Sunday: “I don’t want to leave!  With all of you here it is like I’ve found my real family, and now it feels weird to be leaving.”  These were the departing words of a young man named Praim as he was leaving our house to head back to his isolated, mountain village.

Previous Day: “I’ve never felt such peace like this before.  I do not want to leave this place because I want to know more about Jesus and stay in His presence.  With all of you here it’s like I’ve found my real family,” Praim said as he left the evening service of our Seeker’s Camp.  This has been a common response that we have heard lately when people experience the presence of Jesus for the first time.

Previous Friday: Praim arrived at our house at 5:30pm by jeep, feeling shy and definitely out of place.  These jeeps have 8 seats but since everyone gets charged to sit there they cram 14 people in each jeep.  200 miles of continuous mountain driving without a single stretch of straight road.  I’ve been on that road several times in my STL vehicle and I’m lucky to average 25mph.

Thursday the Previous Week: By the time I reached Praim’s house I was exhausted.  It was 2pm in the afternoon on a beautiful sunny day, and I had been walking since the early morning.  There is no road that reaches to Praim’s village, therefore, we had to walk.  We had just finished a school assembly at the village’s government school and I was ready for a break.  Snow capped Himalayan peaks were in the distance and the local villagers were harvesting their wheat.  This is the India that so few think of: peaceful, clean, quiet, and sparsely populated, sparse but still populated.  Once we reached our destinati0n we spoke in front of the school children and then sat in the family’s home that we came to visit.  They served us mutte, a cold drink that tastes like the watery substance at the top of a container of cottage cheese; I can’t stand it.  Then they served us a typical mountain meal of rice, lentils, and vegetables.  We prayed with them and invited those that were there to a camp that we were hosting the next week.  We left  by 4pm and reached home 3 hours later.

Wednesday: I never want to make the 9 hour drive back into the mountains, but somebody needs to tell these people in the mountains the Good News.  ”If it was easy everyone would do it,” I thought.  ”And besides, perhaps this time something amazing will happen.”

Tim C-Bass

We had to hold Sidhu’s arms.  One of us grabbed his hand and the other held him from behind as the doctor rebroke his right forearm.  A crack was followed by a gut-wrenching scream, a familiar noise in a government hospital in a 3rd world country.  In pain, he passed out reminiscent of the night that began this story.

One week earlier Sidhu showed up at his friend’s house totally drunk; unfortunately for the past twelve years of his 25-year life this has been the norm for Sidhu.  The home-brewed alcohol that they make in the hills is more like a poison than a beverage, and Sidhu, once he starts drinking, has never been able to stop.  His friend’s brother greeted him with a kick as he came to the door to see this worthless louse standing there.  Unable to react, Sidhu caught the kick right in the arm and was sent flying out of the house and down the steep hillside.  He rolled until a tree ended the momentum of the kick and the force of gravity from the mountain.  While stuck there he made a few observations in the following order: 1. My arm hurts.  2. It’s cold.  3. I don’t know where my sandals are.  4. I need to change my life.  And with that he thought “oh well, I’ll just sleep here.”

Sure enough in the morning his observations were accurate: he had a broken arm, no sandals, a tree for a bed and a desire to change his life.  Four days later I met him, and he asked about going to a rehab center.  He was still working in the main center of town bringing people tea with his one good arm while the broken one was wrapped in a makeshift sling.  I liked him from the moment I saw him, and I felt the Lord speaking to my heart, “watch what I can do.”  So instead of sending him to a rehab center we took him in.

Still I may have never seen a dead man come to life, a lame man walk, or a broken arm come back together, but I’ve seen God’s greatness take Sidhu’s broken life and make it straight.

Tim C-bass

Returning home after being away for 3 days of meetings in Delhi, I was surprised to see two of our closest disciples with freshly inked tattoos covering their arms.  They were so proud, as they should have been, not only were the tattoos beautifully done, but they received them for just a few dollars.  The next day at the “grounds” I met the 21 year old local artist, Subode.  Those with such talent rarely work in obscure places like our town in the Himalayan Mountains. He bought me a chai, and there I heard his story of how he came home from Delhi leaving a good job as a tattoo artist in one of Delhi’s poshest areas because of his weakness caused by the Hep C virus.  Away from the pollution in the fresh mountain air and under the gentle care of his mother, he is regaining his physical strength, and finding spiritual truth. He heard the message of God’s love for the first time in his life when he tattooed that Cross on the arm of the messenger.  After that he started coming to our morning devotion and discipleship time for prayer.  I’ve found that Indian people are very sensitive to the supernatural.  Hindus in particular actively invite their gods into their homes and lives through prayers, sacrifices, festivals and fasting.  Subode is no different, a devout Hindu, and yet intuitive to our God’s presence. And in His presence Subode feels peace.  Now, his plans have changed; Subode doesn’t want to return to his high paying job in Delhi, no, he wants to open his own Tattoo shop here where we are, and he wants to name it after the inspiration he received from tattooing the cross, “Agape Tattoos.” I’ve never felt so much peer pressure to get a tattoo in my life, but I don’t want to offend my new brother by not getting one, besides, the first one is free.

