FROM A CONDEMNED PRISONER TO SERVING THE LORD .
( how a prisoner was set free in Congo )
~ Reinhard Bonnke
In the late 1980s, a scouting team searched the back roads of the far eastern Congo. As they came near to the border with Rwanda, they came across a city that was not on our list of potential crusade sites. Our planners had simply overlooked it. It was called Bukavu, and it had nearly a half-million citizens who had never seen an evangelistic crusade. Furthermore, the scouting team had confirmed that the roads to the city were passable in the summer. Very excitedly, Stephen Mutua, a team worker called me at our headquarters in Germany.
“Nobody comes here to Bukavu, Reinhard,” he said. “We will see tremendous results. It will be glorious.”
Nothing makes my heart beat faster than preaching the gospel where no one else wants to go. This began with my first assignment in the “gospel-hardened” land of Lesotho in 1969.
“Begin planning a crusade in Bukavu,” I ordered. “Stephen, you will be in charge.”
The meeting was scheduled. In July of 1989, I flew there to preach. My team met me and escorted me to the hotel where I would be staying. The next day, as I do in every crusade, I asked to be driven around the city. Stephen had been there for months preparing this event, and I wanted him to show me the people I would be preaching to. I wanted to hear from him all that he had learned about the history and lore of Bukavu. We took a local interpreter along. He provided me with a way to interview people in the marketplaces and neighborhoods as we passed through.
At one point in the tour we came to a prison. It was simply a cage for humans, actually, near the edge of the city. There were no cells, just a large brick room with a prison yard attached, surrounded by bars and razor wire. Many of the prisoners were in the yard taking sunshine, or exercising in the open air. A crowd of people stood around the bars of the yard. Stephen stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“There is a story here, Reinhard,” he said.
“What are those people doing outside of the prison yard?” I asked.
“Those are the prisoners’ family members. If they don’t feed the men, they will die of starvation. The government makes no provision for feeding men they intend to kill.”
“All these prisoners will die?”
“All of the ones you see in shackles are condemned to die.”
I could see a number of men walking around dragging heavy chains shackled to their arms and legs.
Stephen sighed heavily. “Every month, a hangman comes from Kinshasa. Do you see that tree there?”
Indeed, outside the prison yard was a large tree with large spreading branches.
“Each month,” Stephen went on, “the condemned men are all brought out to the tree. A rope is thrown over the big branch with a hangman’s noose tied to the end. The people of the city are invited to watch, and many do. For some, it is the local horror show. The hangman earns his living the old fashioned way. There is no scaffold. It is not a merciful hanging like in the old western movies, where there is a long drop to break the neck. Each condemned man in this prison must move forward, one by one, as the noose is placed around his neck. Then the hangman uses the trunk of the tree for leverage to lift the man up, and he ties the
rope off until the kicking and choking stops. Then he lets the body down and goes to the next man.”
“Have you seen this?”
“I have seen it.”“Can you imagine being one of the condemned, forced to watch what is in store for you?”
“That is not all. When the man is cut down, the hangman hacks off his hands and feet with an axe so that the shackles can be removed. Unless the family comes to claim it, the body is tossed onto a cart, and dumped in an unmarked grave.”
“Why doesn’t the hangman simply unlock the shackles? Why go to the extreme of cutting off the hands and feet?”
“Because there is no lock. When a condemned man is brought here, he is taken to a blacksmith shed over there. His shackles are welded shut on his arms and legs.”
“That cannot be properly done. How do they do that without burning the flesh?”
“The men receive horrible burns. It is part of the punishment. They are considered to be dead already, and no one cares to take care of them. Some have actually died of burn infections before they can be hung. The empty shackles taken from a dead man are opened up with a cutting torch and prepared for the next condemned man. And on it goes. Welcome to Bukavu.”
I had seen this in other places. Once again, I realized that an African prison was a place to be feared. Unlike prisons in western nations, in this remote part of the world, a prisoner’s rights were unheard of. There was little public scrutiny of the justice system. All major political leaders were appointed, not elected. The people in power were expected to dominate the population by fear and
intimidation. I had met many leaders in Africa who used their prison system to get rid of potential rivals and political enemies. Justice was often miscarried. It reminded me of what prison life must have been like in the biblical days of Paul and Silas.
“Here is the good news,” Stephen offered. “I’ve been visiting here, and several of the condemned men have accepted Jesus. I’ve been having a Bible study with them for several weeks now.”
“Praise God, Stephen,” I said. “I want to meet them. Take me inside to meet my brothers in the Lord.”
We got out of the car. Immediately, a strange sound came to my ears. It was the rhythmic jangle of chains mingled with the chant of male African voices.
“Hear that?” Stephen asked, with a knowing smile. “Those are your brothers.”
“My brothers? What are they doing?”
“They are singing songs of praise to Jesus. Songs we taught them. They are using the only musical instruments they have.”
“Their chains,” I whispered, with realization. I stood there and listened, and as I did, I sensed Someone Else listening with me. As the sound of that wonderful haunting chant rose in the humid air, I sensed a door standing open, straight into the throne room of God. I could almost see the great archangels at the Portal of Heaven standing to receive this sacrifice of praise. My spirit flew like a bird from a cage. Something wonderful was about to happen.
Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued. Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued.
I was appalled by the conditions in the cell. The men slept on filthy mattresses scattered about on the floor of that large cement block room. The place was crawling with vermin. Buckets of sewage were gathered to one side. Clouds of flies swarmed over them. In the stifling heat, none of us could escape the stench.
And the song, that wonderful chant of praise, continued to rise to the Lord with the jangle of chains.
We went out into the yard. Immediately, several men in their shackles gathered
around us. Stephen spoke through the interpreter, explaining who I was. I greeted them briefly, but I was looking for the singing men.
