Homework cop-out

This last week was Fall Break, and I was very busy doing absolutely NOTHING. Well that's not true. I got half way through the first chapter of Martin Luther's "Bondage of the Will" and I am supposed to read to Chapter 4 by Tuesday. (I actually forgot about it until last night. Hehe. Woops) and some reading done that is due on Monday, so that's good. However, most of my week was spent getting to know new friends, playing Ultimate Frisbee (and winning), going Contra-dancing (and loving it), trying meatloaf for the first time (yes, the first time in my entire life to have meatloaf. It was actually fairly good), trying not to get this dratted cold that I now have and getting updated in oodles of 'girltalk.'
All that to say, I SHOULD have plenty to write about, however I am not entirely sure how much to broadcast all over the internet on this blog. Therefore, I shall simply put an article from my dearly beloved "Anthropological insights for missionaries" book, which is being used for another class of mine this year. (apparently this college thinks Paul Hiebert had something edifying to say to the Missiological world. Who'd a thunk. Just kidding. The funny thing is that he was my Dad's professor a long long time ago in a Galaxy far far away...) I readily admit this is a blogging cop-out. I'm not always thrilled when my friend's post articles on their blogs when I'm looking for a friendly update on their life. However, my brain is frazzled from four hours of work and this ding-dang cold, and I'll write a profound little blurb-summery at the end of the article. Enjoy or else. (warning to any home-school mothers who may be reading the blog: there is some brief mention of pagan rites and cannabalism. Nothing graphic, just enough to cause little ears to ask questions.)

