“Tssssst!”

1) The other day, I was speaking to my friend, Prisca. In front of our house, at the bottom of a slope, there is a well to which children are sent throughout the day to collect water. They carry large plastic “gallons” on their heads, in preparation for cooking, bathing, or washing “dresses.” One afternoon, I encountered a group of kids, one being Prisca, a five-year-old girl with attitude. I grabbed her gallon and carried it on my head as I talked with her and her siblings. I told them that I wanted to help, which everyone appreciated except for Prisca. She hid behind her brother, Suri, and started yelling at me. “You will give me my gallon!” I tried to explain I was just trying to help, but she started to cry, so I gave it back to her. Her brother and sisters found it hilarious. I grabbed Suri’s gallon as a replacement, and accompanied them to their house. Later, I asked Suri why Prisca was afraid of me, and he said she thought I was going to “catch her and beat her.” A white monster, I guess.

Anyway, since then, Prisca has warmed up to me. Yesterday, she let me carry her gallon halfway to her house, a favor for which I was grateful. While I was walking and talking with her and Suri, I noticed a long black scar on Prisca’s cheek. I asked Suri where it came from (Prisca’s English is respectable, but not great). He said that their mother beat her. I asked more, and he chuckled, saying that Prisca would not go get water, so their mother threw her against the wall. (Suri is only a year or two older than Prisca, maybe six-years-old.)

It’s been on my mind since he told me about it. It sounds so cruel; yet here, it’s culturally acceptable. I asked my students about it, and the reaction was mixed. Some said it’s not right, while others had no qualms over it. I tried to explain the difference between punishing a child out of anger or hate, and disciplining a child in love. Fortunately, I saw enough heads nod that I felt like I had plenty of supporters.

2) Last Saturday, one of the grounds men showed me the water system here. He showed me where they tap water from the ground, and then the large room where the water is then filtered by osmosis. Of course, this filtration room is unlocked; anyone can go down there and fulfill any mischief he fancies. Then, I was shown the pipe that leads to the water pump, which sends the water to the holding tank. Again, not surprisingly, the pipe has two major leaks, releasing water that I would love for my morning showers.

3) I was flipping through my faithful dictionary the other day, trying to find some word from Gilead, and in the process, I made a discovery. Since we arrived in Cameroon, we hear almost daily from someone who’s suffering from “katar,” which is the same as a cold in the states: runny nose, sore throat, and general discomfort. Charlie, Wes, and I had assumed all this time that calling this condition “katar” was just another African/Cameroonian peculiarity. And then I discovered in my trusty Oxford “catarrh”—“inflammation of a mucous membrane; especially: one chronically affecting the human nose and air passages.” Catarrh...who knew? Africa is like the land of opportunity for English vocabulary: no matter what its background in the West, a word can find a home out here.

4) Alcohol is such a big deal among the seminary’s denomination that students will often screen out or censor anything that might suggest a possible allowance for alcohol in the Bible. In my New Testament class today, we discussed 1st Corinthians, and after class, a student named Gershom asked about Paul’s writing about the Lord’s Supper. “It says that some of the Corinthian Christians were becoming drunk. Does this mean they were…[awkward, groping pause]…drinking…water?” I just gave him a look, and, smiling, told him I wasn’t going to answer that.

5) An unfortunate story from about a month ago. I was walking by the female dormitory, and wanted to wave hello to a student. I made a sound to get her attention—a “tssss!” sound I had heard other Cameroonians use. When she turned around, smiling sheepishly, and said, “Thank you,” I was a bit frightened. When I later found out that in some parts of Cameroon, that sound is used to…ahem…compliment women…I was horrified. If that’s not a classic/type stupid-Western-missionary story, I don’t know what is.

6) Here are a couple pictures I took as I administered a Greek exam today.

--tg

Baptism service at Calvary Baptist Church, Njimntoh

Here are some pictures from the baptism service. The man baptizing and leading the procession is Pastor Benjamin Ndzi, the head pastor of Calvary Baptist. (This is the church where Tommy and I worship, about a half-hour walk from the CBTS campus.)

The picture of Tommy and me was taken right outside the church building.

Wes, for the team

A baptism service, a Super Bowl party, and the familiar routine

It’s been an eventful week. Last Sunday the church that Tommy and I attend---Calvary Baptist in the small village or quarter of Ndu called Njimntoh---had a baptism service. It lasted five hours, and, I’ll be honest, I felt drained and exhausted afterwards. But it was really moving and worshipful and encouraging as well. It started with a gathering at the church building. Then we processed along a dusty road to a small stream that church members had dammed up the day before, creating a murky, grayish pool. In the water were two crudely constructed archways made out of saplings. We found out once we got there on Sunday morning that the pastor, Benjamin Ndzi, stood in between those arches and those being baptized stepped into the pool through one and exited through the other.

