Out of the Darkness

In the dark before the dawn, he rose silently to prepare for the day. Creeping softly across the rough-hewn floor of the men's house, he made his way outside toward the village house where his wife and children slept unaware. Bending low, he reached into the darkness under the house where his wife had secretly stashed a few pieces of charcoal. Then he stole away down an invisible path along the steep escarpment to be sure no one else would know his preparations. He soon arrived at a fallow field. His feet sank deep into the cool soggy soil. As he sat down he stripped off his ragged t-shirt and placed it carefully under a rock to retrieve later. Then he began rubbing the charcoal into his ebony skin until he was completely covered in black coal dust.

He sat alone in the field with eyes closed, remembering. Anger. Pain. Murder. Vengeance. Darkness. Evil. Hopelessness. He remembered all of it. His breathing labored under the weight, but he wanted to remember. He needed to remember. Alone.

The sun was beginning to awaken. Footsteps on the path signaled the arrival of his brothers. He offered no resistance as they wrapped him in coarse hemp cloth and bound him with ropes. As they blindfolded him, he remembered. His brothers retrieved the remnants of the charcoal and ground it into the binding cloth and ropes so that the darkness permeated every surface. As the heat of the day began to rise the preparations were complete. All that was left was to wait and sweat.

The village rushed through their morning routines in order to begin the ceremony. The men counseled in hushed tones. Women nursed, and older children kicked loose dirt in a pretense of soccer. Folopa from neighboring villages had hiked to attend the ceremony. Foreign delegates from other nations came as witnesses. As the foreigners spoke, the Folopa waited. Light rain began falling from the gathering clouds. No one moved. The anticipation was too heavy.

At the side of the crowd, the men broke through, leading their brother bound into the center of the gathering. The crowd inhaled slowly as the man staggered blindly in their midst. Even the children stopped playing, their attention fixed on the man as he turned first to the right, then to the left, losing his balance, then straining to stand—alone in his darkness.

From the opposite side of the crowd, a white-haired man emerged. He spoke to the crowd and to the bound man in Folopa. His voice was calm and soothing. He spoke of grace, mercy, forgiveness, and light. He reached out to touch the man bound in darkness and gently began untying the ropes. He removed his blindfold and gently began to brush the dark dust from his face, arms, chest, and back. As the falling rain began washing him the mood of the crowd lifted. Someone began to sing. Others quickly joined the chorus. Darkness was retreating. Light was coming.

This was how the Folopa dramatized the arrival of the gospel for their people. They remembered the darkness, the evil, the hopelessness. It was not a distant story from their folklore. It was their own lives, in their own generation. The good news of Jesus Christ brought light and hope, grace, and forgiveness. It changed their world for eternity.

But they still didn't have "The Book." Other languages and other people had it, but not the Folopa. They felt as though they were the last and the least, that God cared more for others than for them, that God didn't speak or understand Folopa. So they prayed. And God answered.

And that is a story for another day.