect Day

And all I really want to do
Is sing songs for you,
Then it's been a perfect day,
Yes it's been a perfect day.
                                                              Chris de Burgh, 1977
Alright. It wasn´t a perfect day. It was hot and sticky as only the tropics can be. We missed the people we love as much as we do every day. It´s lonely being the only Europeans in West Africa. It´s frustrating having to communicate in French and lacking the wherewithal to express all the nuances a language deserves. And when we finally sat down to relax, and started to share our feelings, we were once again emotionally overwhelmed by the vast divide between what should be and what is.
And still, the phrase kept coming to mind: at the end of a perfect day.

We ate broiled fish, buttered peas and carrots, rice with mustard sauce, and fresh rucola salad (from our own garden), with a mango-pineapple fruit salad for dessert. Was that at least not the perfect end of a day? Temperature inside has dropped to 33.2, outside has just reached 30.0. Dishes are done and in about half an hour we will tune in to the same (Dutch) news broadcast we regularly watch at home.
This morning was meeting of church council. When I arrived at 9.45, the brothers were meditating on Romans 12.1,2: “Je vous exhorte donc, frères, par les compassions de Dieu, à offrir vos corps comme un sacrifice vivant, saint, agréable à Dieu, ce qui sera de votre part un culte raisonnable. Ne vous conformez pas au siècle présent, mais soyez transformés par le renouvellement de l’intelligence, afin que vous discerniez quelle est la volonté de Dieu, ce qui est bon, agréable et parfait.” The beauty of the moment was that they we doing so in Adja. Normally, the meetings are conducted in French, for the benefit of the Pasteur Missionnaire, who is also usually asked to lead the Bible study. But since Romain has returned to the Mono-Couffo, after recently graduating from the Bible school in Bangui, Centrafrique, there is someone who can lead the elders in devotions in their own language. And behold: Victor and Guillaume, for the first time in my memory, were actively participating! I sat and observed, understanding not a word, but enjoying every minute.
During the meeting, I was pleased to be able to announce the decision of DVN-GoWa that there would be a contribution towards the present food problem. It being the time of the year that the harvest is still some way off, the people of the region are dependent on what they have been able to store up from the previous season. And because the harvests at the end of 2012 were meagre, there are many people who aren’t able to 'manger à sa faim', that is to say: eat to their fill. True, said Pasteur Théophile, when I asked him. Look at the pale reddish hair colouring of many in the villages, a sure sign of malnutrition. Two years ago, there was the same difficulty. And it seems to be endemic. Too many people living off too limited productive capacity of the land. The dilemma: what does it help to provide food (short term) when it is not possible to provide real productivity solutions (long term)? But when all is said and done: malnutrition kills faster than you might think. Long term is too long. I was happy to be able to offer help.
But there were more happy moments. For instance, as the brothers were discussing a pastoral problem in Ayomi. There was an issue between a man and his wife. One of the elders (not the elder from Ayomi, but a teacher at the school there) knew more about the situation. This elder had invited the woman to meet with him at school, alone, in order to look for a solution. General approval around the table, it seemed. But then one of their number spoke up: not a good thing, he said. For you to speak with someone’s wife without her husband being involved. You need to respect the relations within the family unit, and you need to protect the woman against gossip. I’m not really sure of all of the complexities involved in African family relations, but I was impressed. This was seriously well thought through, and properly addressed, I thought.

Then this afternoon we went to Kpodaha. Twenty-three young people, from 16 to 27, eager to be trained in church work, have been attending our Saturday school. Faithfully, actively, and decidedly with an un-African determination to be there on time. We begin with a Bible study or sermon outline, then we have two lessons in a program covering the various aspects of church life: worship, mutual support, community service and evangelism, church government and administration. Since the start of the school year, we have covered General Introduction to Theology, Knowledge of the New Testament, Church History, and Principles of Worship. And today we started with two new modules: Christian Family Life and Church Education. As an educator in my previous life, I have been really, really enjoying setting up the program, working with the teachers, and teaching the students. And once again, today it was a real joy. The sermon outline was based on Deuteronomy 6. 4-9: Teach my children well… Romain, in his first lesson, surveyed the rather complicated extent of the African family, and its various possible permutations: with still hugely common polygamy, exceptionally high mortality rates, and the ever-present pagan/Christian divide. And I explored the Scriptural foundations, the distinct purposes, and the general contents of Sunday school and of catechism class. Okay, at this point, you’re bored. But for us it was a rewarding and worthwhile afternoon.
But very, very tiring. Which brings me back to the possibility that it was a perfect day after all. But then in the Biblical sense of ‘made perfect’. That is to say: accomplishing its intended purpose. No, it’s not at all easy to be here. For all the reasons I have enumerated above, and plenty more. But there are moments when, hugely tired, we have been so energized by the day’s events that there just needs to be a blog.

