The people who lived in the jungles of Papua New Guinea, under the shadows of towering trees and the power of dark spirits, dreaded death. They had good reason to; people screamed as they died. They thrashed and moaned, tormented by spirits that they had spent their whole lives trying to appease.

That was death as the people of Irian Jaya, Papua New Guinea knew it.

But now, they were hearing stories. Rumours that not all men died this way.

There had come to some of the neighbouring tribes, men who served a different spirit, a white spirit. These men were said to die in peace, even with smiles on their faces.

It was this news which caused somewhat of a crisis at the mission stations. It seemed like a week didn’t go by without word of a new tribe who wanted to hear how to die well. Occasionally, natives even came in person, risking their lives to cross enemy territory that they might ask for a missionary.

The mission board couldn’t keep up, there simply weren’t enough missionaries to send!

There weren’t enough foreign missionaries.

The gospel was new to the tribes of Papua New Guinea but not so new that there weren’t converts. One tribe had even begun to train up pastors from among their own people. It was to this tribe that the missionary board turned. Asking for men who were willing to take the gospel they had received and share it with others.

They would be missionaries – bringing the gospel to a different tribe. Who, though living only a few miles away, spoke an entirely different language from their own.

One of these tribal missionaries was a man named Guatono. He was known as “the happiest man” for, in the midst of a land filled with spiritual oppression, Guatono always wore a smile. 

Though he was sent without missionary training or classes in advanced theology, Guatono had an advantage over foreign missionaries. Though he couldn’t understand the language, he understood the tribal culture. Which meant he knew how to serve the people.

It didn’t take long for him to win the hearts of all. All, except for one – the witch doctor. The witch doctor, saw Guatono as a threat. A threat to his livelihood, his influence, his very way of life. A threat which he could not ignore. 

So, in broad daylight, before a whole village of witnesses, Sheerun kicked down Guatono’s fence and took one of his chickens.

Chicken theft, trifle though it may sound, was a serious offence in this poor, tribal community. The people were horrified that the witch doctor would treat Guatono in such a manner. He had openly insulted the missionary they had waited so long for. Everyone feared Guatono would leave.

The chief called the people together.

As drums pounded in steady rhythm, the villagers hurried to an open place near the river. Women left their cooking; men their afternoon naps; dripping wet children came up from swimming in the river. When all were present, the drums and the people alike fell silent.

The chief was the first to speak. He began by explaining the reason for the tribunal – though everyone already knew it. Then he apologised to Guatono and stated his hope that the missionary, who had served them so well, would not leave on account of one man’s offence. 

Finally, he turned to the people and called for them to suggest what payment the witch doctor should be required to make.

For a long time, all was silent. No sound could be heard except the call of a distant parrot and that of the village pigs rummaging through the leaves on the forest floor. Everyone was fond of Guatono, but no one wished to be the one who suggested the witch doctor’s punishment. They were afraid to incur his anger or that of the demons he worshipped.

Finally, the chief saw it would be up to him to make a suggestion. “I say that Sheerun must give two chickens to Guatono to pay for the one he stole!”

The villagers began to nod. Soon they were clapping their hands and shouting. “Two chickens for Guatono! Two chickens for Guatono!”

The chief silenced them by raising his stick. “Guatono, will you accept two chickens as payment?”

The offer was a generous one – double what had been taken. The chief felt sure that Guatono would gladly accept, but the missionary shook his head.

“I don’t want his chickens.”

The chief’s eyebrows rose. The people began to whisper. He doesn’t want chickens? What does he want, if not chickens?

Guatono was staring at the witch doctor, who stood across the circle, dressed in his full ritual garb. “I want the man.” He said.

What did he mean? What was Guatono saying? The people’s whispers turned into a full debate. Some suggested that he didn’t know what he was saying. He was, after all, still learning the language. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong words.

But Guatono wasn’t confused. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the witch doctor and now he repeated his request. “I want the man.”

“You want the man?” The chief asked. “O favoured Guatono, we do not know what you mean by this.”

“I want him to bring out his bag of witchcraft. Let him bring it and set it here in the light.”

A gasp rose from the crowd. The people’s eyes grew wide.

Bags of witchcraft were not brought into the light! They were kept in the dark, tucked away in a corner of the witch doctor’s house. Hidden from the eyes of all but him.

No one was allowed to look at the magical contents that had the power to conjure, heal, and kill. But Guatono seemed unmoved by the people’s fear.

Gradually, the people began to nod. Their curiosity overcoming their trepidation.

“Yes! Have him bring out his magic bag!” One man shouted.

Seeing the crowd’s expressions changing, the witch doctor began to scream. He cursed, cried, and threatened that he would summon the demons to kill them all.

The chief looked at a group of young men. “Take Sheerun to his house and make him bring his bag of magic.”  

The young men looked from the chief to the witchdoctor then back to the chief, as if trying to decide who they feared more. Finally, they seized the dancing Sheerun and carried him up towards the village. Those who remained in the clearing could hear his shrieks and wailings the whole way.

After a few minutes, the party returned with a dark, pig-skin pouch that was sown shut. Guatono took it and tore it open. He dumped the contents on the ground.

Bits of bark and rotten berries fell onto the hard-packed dirt. The remains of a bat’s wing, what looked like a rat’s tail and a pig’s ear among them. Guatono knelt by the strange assortment of decaying items. And one by one he picked them up.

He put the bark in his mouth and broke it in two with his teeth.

When he had handled every one of the items, he rose. “I have touched all that you fear and notice that nothing has happened to me. Now I ask that he would hold my book.”

From a pouch slung over his shoulder, Guatono pulled his copy of the new testament. He held it out towards the witch doctor.

“I wont touch it! It is a demon’s book!” The witch doctor screamed.

He pulled away, but the young men who were still gathered around him pushed his hands against the Bible’s cover.

The witch doctor winced and closed his eyes. The people stepped back. The chief watched with growing interest.

Then…nothing.

The witch doctor didn’t fall down dead. He didn’t break out in leprous spots, or go up in smoke and flames. It seemed as though not a thing happened.

At least, nothing they noticed that day.

Early the next morning, the witch doctor went to Guatono’s house, with tools in his hand, and fixed the fence he had broken. From the day he touched Guatono’s book on, he was a changed man. He looked for every opportunity to serve the missionary, he was the first one in the village to understand the gospel and be saved, and he spent the rest of his life helping Guatono in his ministry.

Guatono got the man!

He brought the powers of darkness into the light and showed them to be powerless against his God. He gained the man. He won the people.

May this story serve to remind you today that your God is greater than your enemy, greater than any bag of tricks, greater than sickness and disease, greater than all the powers that be.

 ^“For the Lord spoke thus to me with his strong hand upon me, and warned me not to walk in the way of this people, saying: “Do not call conspiracy all that this people calls conspiracy, and do not fear what they fear, nor be in dread. But the Lord of hosts, him you shall honour as holy. Let him be your fear, and let him be your dread.” (Isaiah viii.11-13, ESV)

In Christ

Quiana