I saw them, sitting in a circle, about 30 in all. They were singing and swaying to the music. Their leader was a man of average build with a big smile and a missing front tooth. He rattled his chains with a real flourish, like a choir leader in a big church. If I had truly seen with the eyes of the Spirit, I might have seen him wearing a fine maroon suit.
The minute I saw him, the Holy Spirit spoke to me, Tell that man he will be set free.
Lord, pardon me, but it would cruel and unusual to say anything if I heard You wrongly just now. Please, say it again. More slowly this time.
Tell that man he will be set free.
We were introduced to the group of condemned men. I greeted the brothers who had accepted the Lord in the name of Jesus. I gave the whole group a salvation sermon through the interpreter. A few of them responded, accepting Jesus for thefirst time. I then encouraged them in the Lord. Then I turned to Stephen.
“Tell that man who was leading the singing that I would like to speak to him in private.”
Stephen went to the man, explaining my request. He brought him to me, with the interpreter. We walked to a vacant area in the yard.
“Reinhard,” Stephen said, “this man’s name is Richard.”
It was an honor to shake his shackled hand. “Tell Richard that the Lord has spoken to me today. The Lord says that he will be set free.”
The interpreter hesitated.
I nodded. “Repeat my words exactly,” I said.
He cleared his throat and spoke to the man in his native tongue. The man reacted, looking away toward the hanging tree. When he looked back at me, his eyes had filled with tears. He spoke through the interpreter.
“Three times I have waited in line. Three times the hangman has become too tired to hang me. The last time he was here, I was the next man to die. The hangman glared at me like he wanted to see me dead. Then he threw up his hands and went home.”
“Jesus preserves you, Richard,” I said. “And now He says you will be set free.”
Richard listened. I could tell that he was still too afraid to reach out and take my word for it. Hope can be most cruel to a condemned man waiting to hang. A man who has seen the end of his life played out for him so graphically, time after time. A man who wears shackles welded to his arms and legs, shackles that he has seen removed only one way.
“What is your crime, Richard? What are you guilty of?”
“Murder.”
“You do not look like a murderer. Who did you kill?”
He named the man.
“How did it happen?”
“We were in a bar, and a fight started.”
“Did you start the fight?”
“I did not. But I did kill the man.”
“Richard, if what you say is true, we do not call that murder. It is called self-defense. Did you have a lawyer?”
Richard paused for a long time. He looked away at the tree again, and said nothing.
Then the interpreter spoke.
“If the man you kill in self-defense is from a wealthy family, Reverend Bonnke, there are many in Bukavu willing to swear testimony for money.”
We left the prison and I never saw Richard again. I preached for several days in the soccer stadium to standing-room-only crowds of 90,000. This created a huge stir in the area. Bukavu had never seen crowds like these in its history. Nearly everyone in the region attended at least one of the meetings. The number of salvations registered exceeded all that we had hoped and prayed for. We were ecstatic.
As I prepared to leave, I asked Stephen Mutua to arrange one more meeting for me. I named a leading local politician. I will not here name the man, nor his office, because of the nature of the story that follows.
When we arrived at the politician’s mansion we were ushered into a waiting area. We were kept waiting for a long time. Waiting to see powerful people in Africa is something that I have learned that I must do. Finally, a secretary emerged from the inner sanctum, and told us that the politician I wished to see was not available.
Now, if this is true, I thought, they might have told us earlier, in time to spare us this trip. Either it is a lie, or they have decided the great evangelist must prove his Christianity by demonstrating nearly infinite patience in the waiting room.
The politician was on a trip to Kinshasa, we were told. Instead of seeing him, we would be allowed to meet briefly with his wife. She would relay everything to her husband after we had gone.
After more waiting, a tall woman entered the room. She was dressed in finery and beautiful fabrics. I thought she carried herself with the imperial dignity of the Queen of Sheba. When she had made her entrance, an interpreter was provided, and I was able, at last, to speak to her.
After formalities, I told her why I had asked to see her husband. I had come toplead for the release of a condemned man in Bukavu prison, a man named Richard. I described him to her, and I recited his story of the crime for which he was sentenced to die. I suggested to her that a competent lawyer would surely have made a case for self defense. At least a good lawyer would have found a way to avoid the death penalty for Richard. Then I told her of Richard’s conversion, and of the way he led the singing among the condemned men in the prison.
She listened carefully to all that I said. Then she stood and excused herself. She said that she would see about what could be done, but condemned prisoners were never released from Bukavu prison once the courts had spoken.
After another long time of waiting, she returned. She asked that all of the other
guests be removed from the room. At last it was just the two of us. She stood before me, very close.
“Reverend Bonnke,” she said, quietly. “You are a very powerful man from Germany. Your organization is large, and your following is wide. You want my husband to do something for you. I would like you to do something for me. Do you understand?”
“Certainly,” I said, “I will do whatever I can.”
“Do you have children, Reverend Bonnke?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have two children preparing to attend the university. Here, we have only the National University of Zaire.” She shrugged, as if I would understand her problem. “It is not the educational excellence that you would want for your children, I am sure. And yet, my children have not been able to get the necessary scholarships to the schools we would choose abroad. I would like you to provide those scholarships, Reverend Bonnke. Will you do that for me?”
I was saddened, though not truly surprised. In a land where money could buy a death sentence, surely a bribe could obtain freedom.
“I am sorry,” I said, “but this, I cannot do. I am a man of God. I will not strike a bargain to obtain justice of any kind. My answer to you must be no.”
The woman instantly whirled to leave the room. I feared greatly for Richard. As she reached for the door, I nearly shouted her name. She stopped and looked back at me for one moment. I pointed my finger at her.
“God has told me that Richard will be released. God has spoken. Do not stand in
His way.”
