Eraste's Journey

by Doug Roland

SMMS’s newest staff addition is Dr. Eraste Niyirimana, Acting Head of the Biblical Studies Department. He comes to us from Rwanda, but the journey getting here was long and circuitous.

Born in 1957, five years before independence from Belgium, Eraste grew up in the foothills of southern Rwanda. His was a close family located in a community of subsistence farmers. They grew and lived on a diet of lentils, beans and sweet potatoes. His father, a lay Anglican minister, built two houses with mud walls, one with a grass roof and the other with tires and other material. Both were built on the rock of his faith, passed on to his children.

Eraste enjoyed the freedom of the year round outdoor life that rural living provides. In addition to soccer and traditional children’s games, he would strip the layers off the trunk of banana trees and use them to slide down the grassy hillsides. He was happy being in a big family and had no aspirations or dreams of what he might do one day. Just having food to eat was enough. This would change went he was sent to an Anglican Missionary school. A lifelong love affair with education had begun.

After completing primary school, followed by teacher training school, he taught grades 4 – 8 for four years. During this time he attended a camp sponsored by Scriptural Union, a global organization with the mission of bringing the Bible to remote areas. It was at the camp that he met, and later married Rose, his wife of 31 years.

He didn’t see himself as a career teacher. He was nagged by a feeling that there was more for him to do. He knew instinctively that taking the next step meant more training. With the encouragement and aid of his bishop, he entered university at Butare, then later to the main campus in Kigali where he studied law and received his license. The bishop’s plan was for him to be a legal advisor to the church. The war of 1990 changed everything.

The church granted him permission to begin work for the government of Rwanda and move to Kigali. He worked in a department that provided legal advice to the three branches of government in this relatively new democracy. It was heady stuff for a young man fresh out of school. After a year, he was moved to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, again for the purpose of handling legal issues, but as the war droned on without resolution, the government became highly politicized. Unbiased, neutral suggestions were no longer welcomed. The culture of cooperation vanished. Reluctantly, he left his position to join the staff of Compassion International, an NGO based in the U.S. focused on the needs of children worldwide.

Meanwhile, the bishop was having second thoughts about Eraste’s legal career. He advised that he wanted Eraste to go into full-time ministry, but before the bishop’s plan materialized, the genocide started.

Compassion International heeded its staff’s request to flee Rwanda and operate from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC). Dangerous under any circumstance, the situation was made more difficult by the fact that Eraste and Rose were from competing factions – Hutu’s and Tutsi’s. Any move would be perilous.Their security was at risk whether in Rwanda or in a refugee camp in the DRC. Nevertheless, “the Lord kept us safe in the DRC”.

As the genocide ebbed somewhat, the NGO was eager for Eraste and Rose to return to Rwanda. It was a risk he refused to take. This decision left him and his family stranded, no job, no home to return to, no prospects. In this very dark time in his life, he did not despair. Rather he did what his father would have done – he cried out to God. He persevered in his faith. God returned the call with an invitation to enter full-time ministry.

The “call” rarely materializes quickly. For Eraste and his family, there were no prospects, no aid, no help, just a still, small voice. Again he did not despair for he placed his faith where he had before – in the power of education to lift him up. This time though, his goal was the ministry, an acceptance of the invitation.

He applied to a seminary in Nairobi, Kenya, and was accepted. He had no apparent way to get there or ability to pay the deposit. Eraste and Rose “ . . . took our request to God, asking for his provision from January, 1995 to August, 1995.” Shortly after, they received a gift of money from a friend. It was enough to pay for tickets for Rose and the two younger children to fly to Nairobi. Two months later, another friend, who was hosting Rose and the children, helped Eraste and the remaining children to make the trip and reunite the family.

Once in Nairobi, Eraste made contact with a friend who was planning a trip back home to Rwanda. Through that visit, his “home” bishop, probably with a wry grin on his face, sent a little money to Eraste. It was enough to pay the deposit and gain admission. The seminary provided accommodations and once he was placed, he also was granted a scholarship. Three years later, he obtained his M.Div. degree.

Rose had enrolled in the same seminary after Eraste. While he was waiting in Nairobi tending to the children, a friend from South Africa came to Kenya for a meeting and sought out Eraste who brought him up to date. This led to a meeting with a man looking to fill a position at a seminary in Nigeria. Eraste followed up and in 2000, the family moved again.

The position involved supervision of graduate students. After being a refugee and student for several years, it was a badly-needed job. He performed as required but he knew he was capable of more, and he knew to what had to do - more training. He began applying to schools to study for his Ph.D. He was admitted at Sheffield in the UK but had no money. Yet, this determined man would not be denied taking the next step. With the perseverance, character and hope Paul describes in Romans, he applied to the University of KwaZulu Natal where he was admitted and obtained a scholarship. His Ph.D. in Biblical Studies was awarded in 2010.

