Apostolic Adventures & Beginnings
by
Jonas Clark
Where Every Great Ministry Begins.
Learning great lessons from the Lord sometimes requires you to be
adventurous. One of my Gospel adventures was in Honduras, a Central
American country not much larger than the state of Tennessee. God
sent me there one summer and it was a journey I won’t soon forget.
As a matter of fact, just getting there was a small adventure in and
of itself.
First, I traveled three hours by jet from Miami to San Pedro Sula, a
large industrial city. From there I boarded another jet headed for
La Ceiba, a port city on the northern coast known for packing and
transporting bananas. Then I spent another two hours on a small
single-engine plane that landed in a cow pasture next to a little
village called La Palacio, which in English means “the palace.”
La Palacio is a quiet fishing village next to the southern coast
where a river offers the only form of transportation for those
daring enough to explore the jungle frontier between Honduras and
Nicaragua. It was at La Palacio that I found the owner of an old
motorized wooden canoe who offered to take me down the river to my
final destination. Traveling down the river was a wonderful
experience. The air smelled fresh and the cool breeze hitting my
face was revitalizing after a long day of travel.
My tropical view included palm trees along the riverbank like none I
had ever seen before. Just beyond the palms were towering oaks and
thick scrubs that wouldn’t let me see what treasures hid afar. Bold
tree branches extended across the river and hosted beautiful orchids
dressed in yellow and red. I remember putting my hand in the
brackish water only to remove it quickly, remembering the TV program
I once saw that featured a story about man-eating fish with
monstrous appetites. I didn’t want to take any chances! As we
rounded a bend in the river, three blue and gold Macaw parrots flew
over head. I had never seen these birds in the wild before. How
graceful they were, speaking to one other as they disappeared into
the jungle.
As the sun began to set, I finally arrived at my destination: a
small, tin-roofed, windowless church next to the river. At the
river’s edge, I was greeted by an eager group of smiling Hondurans
who were waiting there to meet me. They quickly escorted me to the
entrance of their little church. It was amazing to see so many
people gathered into such a small place. The congregation had been
anticipating my arrival and the welcome was warm.
To describe the church as humble would be a vast understatement. As
I turned to my text, I took a moment to gaze at those in attendance.
There were no cushioned chairs. Instead, people sat on narrow wooden
planks stretched across concrete blocks atop dirt floors. The praise
and worship wasn’t marked by electronic keyboards, drum beats and
horns, but rather consisted of cheerful voices, hand claps, and one
fellow who strummed the oldest looking guitar I had ever seen. Sound
system? Hardly, but there was the occasional chicken scurrying
across the sanctuary floor in furious pursuit of a bug that was
unfortunate enough to enter its territory. I saw bare-breasted
mothers who didn’t mind nursing their infants during the service.
Small children sat on the floor playing with large black beetles
that joined the service because they were attracted to the light.
That light was a single-bulb fixture spliced to a strand of exposed
electrical wire that dangled over the pulpit, suspended by a nail
from the open rafters of the roof above. Unfortunately, while the
light attracted crawling insects, it offered little help in reading
the scriptures from my Bible.
The sound of the gas-powered generator running out back was constant
until it started to sputter and finally ran out of gas. I was sort
of glad it did because it didn’t add anything to the spiritual
climate of the meeting. When it quit, a man dressed in a plain white
shirt and tattered black pants (with no belt) quickly brought in a
kerosene lantern and hung it on a nail just to the left above my
head. As he trimmed the wick I could see curious eyes peaking
through the holes that doubled for windows as many outside the
building gathered around and pressed against the weathered clapboard
siding. Suddenly those in attendance began to shout with praises to
God thanking him for lighting up the service again. Despite the
rural setting, the meetings were powerful as the Holy Spirit met the
peoples’ needs. With all my heart, I preached and then closed with
prayer. Still, those hungry Hondurans didn’t budge from their seats.
They wanted more. They actually refused to leave, and so I prayed
and preached some more from another chapter.
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Late
that night, after the service was over, I walked the trail to a fish
camp next to the river where I would spend the night. My only guide
was the low beam of a flashlight that I had in my backpack and one
of God’s faithful servants. I slept in a hammock that was strung
between two wooded columns. The hammock was about 12 inches off the
floor, which was just enough to keep the little creeping things from
getting under the blanket with me. The cost was two American dollars
per night and a complementary breakfast was not included.
The next day I arose early and set out to find some food. Outside
the fish camp were several dirt trails that led in many directions.
I took the one adjacent to the river because it looked the most
traveled. After a few minutes on the trail I spotted a small wooden
building with smoke coming out of a homemade metal chimney. They
were serving food for the locals and I wandered in and sat down at a
crude-looking wooden table hoping they would know why I was there.
To my delight they served me up some red beans with rice, two eggs
and the strongest black coffee I had ever tasted.
When I was almost done eating, my translator showed up at the
doorway with a big smile on his face and asked, “Are you enjoying
your breakfast? It’s not often that we see foreigners eat Iguana.”
“Iguana?” I replied.
“That’s right,” he said. “Those are Iguana eggs. People around here
love them. Couldn’t you tell? They look like chicken eggs but don’t
have any shell.” Well that put a quick end to my adventures in fine
jungle dining. As the day progressed and the sun heated the place to
an almost unbearable temperature, I felt light years away from the
conveniences of modern civilization.
Witchcraft laced with discouragement hit my mind in retaliation from
the night before. I felt totally out of place. I strolled along
another dirt trail in search of a Coke and thought, “If I could only
find some ice it would be no small miracle.” As I continued my hunt,
I reflected on the night before. I meditated on the incredible need
of the people, the poverty, the humility and the spiritual hunger,
but all those images collided with any conception of ministry that I
had seen on Christian television. I must admit, my perspective of
ministry was really being challenged and I was wrestling with
whether or not I should even have been there. It was hot, muggy and
nasty, and there were bugs greeting me from everywhere. Nobody had
ever told me about this side of the ministry before. I wasn’t sure
that I wanted to live a life like that or not. “Did I miss God? Am I
really cut out for this?” I asked myself.
As I pulled a red and black handkerchief (that I sometimes used as a
bandana) from my jean pocket and wiped the sweat from my face the
Holy Spirit interrupted my walk. In a still small voice He spoke
these words to me, “Every great ministry is birthed in a manger –
not in a palace.” How convicting were His words! I quickly repented
of my pride, got my heart right and remembered that my King Jesus
left His golden palace to be born in a manger. With a single word of
encouragement the Holy Spirit put me back on course. I couldn’t wait
to return to that little church next to the river. Now, every time
the Holy Spirit asks me to go to a place that’s uncomfortable, I
clearly remember the words He spoke to me one clammy day on a
Honduran jungle trail and they inspire me to do whatever it takes to
spread the Gospel.
© by Jonas Clark
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