Embraced by Love

July 27, 2006 began as all days do down here in South America. The work was plentiful; the opportunities to share Jesus abounded. At 7 that evening, though, our world changed forever. It was violently shaken; it was suddenly and inexplicably pillaged by man’s greatest enemy: death.

It was a normal day for my oldest daughter and her family, too. My son-in-law went to work, as normal. My daughter was home, caring for their 11-week old baby girl; it was their firstborn, our first grandchild. Michelle put Grace down for a nap sometime in the afternoon. Sometime later she went to check on Grace and found her lying there. She was still. She was not moving. She was not breathing.

Michelle called 911 and the rapid responders came as quickly as possible—within minutes. They transported the baby and mother to the hospital, where all the wonderful doctors and nurses tried with all their might to revive Grace. It was too late.

When Kory called we were stricken; we were numb with pain. It was the most inconceivable thing that we had ever experienced. It was the most painful. It still is some days.

We traveled to the states as quickly as possible. There we mourned and grieved with all who had gathered. The family honored me by asking me to preach Grace’s funeral. I did; but it was only in the strength of the Lord that any of us were able to endure that interminable day.

Almost a year has passed now. We had a choice to make after Grace died. We had to decide how we were going to let her passing affect us. We had to choose to live and let that experience become a growing time for us. Or we could choose to stay there, living in that terrible moment of pain and sorrow, remaining paralyzed and growing bitter. That's what happens when you drink from the same bottle of water for too many days. It grows bitter. It sours.

Someone I spoke with wondered aloud how any of us could move on with life. The answer is easy; and at the same time the answer is complicated. Let me be very honest with you: some days come and I don’t know if I will be able to look at a child without pain in my heart. I have had to turn away with tears in my eyes when I came close to a child Grace’s age. I have had days of pain that I have, right or wrong, hidden from those around me. And I was not the parent of this child; think of them! Think of their pain! I have seen what they write; I have spoken with my daughter. Their pain is intense, even a year later.

How do you get by that?

I find the answer in one verse of Scripture: “And now abide faith, hope and love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Co. 13:13

Those three are ever-present companions for me; that is what “abide” means. They are there; the Holy Spirit uses them to carry us through the day. And on some days that is how we make it. One step. One hour. One morning. One afternoon. One night at a time.

We live by the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ (Gal. 2:20). It’s faith in him, not faith in faith.

We live by the hope—that wonderful expectation--to be reunited with Grace in the presence of Jesus. It's hope based on faith. Otherwise it would be wishful thinking.

We live by the love of the Father through Jesus Christ. He loves us far more deeply than we can ever understand. Someone said something like, "When you can't see his hand, trust his heart."

A friend called me the other day. We were discussing this and other issues on the phone. He reminded me that Satan cannot send anything our way that is not filtered through the love of the Father. Our Father in Heaven loves us. He wants the best for us. He understands our separation in ways that we cannot comprehend. After all, we were separated from him until we were brought to him by the blood and death of Jesus. He was separated from his only son when Jesus died on the cross and bore our sins.

The greatest is love. The other things--faith and hope--are powerful in and of themselves. But without the love of the Father, they have no real meaning.

Now I want to ask a favor of all who read this post. Take a moment and pray for the Kidd family and the Shearer family. It’s going to be a hard week for us. July 27th will be a painful day for us.

Pray that God will prepare us now.

Pray for healing for both families.

Pray each of us will sense he or she is embraced by love.

What's in Your Chest?

In a small room in my backyard, I have a tool chest. It's not just a box; it's a 6-drawer chest that once belonged to my father. Each drawer is carefully arranged, filled with the tools that I have for whatever project I may find myself involved in. In the top drawer you would find my screwdrivers. In the next one, my wrenches are carefully laid out. And so on and so forth goes each drawer.

I don't use just any tool for any job. I have seen it done, mind you. I have seen someone grab a pair of pliers and use that important tool as a wrench on a stubborn bolt. I have seen others grab a regular screwdriver and try to use it in a phillips-head screw. When we use our tools that way, it just slows us down; don't you think? It often makes the job that more difficult the next time, too. My late father-in-law, a bivocational preacher, was a master mechanic--a specialist in diesel motors. He would often wave his wrenches at us and admonish us, "Boys, you have to use the right tool to do the job right!"

As a missionary, I have another tool chest. In that one I have a lot of different ways to try to start a church. There are the storying tools; there are inductive Bible study tools; there are mass evangelism tools; there are house church tools, simple church tools, and other church styles. And that list goes on, too numerous to describe in this short post. There is no one tool that will suffice for every place I want to start a church. Each area of this megacity is distinct; each church start requires a unique approach. And that is what is important, I think. We must use the right tool to do the job right.

Don't overlook this little analogy. Don't think one tool will do the job. Don't use a house church model when another model is called for, and vice-versa.

Stop and take a look. What's in your chest?

Are You in the Grist Mill?

The elderly gentleman smiled as he pulled on a rope that lifted a gate on a stone canal and let the water flow. He stood there explaining the nature of the apparatus before us. It was a mill. A grist mill. The farmer put his grain into a bin that slowly, methodically let it flow into the path of a large stone. That stone pulverized the grain, producing a fine flour; the farmer was quite proud. The water turned a wheel, the wheel turned the gears, and the gears moved the perfectly round stones in such a way that the grain became flour.

I looked and felt that there was a true lesson in that. Sometimes we are visitors at the grist mill. We stand aside and witness difficulties in other's lives. But sometimes we feel like we are in the mill. We feel ground up. We feel like we are being pulverized.

Let's get real. Sometimes we are being pulverized. We are under the rollers, being pressed. Maybe not literally, but certainly emotionally and spiritually. Think about it; someone calls you with devastating news from a doctor. I read some news like that this very morning about a friend of mine. I was grieved for her. Someone calls in the middle of the night and tells you a loved one has died. I received that e mail this morning, too; one of my friends lost her father. That, along with many other things, has happened to most of us. If it has not happened to you, yet, hang on; it will.

The big question is, what will you do when you are in the grist mill? The purpose of the mill is to provide sustenance--nourishment--for others. Your crushed life can be something that helps someone else to grow and be more like Jesus. The one phone call that has impacted me most this year was from a friend in another South American nation. He told me that he was ready to quit, to pack it up and go home. But when we stayed in spite of the terrible, crushing blows that came our way a year ago, it inspired him and his wife. He said our "flour" was his nourishment and helped him to stay. I learned a lot from that single call. It was like a love letter from Christ to my heart.

That is not the only lesson for us. When life crushes you and me, others will see what is inside. They are supposed to see love, joy, peace, endurance, and a few other kinds of grain the Master has sown in our hearts. But sometimes others see weeds, don't they? Sometimes the cares of this world overtake the fruit of the Spirit. God shows us this so that we can correct the problem; and the problem would be that we are not walking in the Spirit.

Are you in the grist mill? Are you being crushed by life's pulverizing stones? Let the Master Miller make fine flour of your circumstance; then go feed others with it.

A Week of Miracles, part 2

This is the second installment on A Week of Miracles.

The 28-person volunteer group was a hard-working group. They started early and worked hard all day long. The bulk of the effort went into VBS and personal evangelism. There was a small carpentry team along who helped with some renovations to a community center the community loans us for our meetings.

What is so miraculous about that? Nothing, in and of itself. The miraculous happened before our eyes some 327 times. Yes, 327 people prayed to receive Christ. Some were delivered from a life of rank sin. Some were young, most were adults. We saw men, women, young people, and a few children older than ten who opened their hearts to Jesus.

It was miraculous that the men and women opened their homes to us. That is not the most common thing in these parts. They don't like people to come into their homes. But they did. The asked us in. And in we went. The floors were often just packed dirt. Sometimes the walls were made of woven mats; sometimes they were made of thin plywood. And sometimes they were made of a thin tongue-in-groove wood. Sometimes they would have a tin roof over their small hut; sometimes it was just a bit of plastic--plastic that leaked. But they all had one thing in common: there were two rooms: one for eating in and one for sleeping in.

In those primitive huts, with dangerous electrical connections and no running water or sewage of any kind, we sat (or stood stooped over because the ceilings were too low) and shared the love of Christ. They were so ready to hear the gospel. They responded with tears, with smiles, and lots of hugs.

Not all wanted Jesus. Some, like Jose, Manuel, and Naomi, rejected the Savior. They were happy in their sin. Even that was a miraculous thing. We parted as friends. The door is still open to share Jesus once again.

The fact no one was dog-bit, no one became ill from the exotic foods, no one came away with lice (which we really did see), or other potential problems was also an answer to prayer.

God was at work in our midst. For that, we give him praise and the spotlight shines on him.

A Week of Miracles

This blog has been silent for the past week. It was not a "blog fast;" I am not into such designations. It was due to plain, hard work. It was plain fun, too. It was a week of miracles.

The smaller miracle was among the sadder things I have witnessed in my 29 years of Christian ministry. It began with a phone call from Pam, my bride of nearly 27 years. She had received a call from another part of this city of around ten million. The lady on the other end of the line was crying, unconsolably so. Her father had gone on a rampage. He beat his 16-year-old daughter. He beat he wife, breaking her arm. Mom and daughter locked themselves in a room upstairs, frightened.