She left the room, shutting the door behind her with force. My meeting was over.
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed, “save Richard by Your mighty power, not by the power of bribes and treachery.”
I must confess, I left Bukavu with a heavy heart. I feared that I had left Richard as I had found him, a dead man walking. My one hope was that the politician’s wife feared God in some corner of her heart, and that the Holy Spirit would cause my words to find their mark.
Two years passed. I was in Germany when someone reported to me that Richard had been set free. I shouted with joy to hear of it. To this day, I do not know what happened, or what triggered his release. I only know that all the glory belongs to Our Father in Heaven.
Meanwhile, Richard began a new life as a free man in Bukavu. He told the pastor of the local church where he attended that he wanted to go to Biblecollege in Kenya. He wanted to become a pastor, and he was determined to learn to speak English. When the word of this got back to me – well, that was one scholarship I was more than willing to provide. Christ for all Nations paid for
Richard’s expenses through Bible college. Years later, I heard the news of his ordination. I sent him my best wishes and congratulations, and that seemed a fitting end to it.
12 years later, in August of 2001, he stood before me in Kinshasa, a sponsoring pastor for a Christ for all Nations Crusade. He was wearing his maroon double-breasted suit, speaking good English, his gold tooth shining, his eyes bright with the joy of the Lord.
We embraced again. I can tell you, this evangelist slept so very well that night.
The longer I live the less I pretend to know about the mind of God.
I do not know why some are healed when others are not.
I only know that sometimes it is the gift of someone else’s faith that can make a person whole.
On August 26, 2001, I preached at the Tata Raphael Grounds in Kinshasa, Zaire.
At the close of the sermon, one of my team members said to me, “Reinhard, before you leave, there is someone you should meet.” He told me this as he escorted me to the stairs at the back of the stage. As usual, I was drenched in sweat from open-air preaching in the tropics. My blood was pounding. I was still a bit out of breath.
“Who might that be?” I asked.
“A local pastor. He is from one of the churches sponsoring the crusade.”
“Why haven’t I already met him? We had a Fire Conference for local pastors.”
“There were too many. He could not get to you. Besides, at first we didn’t know who he was. He’s someone special.”
We reached an area that had been cordoned off for private meetings. Even in the backstage area at our crusades, crowd control is still essential. We entered the area, and there I saw a small group of my team members standing with a fine looking African pastor.
I knew instantly that I had seen the man before, but I could not recall the incident. He was familiar, but different than I remembered. His eyes were large, brown, and shining with a brilliant light. His smile looked like the full keyboard of my old piano-accordion. Except that his keyboard had one gold key, a large gold tooth shining in the front. He wore a well-pressed, maroon, double-breasted suit with a silk maroon-and-gold tie. He was trembling to see me, and yet still, I could not recall our former meeting.
He could not contain himself any longer. He rushed across the distance between us and threw himself to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs.
He kissed my feet and wept with a loud voice. Gone was his appearance of dignity. He could not care anymore.
“Bonnke,” he cried, “I am here because of you. You saved my life. You saved my life.”
“Who are you, man?”
I reached down and took his arms, freeing my legs from his grasp. “Stand uphere and let me look at you again.”
He brought himself up and looked at me, tears streaming from his wonderful brown eyes. He said one word to me, and then I knew him.
“Bukavu.”
“Richard,” I whispered. “You are Richard?”
My memory rushed back. Twelve years ago I had seen him. I could not believe the change.
“Richard,” I said, “the last time I saw you, there was no gold tooth, just an empty socket. You could not speak English, and you were filthy. You stank, excuse me, like an outdoor toilet.”
I took his arms and pushed up the sleeves of his fine maroon suit coat and saw the evidence I remembered most. Yes, this was the same man. And now tears spilled from my eyes. I embraced him.
~ Reinhard Bonnke || 12 real stories that will inspire you.
( how a prisoner was set free in Congo )
~ Reinhard Bonnke
In the late 1980s, a scouting team searched the back roads of the far eastern Congo. As they came near to the border with Rwanda, they came across a city that was not on our list of potential crusade sites. Our planners had simply overlooked it. It was called Bukavu, and it had nearly a half-million citizens who had never seen an evangelistic crusade. Furthermore, the scouting team had confirmed that the roads to the city were passable in the summer. Very excitedly, Stephen Mutua, a team worker called me at our headquarters in Germany.
“Nobody comes here to Bukavu, Reinhard,” he said. “We will see tremendous results. It will be glorious.”
Nothing makes my heart beat faster than preaching the gospel where no one else wants to go. This began with my first assignment in the “gospel-hardened” land of Lesotho in 1969.
“Begin planning a crusade in Bukavu,” I ordered. “Stephen, you will be in charge.”
The meeting was scheduled. In July of 1989, I flew there to preach. My team met me and escorted me to the hotel where I would be staying. The next day, as I do in every crusade, I asked to be driven around the city. Stephen had been there for months preparing this event, and I wanted him to show me the people I would be preaching to. I wanted to hear from him all that he had learned about the history and lore of Bukavu. We took a local interpreter along. He provided me with a way to interview people in the marketplaces and neighborhoods as we passed through.
At one point in the tour we came to a prison. It was simply a cage for humans, actually, near the edge of the city. There were no cells, just a large brick room with a prison yard attached, surrounded by bars and razor wire. Many of the prisoners were in the yard taking sunshine, or exercising in the open air. A crowd of people stood around the bars of the yard. Stephen stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“There is a story here, Reinhard,” he said.
“What are those people doing outside of the prison yard?” I asked.
“Those are the prisoners’ family members. If they don’t feed the men, they will die of starvation. The government makes no provision for feeding men they intend to kill.”
“All these prisoners will die?”
“All of the ones you see in shackles are condemned to die.”
