Reward

There’s a game happening. All eyes are on the ball, somewhere out there near the edge of the dusty square.  The goat is headed the other way; for her it’s a welcome relief to have the children of the quartier tormenting that other black and white leather object for a while. All but this one boy, flashing a smile with teeth as white as the stripes on his bright red t-shirt, who has eyes only for me. This afternoon I heard and saw the youngsters worrying a straw-filled sock back and forth between improvised goals. There isn’t much joy to that when you’re trying to pretend you’re a star in the Africa Cup. I suddenly remembered that I still had a real soccer ball hiding somewhere under the bed in our guest room. With Francois, our day guardian this week, I walked over bearing my offering. Made in Pakistan, I read. And in prominent letters around the valve opening: NO CHILD LABOUR USED ON THIS BALL.  A responsible gift, in other words. Though none of these children would give that a thought. I’m fairly sure the concept of child labour doesn’t cross their minds for a moment as they are harvesting the corn in the family plot, walking five kilometres or more to the market with the basin on their head, and spending the rest of the afternoon arguing prices and hoping for a sale. Or as they are pounding metal in the forge instead of going to school. Or lugging 50 kg bags of Portland cement on a construction site. Or sweating behind a pousse-pousse (a two-wheeled cart) heavily loaded with teak on its way to the sawmill. They’ve never heard of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, and wouldn’t realize it applies to them if they had. But right now they have joyfully taken possession of the ball, formed three teams under the supervision of our guardien, and are in the middle of the first game. All except my smiling friend, on his haunches in the dust with his left leg splayed at an impossible angle. This is my reward, and I love it.

As I leave the field, a young man comes from behind one of the houses. Attendez, attendez, he calls. It turns out he is one of the quartier’s organizers. Thank you, he says, for your gift to our children! And then he invites me to an event which is to be held August 1^st. A soccer match between the men of the quartier: married against the singles. I promise to be there, but I’m already thinking about an appropriate excuse so that I myself won’t have to play: soccer has never been one of my strong points, after all. But the fact that I am being welcomed into the community in this way feels very, very good. Another reward, and I love it.

Francois, the guardian, smells an opportunity for gospel proclamation. He had already written ERCB Dogbo on the ball with indelible ink, and we have just heard that the soccer match is to be held in the field next to the church. Perhaps it would be possible to combine the soccer with some kind of evangelistic activity, he proposes. The young man listens, nods his head, and says he would be happy to come and discuss the options with us sometime soon. As we walk home, Francois is full of enthusiasm: first we can attract the children, he says, then we will attract the parents, and then the whole quartier! Indeed, think big. The reward for the gift of an inexpensive soccer ball might well surprise us all.

It has been a weekend of rewards, in fact. Saturday in Bohicon: graduation ceremony for the students at I3B. Four of our dirigeants have completed three years of theological training there. They have worked hard, leaving their families and employment behind for a full week each month. Jonas from Tchangba, who struggles to understand even the most basic French, wears his toga and mortarboard with unstudied dignity, his wife Melanie at his side. They have done as well as could be expected, and we trust that the church at Tchangba will be blessed with the results.

Church service on Sunday in Noumonvihoue: what an impressive experience! As is our habit, earlier in the week we spent a morning at the village: which we had planned to visit the Sunday after. Our guide, Samuel, had made a few phone calls, and virtually the entire congregation was there to meet us that Tuesday. Probably about 35 people. Average age no more than about 14. One adult woman (48 years old), then  about 20 teenagers, and the rest children, as young as 4 or 5. Three years ago, a few from this pagan village, at school at nearby Djakotomey, had connected with young church members there. A small team of evangelists, including Jonas from Tchangba, had come to present the gospel. And around a core of three or four teenagers a congregation had developed. Each Sunday, two young men, barely out of boyhood, lead a service. As well as they can, they follow the liturgy, teach the songs, explain a portion of the Bible, and lead the congregation in prayer. We had asked, last Tuesday: what do you need, here, most of all? They were quick and clear in their response: 1. We need a dirigeant of our own, who can lead us, teach us, and help us to live as Christians. 2. We need proper catechesis, so that we can be baptized as soon as possible. 3. We need help with evangelisation, so that not only our village, but also the totally pagan villages around us will hear the gospel too! It was so good to return to Noumonvihoue on Sunday, to worship with them, to share the gospel, and to be encouraged ourselves by this evidence of the Spirit’s power.