Kalonda of Kangate
Paul B. Long

The African sun poured upon us as we climbed the mountain path to the village among the trees. The people of Kangate, in the wild Babindi section of the central Congo, had seldom seen a white man. Excited cries greeted me and my three Congolese friends as we entered the dusty country to answer a strange request from an old chieftain among these isolated people.
Several days previously a runner had appeared at our mission station. "Teller of the Word," the runner had said, "Chief Kalonda wants to talk with you."
"What does this old rascal want to see me about?" I wondered, and the question remained in my mind as we drove with difficulty through the mountainous country over dangerous roads. Now at last we would know.
In the shade of the chieftain's hut, surrounded by the smaller huts of several wives, a very aged, emaciated man sat, wraped in an old blanket. THis broken, sick, old chieftain, enthroned on a cross-legged stool bedecked with leopard skin, lifted a feeble hand and greeted us with the customary salutations of the land. "Muouo wenu - life to you."
"Wuoyo webe," we replied, "life to you."
I remembered the tales I had heard of this once-powerful chieftan. Twenty years ago Kalonda was feared and respected for a hundred miles or more around his realm. As a ruler, bold and savage, he freely excercised he power of life and death over his subjects, and death or slavery over his captives. His renown as a chieftain was surpassed only by his great power as a medicine man. Leaders came from distant villages to buy his charms and cures.
One day the chief of a neighboring realm, Kasenda of the Balubal people, arrived in the village of Kangate. The visiting chieftan was worried and needed help.
"I have killed the money messenger of the Mission and taken the money he was carrying to their preachers and teachers," he recounted. "now the dead man has come to life and returned to the white men to tell what I have done. Ive me medicine to make me invisible when the soldiers come!"
"Return to your country," replied Kalonda. "Get twelve she goats, six young, strong women, ten spears and ten knives, then come back to buy my medicine. This is my price for medicine powerful enough to make you invisible."
Complaining of the high cost of this protection, Chief Kasenda returned to Balubal to round up goats, women and weapons.
Chief Kalonda proceeded in the meantime to compound his promised medicine. Sending out his bodyguard, he directed the capture of a young woman from a neighboring tribe. She was brought before the cheif. With elaborate ritual the chief's warriors cut off the captive's head, which was needed for Kalonda's "invisible charm" Cannibal ritual was involved in the proceedings. ON the appointed day, the medicine was presented, the goats and women and wapons were exchanged, and the deal closed to the satisfaction of both leaders.
When the soldiers arrived several weeks later to capture the ruler of the Balubal, Kasenda quietly entered his hut, picked up the head that would make him invisible, and stepped out into his courtyard to laugh at the baggled troops who would not be able to see him. To his suprise, anger, and consequent regret, they surrounded him, bound him securely, and marched him off to the white man's jail. Still holding his high-priced medicine, Kasenda became enraged with his former friend, Kalonda, whose charm had failed. He cursed Kalonda and gave his name as the murdere of the woman whose head he held in his hands. Kalonda, too, was arrested.
Fifteen seasons ran their courses thereafter, and the peoples of the Babinda and Balubal had all but forgotten their former chieftans. Condemned at first to die in jail, both of them were saved when their executions were three times postponed; finally the sentances were changed to fifteen years in prison at hard labor. To the chieftans, this judment was as harsh as death.
Now, released after fifteen years of captivity, old Kalonda had at last come home to die. I looked across the council ring at this old man, remembering what I knew of those years of the past. After the customary silence of respect, I began the conversation:
"Nfumu, Chieftan, your runner says you want to talk with me. I have come. What do you want?"
Kalonda's reply startled me. "Tell me about the white man's God."
"The God I follow is not a white man's God. He is the Father of the New Tribe, HIs people. Jesus Christ is the great Chieftan of the New Tribe, and He accepts anyone who will follow Him. My friends here are also members of the New Tribe. They will tell you about it." And I turned to my Congolese colleagues who really understood the battle old Kalonda was facing. One of my companions was an old witch doctor turned Christian and now an effective pastor among his people. I accompanied with deep concern the battle taking place between the powers that are real and the liberation which is possible.
Copper charm bracelets adorned the once-strong spear arm of the old chief.
"You still trust in your medicine," observed Pastor Mutombo. "Why do you ask about another God?"
With great reluctance, the old man slipped the bracelets from his arm, dropped them in the dust, and said, "Now tell me, 'Teller of the Word,' about your powerful God."
With those copper bands lying at our feet, I began to realize something of the price he was having to pay for what he asked. He had just renounced his potency, and I heard him mutter, "I used to have eight good, strong wives, and all but three old ones ran away while I was in jail. All I have left are old women who are too weak to work."
My eyes followed his glance toward three old women crouched close to a nearby hut. Theywere agitatedly mubling to each other and evidently unhappy with the events taking place.
"Your medicine couldn't hold your women while you were gone?" the pastor questioned; and he answered with a grunt.
"Now," the pastor continued, "the war medicine on your belt shows where you look for power."
After a long, thoughtful pause, the old warrior cut the small skin bag from his belt and dropped it in the dust.
"Now the 'counter-hex' packet at your neck." The old man put a trembling hand to the thong around his neck. This little charm held his protection against all his enemies and made their magic of no power. Silently we waited until, at length, he broke the thong and let his 'security' fall at our feet. Grunts of respect for his courage echoed around the ring of watching tribesmen.
"Your Buanga bua Bunfumu," the pastor reminded, "your medicine of chieftainship."
Wearily Kalonda arose, entered his hut and returned with a large antelope horn filled with assurance of his power over his people. (I have never been sure just what makes up such powers, but I have been told that horns hold bits of hair, the eye of a frog, the tooth of a lion, and the claw of a bird.) Lightning medicine followed, and a host of other protective charms which give forest people some respite from their constant fear of living.
"This is all the protection I have" Kalonda said. But the pastor was evidently waiting for another, more costly surrendur. "Now get your 'life charm,' Kalonda, and I will tell you about the God of the New Tribe."
The old man tremble, broke out in perspiration shook his head and wrapped his tattered blanket across his bony chest. The three old wives had remonstrated with his renunciation of his medicines, and, with this last demand, they commenced the death wail, and started tossing dust in the air over their heads. At this acknowledgement of his impending death, Kalonda roused from his fearful relfections, re-entered his hut, and returned with a little packet of skins. With all the dignity of a great leader, he silenced the wailing wives and surveyed his council ring.
"Teller of the Word," he said, holding out his little packet in his bony hands, "you have asked for the life of Kalonda! THis medicine has protected my life from all my enemies for many years. Many still live who hate me and have curses on my life. When I throw down this medicine all their curses will fall on me, my spirits will withdraw their protection, and I will die. But Kalonda is not afraid to die."
As the packet dropped in the dust, the old chieftain straightened to his full height, lifted his old eyes to the distant hills, and waited for death. We sat in silence as the seconds grew into minutes and tension mounted in the ring of onlookers who waited for their cheif to die.
After a long while, the old chief looked at us, and his lips parted in a relieved grin. "I'm still alive! Kalonda has not been struck dead!"
It took a long time to answer questions from old Kalonda and his people. Questions about the GOd, he said, he had always feared but never known. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the old chieftain arose with dignity before his people. In a quiet, confident voice he announced,
"Kalonda has a new cheiftain. I follow 'Yesu Kilisto' and He will help me across the river, lead me through the dark forest, and take me to His village where I can sit with His people. I belong to the New Tribe. Kalonda wants all his people to follow Nfumu Yesu, (Chieftain Jesus), and go with HIm to the Village of God.
Not many days after my visit to the Kangate, a messenger arrived with the brief report,
"Kalonda has gone on his journey to meet his new Chief."


I find it interesting that the pastor made the old cheif renounce all his old ways before even beginning to start telling him the good news. What a contrast to a society that is so "seeker friendly' and so afraid to 'offend' anyone or 'scare them away from the Gospel'
If we used the approach the pastor did with the old witch-doctor chieftain, maybe we'd see more authentic disciples and a change in our deteriorating society than we are currently. Just a thought.

~Princess Ouch~