What kind of man would do such a thing? What kind of man would beat his family? It enraged both Pam and me. It was worse by the knowledge that this man was a pastor. Yes, a pastor. A man of God. A preacher of righteousness. And here he was, acting in as heinous a way as one can imagine.

I was over 2 hours away. They wanted me to go and speak to the father. I did not know if I could leave 28 volunteers to do so. But God had supplied a need before we ever knew about it. One of the men was an orthopedist--an M.D. from MS. He asked if he could go with me. So did a young carpenter-turned-preacher who was with the group. The doctor had begun the trip by telling me that he did not know why, but he had brought casting supplies in case of broken bones. So off we went.

When we found the family, father included, there were tears enough to fill a swimming pool. I asked to see what the dad used to beat his family. I cannot do justice to the size of the piece of wood the man used. It was a 2 X 2, over 2 feet long. It was hard and heavy. And with that piece of wood this man beat his wife and daughter. The doctor was livid. He rebuked the man, with me translating.

After some time with the family, and after an examination of the daughter's leg, the doctor told them she should get an X-ray. His conclusion without the X-ray was that it was broken, just as the mother's arm had been broken (X-rays supported that already). All other tests showed the leg was broken; it seemed very clear to all of us there. Even the protrusion on the side of the leg warned of a break.

We laid hands on the girl and prayed for her, anointing her with oil. And we left them with strong counsel to get that X-ray. They did so the following day. And when they took it to the doctor, the place where there was supposed to be a break was fine. No breaks. No broken bones. The doctor grinned like a goat eating briars. The young preacher did, too. God had healed this young lady's leg. It was a true miracle.

We serve a God who delights in demonstrating his power. This was the smaller of the miracles of this past week. Tomorrow, I will share the greater miracles that we witnessed.

Urban Migration and Missions

Today I read an interesting article that should be important to missionaries and those interested in winning our world for the glory of God. The article deals with population trends around the world. It can be found here.

The long and short of the story is this: the world is moving into cities. Now that is not news for many; we knew that. What we may not have known is that many are moving to smaller cities of a half-million or so. The larger cities are not the ones growing; it's those smaller ones where we need to begin concentrating our forces.

Those interviewed have an apparent concern that, due to the lack of a good political/governmental infrastructure, these cities could be targets for religious extremists. That is good news for us. It means what we already knew. The people will be, in all likelihood, receptive to hearing the gospel. If they are targets for extremism, they are targets for Jesus!

What does this mean for mission strategists? It tells us where to send new personnel, where to deploy existing personnel. While we are committed to reaching all the world for Christ, we should be careful not to ignore the migration of over half the world. We should not wait until unrest develops; we must get our personnel in place now.

What does this mean for the local churches around the world? It tells us how to pray. It tells us how to plan. It tells us how to encourage those we send out.

Lord, send forth your laborers!

Pray for North Korea

Consider the following from Christianpost.com

The South Korean Church urged believers worldwide to participate in the Global Week of Prayer for North Korea, June 25-July 1, when it declared 2007 as the International Year of Prayer for North Korea. The 2007 North Korea prayer event is particularly important because it occurs on the 100th year of the 1907 Pyongyang Great Revival – considered the base of Christianity in Korea.

The gates of hell will not prevail against the church that advances on its knees!

Blended Worship

This morning, after my prayer time, I turned on the local news broadcast. I learned some interesting things. First, today (June 24th) is Saint John's Day. Now, you would think that this meant that folks would be excited over the life of John, the Beloved Disciple. He was the one who sat next to Jesus, leaning against him during the Lord's last Passover celebration with the disciples. He was the one who, led by the Holy Spirit, penned simply and powerfully those words that have changed perhaps billions of lives.

The celebration in this part of South America, however, is different. The celebration I saw on TV was the clearest evidence of a successful blend of a form of Christianity and folk religions from both the jungle and the mountains of Peru. Scantily-clad young ladies representing jungle worship gyrated to music, while pythons slithered and slid over their arms and shoulders. To their right, and just behind them, sat six witchdoctors with their potions laid out, calling on their gods. Beyond them were others, vigourously shaking their bottles of beer, spraying one another, and dancing to different kinds of music blaring in the background. It was a cacophony of sounds, none of which had anything to do with John or Jesus, or the true God.

But that is life in this particular form of Christianity. One of their religious leaders once told me that they discovered that, so long as they allowed the locals to incorporate the former gods into the worship, all would be well. So he allowed men and women to worship the sun, the mountain gods, the wind, the moon, and other animistic things. It is not uncommon for a statue of some saint being paraded through the streets to have inside of it the figurine of some local deity. Often, once the local religious leader leaves a mountain church, a witchdoctor will enter the same building to hold his religious services.

"Horrible!," you cry. You turn your head in disgust. And so you should. But before you lift another stone, consider your own ways. What have you added to Jesus that does not belong? I went to a local church in the southern United States not long ago who had to cancel services so that the members could spend the entire day in the cemetary. It's called Decoration Day. I know of churches whose age-old traditions carry more value than the written, clear word of God; is that god any different than those of the mountain religions? If something stands taller than God, it's too big. If something moves you more than God, it's in the way.

It's this kind of blended worship that makes God sick. And you thought I was going to speak of hymns and praise songs...! Love the Lord with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength!

Celebrate!

I took some men to a poor community the other day. These men, Don and Tim, were visiting from the great state of Mississippi. We went to try to share the gospel. I say "try" because you just don't know what may happen in any given moment. I went to specifically share with men, men I knew would be there because they were helping us build retaining walls on the steep, dangerous hillside this community sits upon. I knew they would be there. I knew they would not mind a break from that back-wrenching work, either.

So off we went. The first part of the journey within the community was easy. It was up the new steps we had poured just 6 weeks ago. But we got to the top and my guests were on the winded side. So was I. It was a steep climb, even on stairs. We watched the men work all around us. Soon I called to the foreman and had them bring the men into two groups, well apart from one another.

It was a dirty walk across the hill. Don's navy blue pants were now blue and brown. His brown shoes were covered with the same light-brown dust. That's partly from the dirt; it was also from the fragmented grey rocks strewn all around us. We slid down the rocks on the part of the hill where we were going to be preaching. We were both covered in dirt, Don more than I. But a little dirt would not deter us from our mission. Don joked that he hoped he did not cause a landslide coming down the hill. He looked as though he tried.

My friend Don preached to one group, with me translating. Another man translated for the other guest. Off we went, preaching the gospel. There sat those men, filling up the stairs in front of us. Don startled them with one question, "If you died today, do you know if you would spend eternity in heaven?" He had their attention. The men before me live for today. They don't like to think about eternity. Or death. Or heaven. Or hell. But now they had to. It was before them, like an open chasm for them to look into.

Don shared simply, but with passion. The men listened intently. I did my best to translate with the same passion Don showed them. He ably demonstrated by Scripture that we are all sinners. Sin has wages: death--separation from God. Someone paid the wages; his name is Jesus. Jesus died for our sin. Jesus paid the price. We can be free from those wages, if we so desire. All this Don showed in the word of God.

Before long, fifteen men bowed their heads and asked Jesus to save them. I feel that most of them were genuine in their repentance and plea for salvation. Their tears seemed to indicate it. Their hearty applause and handshakes also seemed to show it.

I wish I could take you there with these words. There are no adequate words to describe the scene that unfolded before us. It was a God-moment. I almost thought I heard the joyous shouts in heaven.

Let the celebration begin!

Why Not Just Do It?

I read a lot about church planting. Sometimes I think I read too much. Maybe we all do.

Honestly, I am getting a little frustrated reading the different websites who claim to have the answer. Is there a panacea for church planting? Is there a single model that will launch all of us into such a planting frenzy that we finish the task in my lifetime? The short answer is, "No!" Please consider what Oswald Chambers said last century: "Never try to make your experience a principle for others, but allow God to be as creative and original with others as He is with you." - My Utmost for His Highest, June 13.

So here is my advice to my church-planting friends: just do it! Find God's pattern for your people and do it. Find God's plan for your people and use it. There is no short cut. There is no easy way. It's all hard work. Just do it.

Where will we find that pattern and plan? We will find it in the prayer closet. That may sound too simple; well, it is not. It is blood, sweat, and tears. Seeking the Father's face may well be the most challenging part there ever was to church planting. So, with no further adieu, let's just do it!

Still Seeking,

Kevin, Somewhere in South America

First Fruits

It was a cold day. The ocean mist hung over the city like the wet blanket it was. We were all wrapped up like cocoons, trying to find some warmth against the cool, heavy humidity that penetrated our bones. Yet, in spite of the cold, there were some who were about to demonstrate their love for Jesus.

Two brave souls endured the cool air and even cooler water in the baptismal pool. Two demonstrated their love for Jesus in a work that is only two months old. We had hoped for more; but we rejoiced with the two.

Because the work is so new and because of a shortage of national workers, I found myself doing the baptizing. It's not my preferred method of working here. I am that school of thought who wants the locals to do the work. The man we baptized was not a good candidate for that; I won't go into reasons why. I just intend to rejoice over the the first fruits of this new work.

Now, I want you to meet Hilario. I am including this profession of faith because of its uniqueness. Hilario saw us gathered like sardines in our little building the community designated as the "temple." He chose to stop by on his way home with his tiny bag of herbs for his meal that day. He listened to the story from Acts 16. He watched intently as I baptized the two new believers. And he gave his heart to the Lord. I asked Hilario his age. He is 91. And yesterday he met the Savior for the first time in his life.