And then Sunday evening. With Gregoire, our taxi-driver friend, we went to bring Rosa home. Finally, three months after her breakdown, she seemed well enough to rejoin her family. I don’t need to explain how joyful everyone was to be reunited, so I won’t. But as we were leaving, Gregoire said: Pasteur, I would like to thank you for everything you have done for us, together with Marijke. And then he surprised us. Of course he was referring to our visits and our prayers, which to him were indubitably the key to Rosa’s recovery, fragile as it is. But what he meant especially was a piece of advice we had given him some time ago. I think it was Marijke who had broached the subject: how important it is that husband and wife pray together. This is something (with all the great things which we have seen in the life of Christians here) which Africans do not seem to know much about, and as far as we know do not practice. Family prayer, or more intimately, prayer between partners. Gregoire took my hands in his. Like this, he said, just as you showed me. Every day, before it is time to go to bed, we fold our hands together, and I pray for Rosa. Thank you so much!

This is the kind of thing that encourages us at moments when we wonder what we’re doing here. Unexpected rewards, shining bright like the smile on the face of a small boy crouching in the dust.

Family

Monsieur, pouvez-vous expliquer… And then followed a question which took me right back to my childhood. When I was a little boy, perhaps 9 or so, I used to think about things. There were some things I knew about. For example, I knew about breathing in and out until I was incredibly dizzy, and then jumping into the water at Middleton Beach and staying under for much longer than anyone thought possible. I knew about the Bible too. For instance that David used the shocking expression: pisseth against the wall. On my red OXO metal lunchbox I had scratched the same initials Hansie Vermeulen and Andy Wagenaar had scratched: BM. Nobody else knew whom that represented. But after 51 years, the secret must out. Bloody Man. Without foreknowledge, Shimei had cursed David most effectively for Dutch-Australian boys who knew only the King James. 2 Samuel 16.2: Bloody was about as bad as you could get.

Back to my narrative. I thought about things a lot at that age. Perhaps because my world had fallen into confusing pieces with the death of my father. It was clear that all those Australians had inherited a great Bible  from the home country. Good enough for us to use at school and in the English services at our Free (NOT DUTCH!) Reformed Church. (Although my father had not allowed it at home. Only Dutch there. De taal waarin je vaderen geleden en gestreden hebben!) However, questioned my troubled thoughts, how could it be that all those Australian had a good Bible but weren’t Christians? For it was perfectly clear to me that the only Christians in Albany, the real Christians that is, went to church with us.

And don’t think that that perception disappeared with the advent of the Revised Standard Version, as disputed as that was when it happened. In 1975 (two years later) Marijke and I were married. We had our wedding photos taken at Toews Photography in Abbotsford. The proprietor was Mennonite, and we somehow fell into a discussion of the Bible. At a certain point he said: well, whatever our differences now, we’ll all be with Jesus later. To which I didn’t answer what I distinctly remember thinking: I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you…  And I didn’t mean that there were doubts about my getting there. Yes, I am truly ashamed of ever having thought like that. But that is what I was reminded of when the question came this afternoon:  Monsieur, pouvez-vous expliquer…

The young man who asked the question was about 18 years old, member of the Celestes… Remember them, a few blogs back? Home-grown Beninese religion. Claiming to be Christian. Since then, I’ve done a bit of research. Test the spirits, and all that. I know about the Celestes now. We were back visiting Rosa, who was still being harboured there after a psychiatric breakdown. We had talked to her. But then there were all those others. Not the illiterate pastor from the first visit. But his assistant. And his son, the one who was going to be reading Bibles and the Reformed literature I had left behind. A few other boys in their late teens. And a number of women of indeterminate ages.

Jokingly, I had said, when I saw the son: hey, you’re wearing red! That’s forbidden for you, isn’t it? That’s one of the things I know about now. Celestes are forbidden to wear red or black, unless it is strictly necessary for their employment. (McDonalds, you’re welcome in Benin, much as I hate to say that.) You’re right, he said. Actually I’m not supposed to be wearing this… And that led to a great discussion about the many, many rules and regulations which circumscribe the life of the Celestes. Indeed, they agreed, these were not Biblical regulations, but rules which their leaders had imposed

And from there our discussion led to the freedom we have in Christ. And the confident access we have to God’s throne through Christ’s intercession (no need for bare feet in the sanctuary, another Celeste regulation.) And then came his question. Monsieur, pouvez-vous expliquer… Oh, no, sorry. There was another question before that. Could you please tell us what the difference actually is between our church (the Celestes) and all those others? Can you believe it? Handed to me on a platter. An unbelievable opportunity!

