Pastor Jean-Claude

It was eight in the evening and darkness had settled thickly over the rural community outside Kinshasa. The ever-present noises always seemed more ominous after dark. The young pastor in training was exhausted. Today he had had to walk the eight kilometres to the school of missiology and back. Tomorrow again he would have to at least walk there. He hoped he could find the taxi fare back.

As he sank into his thin foam mattress, his sole comfort, the pillow beckoned. But no; I must thank God for the day and pray for the future first. He forced himself to a sitting position to observe his daily ritual and reflected on God’s goodness. He had provided the funds to study at the school of missiology. He had provided a house with cheap rent in walking distance of the school. He had provided a meal that day, and nutritious, beans and rice. His first church plant had helped him with these things. He thought to the future: three years to graduation. He would have his degree and could continue his work as an evangelist. He knew where; God had called him to a rural community in another part of Kinshasa.

He was a church-planter. He had started the last church, but once it became established he felt he had to move on. He handed off the reins to another pastor and moved on to the school of missiology. He came to this neighbourhood out of necessity; this was a rough neighbourhood. Poverty and hopelessness was strong here. Crime was a huge problem. Traditional animist religion was the only religion in this area. He knew how hard it was to pull people out of the cycle of fear that this religion brought. He had no family in this community; he was a stranger. What could he do here? They would not accept him, or his message of hope. He thought longingly for the time when he would be finished his degree and could move from this place.

He knelt down beside his bed. “Lord Jesus Christ…”

                                                                                           . . .

BANG BANG BANG…

The noise woke him suddenly. It was his door and he heard crying and yelling outside.

He looked at his phone: three in the morning. He rolled over and hoped they would go away. What could they want? His mind went to the worst places. He did not know who the witch-doctor was in this neighbourhood, but he could be certain that he or she knew who he was.

The banging on the door was insistent. He said a quick prayer and went to answer it.

“Pastor, pastor!” the man exclaimed between sobs, “come with me!”

“What do you want?” he replied, as he looked at the man and woman – obviously distraught – standing outside his door. He recognized them as his neighbours.

“It is my daughter! She has died. You must pray for her!”

He paused. Dead? he thought. What do they want me to do?

“Bring her to the morgue if she is dead.”

The woman grabbed his hand and cried into it, “Pastor, you are a man of God! You have power; you must pray for her, bring her back!”

“I have no power. Only Jesus has power.”

“Pray for her; pray for her; pray for her,” the woman repeated into his hands.

His heart broke for them; tears welled up in his eyes. He felt compelled: pray for her. But the voice of reason spoke up: pray for her? How ridiculous. Preposterous! Nothing will happen, I will look like a fool for praying for this dead child, any credibility I had in this community will be gone forever.

The man and the woman demanded again that he come pray for her. Again, he insisted, “Bring her to the morgue.” And the other voice continued: pray for her.

. . .

He walked across the path to his neighbour’s house.

What am I doing? Fear gripped him. His heart was pounding. What if nothing happens?

He entered the house and saw the young girl lying on a bed. She lay limp, lifeless. Neither his past as a preacher or his first few months of missiology school had prepared him for this. Lord Jesus Christ, be with me in this time. Be with this young girl. You have conquered death. I know you have the power to heal this child.

What am I doing? It’s not too late; I can still tell the family that this child is dead; there is nothing I can do, that they must bring her to the morgue. I can still save my pride.

He knelt down beside the child, as the members of her family cried around him. He took her hand; it was cold and unresponsive. “Lord Jesus Christ…”

. . .

A few days later, at six-thirty in the morning, he departed from his house. He looked to his left, down the mountain into the valley below as it was lit up brilliantly by the morning sun. He breathed deeply of the fresh morning air; rainfall during the night had cleared the smog and cooled the tropical climate. He looked across at the mountain on the other side and took notice of the beauty of it, the lush greenness of the trees, the creek winding its way down into the valley, the shadow cast on it from the mountain he was on, as the shadow slowly disappeared as the sun emerged.

He turned and started up the mountain, briefcase in hand, on his way to school. Just ahead he noticed a group of people. He recognized a few, but did not know any of them.

“Pastor, Pastor!” the group shouted and came to him as he walked towards them.

“We have heard that you raised a girl from the dead! Please, heal us with your power!”

He had not expected this, but reflecting on the circumstances of the momentous night a few days past, he was not surprised.

“I have no power. It is only through Jesus, it is not me.”

“Then pray to Jesus for me, I know you can heal me!” cried one of them, and the others agreed.

“I am going to school now, I must hurry. Come back tonight and I will pray for you.”

“No, no! Pray for us now, just lay your hands on us, it doesn’t have to be long, we know you can heal us.”

