Have you ever wondered what persecution actually looks like? American Christians often associate persecution with getting a snicker from someone when they decide to wear a Christian T-shirt, or made fun of for listening to Christian music. You might actually deserve to get laughed at if you are/were listening to some of the overdone, over produced junk that was making babies cry back in the nineties. Some of you may actually have been shut down in a conversation when you began to talk about Him, or maybe you had the gumption to say something in your college biology class. This is what the American church often associates with persecution and often times these people are exalted as heroes of the faith, but should they?
I just returned from another trip to the mountains. A volunteer team came from the States and along with some local believers we headed into the hills. I love the training that we often do among the villages, but sharing with those that have never heard makes my blood flow. This trip focused on that. We trekked from village to village sharing with anyone that would listen. The Good News was preached and by the grace of The Mighty One Who Saves, a few were added to the number!!! As incredible as this was, something else seared my memory more.
Most of the people we shared with had never heard of the King, but in all the villages that we visited there seemed to be one family of believers standing fearlessly in the midst of the darkness. Some of these endured some persecution in their villages, but one family stood out among these faithful. Arriving in the village about eleven in the morning we headed to a house where one of the guys with us knew of a believer. This woman was excited to see us and welcomed us. She was going to cook lunch for us, so we headed out into the village to start sharing. This village probably would have gotten a dusting of the feet from those The Savior sent out in Luke as they were not welcoming, and they immediately told a few of the guys to hit the road at the first mention of the Name above all names. One man followed a couple of the guys to the next house and told the house that they did not want to hear what we were telling. This lead us very quickly to the school that for some reason let us come and talk with the children.
I have a very limited vocabulary in the language here, but I love to talk with the kids too much to let this stop me from embarrassing my self. The translators were helping the others so I headed into one of the classes on my own. I began to talk with the children and after about ten minutes I had ran out of things to say. I also may have been laughed out of the room as my southern draw can really butcher a word or two. This country has two greetings one is used by all and another is used when believers address each other. As I was leaving the classroom I said, “Namaste,” the word used to greet and say good-bye to all, but something happened I was not expecting. I heard about fifteen kids say Namaste but I also heard a very boldly spoken, “Jamic.” This is the term for believers. I quickly turned looked around asked who it was, and said Jamic back to a young boy that had identified himself as a believer. I would later learn his name was Rupak. This would have probably been enough to keep me going a few more days, but his story is only just beginning.
Leaving the school we returned to the believers house. We filtered some water and prepared to eat Dal-Bhatt one more time. This really is not a bad meal, but after eating it twice a day for five days just a tiny bit of luster is lost. We ate and then after that we just rested for about an hour. The children getting out of school quickly brought us out of our slumber as they all wanted to come see the new attraction to their village. This is when I learned the little boy who proudly shouted his faith in class was the son of this equally incredible woman. One of the guys in the group is the worship leader at his home church, and one of the locals had actually been carrying a guitar from village to village. The guitar was brought out and a great time of sitting on dirt floors and worshiping the Risen King commenced. Worship was incredible and as a few villagers showed to hear the praise; the News was preached. After this we asked the woman if there was anyway we could pray for her. She spoke about being the only believers in her village and the hurt that comes with it. She mentioned not being welcomed into homes, how the villagers spoke to her family, how they were gossiped about and then about her son. She told us how her ten year old son was picked on for his beliefs. That he was beaten up on regular occasion because he was willing to die to himself and carry the cross to school. She also told how teachers turned a blind eye to the mocking. My eyes began to water and the little boy that had made his way to sit by my side during worship was pulled to my chest.
That moment produced one though in my mind, “I can’t believe I ever thought I knew what persecution was.” My arrogance in my faith was humbled. What a prideful man I was, that I am. A ten year old boy and his mother taught me more about faith than I in my pride ever thought I could learn. This young boy knows something I will probably never know. He knows truly what it is like to be made a mockery of, he has experienced what Paul speaks about and truly has felt the joy that many of us in American talk about be willing to do, knowing that we never will. I was also completely struck by the mother. She did not discourage her child from standing on His unending grace, but spoke proudly of a son that had been kicked, hit and scorned for The King. I remember telling my parents that I should get money for the A’s on my report card like the other kids in class. I also remember that every time this was met with one response, “we are not giving you money for doing what you are capable of and what is expected of you.’’ While sitting with this family though, I could see the mother with the same look my parents gave. The school may not stand up for her child but neither was he expected to hide his faith. Would I let my child endure beatings for His sake. Would my family stand and praise when our God caused my son such pain. I knew in that moment that I had no business among such people of great faith.
I realize that persecution happens to every Christin in some form, and if it is not you really might want to think of a new term to describe yourself. The truth is that persecution can manifest in many ways, and I do not want to down play it too much. The idea though that a small snicker from a Christian t-shirt is described sometimes using the same word as used in describing a beating or in some parts of the world death is both arrogant and ignorant. I have forever been challenged by the faith of a ten year old man of faith and his mother. I hope that you will let this story challenge you as well. Persecution will come but He as I learn more and more, is beyond faithful.