I said:  probably the most important thing is this. Your founder, Samuel Bilehou Joseph Oshoffa, claims to have received visions from God. And based on those visions, he founded your church. All those regulations, prohibitions and commandments you live by are based not on the Bible, but on your founder’s visions. Of course, nobody can verify if he really had those visions. Nobody else was there, nobody else saw what he said he saw or heard what he said he heard. Yes, I know about these things now. And they nodded. They could tell I was well informed. What do you think? one of them asked, a bit hesitantly. Well, with all respect for your founder, and I do not want to insult you or anyone, but I don’t believe it’s possible that it was really God speaking to him. I asked if they would bring me their Bible. And there it came: the Bible I had brought them about a month ago. Along with another in Adja. And a tattered old version of the Scriptures as well. Would have been King James if it were English, I imagine. Let’s read the very last few verses in the Bible,  I suggested. What does it say? And one of them read the warning against adding anything at all to what God has revealed. (I know, I am taking a few shortcuts here.) The assistant pastor read the same words in Adja, and nodded thoughtfully. That’s why, I said, I cannot believe that if your founder had visions, they came from God. God himself has said that He has nothing to add to what has been written in the Bible. That seems pretty clear language to me. Of course, I then had to explain what I thought was the origin of those visions.  I know, I said, that your founder had a very real desire to purify religion of all kinds of superstition, and to rid Benin of all kinds of gri-gri (voodoo practices). It was something his heart and mind were really full of. They nodded. Clearly this was something the Pasteur knew about. You know that when your mind is full of something, you tend to dream of those things at night. If you think about women a lot in a certain way, they appear to you like that in your dreams. We men all nodded at that. If you’re always thinking about your business and making money, that can be what you dream about. And that’s not God talking to you, that’s what your mind does. Perhaps that was what happened. I don’t know, but we just read in the Bible what God says about Himself and his revelation. So I cannot believe that what your founder saw or heard was actually from God.

And then we got back to those many, many rules and regulations. That gave me an opening to have them read Hebrews 9, about the old alliance with all its rules and regulations, and the new alliance in Christ which changed all that. (Sorry, I don’t remember what ‘covenant’ is in Adja, but it was great to hear the assistant read about it!)

And then, finally, we got to the question which I have been teasing you with. Sir, could you explain to us why it is that other Christians refuse to greet us when we pass them on the way to church? And like I said, that question took me right back to my childhood. To the time when it was absolutely and indubitably clear (not that we were ever instructed to refuse greeting others, although playing with Georgie Holzmann next door was not really the right thing to do) who was truly a Christian and who wasn’t. I found a way to answer the question. But it was an answer to myself as much as it was to this earnest young man.

Yes, I said. I do understand and I can explain it. But it is very wrong, nevertheless.  (How is that for ecclesiastical diplomacy, well-honed by 10 years in Deputies for Churches Abroad?) Perhaps I can use an example. Imagine we are all a family. And then I get up, walk off, and refuse from that point on to have anything to do with the rest of the family. I am the only one who knows truth from falsehood, and you are all wrong; I want no part of you anymore. Can you imagine how that feels for the ones left behind? Yes, they definitely could.  Africans are finely tuned to the concept of family. That is another thing I know about now. Can you imagine that the ones left behind are so angry that they refuse to greet me when I pass them on the way to church? Yes, they definitely could. And still, I said, that would be the wrong thing to do. Family is family, whatever happens. And it’s the same thing in the Christian family. Even if someone breaks away for the wrong reasons, makes all kinds of mistakes, and even claims that no-one outside of his church is really following Christ…

And that’s why we’re here today. To greet you. And to invite you back, if you can find your way, into the family.