No description of Eraste would be complete without a further note. His wife Rose, fondly known as Mama Rose, is now a staff member at ESSA, another seminary in Pietermaritzburg. She hopes to complete her Ph.D. in New Testament by the end of this year. Of their seven children, three have finished their undergraduate training (one is a teacher), one is in post-graduate studies, and four are in varsity.

Eraste was asked if there anything that he would want to change, if he could. He answered that we wished there had been no war as he wanted to serve in his homeland.

Africa: Home to the Rich and Famous

I have copied a message from a recently forwarded e-mail. This one got my attention for reasons that will be obvious to you. The quoted text was followed by a series of beautiful photos of some of Africa's glorious scenery and several of its magnificent resorts, but I've chosen not to use precious megabytes to show them. They are beautiful indeed. From these, the "author" drew an interesting conclusion. (I promise that the spelling is not my own.)

"I love this and it's the truth....Did any of you watch the Bachelorette this last time??/ will guess where most of it took place ....Yep your right Africa and the most beautifully places I have ever seen and have never seen resorts like theirs in USA. So why are we feeding the people over their ?????? They can feed their own better than what we can. Or have you though where is the money really going. Think people all the church's and all the things you see on TV asking to feed them . We have our own here in USA that need help and food. So let us start here at home first." The tragedy is that we reach such conclusions by watching the "Bachelorette". What price truth?

FOUR DAY REFUELING

by Doug Roland

We planned for months and months to receive 8 members of our church (Hyde Park United Methodist, Tampa) and one exceptional friend of the church for a four day experience with us at the seminary. The verdict is out on who benefitted most.

It was on just this kind of trip that tilled the soil of South Africa that we might later plant ourselves here. But like any plants, we need to be nourished to bear fruit. That has been well supplied by the seminary, its staff and its seminarians. We have grown immensely.

Still there is nothing like mom and her apple pie. Though we have been lifetime members of churches in Indiana, Ohio, it is our training in discipleship at Hyde Park that has given us the the courage to take a three year plunge. Not that our childhood Sunday school teachers, youth leaders, and role models were insignificant. Rather, they supplied the bedrock of faith, a faith to be shaped and put to action.

And so we have enjoyed a feast of friendship with our friends of many years who have come here for many reasons. By their mere presence, we have been refueled, reminded with clarity of the congregation that sends us here and supports us.

Our prayer is that through this experience, God will direct them in ways they might not otherwise consider. May they too be refueled to take on the though commands of the Gospel and enter into the next level of their servanthood.

Whitney Houston and the Collaring Ceremony

by Doug Roland

In the Methodist Church of Southern Africa, ministers wear clerical collars, with or without ordination. In the United Methodist Church, collars are awarded or permitted when you are ordained. Having never seen a United Methodist minister wear one, I think it's not a big deal in the US. But it's different here.

If you don't wear a collar, you're not recognized as a minister. Forget about saying prayers, preaching, baptisms, weddings, funerals. No collar, don't bother. It's part of the theological DNA.

Plain white collars are predictable, uniform, a little dull. Many ministers here have resisted convention and treated collars as a fashion accessory. Some wear clerical shirts with the collar built in. Then there are cool stylized ones that only suggest the presence of a collar for ministers pushing envelope.

Wearing a collar presented a dilemma to three United Methodists - Duke University Divinity school students who just completed three months with the seminary community where are are volunteering.

The "Dukies" consisted of a cardiologist and his wife from Tampa, both of whom are members of our home church, Hyde Park United Methodist. The other two were from Texas and North Carolina . As part of their program here, they were stationed AS MINISTERS in a remote area of the province, about 80 or so kilometers from Pietermaritzburg. In those parts, no one was going to pay much attention to them unless they wore collars. What to do? Unofficially, they went out and bought some, It is a tradition here that someone pays for your collar as a gift. For the Dukies, it was all under the radar.

A few days ago, one of the seminary worship teams decided that the seminary should make Friday morning's chapel service a celebration of the Duke students' time with us, and include in that service a proper collaring service complete with ritual. Word spread but few could have predicted the outcome.

Friday morning chapel starts at 7 am sharp. It is usually relaxed with mostly music, prayers and some short reflections. The service was, as usual, joyful. In the three months here, one of the Dukies, the Texan, learned how to dance like the Africans. But when he started "swaying" his 6'9' frame, people nearby cleared out.

When the regular service ended, the worship leader announced that the seminarians wanted to pay special tribute to their new friends in faith, and recognize their contributions to seminary life.

