From the Inside Out

As I reflect on the almost unimaginable events of Wednesday in Kampala, a line from one of my favorite songs continues to loop in my head “. . . from the inside out, Lord, my soul cries out.”

I am beginning to feel like the Boy Who Cried Goff.  There are only so many times one can characterize a day as “one of the most memorable in my life” before some serious integrity questioning seeps in.  But put me under oath, hooked up to a polygraph machine, and water board me – my story won’t change.  It was truly one of those had-to-be-there-to-fully-appreciate-it days, but I will give it my best shot.  Though this post will be longer than usual, I promise to make it worth the read.

Let me begin with some important background information.  There is this fantastically whimsical guy named Bob Goff.  I met him in mid-October of 2009.  Nine weeks later I was on a plane to Uganda.  Two years later, I was sitting in the warden’s office at Luzira, Uganda’s maximum security prison, with Bob, a court official named Margaret, and an honest-to-badness Witch Doctor name Kabi.  (Kabi was serving life for castrating a young boy as part of a ritual ceremony.  Miraculously, the boy I have called Hero in prior posts survived and testified against Kabi in a trial attended, funded, and orchestrated by Bob).  Bob had invited me to go with him to visit Kabi at Luzira: “I am going to talk to him about Jesus, you should come.”  So I did.

I have previously written about that memorable encounter here, but suffice it to say that Bob talked to Kabi about Jesus, and Kabi listened.  Not only did he listen, he obeyed.  It was surreal.  About six months later, while I was living with my family in Kampala, Bob returned to Uganda and again invited me to join him on a visit to see Kabi.  He was a changed man.  Exit witch doctor, enter Jesus follower.  I wrote about that encounter here.  At the end of that visit, Kabi declared that if he ever got out of prison, he wanted to be an evangelist.  As we were leaving, Bob said, “Next time we come, we should totally talk to the rest of the prisoners in Luzira about Jesus with Kabi – how cool would that be?”  “Next time” was this past Wednesday.

It pulverized the cool meter.  Nothing left but dust.

A group of about fifteen of us arrived at Luzira in the late morning.  Accompanying Bob on a week-long trip in conjunction with a graduation ceremony at the school in Gulu he runs were folks from all over the United States, including Bob’s film-maker son, Richard.  Also in the group was Margaret, the court official/preacher lady who was with us when Kabi surrendered his life to his Savior.  Hero, the boy Kabi carved up, lives with Margaret now and he came as well, though he stayed in the parking lot, far from the prisoners.  We were ordered to leave in our cars all phones, cameras, or anything else that could record what would happen inside.  Things were a bit chaotic as we went through security because of the size of our group.  Consequently, one or more of our team members didn’t actually get frisked or wanded.  From security, we were ushered into the warden’s office.  The memories of the first two meetings with Kabi flooded back.

The warden, who had been lurking in the background during both of our prior visits with Kabi in his office, instantly remembered Bob and greeted him warmly.  After exchanging some pleasantries, the warden informed Bob that all arrangements had been made and that the prisoners had been told that some people were coming to preach to anyone who was interested in listening.  Bob was effusive with gratitude and explained that he had gone shopping and brought some things with him for the prisoners – lots of soap and sugar.  The warden was pleased.

What happened next was quite remarkable.  Bob used some sort of mind control techniques I have only seen on television to convince the warden to do something he never would have agreed to do, even for a scrillion shillings.  It went something like this:

Bob:               We also brought a balloon we want to inflate and then let it float into the sky.

Warden:        A what?

Bob:               A balloon.  We have a little bit of helium we are going to fill it up with and then it will float away.  It’ll be cool.

Warden:        Oh, I don’t think that will be . . .

Bob:                You’ll love it, it won’t be a problem (nodding).

Warden:         We cannot allow . . . (shaking his head).

Bob:                Awesome, it’s right outside with the sugar and soap.  We’ll bring it in now.  It will be great.  Thanks for letting us do this (nodding).

Warden:         (Stunned Silence).

Bob:                (Standing and reaching to shake his hand). Thanks, Warden.

