Henry

He was the kind of person whom you could tell at first glance was trustworthy. Sharply dressed, with a Bible at his desk and an immediate smile, his visage made me turn to my sister and say “I like this kid.”

Our Southeastern team was preaching at a school. We spent our two weeks traveling around Kampala, preaching and ministering in schools, hospitals, and prisons, and, though our programs had to be flexible to meet the specific needs of where we were to be speaking, we held greatest importance and focus on preaching Jesus, no matter what. We presented the Gospel wherever we went – even if it wasn’t in the “job description,” per se.

By that, I refer to the school where I met this boy, whose name is Henry. For most of the schools we visited, we came into offer a program of career guidance, counseling, and a session on HIV/AIDS, which was abstinence-focused. Those are the topics on which we spoke at every school, and the outlets through which many headmasters gave us a significant audience, carved out of the students’ rigorous daily schedule.

It wasn’t an act of deception that most schools let us in as counselors and not as preachers, but there were occasional misunderstandings whereby our team was called out for presenting the Gospel message. The most memorable of instance occurred at Henry’s school which, coincidentally, was almost entirely under Muslim leadership.

It was not a Muslim school (though we did visit a few of those later), but the majority of the administration were devout followers of Islam. This is not a problem, apparently, until you begin to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ to their students.

Going in, we knew the circumstances of the school’s leadership. We were generally unconcerned – rightfully considering the fact that the faith of the individual students is their own decision to make, and expecting that the headmaster and others would respect that.

So we went about the program as normal. We divided into smaller groups and split into different classrooms. I had the happy blessing of being in Henry’s classroom.

Though the room was brimming with hundreds of students seated a dozen to a desk bench, Henry was front and center. I knew we were going to get along when he smiled at our team warmly and seemed politely attentive – a trait that cannot be under-appreciated in a room packed with that many students.

We went through our program, giving talks about picking careers and staying dedicated in school, committing to abstinence and avoiding HIV. In between talks, just to keep the attention of the room and have some fun, our Ugandan colleague asked one of us to lead a song.

It was loud in there, and we were losing the students’ attention fast. So I hiked up my long skirt and hopped onto a desk at the front of the room. I taught the classroom a lively song about the power of Jesus, which I often pull out in these situations, that I absolutely love. It’s full of larger-than-life actions, inhospitable key changes, and requires one to make a fool out of oneself to teach it properly.

So, as I taught the room, and we fed off each others’ energy, I asked for any student participants to volunteer to hop up next to me on the desk and perform the song with me.

Any takers?

Just when I was getting worried that every one of those hundreds of kids would be “too cool” to get down to this song with me, Henry’s hand shot up in the first row. He and another girl got right up there with me and we had a blast – he sang at the top of his lungs, not necessarily on-key, but with all his heart. I was actually taken aback by the joy he seemed to find in the words of the song.

But that’s not the last time Henry came through for me. I was set to be the one preaching that day, and I had a man to translate for me, but I wanted to have my passage read in Lugandan as well as English, just to make sure that everything was clear to the audience. Henry was the only student who had a Bible, that I could see. Though it took a few tries to adequately communicate what I was asking him to do, when he finally understood, he hopped right up there next to me and read the passages I asked him to.

I talked about identity that day. I talked about the fact that the image and inscription that God puts on is His own name, and we owe Him ourselves, in the same way that we are to “give Caesar what is due Caesar, and God what is God’s.” However, though we are like the coin that belongs to God, sometimes we get lost. Luckily, God cherished the “lost coin” so much that He gave a parable about it. He longs for us to come back to Him so deeply that He tears the house apart looking for the single lost coin. And rejoices mightily when He finds us. So, my point was, no matter what we choose to spend ourselves on, we need to know that we truly belong to God, and He longs to be our true identity. He finds us, and in that, we find our worth.

It was a short and simple message, and at the end, I did what we always did while preaching in schools – I gave a salvation call. I asked if there was anyone in the classroom who wanted to “be found” by God, and begin to find their value in Him. But I didn’t let them off easily, with a simple hand-raise. I told them that the Bible says that when we acknowledge Christ in front of the world, He will acknowledge us in front of the Father.

And so I asked anyone who was serious about coming to Christ and being “born again” to leave their seats and make their way to the front of the classroom.

The response was overwhelming, and brought tears to my eyes. Kids flooded down the already-crowded aisles to be received at the front, and I led the group in a prayer of repentance for salvation.

It was a triumphant moment in the Kingdom of Heaven, seeing all those lost coins be found, and we had seen it at many of the schools we’d gotten to visit.

But, the very moment we said “Amen” to our salvation prayer, things changed.

All of a sudden, in the background of the classroom, I heard someone bark “This is not career guidance and counseling!”

Uh-oh.

I turned to see the headmaster of the school, livid and repeating that phrase over and over. He walked around furiously, ripping from the hands of the students the booklet on salvation that we’d just distributed.

He accused us of forcing these kids to “convert,” which struck me as odd because the demographic of the room did not strike me as overtly Muslim, and clearly, nobody was being forced.

He ordered us to leave, and ordered the students to lay their booklets in a pile at the front of the classroom. Some of them reluctantly cast theirs onto the table, only to pick them up on their walk out. The rest simply snuck them into their pockets and headed for the door.

Class was over, and we were, incidentally, being kicked off the premises. Whoops.