But Hilario was not the first that day. A 14-year-old named Junior was the first to profess Christ yesterday. I wrote about Junior sometime ago. Junior is the one who tried to kill himself with rat poison. Yesterday we celebrated the death of the old man and the birth of the new Junior. He stood before us with a big smile telling us about his conversion. A child led Hilario. A young man will now become a warrior for Jesus.

It was a day for rejoicing and celebration. It was the Lord's Day. It was Strong Tower Baptist Church's first fruits.

Here Am I! Send Me!

They gathered in small groups. Some stood with their heads bowed, tears coursing down their cheeks. Others wept openly, shoulders heaving with the sobs that came between gasps for breath. Some stood stoically, but resolutely.

This scene was repeated no less than six times in my presence. Others witnessed similar scenes unfold before them.

In all, I think the final tally of the recent missions conference will reveal that close to one hundred men, women, youth, and at least one young boy all answered the call of God to be on mission with him. Some will stay here, but find ways to be involved in their church's missionary endeavor. A few will go to some foreign land. A few will cross over the mountains and minister in the Amazon jungles.

None will ever be the same again. God spoke their names. He whispered into their hearts and called them out. His Spirit nudged them forward. I suspect some were pushed along; I know I was 23 years ago. I hope I am not the only hard-head left in the world! I suspect others were slowly led to this point of commitment. For some, it was the first time God had spoken to them and they responded as soon as they heard. God bless them for it!

None will ever be the same again. Not even I, and I was one of the messengers. All of us said, "Here am I, Lord! Send me!"

Calling Out the Called

I am in a major missions conference this week. It is with my friends from the Christian and Missionary Alliance churches. I was floored when they asked me to participate in this conference of mega-proportions. I was humbled even more when I sat with the other two principal speakers. I felt like a small child amidst "giants" of the faith. These two men are Davids, armed with a sling and smooth stones, going up against Goliath and his brothers. I came with a pea-shooter, by comparison.

The two men and I will each speak at least thirteen times in a total of 6 different churches; that's twice in each church and once at the missions fair. We will challenge men and women to give, go, and pray. We are calling out the called. And some are responding. It is my sincere hope that someone will close the conference with an invitation to publicly repsond to the call to missions. I believe God wants to mobilize the good men and women of the CMA churches to go into all the world.

Last night I taught around two thousand men and women about what to do when one is called to missions. So now that I have said that, let me ask my friends who may read this: what would you tell someone to do who felt called to missions and/or ministry? I am interested in hearing your opinions.

Also, someone asked me last night, "How do I know if I have been called?" What you you say to that question? How would you respond?

These are exciting days in South America. God is raising up a mighty army to storm the gates of Hell all around the world. I am humbled beyond words to know that I have been able to play a very small part in His plans.

The Joy of Making Others Weep

Today I watched a grown man cry. In fact, I made him cry. But I did not cry with him. In fact, I laughed. The more tears he wiped away, the more I laughed. Such cruelty. Such hardness. Not really. Not this time.

The man cried for joy. A little more than a month ago he lost his car to a hit and run driver. When some acquaintances in the United States learned of his plight, they were moved with compassion and to action. They took up a love offering and sent it with me to him. So I was the messenger for this dear brother. So the man cried and I laughed, all of it for the joy of the Lord.

He kept saying, "I knew God would take care of me; I never expected it to be all at once." And he would cry some more; I would laugh some more. Before long, his tears gave way to laughter, too.

After all, we serve that kind of God. Sometimes, when the chips are down, when we don't know which way to turn or what to do, God shows up. He scoops up a handful of whatever we need and sends it our way. Sometimes that is something tangible, like money. Sometimes it is hope. Sometimes it is peace. It's always exactly what we need for the moment.

Don't misunderstand me. God did not bless this man instantaneously. The man has struggled for more than a month. His car was his livelihood. He drives for a living. No car, no money; no money, no food. No food, no rent, no lights, no water, nothing. But God is good. And God saw his faithfulness in spite of the severe trial he faced. And God answered with a physical blessing.

I also know that sometimes God says, "Not this time." I don't always know why God does that. But I do know that many times God holds back the blessings to teach us that, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God." Faith in God's words is more important than faith in God's blessings.

But this was one of those times that God let us see a blessing unfold. And it was a wonderful occasion. The man left here with a spring in his step and a stronger hope in his heart.

Who knows; maybe you can go make someone cry today. If you do, be sure it brings fruits of faith in the person's life.

The Next Pitch

I just returned from south Tennessee, just north of Corinth, MS and west of Memphis, TN. It was my turn at the plate. By day I was to seek out men and women who may be interested in volunteering for a mission trip. By night I was the guest preacher for my host church. It was a splendid time.

We were situated just off Shiloh National Military Park, one of the famous sites of the Civil War. I went there to walk in the shade of the beautiful trees. I oohed and aahed over the beauty around me. I enjoyed the wildlife: deer, turkey, and other animals promenaded about us.

At the same time I pondered the complexity of mankind. Thousands of men died in this quiet, beautiful spot. Nobody won; everyone lost. It was a bittersweet place to walk. I was able to clear my head, to think. And I waited for the next pitch.

There were no curves thrown on this leg of the trip. Things went as expected; well, almost.

I expected to see men and women moved by the Spirit of God. Some were. Far too many did not seem to be impressed by God's presence. Perhaps they will be in some future date. One thing I do know: those moments were preserved somehow in eternity.

I hit the proverbial balls that were pitched to me. Now I must wait and see what results those hits will bring.

I almost sat out for the last inning. I am glad I did not. This morning I spoke with about eight men who now burn with the Spirit's fire. Their hearts burn for the lost around the world.

I have to call that a good hit.

When Life Throws a Curve Ball

I watched a baseball game today between my favorite team and one of my least favorites. I watched in glee as my team's pitcher struck out players, or as the fielders skillfully handled the balls that came their way.

I have always enjoyed watching the pitcher. But more than that, I have always enjoyed hitting a well-pitched ball. So did those 18 men I watched play. But more than once today the different pitchers would throw a very well-placed curve and strike out their opponent.

And so I was reminded that life can be like that; for I was watching that game from within the confines of a comfortable hospital room. Now I am here in North America so I can recruit men and women to help me in South America. I had all my game plan laid out long ago. I had my visits lined up. I knew how much time I had for each planned event, including down time with my two older daughters, my mother, and my siblings, as well as my in-laws. It was carefully planned.

Then came the curve. It was so skillfully pitched that I never saw it coming. So for four precious days I sat in one hospital room or another, seeking some way to remedy the problem that arose. The problem in and of itself is not germane to this discussion. Some of you have been thrown curves, too. You have problems that have sidelined your plans. You have been sent back to the dugout, wondering what in the name of all that is good happened.

If you are anything like I am, you wanted to kick the dirt and toss your bat into the proverbial stands. But you have to be careful doing that. You can hit someone who came to cheer you along. But don't we do it? Are we too often like the spoiled multi-millionaire ball players who hurl their bats into the stands when they are outwitted by a good pitcher? It's like they are screaming how unfair it was that someone dared throw them a curve.

But don't we do that? Don't we tend to bark at the ones who want to attempt to encourage us when we have been thrown a curve? Don't we cry that it is unfair? Someone last night told me how unfair life has been. I agree. Life is unfair.

It is unfair that Christ had to die in my place so that I could live with him at his place. It is unfair that he had to be separated from the Father because he was black with my sin. The stripes on his body were unfair. The beard and hair ripped from his face and head was something unfair. The crown of thorns. The unbearably heavy cross beam he was forced to carry. The spit. The ridicule. The humiliation of dying naked before men, women, and children. It was all unfair. But he did it to throw his own curve in the third inning.

It is unfair that death claims the young and old alike. I heard death cries while at that hospital. I heard disheartened families. I saw discouraged patients. I saw discouraged staff. I felt their load.

The thing that separates the best from the good is how the respond to the curve. Today I saw some smile and wait for the next pitch. I saw others leave in a huff when they struck out. I saw a few look at the pitcher with some due respect.

We need to respond well to the curves that come our way. We need to demonstrate more than a hint of godliness. We need to be examples of grace and lives molded by the Holy Spirit. We need to show our encouragers that we appreciate their encouragement.

Do not be deceived; life will throw you a curve. When it does, look well as to how you select the next pitch.

Oh, by the way, it's a new inning. I am back at homeplate, waiting for the next pitch.

Things I Learned While Traveling to America

I am in North America today--Mississippi, to be exact. South Mississippi. The land of pine trees, catfish, and Baptists. I came for a variety of reasons, none of which are relevant to this post. So let me tell you what I learned while traveling to America; it might be interesting to someone.

