A Trinity of Saints

Without being too clever, I’ll tell of three men whose stories I heard in the last half a day.

The first is the Principal of the New Theological College, Dr. Simon Samuel.

I enter there house—one of the nicest on campus (he is the principal and must entertain visitors, after all) where his wife, Mercy, is preparing our dinner with the help of her domestic. The two children, a boy of six and a girl age two, are making pests of themselves and driving us a bit crazy—but no more than any kids of that age. The supper is too my taste, as Simon has a tender stomach himself and avoids really spicy stuff. We have rice (of course), chapattis, goat meet fixed with something really, really black—might be mushrooms and some sauce? Who knows? Who acres? Just try it. It’s good! Some fried potato (I’m sure in my honor), plus lightly sautéed fresh beans, carrot and the like. Some green salad, plain yogurt, and leftover cake from the last night’s all-college-community 50th Birthday bash for Dr. Samuel. The cut on the girl’s finger—helping mom in the kitchen—seems to be staying bandaged. So soon after we sit and talk.

Now Simon is a modest man but with great gifts for this college. It seems he came from a very poor background. His father at age five lost his father, leaving him to mostly to fend for himself. It made him very tough, even though he was slight of stature. Simon and his brothers and sisters grew up in a village in south India to which there was no real road. No electricity. The boonies of India. His father tried to open an iron shop with a few rupees he scraped together. But the supplier cheated him with shoddy goods and the venture failed at once. So Simon, being the oldest and bigger and stronger than his father had to assist with whatever hand to mouth work they could get. So here is a typical day for him in the late 1960s.

Up at 3 a.m. He and dad put water in what we would call an Indian spray pump that goes on your back after you pump up pressure by hand. There is pesticide mixed in so they can treat the rice fields they have. It has to be done in the dark as the neighbors do not take kindly to pesticide wafting around while they are cooking and washing outside their “houses.” Simon is knee deep in mud and water. His father goes to the far end of the field and lights a faggot so Simon will know the direction, since it is pitch black. Simon sweeps the area in front and to each side with this concoction as he heads toward the light. Try not to think of the snakes and other creatures of the night that frequent these paddies. In an hour or so he makes it to the other side.

Please realize there is no OSHA here. Simon is sucking in the fumes and mist. Once it was so strong he collapsed unconscious. But you—and the family—have to eat. Even worse, for three years running great rains came at harvest time and took everything downstream. But his father is hardened by life and never lets it get to him.

So the next plan is to sell some plantains. Cut bunch and start walking to market at 3 a.m. It is 8 miles. Plantains are heavy. Simon is bigger so he carries the larger bunches. At dawn he leaves his father at the outdoor market and walks home.
Now he heads off for school. This is another long trek—about 5 miles. That’s not so bad except the path goes through Marsh #1. Simon removes his clothes and sandals, piles them on his head and wades through. Re-clothes himself. Soon comes to Marsh #2. Same drill. Then on to school. Same thing going home. No wonder he is the only child in the family to persist through all grades. The rest dropped out by age 10 or so.

Getting home in late afternoon it is time to chop wood for the fires. Cut split, stack. All with an axe. Simon’s mother is, in his words, “a woman of prayer.” Despite the hardships he is being taught about the Lord. His younger brother runs off to join the navy at age 17. His father dies. So Simon is left with a mother and sister to care for. Fortunately, the Indian family structure is helpful here as some uncles help out as they can to keep the family afloat.

Somehow Simon goes to a Bible college, finds the born-again experience, and is called to ministry in northeast India. These are oriental people living in a tribal village with no store, no post office, no electricity. Simon teaches them the Gospel for two years. But he is becoming more ill as he cannot fight off the effects of bad water, poor food, and loneliness. If an army truck comes through, maybe monthly, he might get a letter. But maybe not. He is living in a hut. Health forces him to go back home.

In time he meets Mercy and they are married. He goes for higher degrees, even in Great Britain. He finds he loves to give lectures after he is aksed to fill in for someone ina New Testament class. Simon is fluent in English as far as reading and writing goes. But he has never spoken in English. Yet his tongue has no problem giving the lecture. He now senses his calling in life.

The Lord is indicating he should minister in north India. He replies, “Lord, you have to take care first of mom and my sisters.” In a few years his younger brother, now home from the navy, is selected for a job and can send some money home. His sisters find husbands and can care for mom. He and Mercy come north to teach. Soon he meets Uncle George, just starting this college. They are fast friends within hours. He comes to NTC, teaches New Testament courses (and is considered a superior teacher) and assumes the principalship here.

