I know that fellow from somewhere. But where?
He was a pleasant-looking man, a few years older than I was. He was waiting in line to shake my hand after I delivered a Sunday-morning sermon at a church in Dondo, Mozambique. I could tell by the big smile on his face that he thought he knew me, but as hard as I tried, I could not place him.
Now we were face-to-face. He took my hand into both of his. “Surprise, it’s your cousin Ezekiel.”
“Ezekiel! My brother!” I shouted. We embraced as I cried, “God is so good!”
“Amen!” he agreed. “I have been hearing so many good things about you.”
I shook my head in wonder. “But how did you . . . ? Where do you . . . ?” I could not ask the million questions that swirled around my head fast enough.
“I’m serving the Lord, too,” he said.
I had not seen Ezekiel since before I left my parents’ house. When we were growing up, I considered him my brother, because my parents had raised him and his sister Bulena after their mother, my aunt, died. Bulena, who was quite a bit older, had married and moved away when I was still a boy. Ezekiel had eventually gone off to make his way in the world, and we had completely lost contact with each other.
“I heard about all the wonderful things God is doing through this person named Surprise,” he said. “I had to come see for myself if they were talking about you . . . and now I know they were.” He went on to tell me that after he left Mozambique, he made his way to Zambia. There he heard the Gospel at a Christian Reformed Church and accepted Christ. He had gone on to become a leader in that church; then he had returned to Mozambique, where he was serving as an evangelist and pastor. My heart overflowed with joy. How wonderful to have this reunion with Ezekiel and discover that in addition to being my blood relative, he was also my brother in Christ.
He drove me to his house in the nearby town of Manga and introduced me to his wife, Rita, and their children. It added to my joy to know that he and Rita were people of great compassion who had taken a number of orphaned children into their home. We had a wonderful day getting reacquainted with each other and worshiping the Lord together. Then we all went back for the evening service in Dondo.
Over the next year he came to White River twice for short visits with Tryphina and me. We laughed over old memories and praised God for all He had done in our lives. We had a very happy time together. But late one afternoon during his second visit, he suddenly became quiet. He cleared his throat and I leaned closer, expecting him to say something important.
He hesitated and cleared his throat again. “I wanted to tell you . . . some people have told me to stop preaching.”
I sat straight up. “What people?”
He explained that he had been told that some people of another faith did not approve of his evangelism. “They told me that if I don’t stop telling everyone about Jesus . . . they’re going to kill me.”
“Kill you?” I repeated. “Have you told the police?”
He shook his head. “That wouldn’t do any good.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, even though I already knew what his answer would be.
He smiled and shrugged. “I’m going to keep on preaching. What else can I do?”
We sat in silence for a moment, and then he said, “I’m only telling you about it so you’ll know if anything happens.”
When I asked for the details, he told me that he had been accosted by a group of young men after preaching in the local market. They slapped him around a bit and told him the preaching had to stop . . . or else. “My brother,” I said, “our lives are in the hands of God. Let us trust Him completely in this matter.”
“Yes, yes!” he agreed.
“We need to forgive them completely, and pray for them, that they might come to know the love of Jesus.”
“I have forgiven them, and I have been praying for them,” Ezekiel replied. We knelt down immediately and asked the Lord to pour out His grace and mercy on these lost souls, to draw them to Himself. I knew that Ezekiel was not worried about himself; he was ready for whatever the Lord had planned for him. But he was a committed family man who deeply loved his wife and children and was concerned about what would happen to them if he was taken from them.
Over the next several months, Ezekiel kept on preaching. Wherever he went, he shared about Jesus—on the train, on the bus, in the market, everywhere. But when I had an opportunity to visit him in Mozambique, he told me that he had been attacked and threatened again. His foes had knocked him down and kicked him, leaving bruises but no serious injuries. He was rejoicing that Jesus had counted him worthy to suffer for the Gospel.
Then, on September 25, 2007, I woke up feeling as if I had been beaten to within an inch of my life. I was in terrible pain from head to toe and could not understand what had happened to me. I spent that entire day in the grip of the most horrible pain I had ever felt.
Night was just falling when the telephone rang. “Is this Uncle Surprise?” asked a shaky voice.
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s Janja.” Janja was a young man who had been taken in by Ezekiel and Rita, and it was very unusual for him to telephone us.
“Hello, Janja,” I said. “Is everything all right?”
“I have something to tell you about your brother Ezekiel,” he said. “It’s a sad story . . . he is no longer living.”
“What did you say?” I asked, hoping I had misunderstood him.
“He is no longer living,” Janja repeated. “He was murdered last night.”
“What?”
“He was walking back to Manga after preaching in downtown Beira when he was attacked and killed.” Janja paused for a moment. “He had been receiving threats.”
“Yes, I know.” He went on to tell me that Ezekiel had been beaten and stabbed so viciously that he was not recognizable. His attackers had cut off his lips and his tongue to show that they had killed him because of the things he had said. The rest of his body had been mutilated as well.
“The police didn’t find him until this morning,” he said. “They were able to identify him only because of his Bible.” I thanked Janja for calling me and told him I would come to Mozambique as soon as I could.
As I hung up the phone, the physical pain left me. Suddenly, I felt fine. That was when I knew that God had allowed me to feel the pain Ezekiel had endured as he was being killed. I do not know why, but God allowed me to share in the sufferings of my cousin. It brought to me the reality of Jesus’ suffering when He carried upon His own body the penalty for my sins:
Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered him punished by God, stricken by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to our own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.