1. Traveling in coach has become interesting. The seats must be shrinking in width. The leg room is certainly smaller than it once was.
2. The earphones are bigger than the seats you sit in. Sticking those things in your ears can be as painful as body piercings look.
3. If you travel on a day flight if the person next to the window closes the window blind, you lose the best advantage of daytime travel.
4. Be careful what you ask immigrations officials about their equipment. It could slow you down.
5. I learned that many Americans have a steadily decreasing vocabulary. There were many who seemed to only know four-letter words.
6. I was a confirmed and fully persuaded creationist. Then I saw the baggage handlers in the Miami Airport. Now I am not so sure....
7. You can't get a Dr. Pepper on the flights between South America and North America. Never mind that they advertise them as a part of their stock soft drinks. What is this world coming to?
8. Americans are some of the most generous people on the face of the earth. I listened with great interest to a man tell of building schools in Latin America. It's all done as donations to the countries they build them in. I listened to others tell of their contributions to world missions.
9. Americans still know how to smile in the south.
10. Americans still know how to cook in the south.
11. Americans still know how to eat really big meals in the south.
12. Northerners don't know how to eat grits and eggs.
13. Many Mississippians love Jesus. They will go anywhere to serve him.

I have two more weeks in the deep south. Then it is back to South America. Pray for a positive response to the invitation to come and help us win that continent for Jesus.

Love

He loved us first. He did not have to. He was under no obligation to love us first. He just did. It's his nature. But so is justice. So is righteousness. But God chose to exercise his love. He loved us first.

We love him because he first loved us. We would not know love if he did not love us first. We might understand affection. But love? That's a God-thing. And he first loved us. So now we love him. We stretch our arms upward to him, wanting to be held. And accepted. To be with him. It's something that happens when you love someone. You want to be with them. You want to deny yourself because he loved you first. You don't mind taking up your cross. You want to follow.

You can trust him because he loves you. Because if he loves you, you can know he wants the best for you. It may not look like the best thing. But his love is steadfast. So you can trust him.

We love one another because he first loved us. If God did not love me first, I don't know if I could love you. Not the way I am supposed to. But God loved me first. So I now I can love you, even when you are unlovable. Now you can love me, even when I show my ugly side to you.

We love our enemies because he first loved us. I was his enemy. I raged against him. I plotted evil in my bed. I twisted the truth to fit my point of view. I--well, you get the picture. Yet, while was his enemy, God sent Jesus to suffer my penalty. He took my punishment and applied that to his own Son. Then he offered me a pardon. He offered me peace. He offered full forgiveness.

Now I can love my enemies. I can love the men or women who ripped up 600 feet of hand rails off new stairs we built on the steep hillsides of one community. I can love the man who stole cement to make a new patio in front of his store. Because God loved me first, I can walk two miles with the one who asked me to walk one.

Love is there, right along with hope and faith. But faith did not send Christ to the cross for me. Hope did not send him to the cross for me. It was love. The greatest of these is love.

Faith

My last words were based on the need for hope. Hope is such an important thing. Hope often becomes our legs in dark times. Hope becomes a soft pillow instead of stone for our head. Hope lifts our head, our heart. But hope is misplaced when unaccompanied by faith. It becomes wishful thinking.


But faith gives hope its strength. Faith is the thing that can produce hope within us.


In his great work My Utmost for His Highest Oswald Chambers wrote:

Faith is not some weak and pitiful emotion, but is strong and vigorous confidence built on the fact that God is holy love. And even though you cannot see Him right now and cannot understand what He is doing, you know Him. Disaster occurs in your life when you lack the mental composure that comes from establishing yourself on the eternal truth that God is holy love. Faith is the supreme effort of your life—throwing yourself with abandon and total confidence upon God.

I work with a lot of hopeless people. It's not an economic thing; some of them are wealthy beyond my dreams. A tithe of their money would facilitate a lot of ministry here! They are hopeless because they have a misplaced faith.

Sometimes they have faith in faith itself. That is almost always the case among those who follow prosperity theology. They don't see God as the object of their faith; instead, God is the servant of their faith. Their faith is in their praying, not in the God who answers. And when He does not come through, well hope wanes and often dies.

Others have placed their faith in an image, or an icon, or in a religion. I know a few Baptists like that. I know a few Methodists like that, too. I know too many people like that. They trust something other than God. And without faith, said the author of Hebrews, you cannot please God. That is not carte blanche for us. We cannot claim that verse and then believe whatever. God must be the object of our faith. Abraham believed God and God wrote it up as righteousness for him.

I spoke with a woman this week who has a misplaced faith. So her hope is also weak. Her faith is in me. Yes, in me. She said that she wished I would return to their community and do the teaching, because then she could return to the paths of the Lord. A friend of mine once warned that our people group almost worships the missionary as a god. May we reject such a notion when it appears! I told the woman she was not on the Lord's path because she made a choice not to be there. If I allowed her to place her faith in me, what kind of man would I then be? If she could place her faith in me, when I left--and one day I will--then her hope would likely leave, because the object of her faith left.

Consider the megachurches in the world, especially the United States, where great, eloquent, appealing men of God have fallen. Soon thereafter many walk away from their faith because the object of their faith let them down. That will always happen with a misplaced faith. It's a false faith. It's an empty faith. It's a hopeless faith.

When Elisha left the place where Elijah was taken up from him, he came to the Jordan River with the mantle that Elijah had dropped. Elisha struck the water and cried out, "Where is the LORD God of Elijah?" (2 Kgs. 2:14) His faith was properly placed. It was not in his former teacher/mentor; it was in the only one who deserves to be the object of our faith.

Is your hope weak today? Consider examining your faith, too. If you shift your "faith-gaze" to the Lord, I think you will find your hope, right were you left it.

Hope

In my last post I spoke of a young man we took to the hospital. I learned yesterday that the young man had tried to commit suicide. He drank some kind of poison--probably rat poison. What moves a young teen to such despair? How can one so young believe that life is so empty that the only solution is to end it?

The boy's plight is tragic, to say the least. His father is nowhere to be found. I think he left ages ago. His mother has to earn a living by selling second-hand goods and candies on the street. Those of you in developing countries may have seen such a scene. There are men, women, or children standing on the road, holding a bag of candy. They climb onto the buses or tap on car windows, offering their goods. You can get six pieces of hard candy for about 35 cents.

My sources tell me that while the mother sold her goods, the boy drank. A lot. He spent many days quite drunk, in fact. Where does a 14-year-old get booze? What kind of pervert would sell or give it to him? Better a millstone be hung around his neck!!

So this young man is in the hospital, recovering from a self-inflicted injury. I don't know if he will be the same again. His nervous system was affected. He was already losing his eyesight when we got him there. I am praying for a different kind of eyesight. I am praying for him to see hope in the midst of a miserable life circumstance.

With the bad news flowing around the world today, with men waving weapons and executing people at will, before destroying their own lives, with men and women railing at God, we still need to have a clarion voice that there is hope in Jesus.

Life on a Hillside

This morning, Victor (one of our helpers) and I went to a section of town called Las Torres de la Rinconada. It means, "The Towers in the Corner." It's a very appropriate name. The community is up on a high hill, towering over the other communities. We are helping them with a community development project. This area is a high-risk landslide zone. So we are using general relief funds, given by Southern Baptists for this kind of work, to build retaining walls and sets of stairs up and down the very steep hills.

It's a hard life that they have to live. There is no running water in this part of our city. What lights they have are from makeshift connections, pulled from a part of town where there are power cables. In other words, they steal the electricity from an electrified zone. So the wires are thin, mostly useless for the long distances they have to pull the power.

Today we went to check on the progress of the work and then to lead those interested in a Bible study. Some 35 adults, plus a few small children came to the study. It was a precious sight to see. Some of them actually knew something about the Bible. Others seemed to know the Lord. Victor taught. He shared a lesson about the Law of God. The whole point, of course, is that the Law cannot save; only Jesus saves. When his lesson culminated in the plan of salvation, about half the adults indicated that they wanted to repent and place their faith in the Lord Jesus. It was a blessed moment, but a short-lived one.

As we took time to register the professions of faith, one of the residents of the community called to me from outside. She looked concerned. She looked very concerned. Her name, incidently, is Mercy. Mercy told me that a 14-year-old boy had fallen some 2 hours earlier and could not get up. I called out and had one of the men go up and bring him down so that we could take him to the hospital. We were in Victor's borrowed car. The boy's name is Junior. We laid him on the back seat, borrowed some oil from a store owner, anointed the boy, and prayed for him. Then we drove like crazy to the hospital.

The boy could not feel his legs, though he did have some motion. He cried with fear. He trembled. My prayer all the way to the hospital was that God not let that boy die. He is old enough to know that he is a sinner. We did not believe today was the appropriate time to share the gospel with him, or with his mother. Some may use such an emotional moment. I did not want a "fox-hole conversion." I want to see Junior up and walking, and able to listen to the gospel. So I prayed for healing and for his life. Mercy rode in the back seat, along with Carlos, the man who carried Junior to the car.

We take so much for granted. We have so much that we often become blind to the reality that grips others. As one man said to me yesterday, if someone is poor and has Jesus, he is just a poor man. If, on the other hand, he is poor and does not know the Lord, he is in misery. God help us remember what is was like to be miserable! And God help us to be able to rejoice with those who rejoice, but weep with those who weep!

The Dummies' Guidebook to Planting Churches

The longer I am somewhere in South America, the more I realize that I don't know much. One thing I thought I knew that now I know I do not know is the easy way to plant a church. I mean, shucks, it sounds easy; you just get a few folks (a lot, if you can) saved, get them baptized, gather them into a group, and voila! You have a church. Now I am not so sure. It's not so easy. I heard a woman Sunday morning who has been at it over in Spain for the past 18 years. In 18 years, she has been a part of forming a church with 14 baptized members. Eighteen years. Fourteen members. Whew! I thought I had it tough!

