Dying in Islam, Rising in Christ

Prologue

WITH THE SOUND OF THE DRUMS pounding in the distance, I quickly picked my way between the terraces of growing maize and sweet potatoes, looking for the shortest path up the hill. The warm morning sun shone full on my face as I repeatedly glanced up the hill towards my goal, the church on the hilltop. With bare feet kicking up the red Rwandan dust, I hastened like I had an appointment to keep, but I had no idea what would await me when I arrived. How could I? A Muslim imam does not typically rush to enter Christian churches.

The deep, regular rhythm of the pounding drum thundered out the call to worship every Sunday morning at 9:30am, announcing that the Christians would soon begin their singing and prayers. It wouldn’t be long before the call and response of their song would mark the moment when their leaders would gather outside the building and walk together into the church, carrying high their cross and banners. Their song, “Tukutendereza Yesu,” would echo down the hillsides, welcoming their people to the praise of Jesus and at the same time provoking the irritation of my people, the Muslims of Gisenyi.

As my legs churned, every few minutes I became suddenly aware of the fact that I was almost naked—wearing only a loin cloth—but the summons of the drum and the vivid memory of his face kept me rushing along. I was climbing the hill in obedience to his irresistible command. Just a short time ago — a little over a half hour earlier — my body had been lying lifeless on a table, washed and prepared for burial. And now the One who had brought me back was compelling me to respond to this call of the drum.

A collage of repeating mental images kept time with the patterned crops. My feet rushed past the deep, dark vines of the tightly clustered yams. I saw his feet, bare beneath the gleaming white robe. Then the vibrant green of maize, with outstretched fronds. I saw again his uplifted hand, gesturing towards me, revealing a hole in his palm. The starry purple and white flowers winking amongst the rich green of the Irish potato plants. There again was his face, steady and calm. His eyes fixed on me. What was the expression? Commanding, serious, smiling, all mingled together. Even as I ran I felt the flush of fear and embarrassment combined with comfort and delight. The drum continued to roll out its upward summons, and in the steady beat I could hear his commanding voice, “Remember.”

Halfway up the hill, I heard the drum joined with voices, “We praise you Jesus, Jesus Lamb of God.” It was their song, the song of their Revival, reminding them of their beginning eighty-five years ago.

I quickened my pace, striving up the steep course. “We praise you Jesus.” Yes, I was going to praise Jesus. I laughed out loud at the irony! The imam running naked to praise the God of his enemies. But I had seen Jesus. And I had seen my real enemies. I had felt the icy clutch of their taloned grip. Whatever any human might do to me, whatever meanness or cruelty they might wish me — Muslim, Christian, or pagan — I would never again mistake them for the real enemies and their master, the Enemy of my soul.

And the song rose higher, “Jesus Lamb of God, Your blood cleanses me.” What did it mean? The Lamb and the blood? I thought of the blood of sacrifices — the goats and bulls brought to the African gods to turn away their anger or win their favor. The priest or priestess would hold one horn of the victim, and taking the hand of the one bringing the sacrifice, would place it on the head of the animal. And then the knife to the animal’s throat, and the blood. “Jesus Lamb of God, Your blood cleanses me,” they sang. It must be sacrifice. But how does it cleanse? And could it cleanse me?

At last I rounded the ascent and came to the hilltop. By the open doors of the Anglican church, a young girl pounded on a massive calfskin drum. Her eyes were closed and she sang with the others, whose voices now poured from inside the clay-brick building. “Your blood cleanses me, I praise you, Savior.”

Whatever else might be, this I understood: I praise you, Savior. I had been dead, and now I was alive. Hands of darkness had bound me and claimed me, and I had been powerless to prevent them in any way. I had been marked for destruction. And then he had come. His presence alone had scattered the evil and destroyed every sign of them. He had saved me. He had sent me back. I would praise him as long as I lived. There was one sure fact in the world: Jesus is the Savior.

As I walked towards the door of the church, the girl at the drum opened her eyes. She dropped the sticks and ran screaming into the church, as if she had seen a ghost. Naked to the eyes of the world, an imam proclaiming Jesus, I followed her through the open doors.