jungle revelations

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.

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.

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