So if someone out there has written a guidebook for dummies on church planting, feel free to mail it to several hundred of us who are still looking for that magic bullet.

In the meantime, consider the following about effective church planting, shared with me by a beloved brother who must remain nameless, due to his location:

• Prayer and fasting should be a regular practice. It should not be an occasional thing.
• There must be extensive personal evangelism. To be clear, this means sharing the gospel in one-on-one, not mass, settings. It means sharing with as many as one's team can share with. It means being intentional, looking for a decision.
• Train new believers and create the expectation that they are to train others.
• Train new believers in groups; those training groups will work to become churches.
• If you want to multiply the number of your churches, multiply the number of training groups.
• Train as many believers as you possibly can. Get as many together as possible.
• Training must be practical. The learner must be sent out to put his training into practice.
• Give them one lesson at a time and send them out to put that into practice by teaching it to someone else. Whoever does not complete the lesson cannot come back into the class he or she began with. He must start over.
• Teach your new believers to obey Scripture. Put that part of the Great Commission into practice (hint: it says, "teaching them to OBEY..."
• Get back to the basics. Be radical. Don't bring traditions and culture into the training. Stick to the Bible.

There are more ideas. Perhaps some of you want to add your own two cents to the list.

Jesus is Lord in South America!

Business as Usual?

It was the day after the evening Passover celebration. That day before was ugly enough. Three men had been executed for their crimes. Roman executions are always ugly. But these men deserved it. Two were common thugs; good riddance to such scum! One was sentenced and executed for being "King of the Jews." For those Pharisees and Sadducees who so longed for Jesus' death, this title was a slap in the face. Even in his death Jesus defied them, the established authorities of the Jews.

But they were rid of the pest now. He is in the renegade Joseph's tomb. Yes, renegade. Joseph has jumped ships. He has declared himself to be a follower of this would-be Messiah.

For the tens of thousands who live in Jerusalem and the surrounding area, now it's business as usual. There is a big mess to clean up. Scraps from the Passover preparation need to be thrown out. Scores of carcasses have to be disposed of. Gehenna will burn hot for several days with all this garbage.

The leaders of the Sanhedrin sigh with guarded relief. Pilate has believed them and has placed a sizeable guard over the tomb of Jesus. They believe that if they make it one more day, then life will go on; it will be business as usual. Their great concern now is to repair the temple curtain, ripped from top to bottom. They think it was an earthquake that did it. There was an earthquake. If they had had eyes to see spiritual things, perhaps they would have seen the hands of God shaking the earth. Perhaps they would have seen angels of God grabbing that curtain on each side, and tearing it in two. But they did not; they could not see it. They are spiritually blind. For them, the business is cleaning up the ugly mess this man Jesus created.

Hidden away, out of sight of the rest of the world, are many frightened, confused disciples. Nothing has worked out like they thought it would. Their minds are riddled with questions. Where was God when Jesus was arrested? Where was God when Jesus was tried? Where was he when they nailed him to the cross? Didn't even Jesus cry out and ask why God had forsaken him? Where was he? Why didn't he stop this? Why did he let this happen to begin with? How can he be quiet while these miserable excuses for men go on, business as usual? Now nothing will be the same. Rumor has it that even Peter has gone back. Someone said he even denied Jesus.

In another realm, in another place, it is anything but business as usual. This Jesus is disturbing the established order. He is standing tall and strong. He is not bound! He is preaching to the entire realm of the dead. Those who walked by faith listen with joy. Those who walked in unrighteousness cringe in fear. Demons huddle, cowering. The one they conquered has actually conquered them. It can never be business as usual here ever again. Jesus has snatched up the keys of death. He has raised them high and, with a lion-like roar, declares victory over death's dark domain. It won't be long before Jesus is raised from the dead and demonstrates to his grieving friends and followers that God's plan was a perfect one. Now they can be freed from the chains that bind them. They can be empowered to follow Jesus like they said they wanted to.

Here we are, some 2,000 years later. We are watching the world around us. For too many, it is business as usual. They have never even been allowed to hear the name of Jesus. They are completely ignorant of who Jesus is, much less what he did for them. Life goes on. It is business as usual.

Others know something of this Jesus. They will even appear in some religious festival. Then they will disappear into their business. As usual. It won't even make a difference for them, other than perhaps appeasing their consciences for one more year.

What about us? What will this weekend mean for us? Will it be business as usual? Or will it become an opportunity to snatch someone from the kingdom of darkness? Or perhaps a time of intimate communion, sitting at the feet of our Master Jesus, just as Mary once did? Whatever it is, don't let it be business as usual.

Life as We Saw It, in Three Acts

I don't know how to describe the past two days. I have seen a little of everything, in terms of what you can see on the mission field in South America. I was moved by all of it. I was stirred beyond words. All I can do is try to carry you to a point you may be able to envision somewhat the scenes we not only witnessed, but participated in.

Yesterday began early, relatively speaking. We went to a new church. It is a traditional church, for what I could see. At least, the worship was traditional. We met in a converted garage. The pastor told me there were 76 present for worship. I do not know if that included me, my wife, and my daughter. I do not know if it included the little ones in the nursery, separated from us by a wall made of heavy nylon screen material. There the people loved us; they hugged us. They asked to have their photo taken with us. Seldom have we been greeted in that way. God moved in our midst. I could not say how many prayed to receive Christ at the public invitation. That is because as soon as they raised their hands to indicate they wanted to know Christ, counselors all over converged on them and took them into another part of the building. That alone was impressive to me. Equally impressive was the fact that this was their third Sunday to meet. They have grown from a dozen to over 75 in three weeks. What an exciting thing to witness!

At three I headed back to the southern part of our city. There, we seek to minister to a community called The Oasis. It is anything but that, believe me. The community of over 3,000 families was built upon a garbage dump, now covered in sand. Literally. Their houses are made of straw mats. The image above is one shot of those houses.

In the past week, the third section of this community have taken down their houses, brought in heavy equipment, and leveled much of the area. The result has been sad, in a way. Large sections of old garbage have surfaced. The area has an unpleasant stench of rotting garbage all around. There is no water. There is no electricity to speak of. Families who lived inside cubes made of straw now lay their mattresses on the garbage-infested ground. They erected makeshift tents made of one sheet of plastic or one section of matting. There the entire family sleeps. On one mattress. I showed up on this scene for the second time this week. I had hoped they would be back to "normal" by Sunday. I was wrong. They were frightened, even worried that they would lose their little plot of land.

God may use it for good. I was able to pray with over one hundred men and women, asking God to bless their endeavor to eke out a living in that small corner of the world.

Today I went to yet another community. It was not much better off than Oasis. They at least lived in houses made of thin plywood. That is better than straw mats. But this community is on a steep, barren hillside, at 1,100 feet above sea level; and the sea is only about 3 miles away. While I waited for the man I went to visit, I watched the community life go by. It was something to behold. As I looked out over the ravine at other communities in that area, I watched the water trucks make their way up the hill. They would blow their air horns, giving a long, loud blast that echoed across the rocks.

Soon one of the trucks made it to where I was. I went down to watch them unhook a hose and fill 40-gallon trash cans or barrels with water. To everyone's surprise, there was only enough water for one person. I asked what they would do. The ladies standing there told me that another truck might come later that day; otherwise they would have to wait till the next day and hope there was enough water then.

But there is a hitch to the water thing. The water is on ground level. Most of the houses are in rows above where the water truck deposited its water. The ladies and children had to come down the hillside with 5-gallon buckets to carry the water as much as 200 feet up the hill. But they are desperate for water. They have to carry it. They need it. It is life for them.

We are there because they need the water of life far more than they need the liquid stuff. My heart is burdened for them. There they are: hundreds of them. And they have no church. There is a small evangelical presence. But it is not felt. Few understand what it means to be born again.

In all three cases, we plead with the Lord of the Harvest for laborers. We long for them to know the true Lord. We dream of the day that they become water-bearers, bearing the water of life to others.

In all three cases we were reminded of the one singular truth that drives us: Jesus is Lord. And he loves these people enough that he died for them.

Vision

I have seen it; you have, too. We have seen someone's vision, as it plays out in life. I saw it last week on three different fronts. In one case, it was an old vision. In a second case, it was a new vision. In another case, it was a growing vision. Please let me explain.

In one case, as I wrote a few weeks ago, I was invited to preach at a traditonal church. It was the close to a month of missionary emphasis. I remember the church from years gone by. I remembered, as I sat there, the original vision of the founders of the church. The church was to have a particular focus; it was to reach a particular population segment of the city. That was way back in the late '80's and early '90's of last century. What happened? Did they accomplish their vision? They did not. The church began well, in terms of reaching its target group; but it has not continued well. More about that in a moment.

Last Sunday we snuck away to another church. It was amazing to see God at work. The founders of that church had a vision. The pastor had a vision, too. It was a continuation of the vision of the founders. The associate pastors had a vision. The laity involved in the nuts and bolts operation of the church also had a vision. And it moved forward, flourished, changed with the times, yet maintained its original concept. They actually tried to transplant this church's vision in other parts of the world. One of the original "visioneers" admitted that their attempts were not well-received.

