Misael’s baptism to please God

He appeared out of nowhere, or so it seemed. We were sitting in the shade while I had my right foot propped up on a pillow nursing a festering “bush sore” on my leg when he arrived. There was a rustle in the leaves nearby, and there he was, a slim, good-looking African with clean-cut features, about 21 years of age. When he saw me look up, he smiled and announced in clear British-accented English, “Good Aufternoon. I have come for work.”

This was our first introduction to Misael (ME-say-el), who was to become our interpreter and my personal friend and brother in Christ. He was a nephew of old Chief Siansale and a relative of the present one. He had been chosen as one of the two smartest boys in his area, and, as such, he had been able to complete the sixth grade at the Roman Catholic school at Wankie. He had been sick the first of this year, so he missed out, and now his father couldn’t send him. I.G. Cockroft, the Native Commissioner had sent him word that we needed an interpreter. He had walked for two days to reach us.

He went by several names, as do most Africans. He used his father’s names alternately as his last name: Malugwe or Kamonde. His own Tonga name was Siankobe, and the priests called him Francis. One of his school teachers had given him the name Misael after the Jewish name of Meshack of the fiery furnace. Properly spelled, Mishael, it had been misspelled, but we didn’t learn what it should have been until the name Misael had become firmly attached. It was an apt name, for the Zambesi Valley was a “fiery furnace,” especially during the month of October.

He was a sincere Roman Catholic and knew their catechism and could recite their creed. The first thing I did was give him a Tonga New Testament in Plateau Tonga which he could read. I wondered what some of our supporters in America would say if they knew I had hired a R.C. as our interpreter…so I didn’t tell them. I felt like God had sent him at this time of need and I couldn’t reject him.

I decided to take it slow. I reasoned that the best way to win him to the simple Gospel of Christ was not to attack the complicated doctrines of the Roman Catholic Church as a whole, but to show him the error of just one practice I figured he could go on from there himself.

I asked, “Have you been baptized?”

“I have,” he declared.

“Were you baptized like Jesus or did you just have water sprinkled on you?” I inquired.

He looked surprised and asked, “How was Jesus baptized?”

“He was immersed, buried in water. Here, read this,” I suggested. I showed him how Jesus came to be baptized by John and they both went down into the water. Afterwards Jesus came up out of the water.

Misael commented, “It does sound like he was immersed.”

“Yes, and now look at this,” I urged.

Getting my Roman Catholic Bible that had the blessings of the Pope I showed him Romans 6:4. Then I read him the accompanying commentary which stated, “St. Paul alludes to the manner in which baptism was ordinarily conferred in the primitive, by immersion. St. Paul obviously saw something in baptism as more than a mere form.”

“Everyone agrees that immersion is acceptable baptism, but some question whether sprinkling is acceptable to God, so why take the chance?” I asked.

Then I asked Misael, “How do you bury someone here?”

He explained, “We did a deep hole, wrap them in their blanket, and lower them into the hole. Then we cover them with the dirt.”

I asked, “Do you cover them up completely or do you just sprinkle a little dirt on them?”

He looked shocked and said, “We cover them completely and then pile rocks on top so the hyena won’t come along and dig them up.”

“OK,” I said, “that’s like baptism only they are buried in water, covered, immersed.”

“I must think about this,” he declared.

I didn’t pressure Misael. I ended up giving him the R.C. Bible so he could study for himself.

Some time later, we stopped in at the little store on the Binga Road near our Sabi School. It was run by a little Greek storekeeper named Kyriacos N. Mouyaris. His son was just graduating from the University of Athens as an atomic physicist after 20 years of schooling. It was early and he had just opened the doors when we went in. He was washing his hands in a wash pan with about 6 inches of water. He smiled as we came in and, with Misael at my side, I asked, “Can you tell me what baptize means?”

“It is my language,” he replied, “and it means to dip down in water.”

I pressed for more details. “Does it also mean sprinkle or pour?”

“Oh no,” he corrected. “That is rantizo and cheo. Baptizo is like this…to bury or immerse.”As he said that, he dipped his hands into the wash basin of water.

“OK, thank you,” I said and led Misael out of the store.

“Now, Misael,” I explained, “you have heard it from the horse’s mouth.” Baptize was transliterated from the Greek into English like some English words have been transliterated into Tonga, words like booku=book and lambi=lamp. It still means the same thing but some churches had substituted sprinkling and they didn’t like to be shown wrong.”

Misael understood the principle of transliteration.

Later still, I took him along for a trip to Bulawayo, our shopping center about 250 miles to the south. While there, he stayed with his uncle. He asked if he could stay an extra week and I agreed. He got back to the mission on the agreed date although I don’t know how. I asked how he enjoyed his visit.

“It was good,” he said. “While there I went to Mass every morning. I asked my Catholic friends about baptism and they said that the missionary is telling you the truth that baptize means immerse but the Pope has changed it.”

“I’m glad they confirmed my honesty,” I told Misael. “It was changed by the Roman Catholic Council at Ravenna in 1311 to make baptism more convenient. Sprinkling had been practiced by some before that time but this made official with the Pope’s blessing. So if you just want to please the Pope, you’re OK, but if you want to please Jesus, you’d better do what he said.”

“I want to please Jesus,” he assured me. “I must ask my priest.”

Some time after that, we were at the Kamativi Tin Mine and we saw his priest heading toward his Land Rover. Misael asked if he could go talk to him. I agreed.

He walked over to the priest and greeted him. I was not close enough to hear but I saw the priest smile in recognition. When Misael reached him and shook hands, the priest turned abruptly and got in his Land rover and drove off, leaving Misael standing there staring after him. He walked dejectedly back to me.

“What happened?” I asked.

He smiled and greeted me and shook my hand. Then I said I wanted to ask him about baptism. He frowned and said, “You are falling away.” I said, “I only want to understand.” Then he said, “I could explain it but you would not understand.” Then he left me.

I said, “That is true. I don’t understand it either but it’s not a question of understanding. It’s a question of obeying by doing what God said.”

“Now it is up to me,” declared Misael firmly.

“It’s always been up to you,” I assured him.

Finally, after nearly 17 months of patient explanations and prayers, Misael came to me the morning of our first regular church service at the mission and said, “I want to be baptized.”

“Why do you want to do this?” I inquired.

“I want to be sure I please God,” he affirmed.

When he came, he led the way for 5 others who wanted to be baptized, too. Misael had been talking to them and encouraging them to accept Christ, too. That day we went down to a little arm of Kariba Lake where I immersed all 6 of them as the first baptisms of the Tonga.