Tread Upon the Lion - Chapter One - Rain on the Roof

Chapter One from Tread Upon the Lion: The Story of Tommie Titcombe

Rain on the roof

And he prayed again, and the sky poured rain (James 5:18).

Crowds of villagers danced and swayed around the foot of a tall palm tree, stamping and chanting to the throbbing drumbeat and piercing blast of rams’ horns.

For weeks the people had been restless; the rains were late. Twice they had planted seed; twice it had died. Now something would happen—Daeke, the Shango priest, had promised rain.

Tommie recalled the situation clearly:

I had awakened early that morning and lay listening to excited voices and the sound of hurrying feet. I was inquisitive enough to get up and join the stragglers to see what was happening. The tall grass, burnt brown in the scorching sun, rustled as I brushed through it on the narrow trail.

The drums stirred the crowd as they felt the insistent rhythm. Listening, they were glad. Surely they’d get rain now.

As I approached, I saw the people with their eyes fastened on the wiry figure of Daeke climbing to the treetop. He made a bed in its crown and sat down cross-legged.

“What are you doing up there?” I shouted.

“I’m getting as near to Shango as I can. He’s going to give us rain.”

Then I caught a glimpse of Daeke’s big wooden idol sitting in a clearing close by. Near it a calf lay tethered, waiting.

The priest began calling on Shango; the people around me shouted and screamed; the music thundered on. If ever I saw a picture of the biblical account of Mount Carmel, I saw it then. There they were, in frenzy, crying out to their god for rain.

We missionaries, living about 500 yards away, didn’t get much sleep the next few nights, for they continued around the clock.

On the fourth day I walked over to ask Daeke, “Where’s the rain?”

“Oh, white man, it’s coming!”

The next morning he climbed down, sacrificed the calf, and sprinkled blood on the idol. But they had danced, cried, pleaded and sacrificed in vain. The rain didn’t come.

Then the Muslims took over. They practically quoted Psalm 115.

“Sure, idols don’t answer, they’re made of wood and stone. They have eyes, but they’re blind; they have ears, but they’re deaf; they have mouths, but they’re dumb. Allah will send rain.”

They ordered a week-long fast; then, night and day, intoned their prayers: “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! La ilaha, illa Allahu, Muhammad rasul Allah!” “God is great! God is great! There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his prophet.”

At the end of the week they went down to the river and sacrificed a ram. But the rain didn’t come.

The animists tried; the Muslims tried; yet I’d said nothing to the Christians. But on the next Sunday afternoon after the message, David, the pastor, turned and said, “Isn’t it time for us who belong to Jesus to pray for rain?”

Oh, I’d waited for this. I wouldn’t suggest it as I wanted them to bring it up. “But David,” I said, “the animists spent five days pleading for rain!”

“Yes, we know.”

“What about the Muslims?”

That stumped him for a moment, then all of a sudden he said, “Yes, Muhammad lived and died.” Then clapping his hands he said, “Oh, Pa, that’s the difference!”

“What do you mean?”

“The Lord Jesus lived and died, but he came out of the grave. And he said, ‘All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth.’ ”

“Well, David, what Bible promise shall we claim?”

Without a moment’s hesitation he turned to James 5:17-18 and read: “Elias was a man subject to like passions as we are, and he prayed earnestly that it might not rain: and it rained not on the earth by the space of three years and six months. And he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain, and the earth brought forth her fruit.”

I turned to the congregation of more than a thousand people, who’d been following our dialogue with great enjoyment, and said, “Tomorrow night at seven, we’re going to pray for rain. Come, if you believe God answers prayer.” Then we dismissed.

Later, while relaxing on the veranda with David, I heard the drum beat out the message: “Now we’ll see whose God lives. The Christians are going to ask their God for rain.”

The next day was a scorcher. At 7 p.m. the church bell rang. It was a beautiful starlit night, not a cloud in the sky upon which to hang our faith; all we had were the promises of God.

My fellow missionaries and I picked up our kerosene lanterns and headed for the church. In the yard we found the animists grouped on one side, and the Muslims on the other.

As I entered a small side door and mounted the platform, I thrilled to see the building packed. Lanterns here and there lit up eager faces and revealed the aisles filled with broad-brimmed umbrella hats.

“Why did you bring those hats?” I asked.

“Haven’t we come to pray for rain? We’ll need them going home.”

I read James 5:17-18 to them, then we all got down on our knees and began to pray, one after the other. “Lord, send rain. Lord, we need rain. Glorify your name in Yagbaland!”

We prayed five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen, then a groan went up all over the church. Twenty minutes, twenty-five passed. We heard a gentle tapping on the pan roof. The building was just four walls with a galvanized iron roof and no ceiling. Then we heard a pinging sound as the drops fell faster. Before long the downpour drowned out the voices of those praying. We couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the rain on the roof as God released torrents upon us.

As one man we stood to our feet, shouting for joy, and singing praises to our God, who lives and answers prayer.

The churchyard was empty when we started home; the onlookers hadn’t brought their umbrella hats!