Devotions

Feeling a bit unbloggy in these hot weeks. Marijke said: so why don't you post the devotions you have been writing for Edudeo? Edudeo has its own site ( https://edudeo.com/ ) but for those of you who don't frequent it, here's a free peek.

What’s your role?

Vince Knowles lowered his head, and when he raised it and spoke his next line, his voice was thick and hitching. It was a simulacrum of sorrow he’d never approached even in his best rehearsals… That was when I heard the first low sob from the audience… (Stephen King: 11/22/63)
Oh, the reach of an actor! Of the one who submerges himself in his role, who for the sake of his audience and for the power of the story changes for a moment into someone else, a character quite different from himself. We admire his performance. We are moved. And sometimes we are profoundly changed ourselves.
That’s what I thought of, first off, when I was asked to participate in writing these devotions, with as theme:  ‘What’s your role?’ I thought of actors. Each with his or her own part to play. Hoping to change lives by their performance. In this case: on the stage of world missions.
And then I remembered 1 Peter 2.1. Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind. Did you know that the word hypocrisy is from the ancient Greek? That in the context of Greek drama, it was applied to an actor on the theatre stage? Someone pretending to be someone else? And yes, what admiration the performance of a hypocrite could evoke!
In the New Testament, however, ‘playing a role’ is not an admirable thing. It is condemned by Christ and rebuked by the apostles. Service in God’s kingdom is not only to be selfless, it is to be genuine. Perhaps we could even say: not what you do, but whom you are, whom you really are, is what matters.
It’s one of the lessons we have been learning on the field here in Benin. As missionaries, we struggle with our role. And every time again we discover that God acts most effectively, when we stop being actors.

Don’t hold your breath

Remember? God acts most effectively when we stop being actors. Thinking about your role begins with being real. Not what you do but who you really are is what matters.
One of the most authentic Christians whom I have the honour of knowing is Gregoire. He drives a taxi back and forth to Cotonou all day. For about 10 dollars, after deducting the lease of his 20-year-old Peugeot and the price of fuel and maintenance.
Yesterday we were discussing the details of a sports evangelism project to be held next July. Gregoire’s expertise in Beninese public transport could make all the difference, we knew. But we weren’t actually prepared for this: We need to pray, Gregoire said. We need to pray that the government will look the other way and let the roadside sellers sell fuel again.
What you need to know is that Benin has a lively (and dangerous and hugely polluting) black market in fuel smuggled in from Nigeria. Crude oil tapped from international pipelines, distilled in primitive bush refineries, and sold from bottles and jerry cans, this fuel  powers most of Benin’s vehicles. Periodically the government clamps down on this illegal trade and prices skyrocket.
Gregoire doesn’t grasp all the moral dilemmas here. And there are plenty. But one thing is as natural to him as breathing: prayer. If our sports evangelism team is get around, the price of fuel will need to come down. And God is in charge, isn’t He? Well, then. The government needs to look the other way.
Pray continually, Paul tells us in 1 Thessalonians 5.17. For Christians, prayer is like breathing. You don’t need to think about it. In fact, it is more difficult to hold your breath than to breathe. Are you planning to get active in God’s kingdom? Before anything else: pray. That’s what I’m learning from Gregoire.

Burdens

Before anything else, pray! Remember? So we prayed that morning. And then drove the four-wheel-drive along the red-dirt track to Fanahenhoue. There is a little crowd waiting for us in the church. Things are not as they should be, it turns out. Sunday attendance has dwindled, family worship is non-existent, the local elder is dispirited, the Sunday-school teacher has moved away. Good people, but the burden of maintaining healthy spiritual life has grown too heavy. And all look to us for the solution.
What’s our role? As missionary couple we could take over. Start weekly visits to relieve the local elder. Be there on Sundays to lead the services. Arrange for the neighbouring parish of Kpodaha to send someone for the Sunday-school . And who knows, that might well break through the malaise which has taken hold of Fanahenhoue. Carry each other’s burdens, the apostle says in  Galatians 6.2.
But here’s one of the greatest temptations in missions. When you see inability: to take over. When you see hunger: to provide food. When you see lack of education: to build schools. Well-meant, and sometimes effective. But too often our desire to help, to carry each other’s burdens, gets in the way of enabling the other to do what he could well learn to do himself. And that is why the apostle says something else a few verses later: for each one should carry his own load.
So instead of helping, we helped them help themselves. We asked a teenage girl: if we bring you a children’s Bible next Sunday, would you read a Bible story to the children before church starts? Yes, she said, of course. And two others offered to assist. And during the service, we asked the elder, would you be able to ask the children to share what they have learned? We turned to the mothers: and would you be willing to ask your children, when they get home, to tell the story again, and to talk and pray about it together? Their eyes lit up: why, yes. Of course we could!
We didn’t do so much, that morning at Fanahenhoue. But when we left there seemed to be something new in the air. Renewed confidence. Excitement even. A burden shared always seems lighter, doesn’t it?