the Spirit Watch
Easter Morning
A Ugandan pastor witnesses the collision of Idi Amin's terror and Christ's resurrection
by Kefa Sempangi
Despite
the growing shadow of Idi Amin, Easter morning, 1973, began as a most joyous
occasion for the Redeemed Church. The
sun had just risen and the sky was empty of clouds when the first people began
arriving at the compound where we worshiped.
They
came from almost every tribe, from the Baganda, the Basoga, the Banyankole,
the Acholi and the Langi, the Bagweri and the Bagisu.
They came from as far away as Masaka, a town eighty miles southwest of
Kampala. There were old men with
walking sticks and young women with babies on their backs.
There were small children with flowers in their arms.
There were doctors and lawyers, businessmen and farmers, cotton growers
and government workers. Only a few had traveled by private car or taxi.
Most came on foot or rode bicycles.
Others crowded into lorries so lopsided they seemed ready to collapse
at any moment. But however the
people traveled, they arrived with the same joyful greeting: "Aleluya,
Azukide! Hallelujah, he is
risen!"
By
9 A.M. over
seven thousand people were gathered. It
was the largest crowd ever to attend a Sunday service at the Redeemed Church.
When there were no more places in the compound, people climbed trees or
sat on the roofs of parked lorries. A
few large groups set up in nearby yards with their own amplifying systems. Hundreds of others stood in the street.
Before
the service, the elders and I met in the "vestry," an empty house by
the compound, to pray. We felt
deeply the hunger in the hearts of the people who had gathered for worship.
We knew their desire to hear the Word of God, and we prayed that their
lives would be transformed by its power.
As
we poured our hearts out to the Father in agonizing intercession, desperate
scenes from the previous weeks flashed again in my mind.
I saw a face burned beyond recognition, and a woman huddled in a corner
weeping. I saw a crowd of
soldiers standing in the park cheering, and heard the sound of boot crunching
against bone. I remembered the
arrogance of the mercenaries, and the dreamlike deadness of my heart. Once again the seeming triumph of evil overwhelmed me.
I felt a deep fear. I
myself had fallen. How could I
hope to strengthen others? Who
was I to feed God's children in this most desperate hour?
What words could I speak?
My
brothers and sisters needed courage to stand firm in the growing terror.
They needed strength to
As
I prayed for strength and wisdom, the words of Matthew 14:19 came to my mind.
It was the same text that a brother had read to me many years before.
And
taking
the five
loaves
and
the two fish he looked
up
to
heaven,
and blessed,
and
broke and
gave
the loaves
to
the disciples,
and
the disciples
gave
them
to
the crowds
With
this verse, I heard the convicting voice of the Holy Spirit.
It was Jesus who provided bread for the crowds.
The disciples' task was onlv to distribute what their Master already
had given them. It was God who
sustained his people. He was not
asking me to feed his children from the words of my own heart.
He was asking me onlv to distribute the living bread he had put into my
hand.
With
that in mind, I led the service, preached the sermon, and prepared for the
benediction. In
the uncertainty of our lives and with the nearness of death, the words
of Simeon held deep meaning:
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word;
for mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the
face of all people.
We
did not know when we would see each other again or when God might call us
home. But we went out in peace
because we had seen with our eyes the salvation of the Lord.
With a loud amen from the people and a final chorus from the choir, the
Easter service ended. I turned to
the elders, and we embraced, praising God.
It seemed as if days instead of hours had passed since we had met for
prayer. I was exhausted, but
there was joy in my heart. God
had answered our prayers: he had broken bread and fed his people.
I
greeted several more friends and then left for the vestry to change my
clothes, hoping to have a few minutes alone.
I had to push my way through the crowd, and when I finally arrived at
the house I was exhausted. I was
too tired to notice the men behind me until they had closed the door.
There
were five of them. They stood
between me and the door, pointing their rifles at my face.
Their own faces were scarred with the distinctive tribal
For
a long moment no one said anything. Then
the tallest man, obviously the leader, spoke.
"We
are going to kill you," he said. "if
you have something to say, say it before you die." He spoke quietly, but
his face was twisted with hatred.
I
could only stare at him. For a
sickening moment I felt the full weight of his rage.
We had never met before, but his deepest desire was to tear me to
pieces. Everything left mv
control. They
will not need to
kill me, I thought to myself.
I
am going to collapse. I am
going
to fall over
dead,
and
I will
never
see my
family
again.
I thought of my wife, Penina, home alone with our child, Damali.
What would happen to them when I was gone?
From
far away I heard a voice, and I was astonished to realize that it was my own.
"I
do not need to plead my own cause," I heard myself saying.
"I am a dead man already. Mv
life is dead and hidden in Christ. It
is your lives that are in danger. You
are dead in your sins. I will pray
to God that after you have killed me, he will spare you from eternal
destruction."
The
tallest one took a step toward me and then stopped.
In an instant, his face was changed.
His hatred had turned to curiosity.
He lowered his gun and motioned the others to do the same.
They stared at him in amazement, but then, took their guns from my
face.
Then
the tall one spoke again. "Will
you pray for us now?" he asked.
"Yes,
I will pray for you," I answered. My
voice sounded bolder even to myself. "I
will pray to the
The
tall one motioned to the others again, and together the five of them lowered
their heads. I bowed my own head,
but I kept my eyes open. The
Nubian's request seemed to me a strange trick.
Any minute,
I thought to myself, my life will end.
I did not want to die
with my eyes closed.
"Father
in heaven," I prayed, "you who have forgiven men in the past,
forgive these men also. Do not
let them perish in their sins, but bring them into Yourself."
It
was a simple prayer, prayed in deep fear.
But God looked beyond my fears,
and when I lifted my head, the
men standing in front of
me were not the same men who had followed me into the vestry.
Something had changed in their faces.
It
was the tall one who spoke first. His
voice was bold, but there was not contempt in his words.
"You have helped us," he said, "and we will help you.
We will speak to the rest of our company, and they will leave you alone. Do not fear for
your life. It is in our hands,
and you will be protected."
I
drove home that Easter evening deeply puzzled but with joy in
my heart. I felt that I
had passed from death to life, and that I could now speak in one mind with
Paul: "I have been crucified with Christ, and I no longer live, but
Christ lives in me. The life I
live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave
himself for me."
Later the assassins began attending Sempangi's church and made a
commitment to Jesus Christ. They used their positions to help church members
whose lives were in danger, and even helped several families to escape Uganda.
This brief article is adapted from A Distant Grief by Kefa Sempangi
(Regal 1979) and first appearted in Leadership Journal, winter quarter
1990
Click
here to find out what Kefa Sempangi is doing now, since the downfall
of Idi Amin.
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