Tim C-Bass

Eurasia Experience has begun its second full year on the road, and God is already doing some amazing things.

At each venue, the challenge is to pray, to give, and to go. And at each venue, we see people responding to God’s heart for the unreached in Eurasia.

I can’t tell you how many times we have heard “Now I understand how to pray for Eurasia – for the missionaries and the unreached.”

At a recent event in Bellevue, Nebraska, the closing was coupled with a challenge to make a Faith Promise. Generally we don’t have children in EE, but at this event, a mother had brought her six-year-old daughter. After walking through the market and hearing the stories, this mother leaned over to her daughter and asked how she felt God was asking her to give. The girl had been saving her money from birthdays and Christmases and chores around the house. She responded, “Mom, I have $138 in savings. I’d like to give $100, and then I’ll still have $38.” Thank God for already raising up the next generation of those who believe in missions!

And at a recent event at Evangel University, God called a student to use her journalistic skills–immediately–to go to a Middle Eastern country to write copy for video production to reach the Arab world. God is using Eurasia Experience to call His people to go!

Would you place your hat or scarf on your head once again this week and ask the Lord how He would have you respond to the needs in Eurasia?

Recently, I was lugging a large load of luggage up several flights of stairs. Sadly, but perhaps rather predictably, my load shifted and came crashing down. Ironically, as I was gathering things up, I stumbled upon C.S. Lewis’s “The Weight of Glory”.

In his book “The Weight of Glory” C.S. Lewis describes the weight being the knowledge that we will enter glory with Christ and yet billions will perish. Sometimes in America it is hard to fully grasp what that would look like. Living in Muslim nation it is decidedly easier. I simply stand on my balcony as the prayer call reverberates and gaze down at the mass of people. I see the rickshaw drivers, the mother’s walking their children to school, the beggars prowling in desperation, and the old gazing listlessly into the distance. How must Christ feel as He gazes upon this scene?

Oh, that we might put away our small and petty ambitions! That we would cry heaven’s tears and dream heaven’s dreams. That the temporal would fade in light of the glorious business of the eternal. That we throw away our proverbial “candles in the darkness” and be consumed as human torches that burn for Christ.

So the moral of the story is this:

1. Get friends to help with luggage loads.
2. Don’t be afraid to let yourself feel the weight of glory and respond with your life!

“Bricks”

Recently, I was going about my daily errand routine. Things were clicking along fairly well and then *BAM* they descended into the gridlock which is so characteristic of life of overseas. The tailor was gone to lunch- then to mecca- then to the village- then enshala maybe next week- etc etc…

Deciding to just accept my defeat, I stood looking down from the window of the shopping complex. Below two small boys were playing in the rubble of a broken down wall surrounding a group of shacks. They were dancing around between the streams of raw sewage and brick bits pretending to box each other.

As I watched the boys, it occurred to me what a picture of the entire nation this was- a nation with a wall in ruins. A nation suffering and open- unprotected without hope. I was reminded of Nehemiah and his mission to rebuild the walls. So, today I pick up a brick and set it on top of another and resolutely return… return to a language that is as frustrating as it is complex … return to a religion that hates me… return to a flat that most likely won’t have electricity or internet or family… return to build.

Relationship by relationship- child by child- mother by mother and father by father- brick by brick the wall and the Kingdom will be built!

Recently, I left the capitol to hold a childrens’ camp in a smaller town. Upon arriving I found a concrete slab, some walls, a tarp roof, and 300 +++ kids. I talked to the pastor’s wife and learned that 4 of the kids were Christian, a handful were Hindus, and the rest were Muslim. The best kind of kids’ camp!

The camp began with fun songs and games. Kids were packed in tighter than sardines. So, tight in fact when I tried to put a rope down the middle of the mass of kids to divide them for a game, it took several adults just to get the rope through. We weren’t worried about any rats or other animals coming in because the only animal that could fit was a mosquito- and only a skinny one… In the states kids crowd surf for fun—here they crowd surfed to the front if they were chosen to play a game!

Needless to say, things were rocking along great and then the national police showed up. From the expressions on their faces, I was worried that we might be in for some trouble. They, obviously, were there to check us out and make sure that we weren’t saying against the prophet. A line of the village elders dressed in flowing white Islamic dress watched from the back. Tension crackled in the air—and the sound system which had a fair amount of duck tape on it…

It was time for the bible lesson. I must admit that for just a second I was tempted to skip the lesson. However, as I scanned the crowd trying to decide what to do, my eyes caught those of an elderly muslim woman leaning against the wall in the back. Generally, those who survive to her age have born the weight poverty for so long that there is only listlessness in their eyes. However, in her eyes, there was a spark- small but a spark of curiosity.

