The road less traveled...

We were led by a man on a bike, down a footpath that was more than adequate for his bike but insufficient for the breadth of our vehicle.  His feet went round and round, one foot resting on a pedal and the other balancing on a metal peg where a pedal used to be.  I was actually surprised that one pedal remained, the terrain we were negotiating today was a daily occurrence for this pastor who was leading us out to this newest preaching point.  He had cycled an hour and a half through the bush to the point where we met him on a soccer field near a school only to find out they had changed their meeting place.  We were told it was less than a kilometer from the field so we decided we would just follow him on his bike. 

In Africa, I prefer a used car to a new one so I don’t cringe every time a bush or thorns scrape the side of the vehicle, our journey today was no exception.  This footpath was not a road, that point reemphasized by the reception we received when we pulled in up in our Landcruiser to this small village that I’m sure exists on not even the most detailed of maps.  Perhaps the only thing more shocking than a motor vehicle coming into this tiny village was when 2 muzungus (white people) and their 3 muzungu children piled out of the vehicle to join their tiny church for the day. 

I had been to this kind of church once before in the south-west part of Zambia in 2010 on a mission trip to Namwala.  Today, an old log served as the bench for the leader and deacon to sit on.   Elijah claimed a rock the size of a basketball for his seat for the day.  One family retrieved two chairs and a loveseat for the Zambian pastor and his very white friends to sit on.   We met under a tree, enclosed on two sides with corn at shoulder height, the men on one side with their back to the corn, the women on a reed mat in the open area.  “Zaninge” (come!) an elderly woman shouted to what appeared to be her daughter, as the time was nearing for us to start.  

The service progressed with several songs, announcements, offering and preaching.  I introduced our family towards the beginning of the service, correcting my poor Chitumbuka several times along the way as I spoke with the eloquence of a three year old with a speech impediment.  At the conclusion of the service, in typical African fashion, we sang a song as we all lined up and shook hands with one another.  I climbed on top of the Landcruiser and tied the pastor’s bike to the roof-rack as we would pass his house about half-way on the way to ours.  Before I made my way back down I took a moment to enjoy the view from my elevated perch in the sky.  No more than a dozen huts surrounded by trees and stalks of corn were visible to the naked eye.  A bit of smoke in the distance told me that more huts were hidden by the foliage.  

With the bike secured, my physical labor was complete but as I carefully made my way back down to the ground my mind went to work.  How will we go about nurturing this new church start?  How will we disciple and train those who had gathered?  Will I ever be able to find this place again?  Will my Chitumbuka ever be good enough to communicate unhindered?  How long have these people waited for the Gospel?  How many more people wait at the end of footpaths around the world for the Gospel message to reach them?  How many people were in those villages invisible to my eye, but revealed by the smoke from their fires… and more importantly, how long will it take for us to get the Gospel to them?