During the week I had the privilege of attending the opening day of a local seminary. It's a new seminary. The truth is, I think many would call it a Bible institute; but that's not the point. The rector of this seminary pointed out their vision. Since the seminary is new, we can assume the vision is relatively new, too. At the present, the participants, both faculty and students, are pumped. And the seminary is operating according to the vision the rector proclaimed.

In each case, there was a vision in place. In one case, the original vision could not even be seen. In another, the original vision was in place, yet modified to accomodate the hour. In the third case, the jury is still out.

There is someting important that stands out to me: carrying out a vision is hard work! The first church I mentioned did not lose its vision; it was just too hard to continue that vision. It was easier to allow the vision to quietly disappear and to allow the church to become whatever it could become. When the founders left, instead of seeking like-minded leadership, those present accepted whatever came along (don't take that in terms of doctrine, only in terms of vision). So the original vision eventually died. As in the case of the Hebrews in Egypt, "There arose a pharaoh who did not know Joseph." When one visits that church now, aside from its location, there is no evidence of the original vision. They do not reach the original target population segment. They are so far-removed from that original target group, that only a miraculous move of God would make it possible.

In the second case, the founders' orginal vision is still operating, but growing. The pastors have worked hard to continue the vision, but with the proper adjustments to be able to communicate the vision in today's realities. This church is actually older than the first church I mentioned. Yet it is far more vibrant, looks and feels less tradtional, and has an influence that reaches far and wide. They keep things simple, yet they work very hard to keep things flowing (in accordance with the Holy Spirit's presence, as well as their vision).

Something else is obvious to me: when vision is not communicated often and in the simplest of terms, it tends to degenerate. Look at today's church. Everywhere we turn, someone is lamenting today's church. Someone bemoans the fact that today's church doesn look anything like what they believe the church looked in the days of the Apostles. In other words, the original vision degenerated and something else took its place.

Someone once told me that such programs as Evangelism Explosion or Continuing Witness Training have a life of three generations. They degrade after the second one. Why would that be? Answer: the workers tend to fail to communicate the original vision. I think that is one reason why "new" programs are invented.

We are speaking a lot on different blogs about simplifying the church. That's fine. I won't argue that point either way. I will say this: whatever form the church takes, if it is to be effective, the church's vision should be simple, communicated simply, and the leaders must work hard to ensure that all they do fits within that vision.

Twenty-nine Years and Counting

March 12th was my 29th anniversary in the Christian ministry. It came and went without fanfare, only a realization that time flies, whether you are having fun or not.

It has been an exciting 29 years. I have seen some of everything.

I have been blessed to see scores repent and turn to Jesus in one meeting. I have been blessed to see revival and spiritual awakening in a sleepy community in South Mississippi. Yes, it was such a powerful thing that men and women would break out weeping when they saw me drive up with my chosen evangelist for the week; they would tell us how all day and night God dealt with their hearts and how they had hoped we would come by.

I watched God perform miracles of healing, of answered prayers for rain during a drought, of salvation for the most recalcitrant of men that I had ever seen.

I have been blessed to preach on two sides of the equator. I have enjoyed watching new believers from at least three countries open the word and discover for the first time the wondrous riches of God's word.

I have stood in communities where men and women had never seen a foreigner before (especially one as pale as I am). I have watched them wrestle with the gospel of Jesus Christ, before finally surrendering to him.

I have seen spiritual victory and suffered spiritual defeat. I have been on the proverbial mountaintop and sunk into the lowest valley. I have shouted in joyful glory of the overwhelming presence of the Holy Spirit; and I have shrieked in painful demonic attack, when it seemed that God had hidden his face.

We have suffered death, robberies, rejection, and who can remember what else? We walked through the wreckage of a downed airliner, searching for the remains of a fellow missionary. We wept with others and laughed with many more.

For most of my 29 years, I have been a voice crying in a desert--quite literally. Most of the places I have lived since 1989 have been cities in a desert in South America. There, God has taught me much. There, God has sustained me and my family.

There we were, as we watched our children grow; there we learned our first grandchild had died. There we learned the simple lesson that Jesus will never leave us ,or fail us, or abandon us.

If I live another 29 years, I hope they are at least as exciting as the last 29 have been.

May God give you as much joy and fruit--and more--as he has given me!

Traditional or Simple?

Today I am going to take my family to a church where I have been asked to preach a missions mobilization challenge. It's a traditional church. I was present for some of the original meetings of this church when we first arrived in South America. Now it is moving ahead at its own pace, hopefully under the power of the Holy Spirit.

But, as most of my missionary colleagues who may read this know, traditional churches can be cumbersome. They move slowly. The reproduce (start other churches) at the speed of sound traveling through a tar pit. Traditional churches spend more on themselves and less on reaching others. This particular church is going on 20 years old. I think they have been involved in one other church start, maybe two. And one of those is still a preaching point--a mission that has been in existence for about 5 years. As I said, reproduction is slow.

What is the answer? Guy Muse and his team, in Ecuador, have found house churches to be functional. That's good.

Others have found cell churches to be the answer. That's good, too.

The obvious thing is this: the church in South America needs to assume a simplified form if it is to reproduce rapidly. It needs the least common denominator of life in a given community.

The church needs obedience-based discipleship. They need to be reminded that they are to DO those things that Jesus commands them, as opposed to just learn them.

The church needs empowered leadership. In traditional churches the established, formal leadership often fails to empower the informal leaders of the church. This gross failure costs the church in too many ways, especially when it comes to planting new churches.

And the church needs to rise to the expectation that they are to be intentional church planters. That's part of that "doing" thing I mentioned above.

If you can think of other things, feel free to tag it on.

Jesus is Lord!

He's Alive!

I've been too busy to visit my own blog, and those blogs that I try to read each week. That's not bad; that's good. It's all for the glory of the King. The King of whom I speak is none other than King Jesus. I have news for those rejoicing in James Cameron's latest boast that he found Jesus' real tomb, along with the coffins of his wife and child: Jesus is alive! And he is King. And he was not in the least distracted by Satan's latest messengers.

On the contrary, King Jesus has been occupied. He has been interceding for all believers, even those whose faith may have been temporarily shaken by Cameron's insistence that he found Jesus' real tomb and "bone box." He has been moving people from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of light. Just last Sunday I saw him do that. I watched as a young lady wrestled with her lostness until she finally turned to the only one who could save her. And he did, so far as I could tell.

King Jesus has been busy calling out men and women who will go and share the good news about him in all kinds of lands. He knows the prince of this world wants to hold as many captives as he can. But King Jesus sends out messengers, too. And they share the wonder-working power of Jesus with others.

King Jesus has been busy encouraging his discouraged workers (yes, missionaries often fight discouragement). He urges them to look to him and keep a steadfast gaze upon him.

There are plenty out there who will delight in Mr. Cameron's recent repeat of an age-old lie. There are plenty who wish Jesus was really dead; after all, if he was dead, they could put away those nagging doubts about eternity that plague them. If Jesus is alive, however--and he is, then those who reject Jesus have to grapple with their eternal destiny outside of Jesus' kingdom.

But, if you are not a believer in Jesus, I am so sorry (not really) to tell you that Jesus really is alive. He did not just ascend spiritually, as some say. He died for our sins, he was buried, and he was raised bodily from the dead. Over five hundred were gathered together and saw him alive. He appeared to many, many others. The legal witness of his resurrection outweighs Mr. Cameron's ossuaries.

If you are not a follower of Jesus, what you need to do is turn your life over to him. You need to repent of your unbelief and your sinful ways, and you need to invite Jesus to be the master of your life.

If you are a follower of Jesus, ignore the claims of a madman. Don't let Satan shake your faith by a misguided producer and a rogue archeologist.

If you have misunderstood me, I say it again:

KING JESUS IS ALIVE!

Living Sacrifices

I intended to write this from high in the Andes Mountains. I was at a conference in a mountain town of about 60 thousand. Time conspired against me. Or maybe it was divine intervention that slowed me down.

I learned something about sacrifice in the past several days. It was one of those observation lessons. I may have sacrificed something by traveling to 4 different places in a three-week period; but compared to what I saw, my little bit of sacrifice was nothing at all. Half of my travel was by land, the other half by air. When I was traveling by land, I was in an air-conditioned, smooth-riding vehicle. The little walking I had to do was for short distances. I slept in a comfortable bed. I had good meals. All I really "lost" was a little sleep and time with my wife and daughter.

But I saw men and women who paid the price to be in two of the conferences in which I participated. Some traveled precarious roads in busses that are famous for their unpredictable, and at times unsafe, trips. Some of them traveled for 35 grueling hours to be fed the word of God. Some walked great distances. All stayed in housing that provided basic shelter, but little else.

One man I taught in a conference I led last week stands out in my mind. He is a fisherman. He has to get up every single day before 4 so he can get to work by 5. Yet there he was, showing up for the conference every night at 7. I did not feed them anything more than a soft drink and cookies. He stayed with us till 10, before he and the rest of the group left together for their 2-hour ride back to their houses. That means he got to bed at midnight, was up at 4, and back with me at 7. He told me he could do it every day, if it meant growing in his faith.

