My time in India has been about one thing and one thing only—sharing the gospel.
Day in and day out that’s the main objective. There is no other conduit through which we hope people see and experience Jesus. We just tell them straight up.
We travel to villages each day, we meet the pastor of the local church and then we begin to go house to house to offer prayer to those who want it. Then we conclude the evening by sharing who God is in our lives, who the Bible tells us Jesus is, and what that means for the people we’re talking to that night.
There are no bells or whistles. Sometimes there’s even no light (other than our trusty headlamps). It’s just my team and I as the strange Americans, in places where Westerners don’t go, talking about God.
After a week or so of the same thing every day I started to feel drained. Night after night praying similar prayers for blessings, jobs, and healing but not seeing tangible results. Singing worship songs and preaching sermons I wasn’t sure anyone even understood or had any desire to learn from, I began to wonder how I’d fight through the remaining weeks we had in India.
Then one night we loaded up to head to another village. With our entire host family in tow, we crammed into a small taxi. We arrived at the village later than normal and proceeded to walk through the streets in the dark doing home visits before the prayer meeting. Once we arrived at the church, there was no power. We waited a while and finally began the service in the dark.
All things seemed typical—the women and men sang songs I couldn’t understand, young people came asking our names and ages, we sang songs they couldn’t understand, and we started to preach. In the middle of the first sermon, the lights came on.
And to my surprise, there were people seated on the porch, outside the porch, and all around the building, listening attentively to my teammate and our translator.
No one was talking, no one was taking our picture, no one was leaving in the middle. All eyes were focused on us and all ears were absorbing every word.
This month ministry might be repetitive, it might be emotionally and spiritually taxing, but it is the gospel and it is a privilege to share whenever we’re asked.
I get to tell people about the God of the Universe who came to earth so that He could serve sinners, turn the world upside down, and sacrifice His only Son for us—giving Jesus a death He didn’t deserve, bridging the gap between heaven and earth, providing a way for the same people who killed Him in the first place to be in relationship with God.
It’s crazy.
It’s awesome.
It’s always, only, ever a privilege to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.
And while all of this clicked when we were speaking to a crowd that was locked in on the message, it’s still crazy and awesome and a privilege to share even if only one person is listening. Or if no one is listening and I am simply reminding myself of the love God has for me and the sacrifice He made for me when I was dead in my sin and I definitely didn’t deserve it.
My time in India is about one thing—sharing the gospel. And it is without a doubt the very best thing I could be doing.
It is the reason I get woken up every day—whether I am in a far off country or in my own backyard. And every opportunity God gives me to share who He is, how much He loves us, and why it matters to every person I meet is a privilege and an honor.