I could see a number of men walking around dragging heavy chains shackled to their arms and legs.
Stephen sighed heavily. “Every month, a hangman comes from Kinshasa. Do you see that tree there?”
Indeed, outside the prison yard was a large tree with large spreading branches.
“Each month,” Stephen went on, “the condemned men are all brought out to the tree. A rope is thrown over the big branch with a hangman’s noose tied to the end. The people of the city are invited to watch, and many do. For some, it is the local horror show. The hangman earns his living the old fashioned way. There is no scaffold. It is not a merciful hanging like in the old western movies, where there is a long drop to break the neck. Each condemned man in this prison must move forward, one by one, as the noose is placed around his neck. Then the hangman uses the trunk of the tree for leverage to lift the man up, and he ties the
rope off until the kicking and choking stops. Then he lets the body down and goes to the next man.”
“Have you seen this?”
“I have seen it.”“Can you imagine being one of the condemned, forced to watch what is in store for you?”
“That is not all. When the man is cut down, the hangman hacks off his hands and feet with an axe so that the shackles can be removed. Unless the family comes to claim it, the body is tossed onto a cart, and dumped in an unmarked grave.”
“Why doesn’t the hangman simply unlock the shackles? Why go to the extreme of cutting off the hands and feet?”
“Because there is no lock. When a condemned man is brought here, he is taken to a blacksmith shed over there. His shackles are welded shut on his arms and legs.”
“That cannot be properly done. How do they do that without burning the flesh?”
“The men receive horrible burns. It is part of the punishment. They are considered to be dead already, and no one cares to take care of them. Some have actually died of burn infections before they can be hung. The empty shackles taken from a dead man are opened up with a cutting torch and prepared for the next condemned man. And on it goes. Welcome to Bukavu.”
I had seen this in other places. Once again, I realized that an African prison was a place to be feared. Unlike prisons in western nations, in this remote part of the world, a prisoner’s rights were unheard of. There was little public scrutiny of the justice system. All major political leaders were appointed, not elected. The people in power were expected to dominate the population by fear and
intimidation. I had met many leaders in Africa who used their prison system to get rid of potential rivals and political enemies. Justice was often miscarried. It reminded me of what prison life must have been like in the biblical days of Paul and Silas.
“Here is the good news,” Stephen offered. “I’ve been visiting here, and several of the condemned men have accepted Jesus. I’ve been having a Bible study with them for several weeks now.”
“Praise God, Stephen,” I said. “I want to meet them. Take me inside to meet my brothers in the Lord.”
We got out of the car. Immediately, a strange sound came to my ears. It was the rhythmic jangle of chains mingled with the chant of male African voices.
“Hear that?” Stephen asked, with a knowing smile. “Those are your brothers.”
“My brothers? What are they doing?”
“They are singing songs of praise to Jesus. Songs we taught them. They are using the only musical instruments they have.”
“Their chains,” I whispered, with realization. I stood there and listened, and as I did, I sensed Someone Else listening with me. As the sound of that wonderful haunting chant rose in the humid air, I sensed a door standing open, straight into the throne room of God. I could almost see the great archangels at the Portal of Heaven standing to receive this sacrifice of praise. My spirit flew like a bird from a cage. Something wonderful was about to happen.
Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued. Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued.
I was appalled by the conditions in the cell. The men slept on filthy mattresses scattered about on the floor of that large cement block room. The place was crawling with vermin. Buckets of sewage were gathered to one side. Clouds of flies swarmed over them. In the stifling heat, none of us could escape the stench.
And the song, that wonderful chant of praise, continued to rise to the Lord with the jangle of chains.
We went out into the yard. Immediately, several men in their shackles gathered
around us. Stephen spoke through the interpreter, explaining who I was. I greeted them briefly, but I was looking for the singing men.
I saw them, sitting in a circle, about 30 in all. They were singing and swaying to the music. Their leader was a man of average build with a big smile and a missing front tooth. He rattled his chains with a real flourish, like a choir leader in a big church. If I had truly seen with the eyes of the Spirit, I might have seen him wearing a fine maroon suit.
The minute I saw him, the Holy Spirit spoke to me, Tell that man he will be set free.
Lord, pardon me, but it would cruel and unusual to say anything if I heard You wrongly just now. Please, say it again. More slowly this time.
Tell that man he will be set free.
We were introduced to the group of condemned men. I greeted the brothers who had accepted the Lord in the name of Jesus. I gave the whole group a salvation sermon through the interpreter. A few of them responded, accepting Jesus for thefirst time. I then encouraged them in the Lord. Then I turned to Stephen.
“Tell that man who was leading the singing that I would like to speak to him in private.”
Stephen went to the man, explaining my request. He brought him to me, with the interpreter. We walked to a vacant area in the yard.
“Reinhard,” Stephen said, “this man’s name is Richard.”
It was an honor to shake his shackled hand. “Tell Richard that the Lord has spoken to me today. The Lord says that he will be set free.”
The interpreter hesitated.
I nodded. “Repeat my words exactly,” I said.
He cleared his throat and spoke to the man in his native tongue. The man reacted, looking away toward the hanging tree. When he looked back at me, his eyes had filled with tears. He spoke through the interpreter.
“Three times I have waited in line. Three times the hangman has become too tired to hang me. The last time he was here, I was the next man to die. The hangman glared at me like he wanted to see me dead. Then he threw up his hands and went home.”
“Jesus preserves you, Richard,” I said. “And now He says you will be set free.”
Richard listened. I could tell that he was still too afraid to reach out and take my word for it. Hope can be most cruel to a condemned man waiting to hang. A man who has seen the end of his life played out for him so graphically, time after time. A man who wears shackles welded to his arms and legs, shackles that he has seen removed only one way.
“What is your crime, Richard? What are you guilty of?”