To be continued. I’m fairly convinced of that…

Basic needs

“when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home…” There he stands, trembling with fury. Beyond comprehension at his father’s folly. The shamelessness of it. Whores, one after the other, have devoured half of the family fortune. And no, the old man not even in his grave yet, here is the younger son back with his hand outstretched for more. Who wouldn´t agree with the elder son's harsh judgment? I always did, to be honest. Until I realized, one day, that I had read too much into the younger brother’s return, just as the firstborn had. Where does the mention of prostitutes come from? There’s no way anyone could know that, even if it were true. And the story doesn’t say it. He squandered his wealth on wild living, the NIV translates. But even that is actually a bit more than the text says. Yes, the young man was improvident. No, his part of the family fortune was not invested wisely. And in the end there wasn’t even enough left for basic needs. Saying more than that is too hasty a conclusion, without having examined the facts. Who knows, the young man may have married. Fathered a child. Been away one business trip too long. Returned to a wife dead of a fever and a three-month-old child too far gone for saving. And desperately experiencing a father’s grief first-hand, lost his way completely.
There is a limit to our right and our ability to judge. And still we do. Still I do. Last weekend being a case in point. What is there to see in the picture? A coffin, and a young woman feeding her infant son. Basic needs are simple, at that age. The young woman is the sixth of the man’s wives. The infant is the youngest of his thirty or more. What was he thinking, marrying yet again, in spite of every civil and church prohibition? At his age, when simple statistics alone suggested he would be leaving mother and child, along with many others, bereft long before their time? Who would see to their needs now he was no longer there? I judged, and I was angry.
But there was more that angered me. The whole funeral. It was enormous. It had been two weeks in preparation and was three days in execution. Arriving at the wake, the previous evening, I had found at the centre of the compound a garish glass aquarium-like structure, a display refrigerator four times the size of the largest to be found at Costco’s. Through the steamed up windows (moisture outside, of course) there was the coffin open and propped up for display. Under – there must have been a quarter of an acre of it – tarp and steel tube constructions called baches, hundreds of chairs for the guests milling around and waiting for the proceedings to begin. Outside the compound, other baches had also been erected with tables where these and many other guests would be fed and given to drink. There were a brass band, amplifier installations, loudspeakers fit for a music festival. Whole families arrived dressed in matching outfits clearly tailored for the occasion. I shuddered to think of the expense.  I judged, and I was angry.
Because, for example, one of the family’s children, a little girl of 6 or so, is blind. And for the past year has been at the institute for the visually impaired at Djanglamey. Her only opportunity to receive suitable education, so that her life and future may be more than just darkness. Only, not at the expense of her parents. Much as it was sincerely desired, there was no way the family could find the money for a year’s tuition: the equivalent of €150.00. No, definitely impossible. Without the financial aid of Christian brothers and sisters overseas, no provision for her… Knowing this, I watched, and fumed. Basic needs for the living not met. And here, for the dead, such blatant squandering. I thought to myself: almost better if the family property had been squandered with prostitutes… Then they at least would have been enabled to provide for the needs of their families.
Disquieted, I spoke to the congregation's elder. He listened well. He had no answer that could satisfy me. But his reaction made clear: even basic needs are relative. I judged, within my frame of reference. He did too, within his. And while he did not try justify how the family fortune had been allocated, from his perspective a funeral like this one was a basic need…
Sometimes the elder son may have all the reason in the world to be angry. But even then it is not his to judge. He doesn’t have, will never have access to all the facts. And he will never be the Father to this child.

Portable

Hotel du Lac. A balmy evening in Cotonou. The terrace, there must be at least an acre of it, is a wonderfully relaxed place to be. The sun has set in golden splendour behind the warehouses on the other side of the channel. A slight breeze carries the sounds of what seems to be a service in progress over in the fishing village snug up against the ocean on this side. We’re here for the night, we’ve had a dip in the pool, and are now into the first course of the traditional Sunday evening Lebanese smorgasbord. Well, Lebanese... there are more than a few other world food traditions represented on the well-stocked side tables. Yes, slightly decadent, I agree.
The clientele does seem to be mostly Lebanese. Women in chaste head coverings chattering with their friends while their Beninese dada’s keep the children (the majority slightly overweight) out of harm’s way. The terrace being as large as it is, the children have taken along their rollerblades and electric ride-in convertible cars and shiny tricycles, and are happily zigzagging  between the tables. A dark-eyed girl, perhaps a year or two old, has for the last few minutes been trying desperately to throw a plastic bag through the railing into the water below, only to have it promptly returned by the breeze. Again. And again. She stamps her feet and picks it up once more. There, she decides, forget the water: into the planter, tucked under the foliage. Gone.