In the back of the chapel, a dim buzz started then swelled as two seminarians carried two large flags, the colors of South Africa and the Stars and Stripes. The flag bearers walked up the aisle waving with typical African enthusiasm. The chapel erupted in cheers and shouts of joy.

As the flags passed up the aisle, in perfect coordination, the video screen filled up with the image of a football stadium filled with thousands of cheering spectators. The camera panned to show a large orchestra playing an introduction to the Star Spangled Banner. It was the iconic performance by Whitney Houston at the 1991 Super Bowl played in Tampa Stadium, hometown of two of the Dukies, and two seminary staff members. I tried to sing with her but couldn't get through it.

As the F-16 engines roared overhead on the screen, the noise was deafening. The eyes of six Americans welled with tears. The Africans, understanding very little about our version of football or what an F-16 is, nevertheless celebrated with us, in an extraordinary expression of respect for our nation and its people. But this exceptional chapel service was not over yet.

When seats were finally taken, the Dean announced that the collaring ceremony would begin. At that instant, the loudest thunderclap I've heard in quite a while rattled the chapel building. On this morning in that place, it was taken as God's contribution to thecelebration.

Eventually the collaring began. Here, the procedure is that the Dean, or whoever officiates, secures the collar on the seminarian. The seminarian then lies prostrate on the floor, kisses the ground and then gets up. First up was the tall guy. Apparently he didn't know about kissing the ground then getting up. He just laid there with his nose fully planted in the carpet until the Dean nudged him to get up. The next two, thinking this was part of the ritual, followed suit.

Then the celebration really got traction. In a year of being here and having attended about 100 chapel services, I have never seen or heard anything like it. It wasn't some sort of emotional ecstasy. It was pure love and respect. I couldn't drink it all in.

The wife of one of the Duke students took the floor and with a voice that choked on every other word gave thanks to her friends. She was adored by the seminarians who even gave her nickname, Mrs. Khumalo. (You had to be there.)

The tribute and ceremony ended, but seminarians with cameras and cell phones stayed and waited until they got just the shot they wanted. They even brought Cheri and I into the picture of the Americans in their midst on this very special day.

Those of us who work in this seminary are often taken by surprise at what is happening here. We go through our meetings, planning infinite details, talking about grades, attitudes, new policies, and coming events. But it's the stuff we don't plan that in so many ways reflects just what is happening. Today we saw, heard and felt what it's like when people from vastly different cultures and traditions, can become brothers and sisters, children of God. I'll treasure it always. Those who were there will not soon forget it. Six of us never will.

CLASS REUNION

by Doug Roland

Over the last 30 years, I have enjoyed my high school reunions. People attend these for all sorts of reasons, curiosity, restoring relationships that went south when you were 17; remembering special events that weren't really memorable at the time; talking about your own children, careers, spouses, travels and hobbies. The chats about spouses can be interesting, depending on whether you married your high school sweetheart. Those people are seen as a couple more than as individuals. As for the rest of us, most stopped bringing spouses to these things years ago. There's usually some talk about who died since the previous reunion, but not for long. We were there to remember the good times, the best of times.

For me, as the years have past, I realized how incredibly fortunate I was to attend public school at a time when teachers poured out their hearts and energy for us. We were well prepared. And it was a safe place. The most dangerous thing was sneaking out to have a smoke between classes. There were no metal detectors or cards to swipe for entry. Our town, a classic Indiana town, was a great place to be nurtured, solidly rooted in midwestern values.

My 50 year class reunion was held last weekend. For well over a year, I have known I would be in Africa and not there. A year ago, it was just another part of the sacrifice I committed to make to serve in another land. Intellectually, it was not upsetting that I would not be there. Sure, it's fun seeing everybody, but my mission came first. In fact, the run-up to the event, in the form of floods of e-mails and Facebook comments and messages, was great fun and exciting. Technology has brought us together again in ways we could never have anticipated in 1961.

So, why do I feel like someone just died? I was troubled all weekend. I was missing a special one-time-only moment when, 50 years later, you join your childhood friends (and enemies). We played together, worked together, sang together, studied together and dreamed together. In so doing, we learned a lot of "firsts" that would shape our lives. It is a connection that, for many of us, runs deep. But makes this reunion different than the others?

I think what makes me ache is that I missed a rite of passage. 50 years reunions are embedded in our culture. I recall that in the late 70's my mother drove down to Mississippi to attend her first and only high school reunion, the 50th. She couldn't stop talking about when she returned. In retrospect, I realize that I've been in many conversations with friends, business colleagues, and casual acquaintances, when someone would mention their 50th high school reunion. It's hard not to talk about it. For me, it is a unique celebration of your life in the company of those who were there with you at such a formative time. It's about those "first" times. It is the reunion where, just like our graduation, we look at the future, maybe not so much eagerly as hesitantly.

