Same Place, Different Locations

There was a haze in the air tonight.  You couldn't tell it right around you, but on the horizon, interrupted by dark mountains, it transformed the sunset into a dulled version of what could have been.  Red and orange turned a soft pink and yellow completely disappeared into the backdrop of the sky.  No clouds.  Only variations of blue, expansive blue, that darkened as you moved your eyes away from the sunset toward the east. This evening felt strangely familiar.  It didn't seem all that different from some of the sunsets I've seen in central North Carolina or southeast Alabama or from some of the evenings I've spent in southwest South Dakota.  If you took a second to look up tonight, we were looking at the same sun, the same sky, and, before long, we'd be looking at the same stars.  Tonight the sunset reminded me:

We're all in the same place, just different locations.

In America, I was surrounded every day by people who were happy, sad, frustrated, broken, alone, apathetic, angry, helpless, capable, cynical, poor, rich, joyful, and miserable.  In Honduras, I am surrounded every day by people who are happy, sad, frustrated, broken, alone, apathetic, angry, helpless, capable, cynical, poor, rich, joyful, and miserable.  Funny how that works.  When I left the States, I expected to find myself in a different place.  Turns out, I just traded landscapes.  I've learned that it doesn't really matter where you are in terms of latitude and longitude, you're always among the same people.  Sure, cultures change, skin colors change, languages change, and governments change, but in the grand scheme of things, we're all just lost souls trying to find an identity.  For some, that identity is wrapped up in trying to survive until the next day.  For many, they've found themselves in their abilities, in their money, or in their prestige.  For others, they've found themselves  in a job, a girl, a bottle, or a pill.  And there're still those who've found themselves in a false god: Buddha, Allah, or their own version of Jesus.  So you see, Honduras isn't all that different from the Bible belt which isn't all that different from the Horn of Africa which isn't all that different from London, or Tokyo, or Paris, or LA.

Hands down, the most unifying characteristic that we all share, regardless of hemisphere, political party, social status, or whether or not we've been blessed enough to have ever eaten at Bojangle's, is that we are all hopeless sinners desperately in need of a Savior.  Christian, can we please stop putting so much stock into where we are and start working out our salvation based on who we are in Christ?  I'm convinced that we will never reach our potential to make disciples and multiply the kingdom until we do so.  You are a child of God, redeemed from the dead by the precious blood of the Son, and empowered daily by the Holy Spirit to live a life of righteousness.  That is who you are in Christ and you "have received grace and apostleship to bring about the obedience of faith for the sake of his name among all the nations."  Your status as a child of God means that you are now commissioned for bringing about the obedience of faith for the sake of his name among all the nations.  This commission is reiterated multiple times in Scripture.  "Go, therefore and make disciples of all nations…." "You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem and in Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth." Paul even once asked for prayer that every time he opened his mouth he would "boldly proclaim the mystery of the gospel."

I hope you see that you are who you are in Christ so that you share Christ and his gospel with those around you.  It's not reserved for Superchristians, or missionaries, or pastors, but it's something that every child of God is redeemed to do.  Be assured, one day, when you stand in front of an all holy God who asks you what you did with his Son, you won't be able to say that you accepted him but didn’t tell others about him because you weren't called to be an overseas missionary or pastor.  That won't fly because no matter where you live and no matter what title you claim, you are surrounded by people who can't find their identity.  The person around the corner from you in Birmingham is the same person around the corner from me in Siguatepeque.  Maybe a different skin color, language, or social class, but still the same person: hopeless sinner desperately in need of a Savior.  The person that sits two seats down from you in Calculus is the same person that is working two doors down from my house: hopeless sinner desperately in need of a Savior.  

So you see, we're all in the same place, just different locations.  Life happens in Honduras just like it does in America.  People fail, they succeed, they're happy, they're not content, they're rich, they're poor.  They live in a cruel world because they lost money in the stock market or because they got sick from a water parasite.  There is no room to hide behind the safety and comfort of our everyday lives, that's too dangerous and you were redeemed for far more than that.  So whether you live in the suburbs or the Sahara, you are who you are in Christ for the same reason: to bring about the obedience of faith for the sake of his name among all the nations.  Don't be fooled by the culture, the language, or the circumstances around you…

…were all in the same place, just different locations.

Scandalous Grace: Testimonies from Honduras

Theodore was kicked out of his mother's house when he was 16.  No money, no job, no friends, and no hope led him to join Honduran Air Force.  For three years, the army not  only taught him to be a gunner, it also taught him how to drink and how to smoke pot.  Before long, causal use and abuse of drugs and alcohol turned into a full blown addiction.   Hard liquor, marijuana, gasoline, and glue were his go-to's to get high.  For 15 years, this was his life--a constant fight to stay high.   One day, Theodore sat in a large house,  completely empty except for one bed.  On one side of the bed was all the marijuana he could want.  On the other side of the bed was a bottle of glue good for sniffing.  In his  hand was a bottle of liquor.

