Be a Pastor

Baptized Children and their parents at Kisanfu church

Back in 1997, Bishop Ntambo called me to Kamina for a week of new missionary orientation to the North Katanga Episcopal Area. I would be the second missionary to be given an orientation by indigenous church leaders, rather than by other missionaries.

(The first was a delightful young Frenchman with whom I would have bug eating contests. He always won. I never liked the grubs. Termites are pretty good. Spiders are mixed. The legs are crunchy like the termites, but the middles are gooey like the grubs. But that's another story.)

Anyway, at the orientation, one older Congolese pastor looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're a pastor, be a pastor." So I followed pastors on their rounds in the villages and to the morgues. I discovered a whole world only pastors know. I also fell in love with the most dedicated and caring pastors on the planet, doing their work in the most difficult of conditions.

Then came the war. And these same pastors stayed in their village appointments, to continue in ministry to those they were called to serve. We lost many pastors, pastors' spouses and children, in that war, not as combatants but as those who stayed to serve. Those pastors, like our own Pastor Kora, became heroic peace builders, simply because that's what pastors who stay in the village during a war do.

So, when District Superintendent Masimongo said that we would be traveling around his district baptizing, I shifted gladly from missiologist to pastor. The first two days of our six week adventure has been a beautiful adventure in pastoring.

While no one does evangelism better than the North Katanga pastors, these baptisms were more pastoral than evangelistic. Not only did we baptize, but we also served communion, blessed homes, and visited the sick. The theme of this year's adventure is quickly becoming like last year's: Visit those who need a visit.

As Pastor Mulongo prepared me for officiating a baptism in Swahili, I allowed that he should read the long portion that includes the questions to the parents. He insisted that I use Swahili (not translated English) for the act of baptism.

The parents brought the babies and small children. Candles were lighted for each child. The questions were asked and the response: "Ndiyo. (Yes) Then I took the babies one at a time into my arms, stumbled over the name, and scooping up a handful of water said, "(Name), ninakubaptisa kwa jina la baba, na la mwana, na la roho mutakatifu." And all said, "Amen."

As I applied the water to the head of the first baby, the daughter of the pastor, I instinctively gave her a kiss on the top of her forehead. And continued the practice through all the babies. Then came the "stragglers." These were older children, those who had not received baptism as babies, but were still too young to chose it for themselves. (Please, my Baptist friends -Tom and Dick, and most of my family, you know who you are, let go of the theological argument and appreciate the beauty of the moment.)

The families who brought babies for baptism were dressed in their Sunday best. Their babies were clean and shining, in special dresses or blankets. They were easy to kiss. But then, a young boy was brought whose feet and legs were severely deformed. He had to be placed before me. He had not received a bath before this service or maybe in his life. Things were happening very quickly, but I don't think that he was brought by parents, but rather by church leaders. As all those before, I baptized him with water on his head, then bent over and kissed the mud that was now his hair. I could do no other.

It is a beautiful thing to see the church be the church. It is a special privilege to be that child's pastor and also to be pastor to all those families with all those beautiful babies.

Bob
Tenke