Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Gottfried Oosterwal February 8, 1930 – November 9, 2015


FAR EASTERN DIVISION OUTLOOK October, 1963, pp 12, 13
 



REVIEW AND HERALD, April 27, 1967  Vol 144, No 17
p 23


REVIEW AND HERALD, July 18, 1968  Vol 145, No 29, p 19
Philippine Union College, School of Graduate Studies, 1968






The Ambassadors - Gottfried Oosterwal, director 1964


P.U.C. School of Graduate Studies Faculty, 1968
Lower, L-R: Dr Engracia A. Rasa, Dr Rogaciano Imperio, Pres. Alfonso P. Roda, Dr Esmeraldo A. De Leon, Middle: Dr Irene Wakeham, Dr Gottfried Oosterwal; Upper: Dr Sydney E. Allen, Jr., Dr Ottis C. Edwards, Dr Donald Halenz, Dr Lawrence A. Eldridge, Dr Leland A. Wilson




Focus: the Andrews University Magazine
Fall 2015 Volume 51, Number 4, p 31


http://spectrummagazine.org/article/2016/01/26/missiological-influence-gottfried-oosterwal

The Missiological Influence of Gottfried Oosterwal




Spectrum Magazine

Our Sabbath with the Prime Minister of Papua New Guinea


Comment

A deeply fascinating article.

Thank your Spectrum and Adventist Today. Thank you Alexander Carpenter and Bjorn Karlman

And for me, deeply personal.

When the article says Papua New Guinea is not really “new,” I felt that in my bones. PNG may be a young modern nation, but the island of New Guinea is ancient — older than the maps, older than the borders, older than the colonial names given to it.

I should add one important distinction. I did not grow up in what is now the independent nation of Papua New Guinea. My family lived on the other side of the island — Dutch New Guinea, the western side, which is now part of Indonesia. Same great island. Many of the same deep cultural roots. But a very different political and religious history.

Some of my fondest memories — and some of my most traumatic ones — came from more than four years growing up in the jungles of New Guinea.

I still remember riding on the shoulders of a sweaty, red-bearded Dutchman while pulling on his beard. To me he was simply Oom Gottfried — “Uncle Gottfried” in Dutch.

To the Adventist world, he would become known as Dr. Gottfried Oosterwal, the legendary anthropologist and missiologist.

My father, Leslie Keizer, was a young missionary then, helping establish a school literally carved out of the jungles on an abandoned World War II General MacArthur airstrip. Jungle vines were growing over the bones of war. Rusted relics still lay in the soil. And somehow, out of that haunted ground, my father helped build a place where children learned to read.

Dr. Oosterwal taught my father two things that changed his life — and mine.

The first happened during those long jungle nights when Dr. Oosterwal was recovering from malaria, shaking with fever and chills. My father would sit with him, and during those nights Oosterwal helped steer my dad away from a harsh, Proposed by Brimsmead, literally a brimstone kind of perfectionism, the forerunner of what many would later be recognized in Last Generation Theology.

The second thing he taught him was simple, but profound:

Before you preach God to people, you must first understand the people.

My father listened.

We learned to eat what the people ate. Rice. Jungle greens. Ferns that looked like they had escaped from the dinosaur age. Eggs so large my little civilized brain thought we had discovered ostriches in the tropics.

I remember one evening eating dinner in a remote village with my dad, my mom, my brother, and Dr. Oosterwal. The meal came from a fire pit in the ground — roasted vegetables, roots, and who knows what else, all pulled from the earth and offered to us with the kind of generosity that makes refusal impossible.

There were no plates as I understood plates.

No silverware.

No tablecloth.

Just locals gathered around us in a circle, everyone reaching in with their fingers, sharing a communal cuisine of jungle delicacies. A cornucopia from the ground.

As a little boy, I was not struck by the appearance of the food or the presentation. I was struck by how Dr. Oosterwal and my dad ate.

They dug in like everyone else.

No hesitation.

No missionary superiority.

No polite little pretend bites.

They ate with gratitude, even though a couple of the villagers had open, oozing sores on their hands and arms. To refuse the meal would have been a tremendous insult, and these two humble missionaries understood that love sometimes means eating what is placed before you — not because it is comfortable, not because it is sanitary by Western standards, but because the person offering it is giving you their best.

That night, I learned something without anyone preaching a sermon.

Respect is not theoretical.

Mission is not a slogan.

Sometimes the gospel begins with dirty fingers, roasted jungle roots, and the willingness to sit in a circle and receive another person’s hospitality as sacred.

My dad was not a world-famous evangelist. He did not conduct meetings with stadium lights, choirs, charts, or emotional manipulation.

His evangelistic method was a little more unusual.

At twilight, he would bring out his old RCA Victor player and make me crank it up. Then he would play his precious records — Andrés Segovia on classical guitar and Mario Lanza singing opera.

No Del Delker.

No King’s Heralds.

No “Give Me the Bible.”

Just Segovia and Lanza floating into the jungle night.

