A Marriage Made in Heaven?

Yet his early career in the church makes little sense except as an act of sustained intention. After his ordination in 1958, Milingo was sent by his diocese to Rome and then to Dublin to complete degrees in sociology and education. After a short time back in his home parish, he was sent away again, this time to study radio and television production. By the time he returned to Zambia in 1963, he was fluent in Italian and English and was ready to begin a radio ministry, which soon made him one of the best-known men in the country.

"I would go out into the field to record sounds," Milingo said, describing his radio work. "If there was an auto accident I wished to speak about, I would go someplace to find a loud bang. If I spoke of a funeral, I would go to a graveside to record the weeping. That was why the show was popular: the sounds. They make everything come alive."

With an increasingly high profile that made him well-suited for leadership, he became one the youngest bishops in the Catholic Church at age 39, consecrated by Pope Paul VI. Such an early, illustrious start in the hierarchy might have led to a long, trouble-free career. John Paul II, for example, also became a bishop before his 40th birthday. But then something happened that caused Milingo to change focus.

"On November 1, 1973, I received a message from God," he said. That night, while sitting in bed reading, he felt a shadow enter the room and spread over him. And then the shadow spoke. "Go and preach the Gospel," it intoned.

To Milingo, this meant he must preach in the language of the land where God had put him. He began incorporating the music of his people into his liturgies. He allowed drums into the sanctuary, drawing criticism that he was "Africanizing" the ancient rituals of the Roman Catholic Church.

But that was only the beginning. When his parishioners complained to him of ailments caused by evil spirits, he decided that preaching in an African style was not enough. He must cast out demons the same way.

Taking the pulpit in his cathedral, Milingo announced that though he was a Catholic bishop, he had powers over malignant entities of all traditions. Unlike the European missionaries who still made up the majority of priests in Zambia, he knew the names by which his people identified their demons, not just mshawe but nzila, vibanda and nigulu, all distinct and inhabiting different regions of the country.

"If anyone suffers from these diseases," he said, "let them come forward, and we will try to help."

Soon hundreds, sometimes thousands, attended Milingo's exorcism and healing sessions. The sick and the crippled crowded the archbishop's residence in Lusaka. He received letters from people who said spirits had made them unemployed or impotent. Milingo knew the guilty demons sometimes had other names, such as alcoholism or venereal disease, but no matter. He prayed for anyone in need.

As with his radio show, Milingo didn't shy away from spectacle: He became known for his singing and shouting, tilting his head back and unleashing streams of incomprehensible language so that he seemed the one possessed.

When word of Milingo's popularity spread among the more orthodox bishops, they were not pleased.

"They gave me an alternative," Milingo told me. "Either no longer be a healer, or offer my resignation as bishop. I myself said to them: Jesus Christ was a preacher, he cast out devils and he healed the sick. He was all in one." He held up three fingers and counted down, then he brought his hand to rest against his chest. "So why should I oblige myself to give up healing, or offer resignation?"