Our lives are defined in memories. They guide us. We are adrift without them. What I missed was a refueling station, a high octane shot of memories. I should just give in to the notion that God wants me here and now. But it's hard. It's what I get for choosing to look forward and not to live in the past.

Intensives

by Doug Roland

The seminary is in the middle of "Intensives", an annual event conducted between semesters. It consists of a series of lectures on various church subjects that are not normally presented in depth in regular classes. The sessions have a practical focus based upon widely accepted Christian principles. As well, the first year seminarians participate in several on-campus retreats, leadership training and the like. This latter is presented by two staff members. The remainder are guest lecturers from a variety of places and subjects:

Crime and Ministry Douw Grobler, Exec. Director of Prison Fellowship of Southern Africa.

Forming Transforming Congregations Rev. Dr. Peter Storey, retired Methodist Bishop and Duke University faculty member

Contextual Bible Study Prof. Cheryl Anderson, Garrett Evangelical, Chicago, IL

Authentic Ministries Across Boundaries Rev. Phidian Matsebe

Sunday and Beyond; church liturgy. Rev. John van der Laar

Authentic Evangelism for a Transformational Church Rev. Andile Mbete

Evangelism & Mission Prof. Jack Jackson, Duke University

Ethics and Leadership Staff of Pietermaritzburg Agency for Christian Social Awareness

Hospice Training Staff of Msunduzi Hospice

Rural Ministry Victor Tshangela

For those of us only marginally involved, it is a smorgasbord of delights. We can drop in on lectures, participate in discussions like we know what we're doing, and get together informally with the guests.

The two American lecturers join the four Duke Divinity students, putting us close to more Americans than we've seen since we arrived here nearly a year ago. It is comforting and fun. But it's also enlightening to see the seminarians loosen up when there are no grades at stake, especially those who are waiting for stationing later in the semester. They are beginning to think hard about what's coming.

Personally what I have learned by sitting in on some of these classes is that studying material you know a little about takes on different meanings when learned in another county and culture. The inevitable response is to compare ideas and practices with what I already know. In identifying and affirming the differences, what I knew is now clearer.

We all see through the filters of our experience. Filters need to be cleaned from time to time. When they do, you may see your neighbors on your street or on the next continent, in a very different light.

REFLECTIONS ON LIGHT

by Cheri Roland

After my last blog, my youngest sister freaked out, equating my comments on the light of Jesus with the light at the end of the tunnel. Thankfully, this light for me was not that of approaching the pearly gates to see if St. Peter would let me in. (Do you suppose Pete has one of those sets of keys like the deputies at Falkenburg Road do? Yikes, I've come full circle.)

I am thrilled to report that I am now officially a miracle girl! (Well, maybe not a girl…) Two months ago I was verging on liver and kidney failure. Last Monday I had more labs drawn. Dr. Naidoo showed us the results during my appointment last Wednesday; they are all within normal range, with no signs of kidney or liver damage. How's that for the healing power of Jesus? I'm still holding tightly to my image of Jesus' light inside, healing and restoring all of me. He is the Man!

The Reverend Dr. Peter Storey (not a saint YET) sent me a wonderful quote by Samuel Rayan: " A candle is a protest at midnight. It says to the darkness, 'I beg to differ' ". Light and dark cannot coexist. Without light, life on earth, both physically and spiritually, will vanish.

I have been blessed by two precious seminary students who ministered to me each afternoon during my darkest days. They shared stories and wisdom that only the Spirit can give. At one point, Storia was commenting on headlights. Headlights illuminate the road ahead of us, but only a short distance at a time. Even though we can't see the whole route in the dark, we eventually get to our destination. God protects us in the same way, lighting our way forward, sometimes inches at a time, sometimes miles at a time. Only He has the knowledge of our future and, with the wisdom of a loving parent, reveals only what He knows we can handle. I experienced this while I was sick. There were literally minutes that stretched on with interminable excruciating itching; the only way I could get through them was to pray. I know His light was my refuge. Thinking of the unbearable future was out of the question.

This headlight idea reminded me of a present one of Doug's colleagues brought back for us from her Israel trip; it was a three inch pottery oil lamp that travelers in Jesus' day would balance on the top of their sandals to light their way on the dark path. That is exactly what we were singing about in Sunday school in that little song, "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path". These images flashed together ,linking up as I had plenty of time to reflect on light. With Jesus always as my light, I have faith I will be able to challenge whatever darkness is out there. I invite you, the next time you find yourself in that dark place, to hang on to the light of Jesus. And join me in proclaiming, "I beg to differ.