Our lead missionary and several other personnel headed to the office of the headmaster to talk things out, while the team and I headed to out to our bus. Which is when the real fun began, and Henry proved his courage once again.

The school was in a state of disarray. We were supposed to be giving a morning session to half the school, and an afternoon session to the other half. At this point, however, with the school’s leadership up in arms and our sessions terminated, both halves of the students were released into the yard in a state of disorientation.

They flooded our bus like teenage girls during the height of Beatlemania. They wanted the books on salvation that we gave out, and we started furiously passing them out to the groping hands that clawed at our windows. We told them to put them away immediately, and read them when they went home so that their headmaster and teachers wouldn’t see (cool and subversive, I know).

We started receiving notes from the students, written on torn-off pieces of loose leaf paper. If I was under any illusion that these students were only interested in the books for the sake of gleaning free materials from foreign visitors, these notes showed me that they knew exactly what our true purpose was in coming to the school.

The notes were astounding and varied. Most of them thanked us for coming, many of them expressed joy at the fact that they became born again that day, and hoped that their lives would never be the same. We were told that we were inspiring, and that we shouldn’t listen to the disgruntled headmaster, because they were glad we came.

It was overwhelmingly rewarding, as we spoke with kids and handed out booklets as fast as we could open a new box.

But some team members showed due concern. We were just passing through this school. We had received the worst of our reprimand in getting yelled at and kicked out, but we were about to shuttle off and never come back. These students, however, could not make the same getaway. Would they be punished for having the books we were giving out? Were we going to be the very agents and enablers of their suffering under the wrathful headmaster? Were we basically handing out detention slips and letters of expulsion, or worse punishment?

We don’t know. I still don’t know.

Maybe I should’ve thought about it more, but all I cared about was that we got the truth of the Gospel into the hands of these children. To me, the stakes were so much higher for this school. For others we had visited, it was clear that most students were Christian, and taught Biblical values and held worship services on campus. But for the kids of this particular school, we had no idea whether or not they would have another crack at hearing the Gospel presented to them like this. The school leadership kept them pretty sheltered or, more accurately, under lock-and-key. We had broken that barrier, and had a limited window of time to present Jesus to their hungry hearts.

These thoughts consumed me as I passed out the booklets from my window, again and again expressing the importance of keeping them secret. I felt a hand on my arm.

“Can I have some to pass out to students who aren’t here today, or who are too shy to come up to you?”

I looked to see where the request came from.

It was Henry. Of course.

He had the same smile and gentleness and confidence. I yelped and embraced him through the bus window. I gave him the remainder of my stack of booklets.

Holding his hand out the open window, I asked him about what it was like to be a Christian at this school. He expressed that it wasn’t easy. The headmaster tried to discourage it and make it nearly impossible for Born Again students to gather and practice their faith.

I cannot emphasize enough how opposite a case that is from most of the other schools we toured.

I asked Henry what was to be done about it. He smiled his award-winning smile and looked at his shoes.

“Do you see that mango tree over there?”

He pointed to shaded area next to the school gate. I nodded.

“Our Scripture Union meets under that tree to pray and read our Bibles. We keep it as secret as we can.”

I asked him what I already knew. “Are you the leader?”

He smiled bashfully and nodded. What a champion.

The Scripture Union is an institution in most Ugandan secondary schools. It’s, for all intents and purposes, the Christian Club of the school. From what I observed in the schools we visited, the club can range to the height of popularity among the school population, or be all but dead. Never had I come across a club that was practically illegal, however.

I thought of my time in high school. As ashamed as I am to admit this, I was something of a spiritual coward during my high school years. I wasn’t overtly involved with the one Christian organization on campus, though it was started by one of my best friends. I wouldn’t be seen at the See You at the Pole day every fall. I didn’t deny my faith, but I was content to “lead by example” instead of actually lead when it came to my relationship with Christ. Which is ironic, because I was pretty a voracious leader in every other respect. It's funny sometimes how you can be ashamed of the thing that is most important to you.

I thought of how important it was for me to make a good impression on our principal and school administration. Though I didn’t encounter any overt religious opposition in high school, I cannot say with confidence how I would’ve handled it. I know what I would like to believe, but I also know that I was a much different person then than I am now.

Henry, on the other hand, showed no signs of fear.

Actually, I take that back. The only fear that Henry exuded was the fear of the Lord. His passion burned bright to me in the short time that I met and got to know him. He struck me, overwhelmingly, as a Moses character, calling his people to undivided worship and service to the Lord, even as they were figuratively beaten down and discouraged.

As our leaders joined us, back from being detained in the headmaster’s office, I suppose, and we made our getaway in our purple bus, I saw Henry. He was under that mango tree, giving out our booklets, and smiling that famous smile.

I will never forget that boy. His courage was so complete that it didn’t seem like intimidating fortitude. It simply seemed like the joy of a servant who lived to please his Master. It was child-like, quiet, but extremely powerful.

I don’t know what Henry is going through as a Christian leader at that school. I don’t know what other religious persecution he will experience in his life, but I will tell you this: I believe his faith will last him a lifetime.

Some faith is adopted from parents. Others is accepted limply as something that “seems nice.” Other faith is strong behind closed doors, but crumbles in the daylight of opposition. Other faith is only for show.

But Henry’s faith is a true faith – a faith that stands against all that comes against it, and lands right-side-up. 

Which is exactly what people like Henry are doing: turning this world right-side-up.