Getting checked out
as a missionary pilot in Papua is a lot more than learning how to land on
short, slippery runways or navigate mountain passes. For many of us, learning to interface well
with the many different people groups of Papua is a steep learning curve. So, having passed along as much knowledge I could
dig out of my aging mind to my new colleague, Andy, it was time for me to quit
getting in the way and allow him to handle a complete ‘turn-around’—the time we
spend on the ground at a remote village.
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The people of
Maksum come out to meet the airplane.
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I turned to my friend Pies and said, “Let’s take
a walk through the village.” Pies led me
down the path that led to the picturesque village of Maksum. Weaving our way through the patchwork of huts,
Pies and I caught up on each other’s lives.
Floating through the open doorways came smoke from the morning cooking
fires and the warm Ketengban greeting, Telebe. I felt among family.
As we approached the
center of the village, I noticed a large, obviously temporary thatch-roofed
structure that had been erected in the center of the village and asked Pies
about it. “That’s where I’m taking you.”
Pies began to explain
that one of their elders had just passed away.
The large hut is where folks could gather and pass the hours of mourning
together. Most of the mourners had gone
up to meet the arrival of our flight, but a few men were still gathered around
a fire chatting quietly.
“He must have been an
important person.” Half statement, half
question, I waited for Pies to respond.
“Yes, he was.” Pies’ eyes
lit up. “Gerson was the first person to
receive the Good News in Maksum. When
the missionaries first came, Gerson protected them from hostility and told our
people that we needed to listen to the message these strange people were
bringing into the valley.”
Pies told me that
Gerson was the first person in Maksum transformed by the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
He turned away from the darkness that
had gripped his people for millennia and towards the light of a restored
relationship with his Creator. Gerson
spent the rest of his life encouraging his people to do the same. And they had responded. It was obvious to me how cherished this man
was to his people.
Instead of heading to the mourning area, Pies grabbed my arm and led me
down a side path to a hut. Inside, in a
handmade coffin of rough wooden planks, lay Gerson’s empty shell. On a rough shelf in the corner there’s a book--a
reminder that Gerson lived to see the day when God’s Word could be read in his
Ketengban language. Some of his family
sat on the floor around the coffin. They
would bury him later that day.
I expressed my
condolences, asked a few questions, and took a photograph. As I put my phone back in my pocket, I was
reminded of images of the kings of this world lying in state. Gilded caskets, honor guards, vaulted
cathedrals, the world’s leaders lining up to pay their respects… and here? In a simple hut, in a tiny, isolated village,
totally hidden from the view of the powerful of this world, I can’t help but wonder
if I’m looking at one who will be a king in the next version of this world.
Blessed are
the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
