“And that, friends, is how I met a night dancer.”
Jeremy Schmitz, one of the staff for Come Let’s Dance, had just finished telling us a story of how during one of his trips to Uganda, he met what was called a “night dancer,” a male witch doctor who danced and chanted curses before him.
He told this story to my new friends and I in Kaliro, a remote Ugandan village, which made the reality of seeing such a wicked man even more likely.
Yet, like all “good Mzungus,” everyone quickly reverted to conversation, laughter, and talking about various aspects of the first world in a third world base camp.
As you can probably surmise, I did not stay inside very long. Just like I am now, I wasn’t very good at small-talk with “Mzungus.” So, I silently went outside to gaze at the “fireflies” in the “big bluish black thing” above me. I then retreated to an area of dirt by a welcoming tree, where I had spent time writing words in the sand with orphans, playing “futbol” and reading my Bible.
I stopped for a moment, took a breath of the Ugandan air, began to pray.
It was then I heard a voice.
“Ja-cob, come follow me.”
I quickly froze. Where was that voice coming from? It sounded deep, like an older Ugandan male. Yet, it was mainly children who visited the area where we stayed.
It did not take me very long to remember Who said those words to a few fishermen so long ago, and who would say or send an agent of his to distort such holy words.
And it was this which caused me to walk back to camp.
When I lived in Steamboat, I always loved to go to movies, just like I do now.
One of the places I frequently visited there, while waiting for a movie to start, was Wal-Mart.
Yesterday, I went to Wal-Mart here in Fort Collins and while I walked to the doors, it felt so much like being at home.
Little did I know, I was to be reminded even more of home yesterday, even if just for a moment.
While preparing to leave the store, a random black guy and his toddler son came up to me.
He asked me if I believed in Jesus and in Him coming again a second time.
I responded, “Yes, I do.”
Then he asked me if I believed in prophecy.
I said, “I’m for learning about prophecy, but my mental illness tends to get in the way of me doing much more about it.”
After a few more words, he invited me to a bible study. I said I would go and that he could give me a ride.
As I walked out of the doors, past the Redbox and soda machines, into the sunlight, I felt chills, such chills that reminded me of what I felt in the village in Uganda, so many times at Aunt Sarah’s house, and any time I thought of Africa.
I then thought of how God had a purpose for me, and how Africa tended to play a huge role in it. “If a black guy invited me to a study, to talk about prophecy, and if I’m feeling this way, something must be going on!” I thought.
Then last night, the guy from Wal-Mart came and got me. While he asked me questions in the car, and I began to wonder if he was a part of a cult, I remembered that I could be paranoid and to just trust that God was not making a mistake here.
We arrived at the house where his church was meeting. As the car stopped, I was nervous because it looked like a frat-house and I was not about to put up with those kind of guys.
Yet, as soon as we opened the door, I stood back in amazement. It was like the house was a “Narnian” gateway to a house in Uganda. From the walls, to the stairs, to each room, even the sink with dishes, if there were only flies above them, this house would fit right in Uganda.
The man who invited me then gave me a hearty and delicious meal of waffles and eggs and his toddler son gave me a popsicle, along with scissors to open it. As he said, “You’re always welcome here,” I felt like I was back in Uganda. I didn’t have to imagine it anymore.
A few moments later, however, a “Mzungu” not much older than me, came in to “disciple” me, as the guy who invited me said.
It did not take me very long, to walk in to the main room, with the walls filled with pamphlets or to listen to the “Mzungu” preach, that I was right back in Wal-Mart, when I was initially invited to the study.
These people were a part of a cult.
I stayed for a few minutes, tried to listen, said what I believed. Yet, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I lied, said I was sick, and then the guy who invited me took me home.
As soon as I got home, the grief came.
I wanted it to be real. When I sensed the Holy Spirit outside Wal-Mart yesterday, I wanted to believe something supernatural was possible. I wanted to believe God was about to do something grand and spectacular. Selfishly, I wanted to be finally freed of schizophrenia and all my struggles.
Yet, just like in that village almost three years ago, in a land almost 9,000 miles away, I remembered something.
There is nothing more true than the Word of God.
It helped me flee from the danger of remote African darkness. And last night, while a man stood before me, distorting scripture, the words he misinterpreted shone from the pages, brighter than any “light-saber” and “sharper than any two edged sword.”
The bible I brought to last night’s study, was the same bible I brought that trip to Africa, and the very same one I brought to the mental hospital in Bossier City, LA, just over 11 years ago.
I will say right now, that it, and all of the other bibles I have, could be much, much more used!
So, in turn, I don’t think it was a mistake, nor do I think it was a random occurrence, that I showed up at that house church last night. For it took just a few minutes for me to truly realize the importance of what I was and am so not reading enough of: His Holy and precious Word.
Hebrews 4:12 NIV
For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.
Until Next Time,
Jacobo
The Adventures of A Warrior 