Dispatch Africa 2024: Traveling for the Bible Institute

I loved and respected Lazaro Kiriama like a wise and learned uncle. He was well known among his peers as a gentle man of quiet strength. I enjoyed his company and never parted without having gained from it. What follows are a couple of light-hearted anecdotes to provide a bit of insight into the heart and character of the man I knew.

I first “experienced” Lazaro Kiriama in the Spring of 2012 when Dr. Stuart Sheehan and I were peddling our wares for the Bible Institute in Arusha, Tanzania. A meeting was being held at a small, lush conference center in the very shadow of Mount Kilimanjaro. Stuart and I were tag-team speaking before a distinguished group of pastors and church leaders with whom we hoped to partner in chartering our first Tanzanian training location. It was my turn, and I teaching an abridged version of one of our courses as a sample of what the pastors and leaders might expect in terms of content quality should they elect to move forward with the new location.

As I taught, one of the men in attendance, a stern-looking fellow with the bearing of an elder statesman and wearing a dark suit, striped shirt, and colorful necktie, interrupted. Anyone could see that my interpreter was struggling to keep up. He nervously meandered, in fits and starts, seemingly using twice as many words to interpret what I had said than I had actually used in saying it. The elder raised his hand, waggled his finger, and, shaking his head, gently chastised the interpreter. “No, no, no, no, no!” he said in a low voice, and then offered a brief correction in Swahili. Each time the elder made a correction, the chagrined interpreter would bow in deference, grin a toothy grin, bob his head, and try again. After perhaps six or seven mistake – interruption – correction occasions, the interpreter and the elder had both reached a level of restrained exasperation. At that moment, the elder stood, dismissed the interpreter, and took his place next to me. With an easy grace, he leaned over, smiled, and said, “Please, ‘tee-cha’, ‘caddy’ on.” Thereafter, the instruction went smoothly and quickly with no further interruptions.  My new interpreter was Lazaro Kiriama.

Some years later, I was back in Tanzania working with Lazaro and his colleagues. This time, my cousin, Dustin Martin, was traveling and co-teaching with me. While lecturing one hot African morning, and with Lazaro interpreting at my side, an acute bout of tummy tantrums came suddenly upon me. I was exploring the depths of some theological point or other, and the students were sitting laser-focused, hanging on every word. Just then, in mid-sentence, I detected a slight gurgle of discomfort arising in my innards. At first, I tried to ignore it, but the discomfort quickly turned into a sharp, roving pain. I was in the middle of a 3-hour lecture with more than 100 students. I panicked. I gingerly eased myself forward to rest my elbows on the lectern for some relief, slowly shifting from one foot to the next, twisting my torso this way and that. I tried every possible position to get the pain to relent. It would not. I tried to talk myself through it. That didn’t work. With fervency, I tried praying under my breath. “Oh God! Lord, please, no! Not now, not right here! Lord, please! Oh God, no…” Even so, the pain kept coming. I began to hyperventilate. My body was contorting, and I could not stand upright.

At last, Lazaro realized I was no longer lecturing and looked my way. He saw me hunched over the lectern and curiously wiggling around. I had perspiration dripping from the tip of my nose, and a look of terror spreading across my face. He could see that I was in trouble. He sized up the situation and sprang into action. First, he declared a 15-minute student break. Then, he threw my arm over his shoulder, helped me off the stage and out the side door of the church. We hobbled together across an alleyway toward a dilapidated pink outhouse. The door was missing and we looked inside. We were instantly traumatized and horrified. The most pungent odors were wafting up, not from a toilet, but from a hole in the ground. The acrid stench and the unsanitary condition of the public privy made me convulse. Lazaro turned me around and quickly helped me out of the alley and down a residential avenue. Unembarrassed and caring nothing for his own reputation, he frantically, yet with dignity, beat on garage doors and security gates, one and then another, calling out in Swahili over each wall for someone to come to my aid. The pain was becoming unbearable, and my hope was running out. I knew I wouldn’t make it, and I was ready to give up. I prayed some more. At the last moment (the very last moment, I tell you), a receptive houseboy opened the gate and allowed me access to his employer’s private, indoor facilities.

Lazaro went far above the call of duty as a Council Chairman. Needless to say, I was relieved in the extreme and grateful beyond expression. Spiritual attacks can come in all sorts of packages, but warfare is waged in prayer. Even though I couldn’t see it, the Lord had a plan. Lazaro and I bonded like two soldiers in a foxhole that day. I will miss my brother in arms, who taught one purveyor of agape the actual meaning of the word. With much affection for his memory, may his kind be found everywhere upon God’s mission field, until Jesus comes.