We finally found a place to sit on a dirty bench in Felix’s favorite train station shelter. It was as much a home as anything he had, and he passed a lot of time there. As we usually did upon meeting Nigerians, we tried to connect with him by trying to make some small talk in Nigerian pidgin, or “broken” English. This time, though, it aroused only the faint trace of a smile from our downtrodden acquaintance. Quickly moving on, we asked him to introduce himself. Of course, that meant asking how he got to Italy.
“In Nigeria, we have census days, but the
government is no good, it is all corrupt. The census is dangerous! I was
driving my car around with a megaphone, telling people not to go. The police
saw us and started shooting.” It was a great beginning to our first lesson with
Felix.
“The first bullets hit my friend in the
front seat and he was gone. The other man in the back seat jumped out of the
car and started to run, but he never had a chance. Then a bullet entered my
thigh and I could not drive. Look.” He rolled up his dingy pant leg and
indicated a large, white circle of a scar just above his knee. “They stopped my
car, and threw me to the ground. I was helpless so they could not shoot me
anymore, but they used their steel boots to kick me and made me bleed. I still
have scars here!” He gently ran his hand, over his large, bald head, which was
crossed by several nasty scars.
“Then what did they do to you?” I asked.
“They took me to the hospital, and the
doctors began looking at me. But the police were angry at the doctors, because
they could did not come to the survey, and tried to arrest them. So, there was
a big fight in the hospital and all the doctors left the room. I got out of
bed, dragged myself to a window, and jumped out. I hid myself in a hole on the
other side of the fence.”
I slowly shook my head. I could only
imagine him leaping from the window, dragging himself to edge of the premise
and somehow making it over the fence, covering himself with leaves and dirt
under some shrubbery.
A simple “wow” was all I managed in
reply.
“When it got dark I went to my friend’s
house and woke him up. He lent me some money and I left. Now I am here.”
I knew that he had skipped over what may
have been the most gruesome part of the story, considering the many stories I
heard from refugees at least weekly about crossing the Sahara, surviving as a
Christian African in war torn Libya, and crossing the Mediterranean. Death
lurked behind every corner and mortality rates were high enough to sober any
listener.
Sighing, I began the process of
expressing our sympathy, offering any comforting words that we could, making
clear our purpose as missionaries, and bearing testimony of the goodness of
Jesus Christ. It was apparent though that he was under too much stress in his
homeless position in life, far from family and without hope of redress. It
would take time and patience for him to understand.
All too soon, a familiar ding-dong tone
informed us that our train was about to arrive. We wrapped things up with a
final testimony and a quick prayer, then sprinted to the platform and jumped on
the train. Our lesson with Felix had taken its toll, and we settled into an empty
seat compartment to watch the glorious green landscape rush by. It was a
welcome reprieve on the eyes, but it couldn’t erase the image of Felix sitting despondently
alone in the station or the pain I felt in my heart for him and the hundreds of
other people we talked to every week.
It was a long ride back to Pistoia.
Only
one more lesson. . ., I
thought, then couldn’t help somberly adding, if he’s actually there.
“Guys, I simply cannot believe it. The God of Jesus Christ is not the God that we see in reality. It is more the God of Moses. He was called Jehovah, and He was a jealous and terrible God. He commanded the Israelites to destroy entire civilizations! I don’t believe in that God. Nor can I believe in the Father espoused by Jesus Christ.”
Mario’s sophisticated speech and highly
respectful form of Italian never wavered, but the combination of frustration
and despair in his voice were evident as he continued to make his case. “If deity
is as merciful as Christ proponed, why then would He permit innocent children
to perish daily? He wouldn’t. I can
not believe in Jehovah or the Father. I can’t believe in these gods. . . . I
believe in something, in the divine, but not them.”
I chafed at the oft repeated example of
the innocent babes, wondering why those with this qualm rarely cite the
thousands of injustices I saw around them every day. I had been in this
situation before, but this time it was more personal. My chest was tight, as if
my own wrestling with the problem of wickedness and injustice was squeezing the
words directly from my heart.
“Mario, I know that God lives. The
scriptures are at times unclear and incomplete, yes. I agree, and you surely
know them better than I do. Yet they are just one of many witnesses I have of
God’s reality. The most important of these witnesses is that of the Holy
Spirit, and the influence that God has personally on my life. I know that God
is perfectly just, and perfectly merciful. I have seen this in my own life. The
injustices of the world are not due to the apathy of God; they are due to the
apathy of mankind. He cares.”
“But many do trust in God!” Mario interrupted. “Some of the best, most
believing people I know have suffered more than anyone – at the hands of the
unjust! Why would God allow that?”
“It’s true,” I conceded. “Some of
life’s pain is innate to our mortal existence. God sent us to earth to learn,
and part of that means experiencing a mortal body. We’ll have to talk about
that another time. You are correct though, many times the righteous suffer
because of the wicked. God respects the choices of His children. Just as He
will not force you or I to do good, He will not prevent the wicked from making
bad decisions. However, all of that will be made right through Christ in the
end. I know that. I have already felt Christ’s healing and reassurance in my
own life.”
“I suppose,” Mario said quietly, obviously
not convinced.
“I know it can be difficult to accept. At
times I question it as well. But I know that God lives. If we all collectively
turned to Him, the world would be
perfectly just and peaceful. However, the most any one of us could do is our
own part. After that, we must trust in God.”
Mario’s head slowly shook back and
forth. “I envy you. I wish I could see that too.”
“You can,” I promised, “but you have
to try.”
The conversation went on like that:
Mario presenting the usual excuses (“I’m too old,” I’ve already tried,” “it
takes a certain kind of person,” “but this scripture here. . .” – the list is
endless), and we the usual testimonies. A short time later, it was time to
excuse ourselves.
“Thank you for coming,” he said,
graciously showing us past his ornate front room to the door. “You are amazing
young men. I don’t know what I believe in, but I believe in something, and it’s
thanks to people like you. I don’t need Matthew, Mark, Luke or John. I met you.
Because of you, I believe in Jesus Christ. Perhaps someday I will understand
how. Thank you.”
“Thank you.” I bowed slightly,
acknowledging the praise. “We’ll talk to you later.”
And
with that, he closed the door.
In the 14 months until I finished my mission, I never forgot those words. They stayed with me, giving me strength and inspiration. They drove me to work harder, but to give more time to individuals. They were the capstone to my epiphany. I knew God loves His children. He cares about them. Each one of them is important to Him, and He wants to help them, though even the most pious of souls are subject to the ills of life. I wanted to make a difference, but I realized that one man can’t change the course of an entire river. He can, however, make a difference in the lives of at least some of those who are helplessly being swept downstream, frantically grasping for something to hold on to, if only for a moment.
And that’s good enough for me.
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