Drunk, high and alone he sat pondering the last 15 years of hell that his life had turned into.
Drunk, high and alone he heard a voice tell him that he was created for more than the cheap thrills of substance abuse.
Drunk, high and alone he stammered into a church where he heard that God loved him and desired a relationship with him.
Drunk, high and no longer alone, he turned his life over to Christ on that day.

The next 15 days were the hardest days of his life.  Detox.  Withdrawals.  Cold sweats.  Migraines.  Every passing second the Devil was screaming at him, reminding him  where his drugs and alcohol were, making him keenly aware that the pain, the headaches, and misery could all disappear with one sip, one drag, or one sniff.  But he also  heard God whispering to him, "I am better.  I am worth this. I have plans for you."  Spiritual warfare at its toughest.

But Theodore persevered.  God was enough. The addictions that plagued him for so long had been crushed by Christ.  Theodore  has since attended seminary and served as  a missionary high in the mountains of Honduras.  He told me of the next-to-impossible living conditions in those mountains, but this was not the first time that he had  nothing but God to depend on.  I asked him if, despite the living conditions and the spiritual depravity, God was enough.  His face twisted as if surprised that I would ask such a dumb question.

"Absolutely," he answered.



Rudy was a popular guy.  He frequented dance clubs during his younger (and thinner) days and won people over with his breakdancing.  But as it turned out, all the friends and attention in  the world didn't satisfy him.  He knew there was something more.  He tried alcohol, but still nothing.  He tried women--nothing.  Emptiness consumed him.  Emptiness  continued to consume him until the day he heard the words from Joshua 1:9.  "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous.  Do not be frightened, and do not be  dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."  That was it.  That was the hope, the significance, the meaning that Rudy so desperately longed after.  He  went on to quote 2 Corinthians 5:17 to tell me how his life completely changed after coming to know Christ.

He is now an incredible mason, tile layer, and all around workhorse.   He considers himself a national missionary because he shares his faith unashamedly with as many  people as he can.  He has shared the gospel with gang members, assassins, addicts and everyone in between.  He now has "grandchildren" in the faith as some of those that  he helped lead to Christ are now doing the same.  His love for God and his joy in life are inescapable and contagious.



Alex was a runner.  When both parents walked out, he and his 8 brothers and sisters were forced to fend for themselves.  He was the first one to try to make it to America,  so he took off running.  He eventually made it, became a legal immigrant, and planned to stake his new life in Texas.  He arrived to America not knowing a single word of  English, but he was determined.  He read the newspaper every day and soaked up every bit of English that he could handle.  Not long after he set up his new life in America,  through events that could be orchestrated by none other than God himself, Alex became a Christian.  Then, not long after that, he felt God calling him back to Honduras.  He  didn't want to though, so he took off running again.  This time, in the opposite direction, Canada.  It's no wonder that Alex calls himself a modern day Jonah.

It didn't take but a few years in Canada for Alex to realize that God still wanted him back in Honduras.  This time, instead of running away, Alex obeyed.  He returned to  Honduras where he is now a pastor.  He studies God's word diligently and is currently in the process of translating commentaries into Spanish for use in discipleship.  He  believes with all his heart that Honduras' greatest need is the gospel, and so he has devoted his life to proclaiming it to his national brothers and sisters.



These are three incredible testimonies of men that I have the privilidge of serving alongside.  With each one, the gospel becomes more and more real to me.  Our death and depravity discussed in Ephesians 2 only becomes more real.  The power of the saving blood Christ discussed in Hebrews 9 only becomes more incredible.

Behold your God!  What a glorious master we serve!  What a scandalous God we serve that takes the broken, the angry, the bitter, the hurting, and the addicted and turns them into instruments for multiplication of his Kingdom. God's plan for the redemption of this world will not be thwarted.  How amazing it is that our God saves!  How awesome it is that our God redeems, that he brings the dead to life!


Like the sunrise, which every morning brings new mercies, our God is forever offering irresistible, life-changing, scandalous grace.

"Home for the weak.  Home for the poor.  Home for the broken.  Home for the angry.  Home for the bitter and confused.  Home for the broken.  Home for the hurting.  Home for the cynic.  Home for the addicted.  Home for those who've lost all the words to all their songs.  Do you not know? Have you not hear?  Your Father does not get weary of you."

One Thousand Words

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words.  I suppose I could take a picture for you, but I guarantee that it wouldn't do justice to what I am seeing.  For example, if I had taken a picture, you wouldn't have known that I almost had to change my pants because of the ungodly noise that just came out of a bird in the tree next to me.  But, now you know.  If I had taken picture, you wouldn't have known that the temperature in Siguatepeque right now is, in a word, perfect.  You know that temperature where you can't really even tell if it's hot or cold, it just is?  Well, because I didn't take a picture, now you know that.  So, instead of taking a picture, which is apparently worth 1,000 words, here is 1,000 words.