“Murder.”
“You do not look like a murderer. Who did you kill?”
He named the man.
“How did it happen?”
“We were in a bar, and a fight started.”
“Did you start the fight?”
“I did not. But I did kill the man.”
“Richard, if what you say is true, we do not call that murder. It is called self-defense. Did you have a lawyer?”
Richard paused for a long time. He looked away at the tree again, and said nothing.
Then the interpreter spoke.
“If the man you kill in self-defense is from a wealthy family, Reverend Bonnke, there are many in Bukavu willing to swear testimony for money.”
We left the prison and I never saw Richard again. I preached for several days in the soccer stadium to standing-room-only crowds of 90,000. This created a huge stir in the area. Bukavu had never seen crowds like these in its history. Nearly everyone in the region attended at least one of the meetings. The number of salvations registered exceeded all that we had hoped and prayed for. We were ecstatic.
As I prepared to leave, I asked Stephen Mutua to arrange one more meeting for me. I named a leading local politician. I will not here name the man, nor his office, because of the nature of the story that follows.
When we arrived at the politician’s mansion we were ushered into a waiting area. We were kept waiting for a long time. Waiting to see powerful people in Africa is something that I have learned that I must do. Finally, a secretary emerged from the inner sanctum, and told us that the politician I wished to see was not available.
Now, if this is true, I thought, they might have told us earlier, in time to spare us this trip. Either it is a lie, or they have decided the great evangelist must prove his Christianity by demonstrating nearly infinite patience in the waiting room.
The politician was on a trip to Kinshasa, we were told. Instead of seeing him, we would be allowed to meet briefly with his wife. She would relay everything to her husband after we had gone.
After more waiting, a tall woman entered the room. She was dressed in finery and beautiful fabrics. I thought she carried herself with the imperial dignity of the Queen of Sheba. When she had made her entrance, an interpreter was provided, and I was able, at last, to speak to her.
After formalities, I told her why I had asked to see her husband. I had come toplead for the release of a condemned man in Bukavu prison, a man named Richard. I described him to her, and I recited his story of the crime for which he was sentenced to die. I suggested to her that a competent lawyer would surely have made a case for self defense. At least a good lawyer would have found a way to avoid the death penalty for Richard. Then I told her of Richard’s conversion, and of the way he led the singing among the condemned men in the prison.
She listened carefully to all that I said. Then she stood and excused herself. She said that she would see about what could be done, but condemned prisoners were never released from Bukavu prison once the courts had spoken.
After another long time of waiting, she returned. She asked that all of the other
guests be removed from the room. At last it was just the two of us. She stood before me, very close.
“Reverend Bonnke,” she said, quietly. “You are a very powerful man from Germany. Your organization is large, and your following is wide. You want my husband to do something for you. I would like you to do something for me. Do you understand?”
“Certainly,” I said, “I will do whatever I can.”
“Do you have children, Reverend Bonnke?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have two children preparing to attend the university. Here, we have only the National University of Zaire.” She shrugged, as if I would understand her problem. “It is not the educational excellence that you would want for your children, I am sure. And yet, my children have not been able to get the necessary scholarships to the schools we would choose abroad. I would like you to provide those scholarships, Reverend Bonnke. Will you do that for me?”
I was saddened, though not truly surprised. In a land where money could buy a death sentence, surely a bribe could obtain freedom.
“I am sorry,” I said, “but this, I cannot do. I am a man of God. I will not strike a bargain to obtain justice of any kind. My answer to you must be no.”
The woman instantly whirled to leave the room. I feared greatly for Richard. As she reached for the door, I nearly shouted her name. She stopped and looked back at me for one moment. I pointed my finger at her.
“God has told me that Richard will be released. God has spoken. Do not stand in
His way.”
She left the room, shutting the door behind her with force. My meeting was over.
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed, “save Richard by Your mighty power, not by the power of bribes and treachery.”
I must confess, I left Bukavu with a heavy heart. I feared that I had left Richard as I had found him, a dead man walking. My one hope was that the politician’s wife feared God in some corner of her heart, and that the Holy Spirit would cause my words to find their mark.
Two years passed. I was in Germany when someone reported to me that Richard had been set free. I shouted with joy to hear of it. To this day, I do not know what happened, or what triggered his release. I only know that all the glory belongs to Our Father in Heaven.
Meanwhile, Richard began a new life as a free man in Bukavu. He told the pastor of the local church where he attended that he wanted to go to Biblecollege in Kenya. He wanted to become a pastor, and he was determined to learn to speak English. When the word of this got back to me – well, that was one scholarship I was more than willing to provide. Christ for all Nations paid for
Richard’s expenses through Bible college. Years later, I heard the news of his ordination. I sent him my best wishes and congratulations, and that seemed a fitting end to it.
12 years later, in August of 2001, he stood before me in Kinshasa, a sponsoring pastor for a Christ for all Nations Crusade. He was wearing his maroon double-breasted suit, speaking good English, his gold tooth shining, his eyes bright with the joy of the Lord.
We embraced again. I can tell you, this evangelist slept so very well that night.
The longer I live the less I pretend to know about the mind of God.
I do not know why some are healed when others are not.
I only know that sometimes it is the gift of someone else’s faith that can make a person whole.
On August 26, 2001, I preached at the Tata Raphael Grounds in Kinshasa, Zaire.
At the close of the sermon, one of my team members said to me, “Reinhard, before you leave, there is someone you should meet.” He told me this as he escorted me to the stairs at the back of the stage. As usual, I was drenched in sweat from open-air preaching in the tropics. My blood was pounding. I was still a bit out of breath.
“Who might that be?” I asked.
“A local pastor. He is from one of the churches sponsoring the crusade.”
“Why haven’t I already met him? We had a Fire Conference for local pastors.”