What a world of difference from Tchangba this morning. We were there for a special service, an action de grâce: all the paroisses of the ERCB in the Mono-Couffo had been invited to send a delegation with a financial contribution towards the cost of benches and ­tam-tams for in the church. Once again, Tchangba is the remotest village of the lot. Accessible over a track barely passable. Thankfully it hadn’t rained for a few days, so four-wheel-drive was sufficient. And no surprise: we got there a bit late. But equally no surprise, there were but a few children present, and a cobbled-together sound system blasting distorted music through loudspeakers which had seen much better days. Probably. Whenever. Not on mains power, by the way. That will arrive in Tchangba probably sometime next century. No, there was a portable generator (with its operator) brought in for the occasion.

Having time to spare, we walked into the village proper. Thatch roofed mud houses. Cooking fires fuelled by stripped palm fronds. Goats, dusty children, chickens, more children – clearly not well-fed, women stirring cast iron cauldrons with steaming and bubbling bouillie, children again, men reclining under a shady tree, everything you ever imagined about an African village in the year 1845. And the centuries before. Nothing, nothing at all in common with the terrace at Hotel du Lac with its Lebanese smorgasbord and plump children in electric ride-in convertible cars.

Except perhaps for the portables. True, not the third-generation smartphones the men at the adjacent table in Cotonou are conversing with while smoking their water-pipe and picking at their falafel. But mobile phones none the less. Stone age village and hotel terrace: the two are united courtesy of MTN, Moov, Glo, Zekede and Bell-Benin. Some of the time, at least. Seeing as there are two obstacles to remaining connected in Tchangba. One: recharging your phone. Two: topping up your credit.
Concerning the first, the special service this morning had an unexpected bonus: the generator. There was a line-up for the 15 slots on the extension cord. But as long as the generator kept going, the phones kept charging.
Concerning the second, the cash economy  arrives at Tchangba only occasionally. In the shape of the odd 100 FCFA piece. That’s about 15 eurocents, for those of you who don’t have a currency converter among your favourites. Good for 100 seconds of communication. Or 1½ text messages. 100 seconds go a long way, if you do as the Beninese do. Call someone’s number and terminate the call before he or she answers. In the hope that the person who missed your call returns it. Assuming he or she has bought more than 100 FCFA credit, of course. I’m not sure if the Lebanese in Benin operate the same system. They’re certainly on the phone a lot. When they should be talking to their wives over supper; or if not, paying a bit of attention to their children. But then, they have dada’s for that, don’t they?

Not that I am at all unhappy about the ubiquitous portable. Far from it. Today is Alice’s birthday. As well as Maarten’s. Here we are in Cotonou. Unpacking our bags, we find a message from Hannah, who is doing an archaeological survey in one of the remotest areas of Jordan: Hello! How are you? What are Maarten’s and Alice’s phone numbers? And what time is it in Canada right now? XXX Hannah. I am amazed once again at technology’s reach. From Stone Age to slightly decadent. From the Middle East by way of West Africa to Amersfoort and Empire Corners. Thank God - yes, literally - for the portable.

Deux Bidons

Monsieur, I would like to ask a favour. Would you be able to find me a Bible? I have never been to school, but my boys can read it to me. Great question to ask a missionary, of course. But consider who just asked it: the pastor of the Celeste parish this side of Majdre. Eglise Christianisme Celeste, a homegrown Beninese cult  5 years older than myself, said by some to be a syncretistic mix of Pentecostal prophetic claim and pagan belief. Here was one of their pastors asking me for a Bible, which he couldn’t read himself…

We were on the terrain to visit Rosa, who was there for treatment. Don’t ask me to explain the complicated situation which resulted in her being sedated by herbal remedies in an environment marginally Christian at best. Having arrived, we could not avoid presenting ourselves to the centre’s leader, clothed in a voluminous white robe and seated on a highbacked chair before two men humbly reclining on mats before him. In the intervening space, a single cream-white taper flickered hesitantly in the semi-darkness. No, you’re not disturbing us at all! These two are here for a vision. Please do come in, be seated. The supplicants waited good-naturedly as another chair was brought in for me and placed at the pastor’s right hand, with a bench for Marijke near the door. I was introduced as Rosa’s pastor by our guide, and we exchanged pleasantries. After what seemed an appropriate time, I asked permission and we took leave to go on to Rosa. She was actually doing very well, we found, and we arranged to come back in the afternoon with her husband and children.

