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World: Children of God

4 minute read
TIME

They were gentle people, the missionaries of Finschhafen, and their mission had been there a long while. They had built churches and schools on the wild New Guinea coast, and they had raised the black New Guinea children in the ways of God. They were Germans, of course, but they were Lutheran Germans. When they sang, their song was some fine old Lutheran hymn like Ein’ feste Burg ist unser Gott (A Mighty Fortress Is Our God).

There was 58-year-old G. Pilhofer, learned in many of New Guinea’s 300 native dialects, who had written many schoolbooks and translated the New Testament into Kate (pronounced Kah-teh), the hill natives’ language which Finschhafen had adopted. There was brave, 63-year-old Rev. Stephan Lehner, who first brought God’s word to the Laewomba cannibals in the Markham Valley. He won them by hanging cloth, paring knives and tobacco on a dead tree by a river—in native sign language, a surety that he was their friend.

True, there were two German flyers named Garns and Rabbe, who had suddenly turned to God and gone to work for the mission. Under their tutelage, the mission built airdromes at Ogelbeng, Ega, Asaloka and Raipinka—but missionaries would naturally want to carry the gospel into the interior jungles. When World War II broke out, they flew the mission’s single-engined Junkers plane, Papua, to Dutch New Guinea and hid it in the bush. Then—it was reported—they proceeded to Germany.

Some of the missionaries took a great interest in radio, but radio would be a cultural influence for the natives. A half-dozen bumptious young men of God arrived a few years ago, and tried to recruit the rest of the mission staff for Naziism. But what—if the stories were true—could be funnier than a potbellied native youngster, ramming out his hand in a ludicrous Heil? The few Australian colonials at Salamaua, Lae and Port Moresby found it very hard to worry about Finschhafen.

When World War II broke out, Australian authorities interned G. Pilhofer, the few known Nazis at Finschhafen, and some others—29 in all—who were suspect. A few German Lutherans, including Dr. Lehner, were allowed to remain, and the U.S.-Australian Lutherans at Madang on the same coast sent seven of their people to save Finschhafen for the church. Among the seven was Dr. Agnes Hoeger, a graduate of the University of Minnesota’s Medical School and the daughter of a Lutheran pastor at Fargo, N.D.

Last week, from bombed and suddenly excited Port Moresby, came a strange tale about Finschhafen. According to the story, the Japs at Finschhafen had found guides to lead them through the jungles* toward airdrome sites in the Markham Valley. With missionaries or their native pupils for guides, tough Jap troops might even find a way 200 miles through the jungles and over the mountains to Port Moresby by land. According to the story, the Lutherans had abandoned their coastal missions and retired to the jungles. In one mission house Australian militia found Nazi arm bands and pennants.

Lutherans in the U.S. refused to believe that Drs. Lehner, Hoeger and their like were aiding the Japs. Perhaps some of the mission employes had been persuaded or compelled to guide the invaders. Perhaps Garns and Rabbe had sneaked back to the station, or had never gone to Germany at all. As for tales of Nazi trinkets in the mission, good Lutherans were puzzled or incredulous. It was not God’s way, and it was not the Lutheran way.†

* An outbreak of tribal warfare, after civil authorities withdrew from northeast New Guinea, threatened both Japs and the remaining white inhabitants.

†For news of other missionaries in the Orient, see p. 34.

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