So when students come with their problems, all discouraged, Simon listens. Then he tells his life story. Generally they leave encouraged that God can see them through if they persevere as the Scripture enjoins us. This is Saint #1.

The second is T.S. Sam.

I was served breakfast today in the apartment of Sam and his wife, also Mercy. (How come Americans have not thought of that name for a girl?) The food consisted of a “pancake” made of rice flour that rises over night and then is cooked on a skillet. It looks like a giant sunny-side-up egg for shape, with a mound in the middle where the yolk would be. Only it is lace white and sweet to the taste. Over it we ladle a sauce with hard-boiled eggs. I like it.

I ask Sam about his siblings. He says it is a sad story.

When Sam was about five, his father palmed off him and his younger brother to a Catholic institution as orphans. He disappeared without telling their mother what he had done. She prayed, asking the Lord to help her locate her children. After a few years she did find them and took them back.

But in India a broken home is a cause for shame. Not only was his mother unable to find work, she was ostracized whenever anyone inquired as to her family situation. And here people always ask about your connections, so they know how to treat you according to your station in the caste system.

Sam knew hunger to the point of starvation. They lived wherever they could find shelter—basically homeless. They managed to get a few chickens somehow and Sam would take them to a shop to sell. Owners would want to know who he was. When they found out they often figured he must have stolen the eggs. It made it very difficult for them to survive. But his mother was a Christian and taught her sons about Jesus. She never gave up believing that she was not alone.

Sam left home for the north when he was seventeen and found work where he could. A bright student, he managed to get an education, sensing the Lord was calling him to ministry. He did not get his theology degree until he was forty. But now he is married and has two daughters who are well educated and have excellent positions, one as a doctor and the other in business.

While the poverty and hunger was a sore trial, Sam says that the constant rejection was almost unbearable. He finally would tell people his father was dead just to stop the questions. For all he knew his father was dead. Not too many years ago he was able to contact relatives on his father’s side, but before he could connect his father did pass away.

Sam works in ministry here at the college as the dean of students, with his wife the mother of the 45 girls in the Women’s Hostel on campus. His brother is in ministry also in a city not too distant from here. It is a miracle fo grace that Sam has found wholeness such that he is a fine counselor healed himself of the scars of a terrible childhood. So when students come to him with their woes, he often tells his story. “When father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up,” as the Psalmist puts it.

Sam is my Saint #2

The third saint is Wungyo Lungleng.

He is the student who preached his senior sermon this morning

Nagaland state. I can tell from his features that he is from the part of Asia that is closer to China and Myanmar than to western India. He explains why he is here studying to preach he Gospel.

In his home area Baptist missionaries came perhaps a hundred years ago when his ancestors were headhunters. There was no unity of peace or kindness in the entire region—just tribes fighting, raiding and eating their human prey. The people wore human bones for necklaces and kept the skulls of their enemies. To them the Christians came with the Good News of God’s love.

They learned the language and the customs. They ate the strange food and suffered many diseases from the water and the climate. They said goodbye to their dear ones, never to see them again in this life. They died in that village and are buried there.

What is the fruit of their sacrifice? Now the entire village worships Jesus Christ, as do surrounding villages. They live in harmony, ubnity and peace. Their entire life has been changed. Their culture has been transformed. All because they did not hold their lives and comfort dear to themselves but sacrificed all for Jesus and His Kingdom.

So, Wungyo says, he is here to prepare to do the same for those who have never heard the Message of Love in Christ. He is ready to leave his own people and do whatever it takes, for he too echoes the text of St. Paul. “I am not ashamed of the Gospel for it is the power of God for salvation for everyone who believes.”

By this time in his forceful and very energetic presentation I am between tears and shouts of joy. What a Gospel we are given to share. What a difference Jesus can make in hearts, in families, in communities, in the world.

So this is Saint #3.

I have been listening to something most precious. From people most precious to God and now to me. I am as a grasshopper in their shadow. They have passed through the waters and walked through the fire.

If Christians were fowl, these would be the deep diving sea ducks, the pelagics that brave the shoreless deeps of the vast oceans, or the wild honkers that slice the highest heavens on their far-sighted migrations. As for me? I am no more than a dabbler, quacking about in the quiet pools among the sheltering reeds, picking a bug here and there.

Hopefully I can learn to fly with them some day. Or, at the least, be a loon for Jesus—gavia immer, the most primitive of the bird species but nonetheless worthy of respect.