There was a short sermon, some singing, and then seven people were baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Onlookers heading to market or just strolling along the main road gawked at us. The fon (=traditional ruler) of Ndu showed up with a noisy entourage and sat uphill from the pool on a patch of brownish grass to watch. We ended with a prayer dedicating these newly-baptized Christians to God and processed back to the church, singing loudly all the way and stirring up a cloud of dust.

Back at the church I got to preach the morning’s (second!) sermon. I preached from Romans 6:3-4 about the new life in Christ. I brought a plastic kitchen glove from our house to use as an illustration. “Without my hand inside of it, this glove cannot lift a finger,” I said. The church was packed---much more so than it usually is. People were standing outside listening through the windows, and my friend Tamfu Dieudonne even came to show his support for me as I preached, which was encouraging. “But when I put my hand in the glove,” I went on, “the glove comes to life. It can wave and wiggle its fingers and pick things up.” I tried to explain that baptism signifies the transformation that God works in spiritually dead people. He takes lifeless people and grants them a new kind of resurrection life in Christ. They die with Christ, are buried with him, and are raised to walk in “newness of life,” and they receive the indwelling Spirit (Romans 8).

Many, or most, of the Christians at this church are uneducated and illiterate village farmers. I wanted so badly to communicate with them, so I tried to speak in short sentences and use clear wording, hoping my friend Theodore who was translating my sermon into the local tribal dialect would be able to follow it for himself and make it accessible for those who have trouble following my English. I received some encouraging feedback afterwards. I’m glad I had the opportunity.

The next morning the three of us plus our friend Ally left for an overnight visit to the village of Mbingo, about four hours from CBTS and Ndu. We didn’t tell any of our students that we were going to watch the Super Bowl! Thom and Ellen Schotanus, some BGC missionaries who are involved in construction with Mbingo Baptist Hospital, administering a primary school, and planting a church, live there. They invited us to come since they have a satellite dish that’s able to receive ESPN from South Africa. It was quite a party. We projected the game onto their living room wall. Thom made sweet and sour meatball sandwiches. And we stayed the night in their guest bedrooms afterwards. Needless to say, Tommy was quite happy. It would have been a long car ride back to Ndu---longer and more uncomfortable than it already was, with four of us crammed into a van just a little bigger than a minivan (think Mystery Mobile from Scooby Doo) with eight or nine Cameroonians besides!---if the Colts had lost!!

Well, I think that’s about all for now.

I have two stories in closing, one of encouragement and one of discouragement.

I’ve been able to sponsor several students by paying this semester’s tuition fees for them, which gives me a lot of joy. Thanks to the support of friends and churches in the States, this is possible. One of the students I’m sponsoring is prayer partner. My weekly meetings with him continue to be really life-giving for me. Last week he asked me if I would be willing to guide him in his discipleship as a spiritual mentor, so I think our weekly times together will continue to focus on prayer but will also include more of a mentoring dimension, which I’m quite thrilled about. I gave him a copy of a C. J. Mahaney book today (Living the Cross Centered Life), and I hope it provides good fodder for discussion. I think it will be easily accessible to him and also encouraging and probably helpful to him in future ministry.

By contrast, my Intro to Missions course today was particularly discouraging. Here’s a snapshot of what it can be like to teach here. Last week I assigned a reading from Andrew Walls’ book The Missionary Movement in Christian History. I knew it would be difficult. Walls’ prose is technically excellent and, in my opinion, very graceful and also exciting to read, but for my students, it probably makes them feel the same way I felt trying to read Immanuel Kant for a philosophy class in college. So, I got to class today, and one of my best students was very obviously scowling. About five minutes into my lecture, he blurted out without raising his hand, “Sir, this man [referring to Walls] has no right to write like this. He’s so difficult we can’t understand him.” Then this student proceeded to put his head down on his folded arms and didn’t look up from his desk for the next half hour. Another one of my best students, near the top of the class, looked totally dejected and overwhelmed. I immediately got defensive, then I felt deflated and panicky about whether my students could understand future assignments I have planned, and then just discouraged about which direction I should go with the class, since my syllabus has them reading Walls for the next three weeks, and then after that a piece by Christopher J. H. Wright that will probably be equally discouraging. What to do? I have no idea. Welcome to my life.

I hope to post some pictures from last Sunday’s baptism service in the next couple of days.

The peace of Christ to you,

Wes