It was as we were leaving that the request for the Bible came. The séance was over, apparently. Once again, great question for a missionary, so I immediately promised to take one along when I returned later in the day. I subsequently thought: while I’m at it, I can take along a few other items as well… Just as we were getting into the HiLux, however, a young man came running up. Our guide translated: they’re having trouble with the water supply here, and they’re wondering if perhaps we could take along some fresh water when we come back. Well, why not? If not for any other reason, to ensure Rosa would not get intestinal parasites on top of her psychiatric problems.

Driving back to Dogbo, we shook our heads at the impossibility of a pastor leading a church without being able to read the Bible. But we were also excited at the chance to share something of the authentic gospel  with those who had apparently had no access to it independently. I said to our guide: how much do those bidons cost that you use? And having heard that the cost would be no more than 75 eurocents apiece, I generously said: well, buy two for me, will you? We’ll fill them up and take them along this afternoon. By then, an inkling of an idea was beginning to form.

Right after lunch, we had another destination. Tchangba. Further away than Tchangba you cannot get in the Couffo, without falling into Togo. The track to Tchangba was passable this afternoon. But just. In 4-wheel drive. We arrived there after about three-quarters of an hour of severely being shaken about. Jonas, the elder, was not there. Agnes, the deacon, was. Only adult we could spot in the entire village. Children there were plenty of, as usual. Hugely intrigued to see a car, two pale-coloured people, and a watermelon. We had taken the latter along as a present, but we were glad to be gone before its having to be shared among so many… Agnes took us to the church and we talked about the affairs of the congregation. The children all tagged along. They understood more quickly than we did, perhaps, because Agnes speaks no French. Fortunately we did have an interpreter and he also assisted ably when we turned to the children and asked them if they could sing for us. Could they ever sing for us! And clap! And dance! Mon Papa est fidele... And his children can be loud, Tchangba proved.

At four o’clock we got home. In time for the bidons. Well in time. We had to wait a while. And we were on our way almost three-quarters of an hour later than we should have been. But we did have with us, by that time, not only the bidons, inscribed in indelible ink with two appropriate texts, a Bible,  and a New Testament, but also a book of questions and answers on the Christian faith, and a shorter evangelistic booklet written by elder Bertin of Dogbo. All were ceremoniously handed over to pastor Philomène. I had trouble recognizing him at first. For he had changed, in the meantime, into more conventional dress. The Bible you asked for, I said. And I thought perhaps you would also like these other books to help you in your preaching. He was immensely pleased, and handed the books over to his elder son, the one who reads to him. I was glad of that. Who knows what God will do when this son, who seemed intelligent and truly interested, starts reading reformed literature to his father? And who knows what God may do with those two bidons, with the texts inscribed on them for everyone to read when they come for a drink of water? Everyone who can read, that is. Or perhaps be read to.

Agent for change

Four church leaders, one missionary pastor. To my right, Daniel, chairman of the church council, who works in a hospital and is noticeably tired from the night shift. Or perhaps because his newborn daughter hasn’t allowed him much sleep. His long arms stretched out in front of him and his face nose down on the table. Facing me, first next counterclockwise, Pierre, tailor and church secretary, of all people I have met here – with Joseph, our guardian – the most conscientious and least likely to be after financial gain. Untamed and irregular front teeth protrude from his earnest but always smiling lips. Next to him Jonas, subsistence farmer and elder of the church furthest removed from civilisation, such as it is in the Mono-Couffo. Ill-fitting suit jacket over a greasy shirt, knobbly hands folded in his lap, uncertainly following the conversation when it is conducted in French, which he barely speaks. And then finally, to my left, Salomon, elder and couturier in the larger village of Deve; with a church consisting largely of his 14 apprentices whom he trains and feeds and educates in Christian doctrine. I have been asked to meet with them at Kpodaha to discuss their programme of study for the month of June: they have  almost completed their course of three years at the I3B, a Bible college in Bohicon, an hour-an-a-half’s drive away. Once each month they leave their family and work and church behind from Monday to Friday to be taught theology, theoretical and practical. Quite a commitment and sacrifice! But in order to complete their studies they have to spend the entire last month, four weeks, in Bohicon. This poses all kinds of problems, naturally enough. Financial and otherwise. And we are together find a solution, if possible.

