Do You Know Howard Cosell

‘Do You Know Howard Cosell?’

The Internet, satellites and television bring us instant news and events from around the world. We’re in a different age. It is exciting. It is a small world.

I remember a time in a small African village in what is now called The Congo. I had been working in Kinshasa, the capital city of Zaire in 1990 to set up a food, medical supplies and clothing distribution. We had met with some 200 to 300 Zairian pastors, all poor as church mice but serving small congregations. These preachers were almost like village elders and treated the people with loving care and concern. They would and did make certain the food got to the people who needed it.

We were bringing in 25 containers — 40-footers — with 1.2 million pounds of powdered milk, flour and other items that would feed each of the congregations for a month. We also included aspirins, toothbrushes and toothpaste, personal care products, items they had little of or had never seen.

In the middle of our meeting, a little Zairian kept pestering me. He was insisting I come to visit his little church, and elementary and high school age schools. I kept putting him off, first saying “see me later” and then trying to avoid him. I had a lot of work to do and didn’t really have time to go to his village. I was busy making arrangements for the supplies to arrive without it being commandeered. Besides, I had to meet government officials to obtain permissions for the distribution and smooth the way for a religious crusade in Kinshasa’s stadium. Everybody seemed to be pulling me in various directions.

But this little guy, a pastor, just kept worrying me and would not go away. If I was having lunch or coffee with someone, he’d be there. He was becoming more than an irritant. Finally, to get him off my neck, I agreed to visit his village on the morning of the next Saturday I was scheduled to leave. At 7:30 AM, the pastor met me at my hotel and we drove 45 miles on a bumpy and uncomfortable dirt road to the village. Even at this time of the morning it was hot and getting hotter and our small car didn’t have air conditioning. It took us a little over an hour, bumping and riding and avoiding holes in the road that could well flatten our tires. I kept smiling and talking and thanking God that I was leaving Zaire later that day. I was tired and worn out and tired of being tired. There had been rumors of a possible overthrow of the government and general unrest of the people. But those rumors were always being spread to keep the people under control and to keep American officials on their toes.

Finally, we arrived at the village. You’ve seen pictures of African straw hut houses? That’s what this village was all about, hundreds of huts with goats, donkeys and chickens running all over the streets. People were walking down the nasty street with boxes of fruit and clothes balanced on their heads, classic African photo opportunities. I was determined to endure this day and not to eat anything that may make me sick. That’s why I always took bottled water and instant soup. I may well find a place to heat water and sustain myself. I was wearing a blue cord suit and perspiring heavily and knew I had no other alternative but to get through this little “tour” of a Zairian village.

Then, we pulled up in front of a cinder block church building, nothing fancy, but with wooden slat-seats made from rough-hewn lumber on top of cinder blocks. There was a makeshift altar, also of rough wood underneath a cross. The pastor was now smiling and busily explained how people in his village enjoyed coming here, especially to get out of the hot midday sun. Then we walked through the side door of the building. There was a small courtyard where some 350 children, ranging in age from kindergarteners to junior high school, dressed in white cotton tee shirts, blue shorts, white socks and tennis shoes. The moment I stepped out with their pastor, these children came to attention and in phonetic English, sang, “Jesus Loves Me.” Zairians (Congolese) speak French. These children had learned this song just to sing for “the American pastor.” It was beautiful.

Now, I relate this story for several reasons. First, we never know how or when what we say or do affects others, especially those in ministry and in missions. We often forget that dollars we send do make a big difference in lives around the world. Those who donate to humanitarian organizations do have a right to wonder if their money makes a difference. They also deserve to know what results may be. This village didn’t really have anything to do with my work. I just happened to see the result.

For example, 21 years earlier in 1969 to be exact, an American evangelist from Tulsa, Oklahoma named T. L. Osborne held a two-week long crusade in Kinshasa. His group dealt with individuals who wanted to enter the ministry; they conducted Bible classes and various other seminars to show how to start churches, Sunday Schools, and primary and secondary schools in their Third World countries.

Osborne and his team returned to the U.S. in the summer of 1969 following their two weeks but had some team members remain to complete extensive study programs. Now, my pastor friend, the pesterer, took Osborne’s words literally. He returned to his village and re-created a church, and a school. He figured how to have literature printed in French and then for the next 20 years plus he added teachers and preachers and became leader of this village. He never became university trained but he used the Bible and the literature to educate the people of his village. At the same time, these children grew up and became members of the church and the school and made a big difference in the lives of the people in this village.

My pastor friend’s determination paid off and made me aware that while we can’t always see where our money goes or where our good works are done we do know that God uses us to reach others.

There is a funny side to this story. As the children were singing “Jesus Loves Me” for me, the pastor leaned over and asked, “Do you know Howard Cosell?” the famed American sportscaster. That sort of surprised me since these children had touched my heart. As a matter of fact I did know Howard Cosell. The pastor had met him momentarily at ringside in Kinshasa when legendary boxing champion Muhammed Ali defended his heavyweight title. He was proud to know two great Americans, Pastor T. L. Osborne and Howard Cosell.

On my return home, I called Osborne’s office to let him know of his success. At the suggestion of George Vecsey, the great sportswriter and columnist of The New York Times, I also wrote to Howard Cosell, primarily to encourage him. Howard’s wife was extremely ill at this time. He was excited to know about this and used my letter in one of his books (What’s Wrong With Sports, 1991). This story gave him “great satisfaction,” he wrote.

I finally left the village about 2 o’clock that day and went straight to the airport. I had learned something. We don’t have to worry about how we get results. We just have to do what God urges us to do and realize He provides the increase.

Whenever I hear children singing, I always remember that Saturday morning when what I thought would be an unpleasant harrowing experience turned out to be a great blessing and one I’ve never forgotten. Copyright 2002 Harry Covert. This column has appeared in The Covert Letter.