Another defining moment during my three year stint at the
Durban university was on a normal day when a friend and I felt strangely emboldened
and went on a mini healing crusade during one of our seemingly endless free
periods. Anyone that looked remotely sick or of a fragile disposition was moved
in on at a rapid pace. After a few colds and headaches that were swiftly dealt
with, as well as a slightly bemused guy’s broken leg healing in front of our
eyes, our courageous faith mission for the day became an unstoppable Gospel
agenda in our hearts as we became almost rabid to see the ill healed! What
happened next though (as if the preceding miracles weren’t impressive enough)
was something that I have held onto as a lifechanging moment ever since.
We had found ourselves by the Student Union buildings
when a young gentleman approached us and asked if we were the guys praying for the
sick people. We looked at each other excitedly as we realised that the word had
spread. After affirming that what he said was true, he beckoned us to follow
him up several flights of stairs, down a corridor and into the very heart of
that particular building. Without another word spoken, he stopped outside a
closed door, took off his shoes and motioned us to do the same. In a similar
fashion, we removed our footwear and followed him into the dimly lit room. As
our eyes adjusted to the light (or lack there of), I became aware of several hindu students
kneeling in corners, muttering almost silent prayers while desperately clasping
beads of some sorts. Amongst them were golden statues, posters adorned with
sacred mantras, and smouldering incense sticks. Unwittingly (for us) we had
stumbled into the Bhakti Yoga Society’s head quarters! This was the mother
load!
Our pied piper who had lead us thus far, spoke up for the
first time since our first exchange outside. “This girl is anaemic. It’s bad. Can
you pray?” The girl in question looked up nervously. In normal circumstances, a
situation like this would be somewhat nerve-wracking for me. This was no Sunday
morning church meeting where a Christian had come up to the front for prayer. Here
we had walked straight into the enemy’s camp and by any casual observer we
looked like fish out of water. But as I said, this day seemed different. It
just didn’t feel like a normal day.
Not waiting for my logic or rationale to catch up, I
looked at this young girl and asked her two questions. Did she want to be
healed and was she alright for me to ask Jesus for that healing? She nodded in
agreement to both. We laid our hands on her and prayed very simple prayers that
I can’t even remember. I wasn’t even too sure what the full implications of
being anaemic meant! But what I did know for sure was that my God was good. Maybe
a bit iffy on what the disease was, a tad so-so on what to pray, but I was
pretty confident in His willingness and ability to show His kindness!
Nervously, we opened our eyes. She opened hers. And down
the tears rolled over her face and onto the floor. To this day I won’t forget
her words, “What power is in your hands to make me feel this way?” As we
preceded to explain that it was not us but the love of a Father who was
desperate for her, I realised that this was not a place to fear. This was very
rightly a holy place.
After we left the room, put our shoes back on and walked
bemused back into the sunshine outside, my friend casually asked me if I knew
what I had been doing while I had been praying with my eyes tightly shut. I
answered in the negative. “Bud, you had your whole weight leaning on a statue
of a hindu God!”
This was by no means a normal day.
Or maybe, just maybe, this is what normal really looks like.
