healing – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

I was about to discover that stepping from the shadows makes room for Christ’s light to catch its best chance at bringing forward his healing work.

Venturing out of the murky fog of Shadowland into sunlight’s inviting glow calls for one-day-at-a-time intentional living. Gritty, practical tools – in the grip of a handful of desperate, like-minded companions on the way – came to prove priceless in making headway.

If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.

No truer maxim was ever cranked out when it came to my need for handles with which to navigate a viable pathway beyond broken sexuality. When a fellow is plagued by self-doubt and a sense of helplessness, he dare not (yet again) try to suck it up, marshal remnants of a fledgling willpower and soldier on.

Our evolving band of CPR brothers was supplying the flesh-and-blood community piece. And, the recovery program’s down-to-earth practices gave us those handles by which to prayerfully gain yardage.

On ‘Day One’ we went, each of us, to the mat to contend with a brutal concept. It was ours – within each of our own stories – to grapple with and embrace one harsh truth.

“We admitted we were powerless over our addictions and compulsive behaviors, that our lives had become unmanageable.”*

Reaching up with “quivering hand”, edging my protective mask of secrecy downward the few centimeters necessary to ‘come clean’, I drew a slow breath. From behind my eyelids, I felt the gathering of a tear. Maybe two.

“I go to the Coast to mock him. And to beat him when he shows the lie.”

The big man was strong, menacing. Anyone having experience with Alexander Aidini knew his threat was not small talk.

“He is no man of God, this foreigner!” the angry African went on. “He comes to our land a trickster. Come, we shall beat him together, all of us. We go to Mombasa!”

The object of Aidini’s contempt was an American preacher. T. L. Osborn had come with his evangelistic team from Oklahoma to Kenya’s coastal city on the Indian Ocean, “to preach the gospel, to proclaim Jesus Christ in power. . . to heal and deliver and bring salvation.” He labeled the open-air meetings “crusades”.

Osborn’s preaching campaigns had been many and were known to draw thousands, with large numbers of sick and suffering among them. Aidini was sure all was a hoax to exploit the masses. He would show it up for what it was.

Among the half dozen toughs accompanying Aidini was a man whose mother was blind.

“Bring your mother with us, bring Mama Zaila. When the white man makes prayer for healing in the meeting, we will put her there. When her eyes remain dark and she is not well this will show the lie. And there we will move, we will break the mzungu just there!” Three days travel brought them to their destination.

Leaving their Land Rover beneath a gnarled tree next to a kiosk, the group entered the stream of tribal people making their way by foot toward the blaring loudspeaker. Mombasa’s port-city-atmosphere with its salty aroma was heavy, humid.

“Take care, Mama Zaila, do not rush. Hold tight to my arm.” The woman clung to her son’s forearm, her useless eyes staring into blackness.

Africa is a vast place with pockets of equally dense populations swarming across sprawling cities. Still, the crowd flooding Mombasa’s big outdoor field, was bigger than any the Congolese visitors had known. It was clear the name Osborn evoked interest.

The band of half-dozen strangers from a thousand miles westward pushed their way deeper into the crowd, their goal the big wooden stage where the mzungu preacher and his wife, Daisy sat. At either side of the American couple were invited local dignitaries along with a number of Africa church and mission heads.

Poised at last before the stage, the Congolese gang – their sightless companion in tow – awaited their moment. For Aidini it could not come soon enough.

Tag: healing

Owning It

Aidini