My courage surged, and I opened my mouth. Thankfully, the Holy Spirit took over- He’s good like that! I found myself preaching the bible lesson by using the kids to act it out. As kids came forward to play the various parts, the tense in the air snapped. The police started chuckling at the children acting, and the Muslim men in the back leaned forward to listen to the story. I was able to give one of the clearest and most straightforward gospel messages that I’ve have ever given in a Muslim country.

It is for these days that I live- these sweaty, smelly, packed in so tight that only a skinny mosquito can fit- days- for these days when Muslims hear the gospel- for these days I will gladly live the rest of my life.

I Can’t Tell You Their Names

I can’t tell you their names… but they are very much real people. Their victories and journeys give hope for those of us who work in the M world.

I am thankful because…

She was born the daughter of fundamentalists Muslims. Her father is an imam. She wore a burka. Today she graduated from Bible College.

I am thankful because…

She was in born in the slum. She lived in poverty, harshness, and ugliness. She is a street kid. Today she works on homework in a light filled room.

I am thankful because…

He was born without hope. He was alone and helpless. Today he is the office manager.

I am thankful because…

When he was born, the first words he heard were the words of the Islamic profession of faith. Today he is a pastor.

They were born Muslim. Today… I thank God for another day- another chance.

About every time I speak to someone in the foreign language that I am learning is a step outside of my comfort zone. Even after nearly a year of study my neighbor’s four year old daughter can still talk circles around me! And yet, it’s worth the humiliation of stumbling through language to be able to tell people in thier mother-tongue that Jesus makes it possible for us to know God.

In the part of the world where I live only one person out of 18,000 have heard and accepted that message. To bring this home a little, let’s apply that statistic to a professional American football stadium, which on average seats about 75,000 to 80,000 people. Imagine a stadium jam-packed, and only 4 people out of everyone there are Christians. This is the spiritual condition of where we live.

How will they know unless we tell them? How will they understand unless we are speaking their language?

Pain, emptiness; these I see when I catch the eyes of many a passerby. The streets of Russia and the rest of the world are full of people that are truly hollow. Dead and they don’t even know it. Don’t be fooled by their fancy clothes or ocasional smiles; their insides ache for life. What can we as born again believers that possess true life through faith in Jesus Christ do to lead these lost sheep home?

I have one suggestion: Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight (Proverbs 3:5-6 NIV). You may ask, “How do I do that?!” I believe the answer is quite simple. We love because He first loved us (1 John 4:19). God’s grace and love empower us to reach the lost with that same love. So, go to God and ask Him believing He will answer your questions. Go to Him when you don’t know how to reach the lost. Go to Him even if you already have a plan to reach the lost. Go to Him and lean not on your own understanding. God himself is our answer to everything. He is our all in all.

God illustrated this in my own life one day roughly two years ago. At that time I had just finished working in the kitchens of a three-week-long Christian kid’s camp. During this camp I helped build campfires, prepare firewood, pump water from a well, and carry whatever to wherever it was needed. At the same time I befriended a homeless person who volunteered to help at this camp. We worked long, hard hours together and became fast friends. Soon after the camp this gentleman, his name is Sergei, lef the Christian homeless shelter and was back wandering the streets. However, at the time I didn’t know this.

A couple of Sundays after this camp, I was headed home from church and planning to get home as quickly as I could. Soon after I got on the tram I felt strongly that God wanted me to exit and start walking. I did so, and stood on the street curb, far from home, wondering, “What’s next?” So I asked, “Where to Lord?” He then lead me to the end of one of the streets nearby at which point I had to choose from turning left or right. I asked, and God said to go left. In this manner I began walking to an unknown destination. But God, of course, knew what He was doing. After a handful of turns and a few city blocks I suddently found myself face to face with my homeless friend from the camp.

I was at first very happy to see him, but quickly realized that he had left the homeless shelter for good. After our initial greetings, he began to apologize to me with tears welling in his eyes, saying that he couldn’t be good enough to be a Christian. My heart began to break. I tried to show him through scripture that God’s grace is enough, but he didn’t seem to be consolable. After many attempts at comforting him, I eventually had to say goodbye.

I walked away with a heart that was getting heavier and heavier with sorrow for my brother and soon the dam broke. I couldn t hold back the tears. Thankfully, a couple of days later God comoforted me by reminding me that He is the good shepherd and I played a small part in finding His lost sheep.

If I had relied on my own understanding I would have gone home and completely missed possibly the last encouragement that my friend would have ever heard. Instead God showed me that His ways are higher, and He is to be trusted. Indeed God made my path straight and lead me to where His love was needed. Praise God!