Last week, Pastor Solomon took our team to a nearby village for a crusade. We all piled in the back of a small pickup truck (our team, the praise team, the musicians & a few others) along with the instruments, large speakers and other sound equipment. We arrived in a cloud of red dust from the pot-hole-filled dirt road, and immediately people began to gather and stare at the commotion. We set up shop in the middle of town, right in front of a hair salon. After setting up the speakers and equipment, gospel tunes began to fill the air. Children swarmed and began dancing with us, ladies with curlers in their hair stepped out of the salons to listen, & mothers stopped and sat down to nurse their babies while they waited to see what was going to happen next. One thing I love about African life is that people take the time to stop and listen—there’s really not much else going on, so if someone wants to share the gospel with them they’re almost always willing to give a little time to listen.
Just imagine this scene playing out in America… if a pickup truck full of people pulled up and started singing, dancing & preaching, most people would just walk on by, maybe taking a second glance back at the most. We look at most people who we see preaching on the corner like they’re fanatical lunatics… we’re too busy and in too much of a hurry to actually stop and see if they have anything meaningful to say.
One of the first people to arrive on the scene was a very drunk woman who was dirty and disheveled. She was dancing right up front and tried to get a couple of us to dance with her. When the preaching began, she wanted to be right in the middle of it; although she was being somewhat disruptive, it hurt my heart to see various people try to shoo her away. She wanted to be a part of what was going on, and even if a few words soaked in I wanted her to hear them. Everyone has a right to hear the word of God. After she finally calmed down from being escorted away from the service, she came back and sat down at Logan’s feet as he preached. It was such a sweet moment seeing her sitting at the feet of God’s word, just as so many drunks, prostitutes and tax collectors sat in the presence of Jesus. She gave her life to Christ during the altar call, along with two other drunk men. Who knows if they actually remember doing this or fully understand the “decision” they were making, but I can only pray that at the least a seed was planted.
One of the others who accepted Christ was named Fred. He had not had a bath in quite some time, was barefoot, &wore dirty clothes. As he stood and repeated the sinner’s prayer, Pastor asked people to bring new clothes to give him. He changed into his new clothes, and I was shocked yet entertained when Pastor set his old clothes on fire (as a symbol of new life—out with the old, in with the new). By this time it was dark, and everyone circled around the fire & danced to the African gospel music pouring from the speakers. Soon after the fire died down, it was time for us to load up and head out. As we drove down the road and I looked down, I realized Fred was sitting in the bed of the truck amongst all of our people and equipment. He came home with us where he got a warm meal, and Pastor put him up at the church for the night. I’m not sure if Fred was on drugs or had mental problems, but something was definitely off—he was twitching and appeared very paranoid—which probably explains why he disappeared the next morning before church began. We plan to check up on him—he had been sleeping on the veranda of the bar for some time, so we’re assuming he’s homeless. Please pray for Fred's safety & health.
