Part of the turf that goes with pastoring Southern Baptist churches is the annual tipping of the hat to international missions under the banner of Lottie Moon. At least that’s how I viewed it for many years: “It’s Lottie time again, let me work up a missions sermon and slide it in somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but reaching the nations just wasn’t high on my priority list. I had bigger, closer fish to fry in reaching a community and growing a church.
It’s what I prepared for in seminary. Some of us “preacher boy” students were perplexed by our classmates who were preparing for the mission field. We didn’t understand their devotion to far-flung peoples. We were bemused by the “missionary shirts” some of them wore (if you know, you know). They’d graduate and go off to do their thing, whatever that was — but we “normal” folks intended to become pastors who would lead churches to grow.
Once in full-time ministry, I did the annual Lottie cycle for a number of years: Announce it, preach on it, give to it, and move on. But early in my third pastorate, I discovered that a number of my church members regularly participated in international mission projects.
I was going to have to up my game. How could I lead an actively “going” congregation if I wasn’t into it myself? I needed to go, earn my international missions merit-badge, and then get back into the office and the pulpit as soon as possible.
So, I joined a team from our church that went into Southeast Asia to hold mobile medical clinics in villages. I served mainly as the waiting-room evangelist.
One afternoon, three of us decided to walk up a path into the thick of the village to see what God might do. As noble as that might sound, we didn’t really want to go; we guilted ourselves into it.
We quickly encountered a Christian villager who asked us to go share with her non-believing (and highly resistant) husband. She led us to her bamboo house, let us in … and immediately left. We looked at each other and then at her husband, who was standing there, unsmiling. He invited us to sit. Then, through our translator, we launched into our unsolicited gospel presentation. It met with silence.
As we finished, the husband stood and walked to the far side of the room. He reached for a blade that was hanging on the wall. He pivoted and started walking in our direction.
Our hearts began to pound. Failing to sound calm, we were frantically asking our translator: “What’s going on? What’s he going to do?” He stopped about five feet away from us. The translator spoke to the man but got no answer.
Instead, the man raised the blade and put it to his own wrist. In half a second, our fear turned to relief, then to a different dread — but he put the tip of the blade under the woven bracelet he was wearing. It was the decades-worn symbol of his lifelong bondage to the demonic “god” of his village. With a flick, he severed the bracelet, which fell to the dirt floor. He put down the blade and asked Jesus to save him.
Two people repented that day: the man, and me. I returned to my office and pulpit all right, but with a new priority: doing my part to physically help take the gospel to the ends of the earth. Our 2023 South Carolina Baptist Convention theme is: “Let’s Go!” I pray that as many of our pastors as possible will personally engage lostness overseas in the coming year.