idea, not ours. The people who creep us out aren’t obstacles to having
faith; they’re opportunities to understand it.
Our graduation ceremonies are unlike anything you could imagine.
There’s no public display of affection in Uganda. Nevertheless, as I give
the witch doctors their diplomas, I hold their faces between my hands and
kiss them on the forehead. (I want to be every witch doctor’s first kiss.) I
look into some pretty creepy sets of eyes and tell them who they’re
becoming and how far they’ve come as leaders in their villages and
communities. Then, as I pin a medal on their graduation gown, I whisper
to each witch doctor, just loud enough for them to hear, “Don’t. Make
me. Kill you.” They’re not sure whether I’m joking or not. I’m okay with
that tension. We can speak truth to power.
I remind them of the consequences for any witch doctor involved in
human sacrifice. I let them know there will be a trial, and after they’re
convicted, they’ll never be seen again. There is no love without justice,
but there is no justice without love. I don’t think we have any business
telling people what to change in their lives unless we’re willing to change
a couple of things in ours. For me, this means taking a step back from my
pride, washing feet, and treating my enemies with the kind of selfless
love Jesus didn’t just talk about but demonstrated.
Not long ago, I got a call at midnight. I was out cold when the phone
rang. The call was from two witch doctors from the witch doctor school.
They said, “A little boy has been abducted by a new witch doctor in
town. He’s taken the child into the bush for a child sacrifice, but we know
where he is.” There was a pause. Then the two witch doctors asked,
“Should we go get the child?”
By this time, I was standing on top of the bed in my boxers, shouting,
“Get the kid!”
Four hours later, I received a short text message from these two witch