Living with the Disciples
Following the will of God
by Stephen W Emerick PhD
Following the Arc of the Star of Bethlehem is a lot easier if you already have a disciple you know. It is a clearer path that is illuminated by their example, behaviors, and love. And so it was that I followed him. And the others, seen and unseen. Ever present since my birth and my earliest companions. Disciples taught me how to follow God’s will by following the Arc of the Star of Bethlehem. To this day I have continued traveling with them. And I found the Arc illuminating my path all the way to the continent of Africa.
I grew up following a disciple of Christ, whom I knew as “Dad”. Now I am standing on the earth in a place called the Democratic Republic of the Congo that was formerly known as Zaire. While it is called a Democracy, when I was there it was controlled by Mobutu Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu wa za Banga, a Congolese politician and military officer who was the president of Zaire from 1965 to 1997. A dictator, during the time of our visit. I learned then that disciples of Christ go places most would prefer to avoid. But Habitat was one of those organizations that would go almost anywhere in the name of Christ, and my father was that kind of disciple.
My father (an Ordained Methodist Minister) and I (a Seminary Graduate and Doctor of Psychology) are in Africa, as dad had been elected the first Chairman of the Board of Habitat for Humanity International, one of the world’s largest volunteer organizations. He was here to consult with Habitat members. He asked me to accompany him, and soon we found ourselves in the region of Mbandaka in northern Zaire.
Mbandaka is a city on the Congo River and is the capital of what is known as the Equateur Province. It is located near the confluence of the Congo and Ruki Rivers (remember our story of the two rivers that become one?).
Nearby is Lake Tumba, a landscape made up mainly of marshes, seasonally flooded forests, and meadows. It is home to the largest freshwater wetland of international importance. The forest of Lake Tumba is the world’s largest swamp forest and also the world’s second-largest wetland area and its magnificence is absolutely wondrous. If you ever wanted to know just how wonderful God created the earth, this is the place.
When hearing of this area, some people recall the story of Ashley Judd, the American actress. She was in this area to raise awareness of its poverty and how its wildlife needs to be protected. While in the jungle, she fell and severely broke her leg. The poverty of the area meant lying on the ground for hours until someone could take her on a motorcycle (bleeding and holding her leg together) and hours later eventually being taken to a hospital in South Africa. Always white privilege has its benefits, but here in Africa it comes at the historical past and cost of Black Africans.
I recall Africa, especially northern Zaire. My father and I are in a small outlying village with its thatched huts, meeting some of the community members on behalf of Habitat for Humanity International. As we are standing talking with our interpreter, there approaches unseen from behind
me upon the illuminated path of the Star, a man dressed in what looked like ancient, weathered garb, and a very large knife! There was also a dog who did not look menacing like the knife did! Hearing someone approaching I turned around and tried not to look startled. It didn’t work. There he was, majestic, armed, with feathers, fierce face and skins, and the strong yet quiet gaze of an African Chief. His dog is easygoing and gentle. I took more than one sigh of relief. He did not draw his knife. Instead, he drew a deep breath, then looked deep into my eyes and stepped toward me.
Looking deep into his eyes, I felt as though I was somewhere else long, long ago. An ancient yet sacred place, surrounded by wisdom and strength. It felt as if his eyes were looking through me and out over centuries of time, watching the unfolding history of glory and tragedy of his homeland. Many years since I often feel both thankfulness and sorrow when I hold that cross.
I am facing this marvelous man as from a skin-covered bag he pulls a Katanga Cross. Its name is derived from Katanga, a rich copper mining region in the south-eastern portion of the DRC. I had heard of this region. A region where copper was mined, often with enslaved labor by colonizers wanting to strip the land of this rich resource. One form that was used for forming the copper after melting, was the Katanga Cross.
The Katanga Cross, was made of copper years ago, by the hands of Africa, in the land of Africa.
As this chief stood there holding out his hands, I saw he was offering the Katanga Cross to me. It is darkened by many years of wear and seems to quiver with history. I knew as he handed it to me that within it were centuries of peoples from this part of the world. And now it is also held within the hands of fellowship. And for me, it would always carry the meaning of discipleship and the serving of God in places around the world. Humbled as His Will becomes unfurled right there before us in this part of the universe called Africa.
As I take the Katanga Cross from the Chief I bow with closed eyes. I feel the contours of the cross and wonder if the disciples did that long ago. Feeling the shape and form and roughness of the cross before them, and all it meant. Here I was, feeling the copper cross’s swirls and pockmarks, four arms, each distinct with its manifestation of history. I was honored to be in this moment. I knew it was both precious and had a history of suffering for many.
I slowly began to hand it back to him when our translator said “Wait! Don’t give it back to him. He is giving the cross to you as a gift.” It was in that moment that I fell in love with Africa.
Many years later my father was living with my mother in a retirement center in Florida. He often tended a garden on its premises and did so with the same care and love he had tended to his family and to his role with Habitat for Humanity. One day, as has often been done by different indigenous peoples around the world, I buried that cross in a corner of that garden, deep within the earth. I wanted to honor the earth from which it came, and the story it held of my father and me. Some three years later, I went back to that garden and dug deep in that same corner. My heart burst with joy as I felt the arm of the cross with my hands. Pulling it out, I gave thanks to God and His earth for the ancestors who passed it on to me, and for my father, now a remarkable elder.
My two brothers were also visiting then, and so I asked for prayer with all four of us together. Each of this man’s three sons held an arm of the cross, while our father held the fourth. We stood and prayed this way for some time, stepping into history and joining our African brothers who mined the cross. And as we prayed, we prayed as the disciples of Jesus came to pray. “Our Father who is in Heaven”. This was one of the last times we were with my father before he died. We remember the resurrection promised to us by the cross.
The Katanga cross taught me discipleship. Teaching me that, no matter where in the world I may be called to serve, God is present. Even now, years later when I hold this cross, I recall my brothers and father. I remember the four of us praying that day. I always feel the four arms of the cross now and see Jesus taking a cross in His precious hands, just as the African Chief had done. Each of their moments in history lived in a way that would change so many lives. I know it has mine.
If the earth remembers how we treat it, then this is true of the Katanga cross. Its copper came from deep within the mother. My vow and obligation is to always hold the cross with love and adoration. If discipleship is running the good race as Paul writes about, I think perhaps the Chief’s ancestors, the lineage of David within Jesus, and my own ancestors, have run a good race. I pray that the One sees us this way.
To this very day, whenever I hold the Katanga cross and pray, you will find my face praying in the language of tears. At eventide, as I say my evening prayers, there is a shimmering path before me, illuminated by the Ark of the Star of Bethlehem as it trails across the sky. We often welcome it with sparklers and song
Waving my sparklers in song, I see Him walking there upon the path with disciples whom I know. Come walk with us.