“It is Jesus who heals, not I,” he repeated thoughtfully. Again, his heart broke for this group. He remembered back to the night. He had been as amazed as any when the young girl opened her eyes and stood up. He waited with her for hours, until he had to leave, worried that she would just fall over dead again. But she did not die. In fact, she could not have been healthier.

He looked around, saw in these people faith to be healed. Maybe Jesus will heal them. He relented: he prayed aloud, “Lord Jesus Christ, please heal these people today.” He went around, laying his hand on each of them: “In the name of Jesus, be healed.” He did not feel any power in himself. Again, he felt a bit ridiculous.

But as he finished laying his hands on the last of them, the first began to rejoice. Praising God, the man exclaimed, “thank you Jesus! I am healed!”

. . .

There were seven of us; the five “trekkers” – John, Mark, Deanna, Marina and Monica – and two of our friends, Sathoud and Jeffrey. Jeffrey would help translate at the church, from English to French, and there would be another translator from French to Lingala. We took two taxis to UPN, where we met our pastor and host, Jean-Baptiste, at the large outdoor market. The highway runs through UPN, but after this it is all dirt roads. We walked through the market, noticing an unusual lack of vendors; the police have been going through the markets recently, evicting all the outdoor “illegal” vendors. Still, there are thousands of people here, occupying some of the wooden, makeshift stalls.

We hurry down the path, to the area where we can take a taxi to the church. Ten of us pile into the old Land Rover. It takes us down an increasingly narrow road, and we witness the amazing erosion that can happen so quickly on the dirt roads that have no drainage built in. Twenty feet above us there are little tin shacks, home to families, on the edge of a precipice. We drive over sand bags and little concrete paths that will hopefully stop the erosion. The path is ridiculously steep; we are amazed that we are actually going down this road, but the driver knows his route and the Land Rover handles the sand, the steep, and the bumps just fine.

We arrive at the taxi stop and embark on the final leg of the journey, another kilometre down a path to the church. There are some concrete houses here, but the majority are small tin shacks. The poverty in Kinshasa is always remarkable, heart-breaking.  As we walk down the path, the faint rhythmic beating of the drums, the tam-tams, begin to arise. I gaze down the mountainside into the valley below, to the mountain on the other side, the tin roofs speckled across it, and the trees that dominate it. I wonder if there is any infrastructure there, what the inhabitants do for water, if they have to climb all the way up this mountain to get food and supplies. I cannot see any roads to it, and certainly there are no vehicle-worthy roads coming from this side of the mountain. I look around and notice the beauty of the mountainside. I am amazed how this soil that just looks like sand and will erode so quickly, devastatingly can sprout up such greenery, be so fertile.

As we come nearer to the church, the drum beats grow louder, the beautiful singing emerges, and we see the church. It is a lean-to type structure; the tin roof covers maybe 2000 square feet, with no walls. It has a fence made from tarps woven together, a wind-break against the sands.

The pastor greets us warmly, “My name is Pastor Jean-Claude, welcome!” He turns to Jean-Baptiste, embraces him and laughs. “He is my teacher! I am his last student,” he says, still smiling. Pastor Jean-Baptiste is a professor at the school of missiology, and Pastor Jean-Claude has studied there for the last three years, just having graduated in the last couple months.

We walk into the sanctuary as the congregation sings and dances. It is incredible, powerful, and beautiful. I am struck by the diversity of the congregation. Often in the rural churches we have been to, or even in some of the bigger churches in Kinshasa, there are far more women than men, and more older than young. But here, there is a wide range, from young to old, men and women. Everyone is clapping and dancing and singing.

Mark preaches a sermon on Ephesians, translated to two different languages, and he receives much applause, whistles and shouts of “amen” throughout. The five “trekkers” sing, accompanied by guitar, with much applause also. After the service everyone greets us and thanks us for coming.

We sit in the shade of a tree and are served peanuts and “banyay” (like a fritter) – appetizers before the meal. I am always amazed at the hospitality the churches show us. The meal would be served in the house later, a smorgasbord: two kinds of fish, chicken, pondu (made from the leaves of the cassava plant), foo foo (made from the roots of the cassava plant), beans, and rice.

Sitting under the shade of the tree, enjoying the appetizers, the pastor tells us the story that I related above. I am struck by his humility; he takes no credit for the miracles, and is frank about his own doubts at the time of the event. Looking around at the church, the congregation, I am amazed at what God has done here. Pastor Jean-Claude had no intention of evangelizing in this community. He did not see hope this place, with its traditional animist religion, witchcraft, and high crime. But God had other plans, and because he listened to God on that dark night three years ago, this congregation has sprung up and grown, beginning with that one family and those few people that were healed a few days later, and cultivated by our Lord Jesus Christ into a thriving church.