by John C. Kerr
Mercy, when you work in Zambia, 2002, you sometimes wonder if there aren’t better ways to spend your time.
Mercy, when you work in Zambia, 2002, you sometimes wonder if there aren’t better ways to spend your time.
We drive to class on Racecourse Road which jars all your fillings and fibers every morning. There is the general shabbiness of Kitwe, our mining-town, where the only attraction is the weather. The occasional surliness from a newly urbanized African who butts into line; all the old racial indignation which rears its head through a visiting chapel speaker; a “running tummy” which the secretary announced afflicted her husband one morning last week—and the next day afflicted me; authoritarian decrees cascading down from various boards and bodies in a society that always prefers to work “top-down”; rank heresy in strategic centers; the senseless accidents; the senseless deaths; the senseless negligence; the senselessness on every side—all makes you wonder.
But to prevent such murmurs, God may speak to you through that most improbable of vessels, a meeting. A meeting? From where I sit, too often calling a meeting to order is like the Lord speaking through Balaam’s beast of burden. This week we were meeting with prospective students at our Trans-Africa Theological College, Racecourse Road, Kitwe.
We interviewed beaming Jerry Manavuko, fifty years old, father of five, confessing “wonderful peace” during his day-long bus trip down from Mansa to sit before us—and declaring that he is ready to forgo his senior teacher’s training position eight years before retirement because the call of God is “so strong.”
There was Patrick Maluba, a rugged and weather-beaten young soldier who surprised me with a soft, high-pitched voice. His eyes filled with tears as he told us of how his squad had opened fire on some fleeing refugees. A youth had fallen in front of him, shot and then buried like a stray dog by soldiers instructed to “teach those armed refugees a lesson.” As the dirt fell on a shallow grave, this young soldier heard God’s call and laid down his arms.
There was police officer Moses Chishimba who feels called to “minister to the Zambian police” even though the AIDS-ravaged lifestyle of his fellow officers is so bad, he spends much of his time on the force alone.
Oswell Kaoma stepped into the hot seat, slightly fidgety with a nervous smile. Could he pay the fees?
“Oh yes,” he said, “my grocery has been so blessed. I have enough for three years.”
“In Kapiri Mposhi?” I couldn’t believe that any business could thrive in that broken-down little outpost, a ramshackle assortment of taverns and bus stops on the road to Lusaka. Yet out of those ruins, this soft-spoken deacon had provided for a future in Christian ministry.
There were church planters and elders, translators and grocers, teachers and businessmen—and the youngest, Greenson “Gripper” Ngeki, who feels called to pastor but “has little time” these days because he helps his mother sell vegetables at the market.
It was not their dedication alone which was so striking—scrimping and saving for three years, sacrificing everything in a country with a standstill economy and zero prospects of real jobs. It was not just their willingness to risk for the gospel. It was the pure excitement in their eyes.
One by one, they sat tingling with energy on our old chair, flashing those sparkling eyes. They told of their miraculous conversions—a timely crusade, a personal witness. Then slowly and reverently, as though handling jewelry, they rehearsed the divine nudges to ministry: a word of knowledge here, a confirming prophecy there, at least one witness of a legalized murder. And their present ministries—how they loved to dwell upon the ways God was using them: planting churches, organizing outreach efforts, preaching, teaching and evangelizing. “Me, I am an apostle,” said one young church planter, with the assurance of St. Paul. His pastoral reference confirmed that he had a proven ministry in foundational ministries among unreached people groups.
“And what are your expectations from Bible college?” Here some pure idealism came forth. How they relished and savored the prospect of training for ministry. Our Trans-Africa Theological College on the remains of the Racecourse Road, Kitwe, Zambia, was for them the culmination of a dream. For them, we are what Oxford was to C. S. Lewis. They pulsated with so much energy on our chair, I wondered if anyone in this world was more alive than them. How wonderful, they all seemed to say, to be able to answer the call of God.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, we, the panel, were somewhat less energized. We had interviewed so many people that day that things had started to blur. And what was keeping lunch? It was now two o’clock.
“Do you play soccer?” shot Chalwe, our dean of students, to the last candidate, just seated in our hard chair. The poor young man looked at the dean in shock. “If you don’t, we can’t admit you.” Clearly this meeting had gone on too long. We laughed, endorsed our last candidate and adjourned to some Hungry Lion Chicken.
But while the delectable bird was still between my teeth, I thought I heard the voice of God: “These are my treasures. You are highly favored to work with them. Handle with care.”
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John Kerr and his wife Ruth have given leadership to Trans-Africa Theological College, Kitwe, Zambia for seven years. Prior to Zambia, John and Ruth pastored in Canada for twenty-five years; they have two grown sons and five grandchildren. John is the author of In the Cleft of the Rock (Thomas Nelson).
EMQ, Vo. 40, No. 2, pp. 216-217. Copyright © 2004 Evangelism and Missions Information Service (EMIS). All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced or copied in any form without written permission from EMIS.