Isaiah 53:4–6
I also came to understand through this that much of the pain we feel is spiritual pain. Doctors and medicine are wonderful gifts from God, but often healing will come through drawing closer to God.
A few days later I had the privilege of delivering the eulogy at Ezekiel’s funeral. Thousands of people came to show their love and respect for him, and many responded when I shared the Gospel. Ezekiel’s killers had meant to silence him, but they had done just the opposite: In death he became an even more powerful witness for Christ.
I do not know why Ezekiel was not delivered from the hands of those who took his life. All I can say about this is that God always knows what is best. God has His purposes, and His ways are not our ways. No matter what happens, we have to keep pressing on and never give up, for our obedience is so very important. When hard times hit us, we need to focus on what God is doing, and not on what He is not doing. This helps keep our faith strong and helps us through the difficult times.
When hard times hit us, we need to focus on what God is doing and not on what He is not—that helps keep our faith strong to get through these difficult times. I have seen many miracles in similar situations. Late one night during a women’s conference, I received word that one of our church’s pastors had been beaten and stabbed to death. Apparently he had gone back to lock up the building when gang members attacked him. I immediately felt that God was calling me to prayer—for the young men who had killed my friend.
Later, as our pastor was being dropped off at the morgue in a body bag, he began moving around. He was alive, although his face was badly bruised and swollen. Within a matter of hours he was completely restored—not a mark on him! He was perfectly fine and anxious to go home, except that he was naked under the blue sheet. (The police had taken his clothes, as is customary with a murder victim.) I had to go out and buy him a shirt and some trousers. The young man who had delivered the fatal blow was arrested and put in jail. When he saw how his “victim” had been restored, he surrendered his life to Jesus.
In early August 2005, I was very nearly killed. I traveled to Sudan to hold a series of Gospel meetings with Pastor James, a very tall, elderly pastor from the south of the country. Sudan was going through a terror very similar to what Mozambique had experienced years earlier: a long and brutal civil war. In southern Sudan more than two million people had been killed between 1983 and 2005, and more than four million had fled from their homes, many taking refuge in crowded, desperately poor refugee camps.
In January 2005, after more than twenty years of fighting, a truce was signed between the government and the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, which was headed by a charismatic leader named John Garang. A few weeks prior to my trip to Sudan, Garang had been sworn in as vice president of the coalition government. Then Garang was killed in a helicopter crash while returning from Uganda. The Sudanese government blamed the crash on bad weather, but many felt that sabotage was involved, and riots broke out across the country. More than twenty people were killed in Khartoum alone.
The day after John Garang’s death, Pastor James and I preached in a refugee camp, completely unaware of what was happening elsewhere in the country. We had a wonderful time, and many accepted Jesus as their Lord and Savior.
After our meeting we boarded a bus for Khartoum. The day was clear, bright and, as is often the case in Sudan, scorching hot. As we approached the outskirts of the capital city, we suddenly saw huge flames billowing ahead of us. The next thing we knew we were surrounded by a wild and angry mob carrying machetes and spears. Some ran in front of us, forcing our driver to stomp on the brakes. The bus fishtailed, turning almost completely around, and some began beating on the sides of the vehicle.
I looked out of the window and saw a mass of angry people fighting with each other. Some continued to fight even when blood started pouring down their faces. Others lay in the street, severely injured. People were being killed and wounded right in front of us. The scene was complete confusion and carnage as the rioters shouted at each other. They had set fire to the petrol station, vehicles, homes and houses.
“Everybody out!” our driver yelled as he ran down the steps and disappeared into the chaos. He had not even set the brake, and the bus continued to roll forward. I heard the sound of shattering glass as rioters began breaking the windows, spraying jagged shards onto the frightened passengers. All around us people were desperately trying to get off the bus. Some climbed through broken windows and jumped to the ground, injuring themselves as they fell.
Pastor James and I managed to jump through our window without hurting ourselves, and we fled down the street. I clutched my large Bible as I ran. Pastor James shouted at me, “Drop the Bible! Drop the Bible!” I knew what he was trying to say. I could run faster without that big Bible, but I did not want to let it go.
I fled eastward, past burning houses, through hundreds of people running in every direction. I ran for my life, my heart pumping and pounding, knowing I could be killed at any moment. I came around a corner and was suddenly face-to-face with a huge mob armed with machetes and spears. My heart was overwhelmed. I was running as fast as I could go, and they were almost upon me. There was no way I could turn back or get away. I was going to die.
“Lord,” I cried, “please take care of Tryphina and our boys.”
I held my Bible against my chest and closed my eyes, preparing to be engulfed by the massive sea of rioters. I tensed as I waited for the pain of a machete slicing through my body. I cannot describe the horror of that moment.
Immediately, everything became quiet.
What happened? Was I dead?
I opened my eyes and looked around. Everything was peaceful and quiet. I was standing on the veranda of the Acropole Hotel in downtown Khartoum. I had no idea how I got there. Dazed, I went inside and saw people relaxing over coffee and tea, acting as if nothing at all were wrong.
The next thing I did was call Pastor James on my cell phone. I feared the worst, as he was an elderly gentleman who used a walking stick to get around. Miraculously, he, too, had survived, although he was still miles away on the other side of the city.
I cannot explain what happened to me except to say that I was supernaturally transported like Philip the Evangelist (see Acts 8:39). I believe what the Bible says in Psalm 91: God will send His angels to help His people when we are in danger. According to His promise, He will not let us fall; He will stretch out his hand to pick us up.
We must never stop trusting the Lord. When we are weak, He is strong. When we sleep, He never slumbers. He is always at work watching over those who love Him.