But it turns out that there is another, previously unstated, reason for our gathering. That doesn’t surprise me, that is the way it always goes here. Someone comes to bring us a bag of oranges, to greet us because they just happened to be in Dogbo, to thank me for a fine sermon last Sunday, or whatever. And once that is out of the way, and we begin to edge towards the front of our chairs in order to rise, inevitably there is the: o, yes, one other little thing, monsieur Pasteur… And 9 times out of 10 it has something to do with money. Money they need and I probably have.

This afternoon the well-planned afterthought is also about money. Money for the reception after the handing out of their diplomas in July. This money has been in discussion for a long time. And yes, in their perception it is truly a necessity. They had negotiated an considerable amount with my predecessor and included it as a budget amendment proposal to DVN-Gowa for 2012, back in October. For various reasons there had been no response to the amendment, and they had assumed that there would be no objection. However, about three months ago I had had to inform them not to get their hopes up. And after much discussion, there and here, last week they received DVN-Gowa’s final decision: good stewardship financial support is only given for what is strictly necessary. If they feel that a reception is very important, fine, but it is up to themselves to find the money.

To European ears and mind, this position is eminently sensible. To the Africans around the table this afternoon incomprehensible. And if I, their Pasteur, would perhaps be willing to mediate. All stops were pulled out, from flattery to righteous indignation. I listened, expressed every sympathy (with both positions), and concluded that I was not going to intervene. I explained why. And they accepted that. Though I gave them no hope of success, they themselves would try to contact headquarters. Their problem, not mine.

All of this is preface to what, in my mind, was the most important accomplishment of the afternoon. I said to them: brothers, this is an example of something very important which you need to realise. Not the question of whether you do or don’t receive the money you would like. But the difference between how you and we arrive at conclusions. And then we had a very good discussion about cultural differences and their impact on the decision-making process. I said: it strikes me that you have a more or less circular way of arriving. You talk and talk and talk again, take a position and then alter it again when a new partner enters the discussion, and you keeping moving around and around until you arrive at a consensus, a compromise which everyone can live with. For you it is hugely important that every participant in the discussion takes ownership of the outcome. Your relations are the most important thing. And therefore you find it quite normal to start again, after all the negotiations are concluded, if the outcome doesn’t please someone. They looked at me and confirmed what I had said. Of course, their faces read. That’s the only way to do business. And then I continued. A European doesn’t think like that, I said. I’m not saying that our way is better, but it is certainly different. A European is much more focussed on the goal, the answer to the original question, the target. We can talk a lot too, but we more or less follow a straight line. From here to there. Along the way we gather all the arguments that each person has to contribute. And then we draw our conclusion. Finis! (This is the short version of the lesson, of course.) Some comprehension dawned. You mean, said Salomon, when the visitors from Holland were here earlier this month, they were gathering the arguments which we had to contribute? And that was the end of our turn? I was impressed. Exactly, I said. And that is why I do not expect any change in the decision.

We continued our discussion. I drew two circles, one overlapping the other about one third of the way. Here: this is us, your brothers and sisters in the Netherlands. And here: this is you, our fellow Christians in Africa. We are partners in God’s kingdom. But can only work well together in this area which overlaps. We will only become hopelessly frustrated if you, or we, try to demand things or impose things which lie outside of the overlap. The importance you attach to ceremonies is in your own part of your circle. We do not, and will never share that. And there are plenty of things in our own part of our circle which you do not need to adopt. I am here, with you, in this middle part which we share, to work with you. And that’s the way it should be.

I’m not pretending that we achieved full comprehension. But I do think that an important lesson was learned, in part. And I am excited to be agent for change here in that way. I love and respect my African brothers. And I hope that I will become worthy of their love and respect in return. But they are they. And I am I. Long live the overlap. And vive la différence!

Naked

Diagonally across the rusty metal springs of a bed without mattress, neck craned backwards at an impossible angle, eyes wide open, following our approach towards the veranda where he is, lies a man. Naked from the waist down. From his awkward position, we must appear upside down, but his smile says that that doesn’t bother him at all.

