Normally, when I finish checking a book of the Bible with a team, the mood is bright, writes Drew Maust. This time things were not so. The mood was dim, sombre, reflective.
Drew continues: I have the privilege of serving the Didi* community in Cameroon as translation consultant, assisting translators with the preparation and publication of Scripture in their language. During the final two weeks of checking Leviticus, the translators informed me that they were not sleeping well. If it wasn’t nightmares of being chased, it was anxiety for their families back in the village. In fact, one of the translators had become demonstrably more on edge, more aggressive in his contributions. It was clear that something was troubling him.
We found cause for pause in Leviticus 26:36: ‘I will put anxiety in the hearts of those of you who survive in the lands of their enemies. The sound of a windblown leaf will put them to flight. They will run as though fleeing from the sword, and they will fall, even though no one is pursuing them.’
We often look to God’s word for comfort, encouragement, peace. But these words plunged a dagger into an already anxious translator. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is what we’re living.’ We sat in silence. Tears flowed.
In this closing section of Leviticus, the Lord outlines the curses that will befall his people should they fail to obey. The Didi community is not the people of Israel. These curses were not immediately addressed to them. How then do we read such passages? Is there a role for such bleak pronouncements in the already traumatised heart of a windblown believer?
All I could say was: ‘I am so sorry that you feel like your life right now resembles Yahweh’s curses, rather than his blessings. That should not be.’
At such times all I can think to pray is: ‘Lord, have mercy.’
I pray that the Lord would surround their homes with angels. I pray that their churches would no longer be burned; youth no longer kidnapped. I pray that families would be able to return to their homes, their fields, their livelihoods.
‘I can see my fields from my house,’ lamented one translator, ‘but I know if I go there, I won’t come back.’
Such lament is not foreign to the Bible. Books like Job and Lamentations create space for collective reflection on traumatic events. One scholar has called lament ‘the language of suffering’, adding that in lament ‘suffering is given the dignity of language: it will not stay silent’. Neither will we.
Our goal is to finish the Old Testament by 2028. We don’t know what the future holds, but we are confident that a future which includes Psalm 121 in their language is bright.
It’s a future that not only asks: ‘Where does my help come from?’, but also responds in pregnant expectation: ‘My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.’ It’s a future where human suffering is given ‘the dignity of language’.
After that checking session, the translators participated in a trauma healing workshop. I continue to pray that they would find hope so that they might flourish in the love of Christ; that the traumatic things they have seen would fade; that the deep wounds of suffering would find healing in His mercy and grace.
We have recently started our check of 1 Samuel. Pray that the Great Physician would minister to us; that we would hope like Hannah and rise up to rejoice as He reverses forlorn fortunes.
While feeling the weight of my colleagues’ trauma, I am strengthened by their unwavering resolve to continue translating God’s word for their people. What a joy to serve them. What a joy to read Scripture with them, even if it’s a bitter, eye-opening experience reading the Bible through the lens of trauma with those who are living it.
Would you pray for us that the Holy Spirit would bring healing through the storied testimonies of 1–2 Samuel and in unexpected ways? That is my prayer for you as well.
