Faces In The Windows
(This article was originally published in the May-June 2009 edition of HeartCry Magazine. I reflect on the experience often with thanksgiving and a renewed zeal for missions.)
Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked up and saw the faces in the windows. Never before had I witnessed such a desire to hear the preaching of God’s Word. The tiny frame church was full—maybe 80 people. At least fifty other people were standing outside listening to the loudspeaker. And faces crowded the open-air windows with the night sky as a backdrop.
Earlier in the day, not speaking any Spanish, I hadn’t understood the conversation behind me as we crossed the mountain in the back of a pickup truck. But a friend interpreted and whispered in my ear, “More Christians.”
Just before the first evening’s service, I could hear the whine of the engine as it began its descent into the jungle. Then the dim headlights began to flicker in the night. Were these people friend or foe? Locals perhaps? As they pulled into the compound I was dumbfounded. I turned to the young man next to me and asked him to count as I tried to take a picture under the night sky. Twenty more worshipers got out of the tiny truck. Overwhelmed, I walked to the edge of the compound and cried out, “Oh God, how can this be? How can it be that I am here among people of such faith?” I didn’t understand, but I entered the small church with a spirit of thanksgiving and praise.
It must have been 90 degrees inside the church. The daytime temperature had exceeded 100 degrees and the humidity was extreme. The smell of the earthen floor, the rough sawn boards on the walls, the hint of wood smoke from the cooking fires and the makeshift lighting created a distinctly un-American experience in the crowded church. Yet worship flowed freely and with great joy.
The room was silent except for the preaching and the whir of the gasoline generator; every eye and ear was tuned to the message from the pulpit. Mothers gently rocked their babies on the makeshift pews. When the little ones finally caved in utter exhaustion into a deep sleep their mothers lined them up on the cool earth outside the church (on the same cool earth where we would kill a tarantula the next evening) wrapped in alpaca blankets and under the watchful eye of a caretaker.
My heart was taken captivate by those little ones. Who would teach them about Christ? In this part of South America, children either get tough or die. I wondered what lay ahead for them? The thoughts haunt me still. And who would teach them about eternal things; the things of God? The answer was before me. Those mothers and fathers who, with great effort and much hardship had made the trip deep into the jungle to worship with us, would have to teach these children. Those people in their local church would have to teach them…those faces in the windows.
That’s why indigenous missions is so important. Pray that God would be glorified as HeartCry endeavors to support indigenous missions throughout the world.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked up and saw the faces in the windows. Never before had I witnessed such a desire to hear the preaching of God’s Word. The tiny frame church was full—maybe 80 people. At least fifty other people were standing outside listening to the loudspeaker. And faces crowded the open-air windows with the night sky as a backdrop.
Earlier in the day, not speaking any Spanish, I hadn’t understood the conversation behind me as we crossed the mountain in the back of a pickup truck. But a friend interpreted and whispered in my ear, “More Christians.”
Just before the first evening’s service, I could hear the whine of the engine as it began its descent into the jungle. Then the dim headlights began to flicker in the night. Were these people friend or foe? Locals perhaps? As they pulled into the compound I was dumbfounded. I turned to the young man next to me and asked him to count as I tried to take a picture under the night sky. Twenty more worshipers got out of the tiny truck. Overwhelmed, I walked to the edge of the compound and cried out, “Oh God, how can this be? How can it be that I am here among people of such faith?” I didn’t understand, but I entered the small church with a spirit of thanksgiving and praise.
It must have been 90 degrees inside the church. The daytime temperature had exceeded 100 degrees and the humidity was extreme. The smell of the earthen floor, the rough sawn boards on the walls, the hint of wood smoke from the cooking fires and the makeshift lighting created a distinctly un-American experience in the crowded church. Yet worship flowed freely and with great joy.
The room was silent except for the preaching and the whir of the gasoline generator; every eye and ear was tuned to the message from the pulpit. Mothers gently rocked their babies on the makeshift pews. When the little ones finally caved in utter exhaustion into a deep sleep their mothers lined them up on the cool earth outside the church (on the same cool earth where we would kill a tarantula the next evening) wrapped in alpaca blankets and under the watchful eye of a caretaker.
My heart was taken captivate by those little ones. Who would teach them about Christ? In this part of South America, children either get tough or die. I wondered what lay ahead for them? The thoughts haunt me still. And who would teach them about eternal things; the things of God? The answer was before me. Those mothers and fathers who, with great effort and much hardship had made the trip deep into the jungle to worship with us, would have to teach these children. Those people in their local church would have to teach them…those faces in the windows.
That’s why indigenous missions is so important. Pray that God would be glorified as HeartCry endeavors to support indigenous missions throughout the world.
posted by TBC at
12/01/2009 07:49:00 AM
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