Warden:         (Cracking a smile and starting to nod) It is OK.

Everyone Else in the Room:  Did that really just happen?

Shortly thereafter, we were escorted outside into the prison courtyard where a thousand or more inmates in yellow prison garb stood, sat, and milled around in a horseshoe pattern facing a table, behind which was a row of chairs for us.  While there were a handful of guards scattered around, the prisoners were not restrained and there were no barriers between us and them.  In fact, as we approached the chairs, an older gentleman hurried up to Bob and embraced him.  “That’s Kabi,” I whispered to a few of the others.  It would have been a rather sweet moment, were it not bathed in irony – a prisoner serving a life sentence warmly embracing the man who was both responsible for putting him prison and helping him secure eternal freedom.  Kabi wore a soft smile of validation and nodded along quietly as Bob spoke gently into his ear for about two minutes.  As their embrace concluded, Kabi spotted me and gave me a warm smile.  I came over and hugged him.  “Do you remember me?” I asked.  He replied in much-improved English, “I remember you from before in the warden’s office.  It is good to see you.”

All the while, gospel music blared through the loudspeakers facing the prisoners, who were, in turn, facing us.  After a few minutes, all eyes turned to a handful of inmates as they struggled through the security gate lugging two eight-foot-long cylindrical helium tanks.  They gingerly set the tanks down in the red-dirt courtyard between us and the inmates.  A steady stream of inmates who had been conscripted into pack-mule duty followed with a half-dozen body-bag sized sacks of sugar, a dozen huge cases of soap bars, and four boxes of one-liter water bottles.  The booty was placed in full view of the prisoners, just to our right.  The sugar and soap I understood because there was enough for everyone, but the 96 water bottles perplexed me.

A hush came over the crowd as the music faded and an inmate who introduced himself as the pastor of the Luzira Pentecostal Church took the mike and welcomed us as their guests.  Over the course of the next twenty minutes, a “prison choir” led us in a few songs, followed by a prayer.  Whenever someone spoke, another interpreted – either from Luganda to English or vice versa.  The pastor resumed his emcee duties and announced that one of their fellow inmates would be sharing his story of how accepting Jesus changed his life.

With his arm around Bob, Kabi approached the microphone.  He proceeded to tell the other inmates about the kind of person he was before he “born again” and the difference it has made in his life.  Bob stood with his friend throughout this powerfully emotional testimony.

Next came Margaret, who brought it Ugandan Pentecostal style.  She paced, she bounced, she stomped, she raised her hands, she pointed her finger, she yelled, and she whispered.  As Margaret was reaching her crescendo, Bob snuck over to the boxes of water, pulled out a handful of one-liter bottles, and noiselessly handed them out amongst our group.  That’s when it clicked.  I grinned broadly as I finally realized why Bob brought the water.

Margaret finished with a flourish, inviting any of the prisoners who had not been born again to accept Jesus right then and there – “Jesus wants to give you a second chance,” she bellowed.  “Raise your hand if you want to accept Jesus today.”  A few hands went up.  “Come forward so we can pray with you and help you receive Jesus.”  A group of a half-dozen or so emerged from the crowds and stood in the middle of the courtyard in front of Margaret.  Bob’s barely perceptible head nod prompted us into action.  We converged on the penitents, open bottles in hand.

I approached a young man in his early twenties.  His slightly trembling body and penetratingly pleading eyes conveyed the sincerity and urgency he felt.  He told me in somewhat broken English that his name was Ibrahim, revealing the fact that he was born Muslim.  He told me his other name (there are no last names in Uganda, just two names), but I couldn’t quite understand him – Margaret continued to preach and the others who had come forward were talking and praying with the others in our group.  He pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote his other name down. “I want you to remember me,” he said.  “I promise I will remember you and that I will be praying for you,” I insisted as I pocketed the piece of paper.