We are in Madjre, at the Centre d’Accueil Père Hervé, a home – if that is what you can call it – for people with a mental handicap or psychiatric disorder. This is our weekly visit, begun shortly after our arrival in Benin, interrupted by the incident on February 1st, and recommenced a few weeks ago. We had heard of the centre in Holland already: googling for Dogbo, Marijke found a site called www.detuinvantoyo.nl/. Worth going there yourself: this is the initiative of a Dutch couple who had been visiting Dogbo quite some years ago and were shocked by the sight of a handicapped young girl in the market, begging for scraps and totally uncared for. Toyo was her name, and with her in mind this couple mobilized friends and acquaintances to help provide for her and others like her: a place to live, to be cared for, and if possible to be productively employed. The Centre d’Accueil existed already, if I am not mistaken, but was in state of disrepair and had few prospects. With this new support network, things began to change. A property was acquired a few kilometres away, a deep well was dug, vegetable gardens were laid out, a number of buildings were erected, and the more able inhabitants of the centre were given the opportunity to work and live there. Given enough time and money, the hope is that all the inhabitants will eventually be moved to the new location and will each contribute, as well as he or she can, to the life of the community.

But those are dreams for the future. For the present, most of them are still idle, housed in conditions unthinkable by western standards, living and dying as best they can. Naked, metaphorically speaking, but sometimes quite literally as well, like the man on the bed on the veranda. We hadn’t seen him at first. Actually, we were on our way out, after a visit of about ¾ of an hour. We had been welcomed exuberantly, had spent our time kicking a soccer ball around, talking and laughing and singing and dancing, had shared a picture sheet with the story of Good Friday and Easter, and were headed back to the gate. Then someone tugged at our arm. Elle aussi, he said, pointing towards the veranda. Yes, Adja speakers seem to mix up gender when they speak French; what we saw there was definitely male. And he had been watching us in his upside-down world. Not able to kick a soccer ball or talk or sing or dance. Or control his bowels, which is, I imagine, the reason for his lying there like that. But he could laugh, boy, could he laugh! His limbs grotesquely twisted, suppurating sores at contact points of skin and metal, unable to do anything but be cared for... He laughed, the raw, uncontrolled laughter of a spastic.

Someone told us a little of the story: this man had been badly burned when he was younger, and since then he was like this. New to the centre, he had been rescued from the village, like so many of the malades, by M. Raoul. Raoul, apparently once malade himself, but picked up off the street and nursed back to mental and physical health, had made it his mission in life to care for the abandoned, the chained, the abused, the unwanted, 40 or so of whom inhabit the centre which he now heads. This man was the newest. Hugely happy to see us coming closer, and to meet us. We weren’t really able to talk. We were just there with him for a few minutes, shocked and moved and wondering why there was no better solution for a burn victim in Benin, and then we left. He waved goodbye, clutching a sheet with three crosses over an empty grave in his malformed fist. Naked.

There is a lot of nakedness in Benin. Like last Sunday morning. Walking home from church, glancing around suddenly at the sound of water splashing: there stood a girl, in her early teens, outside the family dwelling. Totally naked, but not at all ashamed. She had lathered in her glorious body and was holding high a calabash bowl to rinse away the suds. She saw us and waved with her other hand. We waved back, and walked on, trying hard not to keep looking. Not quite an everyday experience, true, but we have seen more nakedness here in the past four months than in the five previous decades. It’s tricky, for me, a man, to deal with in a Christian manner: look, no problem when breasts are long and flat and wrinkled (which seems to occur at an improbably early age here, we think due to the weight of the baby carried on the mother’s back, it being wrapped tightly in the pagne.) But many of what we see aren’t at all long and flat and wrinkled. I think Marijke is probably unaffected by the sight of a (semi)naked woman. But then, she needs to deal with the sight of men urinating. Whenever and wherever they need to go. And only some turn away from the road and public view. Nakedness. Takes getting used to.

Back to Madjre, and the people there, naked and clothed. We both sense that it is no coincidence that we have become involved in what happens there. Our dream is to connect the people of the ERCB to the people there. Also the people of the ERCB are Beninese. Also the people of the ERCB are naturally inclined and culturally conditioned to abandon the handicapped to the night and the mercy of God. Few of them have a strong conviction that the mercy of God generally comes in the form of people who are willing to be there for the helpless and the hopeless. Our dream is that we can contribute just a little, to make the nakedness visible. So that when the morning comes Jesus will say to them and to us: I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me (Mat 25.36). For the alternative is also possible:you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked (Rev 3.17).