The three of us sat, waiting, under
the rickety parapet shielded from the already intense morning sun. We were
waiting for our laundry, laid out on the sparse and withering courtyard grass
to dry, when Abraham Mbwana approached. He greeted us with the traditional
Swahili, “Hamjambo sana”. “Salama”, I replied! Abraham wore the Muslim “topi”
on his head.
“May I show you something?” he
asked. “Sure”, we said. A dirty old handkerchief, tied at the corners, pulled
from a pocket in Abraham’s cut off trousers, was laid out on the table. Once
untied several coins fell onto the scratched and stained plastic surface. I
picked one up turning it in my hand for inspection - 1 Heller, Deutsch
Ostafrika, 1907. Our new friend hoped to sell us some German colonial coins,
lost for nearly a century, that he had found.
I love history, particularly the
history of the countries where we work, so I overpaid Abraham for three small
coins. Satisfied with his business transaction Abraham went back to his work as
a day laborer in the courtyard of the small hotel in central Tanzania.
Several minutes passed and Abraham
approached again. This time a very different question. “Will you come to my
home and pray for my son?” he asked. With a smile of understanding and a
hastily muttered, “Thank you, Father”, I replied, “Who do you think that we
are?” “Watu wa Mungu”, he said. "You are men of God." “Yes”, I said, “we
are. How can we pray for you?” “My son has been bitten by a snake. If he does
not get better, he may die.”
As Abraham Mbwana,
a desperate father, pleaded with me, a “masungu” - a white man, and an infidel according to his Islamic
tradition, I knew what was about to happen.
Twenty minutes later a shirtless and
shoeless Abraham, now settled into the back seat of our little car, directed us
across a series of dirt roads to his home. The weathered and deteriorating mud
bricks of the building, nearly washed away each year during the rainy season,
barely supported the perforated and oxidized metal roof.
“This way,” he said. The hallway,
illuminated only by open doorways at either end and tiny rays of light emanating
from cracks and pin holes in the roof, split the musty building at midpoint. A
group of women and children, gathered around a charcoal pot, sat on the ground
at the far end. Abraham gestured and we followed him through an open door.
“These are my sons,” he said. The two boys
were on a large bed pushed up against a mud wall in the single room apartment. One
sat and the other lay beside him. The tiny boy who sat, huddled against his
brother for comfort and security, immediately began to cry. “Where is their
mother?”, I asked. “She died last year,” he said.
“Why did you ask us to come here?”, I
said.
“I want you to pray for Juma,” he said.
“Abraham”, I asked, “Does your Imam ever
come to pray with you?”
“No,” he said.
“Then why do you, a Muslim, want us to
pray for you?”
“I have heard that, through Jesus, people
have been getting back their life through healing,” he replied.
“Who do you think that Jesus is?”, I
asked.
“He was a good prophet.”
“If he was just a good prophet how could
he heal anyone?”
There was no answer.
“Mohamed wrote that Jesus was a good
prophet and that everyone should listen to him. If Mohamed said to listen to
Jesus do you think that Jesus was a liar?”
“No”, he said.
“Abraham”, I explained, “ the truth is
that Jesus is much more than just a good prophet. He told us who He is. He is
the Son of God. That is why He is able to heal the sick”.
Over the next several minutes Abraham
heard the gospel.
“Abraham, una mwamini Yesu Kristo?”, I
asked. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?”
“Ndiyo”, he said! “Yes”!
“Are you ready to change?” I asked.
“Ndiyo.”
A prayer, led by Pastor Reuben, the
Overseer of our churches in East Africa…and in that instant, Abraham placed his
trust in Jesus Christ, and moved from the kingdom of darkness into the
marvelous Kingdom of Light.
The smiling father spoke, Juma moved to
the edge of the bed, and began to remove the filthy rages wrapped around his
foot and ankle. I had noticed the awful smell when we first entered the tiny
room. Now, as the covering was removed, I nearly gagged. Rotting flesh on the
swollen ankle revealed what I had hoped that I would not see. “Father,” I
prayed, “if you do not heal Juma of this infection, he will die.”
I knew that the boy had been listening to
everything that had been shared with his father. “Juma,” I asked, “do you
believe that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, can heal you?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do you know that you have a much bigger
problem than your foot?”
He just looked at me.
Another gospel presentation including sin,
and wrath, and mercy and grace.
“God’s Word says that if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord
and believe in your heart that God raised him from the
dead, you will be saved.”
Another prayer, this time for temporal and
eternal healing.
“Juma”, I asked, “Una mwamini Yesu
Kristo?”
“Yes”, he said. And Juma, a boy first born
into Islam, was “born again” and became my brother in Christ.
For the next one half hour we talked about
God’s Word and about His Son. We talked about what it means to be a Christian.
We talked about how hard it might be for them to follow Christ.
The heat, carried on the wind that blew
through the open windows, told us that midday had almost passed. One final prayer
with these new Christians and it was time to go. I turned to step across the
threshold but my way was blocked. The
women, once gathered at the far end of the passage, were not sitting just
outside the door.
A young woman rose and said, “My name is
Hadija. Will you pray for me?”
With a smile I replied, “Who do you think
that we are?”
“I see that you are men of God.”
“Yes,” I said, “we are.”
“I am not able to feed my baby the way I
should,” she said. As she spoke she pulled up her blouse revealing an open soar
on her breast.
“O God,” I wondered, “is that cancer?”
Once again, in that Muslim household, the
gospel was clearly and openly presented.
And Hadija also became my sister in
Christ.
In a remote courtyard, in a tiny hotel
that we had never planed to visit, on a rode that rarely saw a car, God used
three small coins that had once been lost, to put in motion a series of divine
events. Events that led to the redemption of three lost Muslims that I never
would have met.
“…you shall receive power when
the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be My witnesses both in
Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and even to the remotest part of the
earth." (Acts 1:8)
He is greatly to be praised.
Endnote:
Three times we tried to leave the house of
Abraham, Juma and Hadija that day. Each time, I had an overwhelming feeling
that God was not finished with us yet. Three times God called us back. First to
share with others. Second to take them Bibles. Third to take them food.
Mark Maynard
Handini, Tanzania 2012