“There were too many. He could not get to you. Besides, at first we didn’t know who he was. He’s someone special.”
We reached an area that had been cordoned off for private meetings. Even in the backstage area at our crusades, crowd control is still essential. We entered the area, and there I saw a small group of my team members standing with a fine looking African pastor.
I knew instantly that I had seen the man before, but I could not recall the incident. He was familiar, but different than I remembered. His eyes were large, brown, and shining with a brilliant light. His smile looked like the full keyboard of my old piano-accordion. Except that his keyboard had one gold key, a large gold tooth shining in the front. He wore a well-pressed, maroon, double-breasted suit with a silk maroon-and-gold tie. He was trembling to see me, and yet still, I could not recall our former meeting.
He could not contain himself any longer. He rushed across the distance between us and threw himself to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs.
He kissed my feet and wept with a loud voice. Gone was his appearance of dignity. He could not care anymore.
“Bonnke,” he cried, “I am here because of you. You saved my life. You saved my life.”
“Who are you, man?”
I reached down and took his arms, freeing my legs from his grasp. “Stand uphere and let me look at you again.”
He brought himself up and looked at me, tears streaming from his wonderful brown eyes. He said one word to me, and then I knew him.
“Bukavu.”
“Richard,” I whispered. “You are Richard?”
My memory rushed back. Twelve years ago I had seen him. I could not believe the change.
“Richard,” I said, “the last time I saw you, there was no gold tooth, just an empty socket. You could not speak English, and you were filthy. You stank, excuse me, like an outdoor toilet.”
I took his arms and pushed up the sleeves of his fine maroon suit coat and saw the evidence I remembered most. Yes, this was the same man. And now tears spilled from my eyes. I embraced him.
~ Reinhard Bonnke || 12 real stories that will inspire you.
FROM A CONDEMNED PRISONER TO SERVING THE LORD .
( how a prisoner was set free in Congo )
~ Reinhard Bonnke
In the late 1980s, a scouting team searched the back roads of the far eastern Congo. As they came near to the border with Rwanda, they came across a city that was not on our list of potential crusade sites. Our planners had simply overlooked it. It was called Bukavu, and it had nearly a half-million citizens who had never seen an evangelistic crusade. Furthermore, the scouting team had confirmed that the roads to the city were passable in the summer. Very excitedly, Stephen Mutua, a team worker called me at our headquarters in Germany.
“Nobody comes here to Bukavu, Reinhard,” he said. “We will see tremendous results. It will be glorious.”
Nothing makes my heart beat faster than preaching the gospel where no one else wants to go. This began with my first assignment in the “gospel-hardened” land of Lesotho in 1969.
“Begin planning a crusade in Bukavu,” I ordered. “Stephen, you will be in charge.”
The meeting was scheduled. In July of 1989, I flew there to preach. My team met me and escorted me to the hotel where I would be staying. The next day, as I do in every crusade, I asked to be driven around the city. Stephen had been there for months preparing this event, and I wanted him to show me the people I would be preaching to. I wanted to hear from him all that he had learned about the history and lore of Bukavu. We took a local interpreter along. He provided me with a way to interview people in the marketplaces and neighborhoods as we passed through.
At one point in the tour we came to a prison. It was simply a cage for humans, actually, near the edge of the city. There were no cells, just a large brick room with a prison yard attached, surrounded by bars and razor wire. Many of the prisoners were in the yard taking sunshine, or exercising in the open air. A crowd of people stood around the bars of the yard. Stephen stopped the car and turned off the engine.
“There is a story here, Reinhard,” he said.
“What are those people doing outside of the prison yard?” I asked.
“Those are the prisoners’ family members. If they don’t feed the men, they will die of starvation. The government makes no provision for feeding men they intend to kill.”
“All these prisoners will die?”
“All of the ones you see in shackles are condemned to die.”
I could see a number of men walking around dragging heavy chains shackled to their arms and legs.
Stephen sighed heavily. “Every month, a hangman comes from Kinshasa. Do you see that tree there?”
Indeed, outside the prison yard was a large tree with large spreading branches.
“Each month,” Stephen went on, “the condemned men are all brought out to the tree. A rope is thrown over the big branch with a hangman’s noose tied to the end. The people of the city are invited to watch, and many do. For some, it is the local horror show. The hangman earns his living the old fashioned way. There is no scaffold. It is not a merciful hanging like in the old western movies, where there is a long drop to break the neck. Each condemned man in this prison must move forward, one by one, as the noose is placed around his neck. Then the hangman uses the trunk of the tree for leverage to lift the man up, and he ties the
rope off until the kicking and choking stops. Then he lets the body down and goes to the next man.”
“Have you seen this?”
“I have seen it.”“Can you imagine being one of the condemned, forced to watch what is in store for you?”
“That is not all. When the man is cut down, the hangman hacks off his hands and feet with an axe so that the shackles can be removed. Unless the family comes to claim it, the body is tossed onto a cart, and dumped in an unmarked grave.”
“Why doesn’t the hangman simply unlock the shackles? Why go to the extreme of cutting off the hands and feet?”
“Because there is no lock. When a condemned man is brought here, he is taken to a blacksmith shed over there. His shackles are welded shut on his arms and legs.”
“That cannot be properly done. How do they do that without burning the flesh?”
“The men receive horrible burns. It is part of the punishment. They are considered to be dead already, and no one cares to take care of them. Some have actually died of burn infections before they can be hung. The empty shackles taken from a dead man are opened up with a cutting torch and prepared for the next condemned man. And on it goes. Welcome to Bukavu.”
