Two Hours Each Evening
When I was done some of the Sudanese men cried.
Not, I can assure you, because I was some teaching phenomenon that they could not stand to see depart. It was the material. It was that Love Letter known as God’s Word. It was details about things I take for granted. Things like what a Gentile is, or who King David was, or the manner in which God radically dignified first century women. It was stuff that my seven year old understands. But these great men had never really heard.
This is why for nights on end the Sudanese elders and pastors and preachers and evangelists and teachers and other interested men from the villages gathered for two hours or more by flashlight in a bamboo hut to hear from somebody like me. They were told that we could talk about God and His Word. The first night eight men were there. The second only four. But the next night, much to my shock, there were forty-five, and the few nights that followed found the same number. When I asked them early on what it was they wanted to study, a tall, handsome young man stood and said, “Can you teach us about the Gospel of Mark?”
“Why Mark?” I asked him.
“Because we learned Mark 10:45 this past week at school.” And with that several of the men who were gathered, who were by day students in the local English mission school, recited in unison Jesus’ declaration that He came not to be served but to serve and to give His life as a ransom for many.
Written during Nero’s reign the Gospel of Mark seeks to comfort Rome’s persecuted Christians with the truth that following the suffering Christ is worth the effort. This made Mark fitting for these Sudanese tribespeople because of the chaos which characterized their lives. Wth bomb craters scattered all over their land, and with ammunition and RPGs lying haphazardously around the countryside, it is obvious this area knows conflict. The soul-scars are very real for many of these people, as is the fear that perhaps the day will come when war will return. The Gospel of Mark really hit home.
We began by recounting what the gospel’s background really was; how a young man whose early years of ministry were marked by failure ended up in the great city of Rome mentored by the likes of Paul and Peter. We spoke about the martyrdoms of Peter and Paul, and how their deaths left Mark the sole leader among the Christians in Rome, and as such he was the natural person to whom a persecuted people would turn for comfort. His work is his pastoral response to their hurts and fears.
We went on to highlight Jesus as the one who, being God, has total authority over all the elements (such as when He calms the storm in Mark 4), and how He can get us through the storms of life (note how Jesus and His disciples made it through the storm to the other side of the lake, just as He said they would). And then we spoke of this Jesus who according to Mark 6 was able to feed 5,000 men (this, of course, doesn’t include all the women and children) who, while in the wilderness, seemed like sheep without a shepherd. The allusions to God’s redemption of Israel from Egyptian bondage, with all of the care God provided Israel in the wilderness of old, was striking. Just as God could take care of Israel and then these dear people gathering around Jesus, so He could take care of the men and women of southern Sudan.
Oh, there is so much more. But let me share with you one of the main things that I left with. You see, two hours a night wasn’t even enough. When the two hours were up and the teaching time was over, many hung around for another hour, each night, asking questions about the Scriptures, about Jesus, about ministry, and about life. And then, after they heard that these evenings were coming to an end they begged us that they would continue.
“Well, the missionaries assure me they will do this at least once a week,” I offered.
“How about four or five nights a week,” they countered.
And there you have one of the main things I left with: their deep hunger; something we lack so terribly here in the states; something I’ve not seen for a long time; something I’m not sure that I even own.