So I had to ask myself, "When is the last time I was willing to live on 3 or 4 hours' sleep and no food to glorify the Lord?" When was the last time you were willing to take a 35-hour trip for the glory of God? What sacrifice will you make this next week? When you attend your worship services, will you have heating and cooling at your disposal? Will your pews be contoured and prepared to make your experience a delightful one? Will you even think it was worth sitting there while someone struggled to break through the barnacles the world attached to your soul, and feed you a half cup of the word of God? [Yes! Half a cup! Because too many of us get full too quickly for a full meal of the word.] How many meals have you missed so that you could feed from the Master's table?

Thank God for the sacrifices my Latin American brothers and sisters are willing to make to be fed! These men and women embodied some of Romans 12: 1--the living sacrifice. They seem to better understand what "the fellowship of His sufferings (Phil. 3:10)" means. May we be humbled and so ready to sacrifice for Christ's glory!

On Being Light

Yesterday an IMB media team and I road the streets of this megacity in South America. We walked among the destitute and lonely. We laughed with little children. We hugged and kissed the residents of two different communities. We looked for ways to be the light Jesus told us we were.

While both places we spoke with people were delightful, I was particularly impressed with one area where some of my colleagues work. I am their supervisor. It was my first visit to this new preaching point. Spiritually speaking it was a dark place to visit. I discerned this as soon as we stepped out of the relative safety of our Mercedes Benz van.

The media team and I stood on the streets, observing the residents of the community. It was a bitter-sweet sight. To our left stood ramshackle huts that the residents called "home." In front stood a newly-painted church, the building of the predominant religion; it was surrounded by run-down buildings people used for other homes and businesses. Children rode bikes and roller-bladed in the streets, not worrying much about cars because few could afford one. And those who could would not venture into such a neighborhood. Men and women of all ages sat on park benches in the small, unkempt park we approached. The trees were beautiful; the grass was in sore need of a good ole Yazoo lawnmower (pardon my Mississippi roots).

One cameraman rolled film. Another photographer snapped photos. Another group took notes as I explained the history of our involvement there. Soon a policeman approached, as I watched a tattoo-covered youth stroll by, staring with a hard look. The policeman told me we were being scoped out and that we were in danger. I told him I had seen the potential trouble-makers and appreciated his interest in us. He assured us they were there to help. When I translated this to my group of American visitors, they decided we should pray. I told them I agreed, but that I would be praying with my eyes wide-open. After all, thieves use the element of surprise; and I don't handle surprises very well.

We decided to leave the place of darkness. But I wasn't quite finished. I took a couple of steps toward three people sitting on a park bench. I greeted them, told them who I was and what I did, and asked if they had ever encountered my two colleagues, a husband and wife, who labored there. When I described them, they told me they knew who they were. I asked if they would do me the kindness of taking care of them, of not letting anything bad happen to them when they came. In the course of this conversation, God opened a door for me and I began to preach on the light and hope that is in Jesus.

I looked intently into the eyes of the man. He was amused, perhaps even mocking me with his eyes. I looked more closely at the woman at his side. The scratches and bruises on her face suggested that this man was probably abusive. The fear in her eyes, the deep hurt I saw, said even more. I looked to the young lady beside her. She tried to look non-chalant, cool, unattached; but you can't hide from the Holy Spirit. He was tugging at her heart, too. The more I gazed at her, the less confidence she showed.

I turned to my left. There sat tattoo-man, perched on a bicycle. On the seat behind him was another man scowling ever so fiercely. Before I knew it, about twenty people--men, women, and children--were gathered around me. The police were now very concerned. They sent two motorcycles and one car over towards us, motors running. I kept on preaching, telling this instant congregation of the one true hope they have in Jesus.

I looked at tattoo-man and saw two words inscribed on his right bicep: amor eterno--eternal love. I reached over and did the unthinkable. I touched those two words as I told them those words were exactly what I was referring to. Tattoo-man's eyes opened wide in surprise. A touch will do that, you know. A touch will bring people to a different level. The hard, suspicious look melted away. He grinned; it was a genuine smile. Something else happened, too. When he smiled, the police drove away. My suspicions were confirmed; he was their chief concern.

My chief concern was the darkness that enveloped tattoo-man and the others. I kept preaching, pleading for them to turn to Jesus. I helped them to pray, but everyone here prays. So I had to explain that they would find Jesus when they searched with their whole heart. Even tattoo-man nodded in agreement.

We turned to leave. I discovered most of my media team was standing close by the van that brought us there. My cameraman was still by my side, grinning a million-dollar grin. He felt what I felt. He knew we had shined the light in the darkness. As we left, we shook hands, hugged, and kissed the residents. They waved a friendly wave. The man with fierce scowl? He just grinned and said in English, "Thank you."

I cannot say this prophetically; but I believe we saw the birth of a church yesterday. And it happened just by being light in a dark place.

Make the Main Thing the Main Thing

Happy New Year. Once I discovered how to persuade my newly-installed internet filter to allow me to access blogs, I proceeded to read some that I particularly enjoy. One of those blogs presented an interesting apologetic regarding the direction of the SBC (I intentionally left out the name and address of that blog). As I waded through this man's observations, I kept coming back to a fundamental problem, one that supercedes the potential ones that I read about.

The problem that prevails in my mind is the fact that far too many Southern Baptist churches did not baptize anyone last year. Far too many more only baptized a handful. Here is what I see and think: the local churches have fallen out of love with Jesus. I am not convinced a man is called to a church to make that church appealing to his community. We are in a struggle against the darkness, against the world. A pastor is not around to make his church attractive to the world. He is called to a church to lead that church to win the lost, disciple those converts, to expand the kingdom of God through missions, and to glorify the King of kings. He is called to be salt and light, and to fill the salt shaker so that more of that salt can be scattered around the world.

That impacts me down here in South America far more than some may realize. At some point in the next 15 years, someone will be called upon to take my place. If we are not winning more, who will come stand in the gap in places where the gospel has yet to take root?

I believe that one of the many things that must take place in the SBC is a renewed passion for Jesus, which will result in a renewed passion for the lost. When David should have gone to battle, he stayed behind. The result was his sin with Bathsheba. When Southern Baptists should be going to battle for lost souls, we are spending a lot of time inspecting one another's baggage. Nothing positive will come of it.

I appreciate and share the concerns for the best future for the SBC. But let's get on with making the main thing the main thing.

Don't Look Back!

The frightened family packed up in the middle of the night. They could only get out with what they could carry, nothing more. The messenger gave them one stern warning: don't look back. In the bedlam and meelee surrounding them, the four of them wormed their way to the edge of the city. There were no cars to be found. There was no bus to take. This family would have to walk. Onward they trudged, fumbling and stumbling down the unlit road.

Before long, the family heard the commotion behind them. They heard the horrid screams as men, women, and children died under the fire bombs that pelted the city. When they hesitated for a moment, Dad suddenly rebuked the family, "Don't look back!" As they maneuvered through the darkness, the nameless wife and mother could stand it no more. She had to look. Most of her life had been invested in that city. Her friends were there. Her house was there. Her furnishings were there. So she dared look back. And in that one instance of regret, Lot's wife became a pillar of salt, forever frozen in time. Why? Because she craved and delighted in what she no longer had. And it cost her. It cost her two daughters. It cost her husband.

To my knowledge, that scene has never again been repeated. But how many times do we look back with remorse over what we had, not taking time to take stock and think about what we have?

Many among Israel, those who left Egypt with Moses, looked back with longing for the flesh pots of Egypt. It was symbolic of craving the sinful life. They died, wandering in a wilderness never intended for them.

Jesus said that a man, having put his hand to the plow and looking back, is not a worthy disciple; he said that man is not even fit for the kingdom of God (Luke 9:62).

That is looking back with remorse. There are those who also look back with delight. Paul wrote of this in Philippians 3. He spoke of all he had before he knew the Lord. He spoke, correctly so, of his bragging rights. Then he said he would forget that which was behind and press forward. Sometimes that is incomprehensible to me. Other times I think I can grasp a little of it.

One of my friends was driving my wife and girls to the airport one day. As he turned to the right at the corner, a bag in the back seat began to totter towards one of the passengers. He looked back while he turned, grasped the bag, and tried to right it. He forgot he was turning a corner. The truck continued right; this is a mechanical law regarding steering wheels. Much to my friend's dismay, the journey was suddenly interrupted by a large tree that stood in the way of the truck. Now to be fair to the tree, it was on the sidewalk. To be fair to the sidewalk, it did not extend into the right-hand lane. It is what happens when you drive while you are looking back. That is looking back with carelessness.

I know a Christian woman who had one story to tell me each time I visited her. She was in her 60's by then. She still had a lot of physical and emotional strength; just ask her family. Yet, when it came to spiritual things, this woman could only look back. She could only tell me what she used to do some 30 years earlier. She had not done anything since then. I wanted to shout to her, "Don't look back!"

What does that have to do with missions somewhere in South America? It's kind of simple, perhaps too much so. Some of us have bragging rights. We have done well. We have seen a lot of professions of faith; we have planted some churches. We could be tempted to relax and rest on what we have done. If we are wise, we won't look back.

Others of us did not do too well, if you measured things statistically. We tried; but, based on some definition of "success," we were anything but successful. If we look back, we could be tempted to discouragement. We could succumb to those voices that accuse us of failure. If we are wise, we won't look back.