I had seen this in other places. Once again, I realized that an African prison was a place to be feared. Unlike prisons in western nations, in this remote part of the world, a prisoner’s rights were unheard of. There was little public scrutiny of the justice system. All major political leaders were appointed, not elected. The people in power were expected to dominate the population by fear and
intimidation. I had met many leaders in Africa who used their prison system to get rid of potential rivals and political enemies. Justice was often miscarried. It reminded me of what prison life must have been like in the biblical days of Paul and Silas.
“Here is the good news,” Stephen offered. “I’ve been visiting here, and several of the condemned men have accepted Jesus. I’ve been having a Bible study with them for several weeks now.”
“Praise God, Stephen,” I said. “I want to meet them. Take me inside to meet my brothers in the Lord.”
We got out of the car. Immediately, a strange sound came to my ears. It was the rhythmic jangle of chains mingled with the chant of male African voices.
“Hear that?” Stephen asked, with a knowing smile. “Those are your brothers.”
“My brothers? What are they doing?”
“They are singing songs of praise to Jesus. Songs we taught them. They are using the only musical instruments they have.”
“Their chains,” I whispered, with realization. I stood there and listened, and as I did, I sensed Someone Else listening with me. As the sound of that wonderful haunting chant rose in the humid air, I sensed a door standing open, straight into the throne room of God. I could almost see the great archangels at the Portal of Heaven standing to receive this sacrifice of praise. My spirit flew like a bird from a cage. Something wonderful was about to happen.
Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued. Meanwhile, Stephen approached the guards, explaining who I was. They apparently already knew Stephen. We were allowed inside. The song continued.
I was appalled by the conditions in the cell. The men slept on filthy mattresses scattered about on the floor of that large cement block room. The place was crawling with vermin. Buckets of sewage were gathered to one side. Clouds of flies swarmed over them. In the stifling heat, none of us could escape the stench.
And the song, that wonderful chant of praise, continued to rise to the Lord with the jangle of chains.
We went out into the yard. Immediately, several men in their shackles gathered
around us. Stephen spoke through the interpreter, explaining who I was. I greeted them briefly, but I was looking for the singing men.
I saw them, sitting in a circle, about 30 in all. They were singing and swaying to the music. Their leader was a man of average build with a big smile and a missing front tooth. He rattled his chains with a real flourish, like a choir leader in a big church. If I had truly seen with the eyes of the Spirit, I might have seen him wearing a fine maroon suit.
The minute I saw him, the Holy Spirit spoke to me, Tell that man he will be set free.
Lord, pardon me, but it would cruel and unusual to say anything if I heard You wrongly just now. Please, say it again. More slowly this time.
Tell that man he will be set free.
We were introduced to the group of condemned men. I greeted the brothers who had accepted the Lord in the name of Jesus. I gave the whole group a salvation sermon through the interpreter. A few of them responded, accepting Jesus for thefirst time. I then encouraged them in the Lord. Then I turned to Stephen.
“Tell that man who was leading the singing that I would like to speak to him in private.”
Stephen went to the man, explaining my request. He brought him to me, with the interpreter. We walked to a vacant area in the yard.
“Reinhard,” Stephen said, “this man’s name is Richard.”
It was an honor to shake his shackled hand. “Tell Richard that the Lord has spoken to me today. The Lord says that he will be set free.”
The interpreter hesitated.
I nodded. “Repeat my words exactly,” I said.
He cleared his throat and spoke to the man in his native tongue. The man reacted, looking away toward the hanging tree. When he looked back at me, his eyes had filled with tears. He spoke through the interpreter.
“Three times I have waited in line. Three times the hangman has become too tired to hang me. The last time he was here, I was the next man to die. The hangman glared at me like he wanted to see me dead. Then he threw up his hands and went home.”
“Jesus preserves you, Richard,” I said. “And now He says you will be set free.”
Richard listened. I could tell that he was still too afraid to reach out and take my word for it. Hope can be most cruel to a condemned man waiting to hang. A man who has seen the end of his life played out for him so graphically, time after time. A man who wears shackles welded to his arms and legs, shackles that he has seen removed only one way.
“What is your crime, Richard? What are you guilty of?”
“Murder.”
“You do not look like a murderer. Who did you kill?”
He named the man.
“How did it happen?”
“We were in a bar, and a fight started.”
“Did you start the fight?”
“I did not. But I did kill the man.”
“Richard, if what you say is true, we do not call that murder. It is called self-defense. Did you have a lawyer?”
Richard paused for a long time. He looked away at the tree again, and said nothing.
Then the interpreter spoke.
“If the man you kill in self-defense is from a wealthy family, Reverend Bonnke, there are many in Bukavu willing to swear testimony for money.”
We left the prison and I never saw Richard again. I preached for several days in the soccer stadium to standing-room-only crowds of 90,000. This created a huge stir in the area. Bukavu had never seen crowds like these in its history. Nearly everyone in the region attended at least one of the meetings. The number of salvations registered exceeded all that we had hoped and prayed for. We were ecstatic.
As I prepared to leave, I asked Stephen Mutua to arrange one more meeting for me. I named a leading local politician. I will not here name the man, nor his office, because of the nature of the story that follows.
When we arrived at the politician’s mansion we were ushered into a waiting area. We were kept waiting for a long time. Waiting to see powerful people in Africa is something that I have learned that I must do. Finally, a secretary emerged from the inner sanctum, and told us that the politician I wished to see was not available.
Now, if this is true, I thought, they might have told us earlier, in time to spare us this trip. Either it is a lie, or they have decided the great evangelist must prove his Christianity by demonstrating nearly infinite patience in the waiting room.
The politician was on a trip to Kinshasa, we were told. Instead of seeing him, we would be allowed to meet briefly with his wife. She would relay everything to her husband after we had gone.
After more waiting, a tall woman entered the room. She was dressed in finery and beautiful fabrics. I thought she carried herself with the imperial dignity of the Queen of Sheba. When she had made her entrance, an interpreter was provided, and I was able, at last, to speak to her.
