This month we are in Unsung Heroes, which means that we don’t have an official ministry or host and our job is to find future hosts for future WR teams. In addition, we are in a closed country which essentially means we are here as “tourists” and cannot openly share our faith. After about a week of a lot of felt darkness, discouragement, and general heaviness here felt by our team–Papa provided us with an explosion of himself and how he is faithful even when we are not, because he cannot deny who he is (2 Timothy 2:13). He provided us an invitation, through a very dear Vietnamese friend, to an underground (illegal) church/worship. It was FIRE, straight to the soul. Like a first sip of water after going without for days, and our experience here has exploded with Papa since. I wrote something kind of meant to be read like a spoken word, basically a poem in dedication to the spiritual warriors here, the Unsung Heroes.
Upstairs in the literal sense, underground by nature.
We’re not hanging out here solely based upon leisure.
Call us rebels, revolutionaries, radicals, and any other r words you can think of,
That’s pretty much the same exact name that they gave the Son.
With every pluck of the guitar string, I can hear David singing his sweet Psalms,
Growing in passion as we think about the nails driven through tender palms.
We breathe adoration and glory into this dark air;
No man or woman can remain in their chair.
Let us be a sweet sound to your ear, one to which your angels dance,
Please father we ache for your favor and your divine romance.
Clap, strum, beat, stomp, raise, harmonize, shout, eyes closed, eyes open, sway, remain still, even cry.
Praise snaps off of these walls like sweet arrows you’d want to be hit by.
Presence is not just a word here, but a reality of God’s universal family—
no the word’s ‘closed country’ do not apply to you, thankfully.
This is illegal, good. We rejoice like Paul knowing the sound of chains is music to your ears,
It means we’re stirring the pot of oppression, eradicating fear.
We will build this kingdom, brick by brick—but no longer as slaves,
dry bones rising from a barren valley, cannot be held by the grave.
These walls, the enemy, the oppressors can’t keep us quiet,
we dare them—go ahead, and try it.
Gospel living is harder than gospel speaking,
But they do it here without street preaching.
Just Let strangers hear on the street and wander in,
join this circle, cry out, release your sin.
Take away the guitar, remove the drum—
you can’t quiet the voices of resounding love.
We’re gonna stomp our feet in praise like the sound of a herd,
and let this love infiltrate the streets until it’s heard.
They’re heroes, unsung, yet full of song,
The silence and the hiding won’t last long.
