In my four-plus decades of ministry, I haven’t had many opportunities to go on missions trips.
My first experience, 22 years ago, took my wife and me on a two-week visit to Singapore and Malaysia. I had the opportunity to speak about 20 times to families and young people at a family camp, as well as preach in our missionary’s church plant.
In 2019, we visited Costa Rica, spending a week with a missionary family, offering much-needed support and encouragement.
Most recently, in February, I journeyed to Ghana, Africa, to teach about 30 men either preparing for or already involved in pastoral ministry in villages near Wa, in the country’s northwest region.
The schedule wasn’t grueling, but it did keep me busy—and tired! The average temperature was >100°—a stark contrast to February in the Midwest! I left O’Hare for JFK early on a Wednesday morning, and after a several-hour layover, took an overnight flight to Accra, Ghana, arriving at about 7:00 a.m. on Thursday (Ghana is 6 hours ahead of Chicago).
After a day of rest in Accra, took a PassionAir flight to Wa on Friday morning. The rest of the day, got acquainted with the host pastor and situated in my room. On Saturday, we drove two hours to a safari park.
On the way back to Wa, stopped in some of the villages where churches are being planted and visited the village where I would preach the next day.
On Sunday, traveled about an hour to the village where I spoke through an interpreter to a congregation of about 30 villagers under a large mango tree. I was grateful that the fruit was nowhere near ripe, else the threat of falling mangoes pelting the preacher and hearers!
After the brief mango service, we drove back to the host pastor’s church for the morning service where my teaching partner preached.
Following the service, we intended to head back to our hotel for an afternoon of rest before returning to the church for an evening service in which I was to preach. However, we didn’t make it out of the churchyard—the pastor’s van had a flat tire.
An hour later, the tire repaired (we thought), we started out for our hotel in Wa. Ten minutes later, the tire blew again, and we were stuck on the side of the road for another hour.
It was late afternoon before we arrived back at our hotel, and since the church was about 40 minutes from the hotel, the pastor suggested we skip the evening service and get some rest—the week of intensive teaching was to begin the next day. Was so grateful for the reprieve!
And so it did. Monday through Friday involved several hours of teaching through an interpreter. Since all the sessions were at the host pastor’s church, that meant a daily 45-minute camboo ride each way.
Again, the daily temps were around 100° and the church’s air conditioning system involved opening the doors and windows and turning on a few ceiling fans.
It was hot! Which is physically quite draining!
So, typically, after the long day of teaching, went back to the hotel in time for supper, then reviewing notes for the next day’s lessons, touching base with loved ones back home, and turning in early.
That was the week.
On Friday, after the last class ended, the pastor took me and a few other men to Ombo Mountain to go on a hike.
To an American familiar with the Rocky or Appalachian mountain ranges, Ombo was more like a large hill. But to the regional Ghanaians, seeing that the surrounding area is quite flat, this “hill” that rises 425’ seems like to them like a mountain—so a mountain it is.
Ombo has quite a storied history and legend. According to the Modern Ghana website, Ombo Mountain is named after the nearby village community. In the early 1900s, the mountain “served as a cover for the people to withstand the onslaught of the feared slave raiders Samori and Babatu and their men, just a couple of weeks before they were eventually overpowered and killed.”
One of the elders of the village claims that a river used to exist where the mountain now stands. So the story goes, “the mountain suddenly appeared from the river in a form of a storm,” and some of the villagers’ ancestors were covered up by the mountain. On account of that tragedy, some believe that anyone who calls out the name “wira bie” (“rock son”) while on the mountain “may get a response from their ancestors.”
To the mountain is also attributed certain divine powers.
It is believed that the Ombo mountain helps to serve the needs and grant the wishes of the people. One can come with two white fowls to be sacrificed for the hill, after which the visitor makes a wish or appeal for assistance. After the mountain helps him/her to get what he/she asked for, the beneficiary must return to the mountain with a cow to thank the Oracle for the help.
Well, given the legends and superstitions that have grown out of the history, climbing the mountain isn’t as simple as going for a hike in the state park.
In the first place, you have to get permission from the village elders and custodians—the mountain’s caretakers. Visitors are supposed to offer a bottle of whiskey and some money to appease the gods before permission will be granted. I wonder who drinks the booze?
Fortunately, given our position as Christian ministers, the village elder didn’t demand the requisite sacrifices!
But we did have to follow other rules.
You must follow a designated route to the summit.
You can’t spit or relieve yourself on the mountain.
You can’t take a rock from the mountain as a souvenir.
You must stay away from one particular spot where a well is located, called “muuli nye kono” (“watch and cry”). “It is said that one who goes to that spot and peeps into the well may see your own corpse and may die after returning home.”
It’s not all so strict, though. You are allowed to take all the pictures you want, have fun, and write your name on a rock to memorialize your visit.
With all that said, “The Ombo Mountain is open to all who wish to come and have an experience of its gargantuan and beautifully shaped rocky nature.”
Well, that may be a bit of hyperbole, but it was a refreshing way to end a long week of teaching.
Reflecting on the story behind Ombo Mountain, I was grateful that each of the men I hiked with that day had been delivered from the darkness of their tribal legends. By God’s grace, they had “turned to God from idols to serve the living and true God, and to wait for His Son whom He raised from the dead, even Jesus who delivers us from the wrath to come.” [1 Thessalonians 1:9-10]
Further, I was grateful to have a very small part in equipping them to communicate the liberating truth of God’s Word in their villages. By God’s grace, they can lead many others out of dark superstition to the glorious light of the gospel!