After formalities, I told her why I had asked to see her husband. I had come toplead for the release of a condemned man in Bukavu prison, a man named Richard. I described him to her, and I recited his story of the crime for which he was sentenced to die. I suggested to her that a competent lawyer would surely have made a case for self defense. At least a good lawyer would have found a way to avoid the death penalty for Richard. Then I told her of Richard’s conversion, and of the way he led the singing among the condemned men in the prison.
She listened carefully to all that I said. Then she stood and excused herself. She said that she would see about what could be done, but condemned prisoners were never released from Bukavu prison once the courts had spoken.
After another long time of waiting, she returned. She asked that all of the other
guests be removed from the room. At last it was just the two of us. She stood before me, very close.
“Reverend Bonnke,” she said, quietly. “You are a very powerful man from Germany. Your organization is large, and your following is wide. You want my husband to do something for you. I would like you to do something for me. Do you understand?”
“Certainly,” I said, “I will do whatever I can.”
“Do you have children, Reverend Bonnke?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I have two children preparing to attend the university. Here, we have only the National University of Zaire.” She shrugged, as if I would understand her problem. “It is not the educational excellence that you would want for your children, I am sure. And yet, my children have not been able to get the necessary scholarships to the schools we would choose abroad. I would like you to provide those scholarships, Reverend Bonnke. Will you do that for me?”
I was saddened, though not truly surprised. In a land where money could buy a death sentence, surely a bribe could obtain freedom.
“I am sorry,” I said, “but this, I cannot do. I am a man of God. I will not strike a bargain to obtain justice of any kind. My answer to you must be no.”
The woman instantly whirled to leave the room. I feared greatly for Richard. As she reached for the door, I nearly shouted her name. She stopped and looked back at me for one moment. I pointed my finger at her.
“God has told me that Richard will be released. God has spoken. Do not stand in
His way.”
She left the room, shutting the door behind her with force. My meeting was over.
“Oh, Lord,” I prayed, “save Richard by Your mighty power, not by the power of bribes and treachery.”
I must confess, I left Bukavu with a heavy heart. I feared that I had left Richard as I had found him, a dead man walking. My one hope was that the politician’s wife feared God in some corner of her heart, and that the Holy Spirit would cause my words to find their mark.
Two years passed. I was in Germany when someone reported to me that Richard had been set free. I shouted with joy to hear of it. To this day, I do not know what happened, or what triggered his release. I only know that all the glory belongs to Our Father in Heaven.
Meanwhile, Richard began a new life as a free man in Bukavu. He told the pastor of the local church where he attended that he wanted to go to Biblecollege in Kenya. He wanted to become a pastor, and he was determined to learn to speak English. When the word of this got back to me – well, that was one scholarship I was more than willing to provide. Christ for all Nations paid for
Richard’s expenses through Bible college. Years later, I heard the news of his ordination. I sent him my best wishes and congratulations, and that seemed a fitting end to it.
12 years later, in August of 2001, he stood before me in Kinshasa, a sponsoring pastor for a Christ for all Nations Crusade. He was wearing his maroon double-breasted suit, speaking good English, his gold tooth shining, his eyes bright with the joy of the Lord.
We embraced again. I can tell you, this evangelist slept so very well that night.
The longer I live the less I pretend to know about the mind of God.
I do not know why some are healed when others are not.
I only know that sometimes it is the gift of someone else’s faith that can make a person whole.
On August 26, 2001, I preached at the Tata Raphael Grounds in Kinshasa, Zaire.
At the close of the sermon, one of my team members said to me, “Reinhard, before you leave, there is someone you should meet.” He told me this as he escorted me to the stairs at the back of the stage. As usual, I was drenched in sweat from open-air preaching in the tropics. My blood was pounding. I was still a bit out of breath.
“Who might that be?” I asked.
“A local pastor. He is from one of the churches sponsoring the crusade.”
“Why haven’t I already met him? We had a Fire Conference for local pastors.”
“There were too many. He could not get to you. Besides, at first we didn’t know who he was. He’s someone special.”
We reached an area that had been cordoned off for private meetings. Even in the backstage area at our crusades, crowd control is still essential. We entered the area, and there I saw a small group of my team members standing with a fine looking African pastor.
I knew instantly that I had seen the man before, but I could not recall the incident. He was familiar, but different than I remembered. His eyes were large, brown, and shining with a brilliant light. His smile looked like the full keyboard of my old piano-accordion. Except that his keyboard had one gold key, a large gold tooth shining in the front. He wore a well-pressed, maroon, double-breasted suit with a silk maroon-and-gold tie. He was trembling to see me, and yet still, I could not recall our former meeting.
He could not contain himself any longer. He rushed across the distance between us and threw himself to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs.
He kissed my feet and wept with a loud voice. Gone was his appearance of dignity. He could not care anymore.
“Bonnke,” he cried, “I am here because of you. You saved my life. You saved my life.”
“Who are you, man?”
I reached down and took his arms, freeing my legs from his grasp. “Stand uphere and let me look at you again.”
He brought himself up and looked at me, tears streaming from his wonderful brown eyes. He said one word to me, and then I knew him.
“Bukavu.”
“Richard,” I whispered. “You are Richard?”
My memory rushed back. Twelve years ago I had seen him. I could not believe the change.
“Richard,” I said, “the last time I saw you, there was no gold tooth, just an empty socket. You could not speak English, and you were filthy. You stank, excuse me, like an outdoor toilet.”
I took his arms and pushed up the sleeves of his fine maroon suit coat and saw the evidence I remembered most. Yes, this was the same man. And now tears spilled from my eyes. I embraced him.
~ Reinhard Bonnke || 12 real stories that will inspire you.
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