At first, I thought no one came. Then my father would hang a bedsheet between two trees, light up his kerosene glass-slide projector, and make me change the slides — pictures of Jesus, parables, Bible stories, mercy, forgiveness, hope.

Every so often, he would tell stories in a loud voice.

Not in his native Dutch, but in flawless Bahasa Indonesia.

They were fascinated by the many languages account, as if the old Tower of Babel story had stepped out of Genesis and come alive around them.

Again, I thought he was wasting his time.

Years later, I learned the truth.

The young men were there. Teenage boys and young adults would hide in the bushes and behind coconut trees, listening to those strange operatic songs and watching pictures they thought might be haunted.

That was my father’s evangelism. That was my mothers first class of grown up Kindergarten students!

Music. Stories. Respect. Language. Culture. Trust.

No pressure. No performance. No scoreboard.

And apparently, Dr. Oosterwal noticed. Years later, he gave my father what may have been one of the greatest compliments of his life when he asked him to substitute teach his seminary class at Andrews University on how to get mission and evangelism right.

That was my dad.

Not flashy.

Not famous.

Just faithful.

Fast-forward more than fifty years.

My brother Earle and I received a call from New Guinea.

“Would you please come back and visit us? We want to name a street after your father — Leslie Keizer Circle. And we want to name the girls’ dorm after your mother, Gloria.”

So we went.

And we were stunned.

Out of that one jungle school my father helped nurture, there were now 23 satellite schools with approximately 5,000 children attending every day.

As we walked through villages, along roads, and even near government buildings, we kept hearing the same words:

“Your father taught us how to read.”

“Your father taught us how to write.”

“Your father and mother taught us how to live.”

That is the part statistics cannot always hold.

A baptismal number can be counted.

A life taught to read cannot be so easily measured.

I also carry the darker memories.

I remember being a little boy with a poisoned arrow pointed at me by a tribal warrior. I remember the fear in my mother’s body as I hid behind her dress, waiting to die.

I remember being evacuated on one of the last planes out when Indonesian forces were moving in to reclaim the land from Dutch colonial rule.

Two days later, we lost our home.

Everything.

Furniture. Books. Keepsakes. Our little world.

All we had left were the clothes we wore, a few things we could carry, and my mother’s rice cooker.

You know you are an immigrant, a missionary kid, and slightly traumatized when your family loses everything — but somehow saves the rice cooker.

Those years in New Guinea are memorialized in the opening chapters of my upcoming memoir, Nine Lives. One True Love, crafted under the editorial eye of theologian and author Reinder Bruinsma.

But this article also brought back another memory.

Years later, when I became a minister, I remember telling my father I had almost not been ordained.

At my conference committee interview, the Ministerial Secretary asked me whether I believed a person needed to subscribe to the Adventist Fundamental Belief of the Investigative Judgment.

I said, “No.”

Then I told him I personally knew hundreds and hundreds of faithful baptized Adventists who had no earthly idea how to explain a heavenly sanctuary, prophetic numbers, or the 1,260 days/years of Adventist theology.

He asked me, “Do you have proof?”

I said, “Yes. My father baptized hundreds of them.”

They could not explain our charts.

But they knew Jesus.

They knew how to pray.

They knew how to forgive.

They knew how to live faithfully in their villages, families, churches, and communities.

Before my father died, he wrote out a list of names — former students, converts, and friends from New Guinea.

He made me promise that if I ever went back, I would look them up and see if they were still faithful Christians.

My father was always wary of mass baptisms and public entertainment evangelism, as he called it. He was not against evangelism. He was against confusing decision with discipleship.

I kept my promise.

And when I returned, I discovered that about 80 percent of the people on his list were still committed Christians. Many had become leaders in their churches, communities, or government.

That changed how I think about mission.

Maybe the real question is not simply:

“How many were baptized?”

Maybe the deeper question is:

“Who taught them to read?”
“Who learned their language?”
“Who sat with them during malaria?”
“Who stayed long enough to understand their culture?”
“Who loved them when there was no camera, no campaign report, and no applause?”

I would love to see a serious comparative study between Papua New Guinea and the Indonesian side of New Guinea — same island, many shared cultural roots, but different political histories, different religious pressures, and different mission models.

How many stayed in the door?

How many walked out the back door?

And why?

That would make a fascinating doctoral thesis.

Because in the end, the strength of Adventism in New Guinea may not be found only in the size of its crowds, the number of its baptisms, or the prominence of its political leaders.

It may be found in a little boy hiding behind his mother’s dress while a poisoned arrow points at his family.

It may be found in young men hiding behind coconut trees, listening to Mario Lanza under the stars.

It may be found in a missionary who understood that before you preach the gospel, you must first love the people enough to understand their world.

And maybe that is the profound lesson New Guinea still has for global Adventism:

The gospel does not become real because it is counted.

It becomes real when it is lived long enough, humbly enough, and lovingly enough that fifty years later, people still remember who taught them how to read, how to pray, and how to live.

Philippine Union College School of Graduate Studies,

FAR EASTERN DIVISION OUTLOOK June, 1965  Vol 51, No 6, p 5




No comments: