afterTHOUGHT (May '14)

Missionary position by Andy Oxley.  

Somehow, eons past, I managed to get through the 11 plus exam and found myself ensconced at Dr Challoners Grammar School in Amersham. In those days the masters wore academic gowns during lessons, and the headmaster a mortar board at assembly. It was somewhat of a culture shock for me, having been brought up in relative poverty and at that time living in a council-provided wartime pre-fab bungalow. Although that bungalow was amazingly well designed, I still remember ice forming on the insides of the windows in winter. It did have an early form of central heating though, which consisted of an open fire in the centre of the building. We soon upgraded to a pungent paraffin stove lit in the hallway during the night. Utter luxury. 

I well remember my first English lesson at that school. All of us, a sorry bunch of credulous urchins, were anxiously considering our fate at this renowned pillar of British education. The master did not disappoint. I sadly can't remember his name, but he flowed into the room with a long black cape billowing behind and stood directly at the front of the now silent class. We were faced by a being so ancient he had no right to live, with long lank and dirty white hair flowing down to his shoulders. There was a fascinating, slight brown, tinge beneath his dangly nostril hairs reminiscent of years of snuff sniffing. His encrusted brown teeth had, as yet, been untouched by recent fluoridisation. The final touch was a grubby Vicar's dog collar circling his scrawny neck. This man was religious! I had never met anyone properly religious before and although this man seemed to be a flawed version, he was still interesting if singularly unnerving. 

The weeks went by, accompanied by smacks with his ruler and his adept method of pulling a small boy to his feet by his sideburns. We listened in awe as he regaled the class with his life experiences. It turned out this man had been a missionary! A Christian missionary, no less, and had done his missionising(?) in Africa. My only knowledge of that mighty continent had been gained watching Tarzan movies. At that time, the furthest part of our planet I had travelled to was Felixstowe.

One missionary story remains in my memory above others; it was, the master said, a near-death experience. He had travelled with a few others deep into the jungle to evangelise a tribe known to be head-hunters, finally arriving to a warm welcome as the tribe was obviously having a family feast and was in the process of heating up a large cauldron. Now even I knew what head-hunters did with large cauldrons. Thankfully so did the missionaries who spent the next few hours sitting with their backs to a large wall and preventing anyone creeping behind them. It seem that these natives would only cook you if you had been prepared in the correct manner, which entailed a blow to the back of the head. An early form of food safety regulations, no doubt.

(I wondered at that time, being reluctant to think evil of the head-hunters, if they had misunderstood the word evangelisation. It’s a long word after all, and so similar to evisceration, that it may just be they had the wrong idea about the missionaries’ intentions. Hence their response in heating up that black pot. Just a thought…)

This early missionary experience inspired me. I had not been raised in a Christian home and therefore had no idea about such things, but I was sympathetic to the faith. I remember considering the sacrifice and dedication needed to become a missionary, the devotion and faith which would be sorely tested in ways I could not imagine. When, a few years later, I became a believer myself, I was so thankful that I did not receive the call. I probably did not listen out for it much, to be fair, but I do so love England.