I cannot remember precisely all that I said and that he said, but we prayed together, I told him that Jesus loved him and that he and I were now brothers.  I also tried to explain that if he wanted me to, I was going to baptize him with the water for the forgiveness of his sins.  He said he understood and he wanted just that.  (My baptism experiences and theology strongly lean toward immersion, rather than pouring of water on the head, but there weren’t any bodies of waters handy, so we made due).  By this time, it had started to drizzle, and the rain mixed with our respective tears as we prayed together.  We both got a bit more wet as I poured a small portion of the water bottle over Ibrahim’s head.  He closed his eyes, turned his head toward the sky, and trembled some more.

As I had attempted to describe for him what I was going to do, I had used the term “holy water” in an effort to convey the symbolism of baptism.  I did not intend to use this term in a way that it is often used in Catholic churches, but Ibrahim must have understood it that way.  As I poured the water on his head, I again used this terminology.  After the second small pour, he opened his eyes and said, “I must drink the holy water.”  That’s a new one, I thought.  As he chugged the entire bottle, my mind immediately locked on the song referenced above – my heart warmed as I briefly reflected on the contrast between baptism through immersion of the outside of one’s body and Ibrahim’s experience of being baptized “. . . from the inside out.”

While Ibrahim and I were in our own little world, another handful of prisoners had come forward and about a dozen or so were locked in conversation and prayer with the rest of our group.  After some more hugging and rejoicing, we all resumed our original seats.

The final song was familiar to me and my breath caught when they started singing:

Let the spirit of the Lord come down,

Let the spirit of the Lord come down,

Let the spirit of the Lord from heaven come down,

Let the spirit of the Lord come down.

That was the very song the prisoners at the Masindi Remand Home sang to our group as we departed during our visit in January of 2010.  I will always remember the gratitude and hope in the juveniles’ eyes that day.  And here was that same song again being sung by another group of Ugandan prisoners clinging to hope.

Next, it was Bob’s turn at the microphone.  Bob shines lots of places, but nowhere as brightly as in front of a crowd.  As Bob began to talk about what it means to be forgiven, two of our number snuck in behind him and started to inflate a big while balloon, using the helium tanks that had been lugged in.  Bob explained that in a few minutes, the balloon would be released into the air and carry our sins up to the heavens.  Blank stares.  I could almost hear what was going through the minds of the thousand-plus crowd.  What could he possibly mean?  How are my sins going to be carried to the heavens?  What is a balloon?

On cue, Bob explained the whole thing.  He instructed his son Richard to slowly move through the crowd holding a Styrofoam ice chest with the word “FORGIVENESS” emblazoned on it.  As Richard moved through the crowd, they clambered to touch it, symbolically placing their requests for forgiveness into the box.  What they didn’t know is that a camera had been embedded into the size of the box and was filming them reaching for it.

As Richard completed the circle, the balloon reached its capacity.  The prisoners and all but one of the guards were mesmerized.  The head guard, however, was becoming increasingly agitated and appeared about to put a stop to it at any moment.  He clearly realized that there was about to be a space launch from the depths of Uganda’s only maximum security prison and he was not at all pleased.  He must have realized, however, that intervening and shutting the entire thing down would likely have caused unrest among the prisoners, if not a full-fledged riot, so he kept his powder dry.  For the moment.

As Richard tied the box to the balloon, Bob whipped the crowd into a frenzy and counted down the launch.  Five.  Four.  Three.  Two.  One.  Launch.

A roar erupted as the balloon lifted off.  For the next five minutes, all eyes were heavenward as the space craft gained altitude.  All eyes except for one pair.  The head guard.  He made a beeline for Bob.  Bob saw him coming and signaled for the rest of us to head for the exits.  I feel constrained to reserve for Bob the full telling of what happened next and what words were exchanged, but suffice it say that the guard figured out that there was a camera on the box and at least one or more (there were more) other hidden cameras capturing the day’s events.  Bob, of course, sweet talked his way out of this potential jam.  One of the hidden cameras captured this image of the balloon launch.

"Forgiveness" Launch from Luzira Prison

Lots of hugs, high fives, and tears in the parking lot as we reconvened.  It will probably take years to fully comprehend and process the day’s events.