It was bound to happen.
In fact, I expected it.
But I wasn’t prepared for it.
I was sitting in a church in Laos. Now, Laos is very much a closed country. The Gospel is not welcome, and, as much as it can, the government tries to control it and its impact on the Laos people. But the church I was attending was an “international church,� meaning, basically, that as long as people of OTHER nationalities were attending there, the government would pretty much leave it alone. The room was filled with missionaries and Christian workers of all colors and races, happily greeting each other, creating an intoxicating buzz of excitement and joy. “Man, I like it here,� I thought. It felt comfortable, familiar, and happy. I took my seat, thankful for the air conditioning that shielded us from the sweltering heat and humidity that I’ve become far too familiar with over the last several months. A few moments later, the preacher asked us to open our bibles to Matthew.
And that’s when it hit me.
Smack.
I saw her face.
Sylvia. Wasn’t it just a few short months ago, in Uganda, when I met her? She couldn’t afford a bible. They are outrageously expensive in her country (i.e. $10-$12…a small fortune for anyone of average income). She could hardly contain her excitement when she saw me, not just because of the friendship that had developed between us, but because I always came wielding my bible. Within minutes, she’d have her nose buried in it, trying to piece together whatever meaning she could with her limited knowledge of English, asking question after question, relishing in the new relationship she was discovering with Jesus.
God was becoming real to her. I remember when that happened in my life. I remember when the bible stories I’d heard my whole life became more than stories, but living, breathing realities. All of a sudden, the truths I somehow knew deep down in my soul…they were imprinted there on the page right in front of me. Putting words to a God that I had somehow always known existed, but was just now experiencing. It was as if the truth put on flesh, just so I could see it. Feel it. Know it.
Before the World Race, I remember hearing stories about starving children in Africa, too. And about people who had to cross borders and break laws under threat of severe punishment, even death, to get their hands on a bible. About women and children who were forced into sexual slavery to support their families, or worse, to make a total stranger rich. About people whose lives were marked by overwhelming need and poverty.
As I sat there, my bible open to Matthew, a bible I’d bought as casually as I would buy a cup of coffee, I couldn’t help but wonder at how I was back where I started. Sitting in an air-conditioned church. With something of immeasurable value right in my hands. But this time, my mind was a thousand miles away, in Africa. And I couldn’t help but laugh at the craziness of it, because I think that’s the point. The point of all of this. Because now, those stories I’ve heard about starving children in Africa, they’re more than just stories. I’ve seen their faces. I’ve held their hands. I’ve walked their dusty roads. They are more than just stories. They are living, breathing realities. They are flesh and bone. And I couldn’t help but think how this is just God’s way. The lengths he will go to so that we will just understand. So that we can see. So that we can touch, feel, and know.
“And the word became flesh, and dwelt among us…� John 1:14
(You might be wondering, now that I know, what am I gonna do about it? Well, I’m glad you asked! More on that in my next blog.) 🙂
