I jumped on the back of Bhushan’s motorcycle for the 70 km ride out to the village of Balireddypalem. It was hot. Very hot. Three people died in the general area from heatstroke that day.
We left the arid inland cities and headed for the coast. We wove between tractors, bull-carts, and behemoth old busses. We had to wait while a herd of goats swarmed around us then moved on. There were green rice paddies, coconut palms, shrimp ponds, and sugarcane fields.
When we arrived, the harvest festival was underway and shrill off-key singers blared from a loudspeaker. Worshipers sat outside on tarps under a party canopy. The women wore saris in electric colors with their shawls pulled over their heads in reverence. The men wore western shirts and eastern wraps at their waists.
Bhushan served as interpreter and we preached from James chapter 1 about not wasting our trials but using them to bring us closer to Jesus. We were both dripping in sweat and the people were having difficulty staying awake. In the pre-monsoon heat, Indian life pretty much shuts down. We kept the message short and ate a meal cooked over outdoor fires.
Two cots were placed under a tree and that is where Bhushan and I ate and rested for the afternoon. We stayed in the village to preach another session in the evening. It was a joy to observe village life for a day.
Once most of the onlookers got bored with staring at the white visitor, the normal routines continued. Old people slept on mats, children made up silly games, chickens and dogs took refuge under our cots. There is no privacy in rural India and it was not unusual to open my napping eyes to find adorable children giggling over me, or three old women waiting to see if I would do anything strange.
That evening the breeze stopped and the heat clamped its jaws onto us. We sat on the stage and watched as the singing crowd doubled, then doubled again. There were 200 present and my familiar old doubts pressed in.
I prayed, “Lord, I can’t think in this heat. I am nothing that I should presume to speak to these people. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Why did I come here? God, I need a miracle.”
There was no energy for superfluous words and we went right to the point. We used white-toothed, beaming-eyed children to act out the parable of the prodigal son. The crowd laughed as we made the son and his father re-unite in a slow motion running hug. All the magic tricks worked except for a hidden rope that slipped down my pant-leg and out the cuff.
The Indians dressed in their festival finery and decorative tea lights strung about created a wondrous atmosphere. The girls wore jasmine flowers in their hair and the boys were freshly washed and reveled in rhythmic clapping. Everybody was ready to embrace whatever entertainment was offered, no matter how unprofessional it may have been. We added the always-dynamic message of the gospel of peace and had a spectacular evening.
The Holy Spirit empowered our words and there was no doubt that, in spite of cultural and linguistic barriers, the goods of how to return to God were delivered. The tribal Hindus who slipped into the fringes of the crowd learned of man’s common sin problem and how to remedy the crisis.
I have come to appreciate how Indian evangelists handle altar calls. They simply tell the people that if they want Jesus, come talk to them after the meeting. This removes the emotional hype as well as the western preoccupation with numbers and verifiable human results. It leaves room for the Holy Spirit to do his work and reduces shallow decisions.
A humble man came and bowed before me and offered a bunch of foot-long green vegetables called drumsticks. It was his way of saying thank you. My doubts from before the meeting evaporated and I realized once again that I have the best job in the world. It is my privilege to tell others the most incredible news anyone could hear.
Keep your money Satan, keep your comforts; nothing you offer can touch what I have.
Be blessed,
Posts