Where should we look? Wherever Jesus is! Look there. Fix your vision on him. And go where he says to go. You may not turn into a pillar of salt by looking back; but you could find yourself running into a tree. So don't look back!

Merry WHAT?

This post is not for the politically sensitive; if you are of that persuasion, build a bridge now. I am about to say the two most-dreaded words of the season:

Merry Christmas!
Feliz Navidad!

I think even the politically-challenged, those who have regularly feasted on revisionist history, will agree that I have the Constitutional right to say Merry Christmas. After all, even the ACLU (American Communist Liar's Union) defends the right for me to express myself on my own blog.

I have the historical right to say Merry Christmas. It is only in the most modern of our history that some logger-head politicians and activist judges have dissuaded Americans from shouting those words. Christmas in America trumps Kwanza, Ramadan, the Hajj, and a whole bunch of other things.

And I have the theological right to say Merry Christmas. My God, the sole creator of this universe, dissected the curtain of time, conceived his son in a virgin named Mary, and thereby forever changed the world. That single event set into motion a series of events that culminated in the salvation of millions, well over a billion, of men and women over the past 2,000 years.

Salvation is exclusively through Jesus. That is precisely why the politically-challenged fear, shun, spurn, and scorn the idea of a Christmas that celebrates Christ. They may clothe their arguments in the garments of tolerance and even equality; but make no mistake: they are fearful of the idea of only Jesus as Lord.

It won't change a thing, though. I plan to have a Merry CHRISTmas. I will delight in his presence with me. And I will make room at my table for all who wish to do the same.

So, Merry Christmas!

Whom Shall We Send?

I just returned from a relatively new community in the southern part of our city of about ten million. The community is called "The Towers in the Corner." I kid thee not. I had been warned to not go to this part of town. Gangs roam the streets, both day and night. But I serve the One who can calm any storm. So off we went.

The ride alone was an adventure. To be sure of where I was going (I had never been to this particular community), I asked a local friend to take me. We went in his compact Hyundai, bouncing along roads that were not friendly to his car, or to my backside. We dodged pot holes, some of which looked like craters. We "enjoyed" the exhaust of a hundred busses. We challenged three-wheeled moto-taxis for the right of way.

It wasn't long after turning off the paved road that we were privileged to enjoy the fresh fragrance of the local hog farms. Hogs inside the city? Yes, hogs. And to make things more interesting, the good people were out burning the garbabe that had piled up. I quickly surmised that their garbage service was lacking; it made me more grateful for the part of town where I live.

Soon we arrived at our destination. We drove till we couldn't, then got out and walked up some recently-poured steps. Lots of steps. And then we walked a little more, this time on slippery slopes. There we met with local leaders who have asked for our help with some human needs projects. We are only too happy to help them. But we have ulterior motives. Did I just say that?? Yes, our motives run deeper than the skin and the belly. We aim for the soul!

I stood and looked out over this part of the city. Across the rugged hills men and women had dug into the rocks and built primitive homes. Some were made of plywood. A very few had some brick structure to them. Others were made of straw mats. There were at least 50 communities of 80 homes each. These communities, like The Towers in the Corner, are church-less. I did not say there are no believers there; there probably are some. But the vast majority are predominantly unchurched.

And that brings me back to my motives. We want God to plant a host of churches in this part of the city. We will minister to a perceived need so that we can get to the real need: people need the Lord.

And that brings me to yet another dilemma. I have a small pool of trained workers. God wants the gospel of Jesus to penetrate these lost, unchurched communities. I can hear him asking, "Whom shall we send, and who will go for us?" Pray, please that someone in this massive city will cry out, "Here am I! Send me."

Taking Every Thought Captive

I read an online article last week that claimed that 9 out of every 10 e mails is now spam--junk mail. I believe it. Already this morning, in less than 30 minutes, I have received 4 pieces of junk e-mails. When I lived in the United States, my mailbox would fill up with junk mail, each piece clamoring for my individual attention.

That mail that comes in does all it can to tempt me to open it. It's like those ads on some websites that say, "You are the umpteenth billionth person to access this site! You have definitely won something!" So you take a (ahem) minute to look and 30 minutes later you realized you are late for some meeting, or your tea boiled over, or your beans burned.

My junk e mail says things like, "Are you tired of looking fat? Try our new product, guaranteed to make you look slimmer." It must be an ad for one of those trick mirrors they use at the county fairs, or maybe in certain dressing rooms at certain stores.

And by now you are thinking, "This guy needs to learn about spam control." You're right! Now read on. . . .

There is another kind of junk mail that arrives more often than spam on my computer. It's worldly and devilish thoughts. Those come like an avalanche on some days. They come as loudly as a marching band; or they can slip in as softly as a sunset. But they come. And before I know it, I am dwelling on some thought that God never intended for me to consider.

Our God has given us Christians a powerful weapon. We, through Jesus Christ, can take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ. We can consecrate our thought life. We can tell the devil where to get off.

Turn on your spam control. Don't let your mind become a dumping ground for the devil's and th world's defeatist thoughts.

Shine the Light!

Last night I participated in the 5th anniversary of a local church, located in the southern part of our city. It was a moving experience. I was moved when I arrived; I was early, even though the announced beginning time had come and gone. So I sat in the car and used the reading lamp to go over my notes for the message I intended to preach that night. I read and I watched the activity around me.

Outside, under the dull, dust-covered, yellow street lights, people walked to and fro. Significantly, many of the young men and women I watched were gang members. That was not a surprise; I knew it. It's something a person better know if he or she is out in this part of town.

The pastor of this church knew it, too, when he decided God was calling him to plant this church. It was a community rife with gang activity. But he pressed on with dogged determination. His original target was the meanest gang leader there. And he won the young man, now a leader in his little church. Then he won most of the other gang members that young man belonged to. One gang down, a dozen more to go.

Pedro continues to reach into the gangs. Some of them came last night. They were mildly timid in front of me, all the while eyeing my car. When they weren't eyeing the car, they were checking out the girls. But they stood in the door and listened to the message of Christ. Pedro's wife told me they were on the verge of turning it all over to Jesus.

These gang members, by the way, are all under 18. Some won't live to see 18. Gangs often have wars in this part of our city. They pull out guns, machetes, rocks, bottles, and anything else that can hurt their rivals. The gangs don't think twice about hurting one another. And someone almost always dies.

So Pedro is there, telling them about someone else who died for them. It's a story he loves to tell. It's a light that shines brighter than those dull, yellow, dusty street lights. That light shines brigher than the sun. It's a light that penetrates the tough facades these guys put up.

So I tell Pedro and his church, "Shine the Light!"

And they will.

Who Am I?

This article says it for us. We knew it; but this lady confirmed it once again. Women and men are different. Duh, who'd of thunk it?

The writer was a feminist. She spoke of how much women spoke compared to men. Now, I could play with that for a long time. And it would be fun until my wife read it. Then I would have to change my blog to "Home Alone on the South Pole." So I won't go there. Well, not too far.

A woman complained her husband never said that he loved her. He told her, "Dear, the day we married, I told you I loved you and if I changed my mind, I would let you know." Some men think saying something once a year is enough!

We know women arrive in Heaven 30 minutes after men do. The Bible says, "There was silence in heaven for about 30 minutes."

There is one thing that needs to be pointed out. The writer said, "Dr Brizendine, whose book is based on her own clinical work and analyses of more than 1,000 scientific studies, added: 'There is no unisex brain.

'Girls arrive already wired as girls, and boys arrive already wired as boys. Their brains are different by the time they're born, and their brains are what drive their impulses, values and their very reality.

'I know it is not politically correct to say this but I've been torn for years between my politics and what science is telling us.'" (emphasis mine)

Do you see the implications in that? Where is there room for the claim that, "God made me gay?" Simply put, it is not there! For once, a feminist got it right. We are wired from the womb to be men and women, each distinct from the other. And I, for one, am glad I am different from my wonderful redhead.

The next time someone wants to make you wonder who you are, remind them of that. More important, remind them of God's promise that he formed us in the womb. We are God's wonderful handiwork! And God does not make junk or mistakes.

Wisdom from South America

A retired missionary to Peru sent me this. It is obviously compiled and adapted from other sources; but it makes for good, light-hearted reading.

Some more missionary Wisdom

1. Don’t squat down in a cane field on the Pan American Highway without looking around you real good.

2. If you’re leading a group of brothers take a look back every now and then to make sure that they are still there.

3. After getting a new church started, a missionary felt so good that he kept bragging about it until the devil came along and tore it all up. The moral; when you’re full of it, keep your mouth shut and give God the glory that belongs to Him.

4. Never kick an empty garbage bag on the side of the street in Lima on a hot day.

5. There’s two theories to arguin’ with Nationals. Neither one works.

6. Never slap a “serrano” who’s chewin’ coca leaves..

7.. It don’t take a very spiritual missionary to spot a goat in a flock of sheep

8. When you give a lesson in meanness to a fellow missionary, don’t be surprised if they learn their lesson.

9. When you’re throwin’ your weight around, be ready to have it thrown around by somebody else.

10.. The quickest way to double your money in Perú is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket.

11. There are three kinds of missionaries: Those that learn by reading. Those that learn by observation. And the rest of us, that have to learn the hard way by being “airheads”.

Hermano Jaime Boswell
El Mismo

How true, Jaime; how true!

KDS