Things move slower in Honduras.  I suppose it may be that way in any Latin American country, but since Honduras is the extent of my travels in Latin America, I will liken it only to Honduras for the time being.  Sure, the minute hand still takes 60 minutes to complete a full circle, but for some reason, everything operates slower.  Everything is so fast paced at home.  You must get to work on time.  If you're early, you're on time and if you're on time, you're late.  I haven't seen that here.  Here, it's okay to stop and talk to your neighbor, or stop to pick a lemon.  And let me tell you, the lemons are huge.

Every morning so far, after my eggs or cereal or oatmeal or bagel and after my orange juice and after my time with God, I hear in a loud Honduran voice, "Rrrrrroberto!"  Of course, there is no mistaking that Tungo, my fellow carpenter/maintenance man extraordinaire, is greeting me good morning.  He usually thinks of a phrase overnight to ask me how to say in English.  This morning he wanted to know how to say "la luna esta bonita por la noche," which, of course, in English means, "the moon is beautiful at night."  Then, throughout the day, he will correct me when I conjugate a word incorrectly or when I accidently put "la" with a masculine word or "el" with a feminine one (he's a real stickler for that). We talk in Spanish throughout the day, which is comforting to know that I can and he understands me.  He leaves like clockwork at noon for lunch because it is, after all, the most important meal of the day (to a Honduran at least).  I usually work until I reach a stopping point then walk back to my house to fix lunch.  The past few days, it has been turkey on white with two pieces of lettuce, a Kraft singles slice of American cheese, and a tomato which I am not sure will ever ripen.  Oh, and of course mayonnaise.   I usually drink water because I haven't been able to make sweet tea yet.  Sweet tea, normally, would be a paramount task when preparing a kitchen, but the reason I do not have any has everything to do with the fact that I bought milk in a bag.  But before I tell you how those two relate, allow me to take you to the place where I bought said bagged milk.

They say that Del Corral is the nicest supermarket in all of Honduras.  That's probably because it's one of the only supermarkets in all of Honduras.  Most of them aren't the "super" kind.  Del Corral is the Publix of Honduras, or if you're from North Carolina, the Harris Teeter of Honduras.  Well, actually, that comparison only works if every other supermarket in America was a hole in the wall on the side of the road.  But you get the point.  They have American brands, but you will pay through the nose for them.  Even still, I splurged to get the authentic Quaker Apples n' Cinnamon oatmeal to which I am so accustomed to eating, and the Double Stuffed Golden Oreos.    I got really good at dividing by 20.  Honduras Lempiras are 20:1 compared to the dollar.  For example, my Quaker Apples n' Cinnamon oatmeal was 100 Lempira, which cost 5 bucks.  For the most part, things are cheaper than they are at home, but it still is going to take some getting used to when I see 214 next to the Gain laundry detergent.  Once  my outrage has subsided, I remember to divide by 20.  About 10 bucks….that'll do.  And again, it's kind of weird to see 1,720 on the cash register upon check out.  Then I remember to divide by 20.  90 bucks….that'll do too.  

So back to the milk.  I knew I wouldn't drink a whole gallon of milk before it expired, so my only other option was to buy a quart of milk in a bag.  After being assured that it was the same milk, just packaged differently, I decided to buy it.  (Sidenote: some of you remember in elementary school when they stopped selling milk in cartons and started to sell it in bags?  Well, needless to say, this brought back memories).  Jump to the following morning after I bought groceries.  I wake up to the thought of Frosted Flakes, better known as Zucaritas.  As I get my milk out of the refrigerator, I begin to foresee all kinds of misfortune stemming from this bag o' milk.  First of all, how do you pour milk out of a bag?  Secondly, how on God's green earth do you store milk in a non-resealable bag?  Well, being the cunning fellow that I am, I decide to pour my milk from its bag into the half gallon pitcher that I found in my kitchen.  Genius!  All of my milk-related problems are solved!  Now, flash forward to lunch time.  As is custom, I am prepared to drink sweet tea with my meal.  So, I start to make my tea only to find that…….there are no more pitchers in my house.  Panic.  Search every cabinet, every drawer.  Alas, no pitcher.  This only means one thing, I have no apparatus in which to store my sweet tea.  What a costly blunder I have made!  I put milk, a drink of which I only partake out of necessity, in the only pitcher I own whilst shunning the possibility of being able to have sweet tea, which, everybody knows, is the most delightful drink a man can drink!  You can be assured that I won't be making that mistake again.

After lunch, I return to, "Rrrrrrroberto!"  Naturally, I respond with "Tungooooo!"  I have been painting an on-campus apartment for married seminary student while Tungo does electrical work/corrects my Spanish.  He tells me the English words that are hard for him to say.  He gets "kitchen" and "chicken" confused.  I've never thought of those words being difficult to say.  In all fairness, however, he probably doesn't think "taladro" is hard to say either (that's the word for "drill").  The afternoon clicks on by, slowly, but not painfully so--delightfully.  Sometime in the afternoon you can start to smell the burning trash.  Think of an odd mixture of sweet and hot smells and you have burning trash.  It really stings the nostrils.  It's not so bad though.  Late in the afternoons  are so pleasant.  I can hear three 8, 9 and 10 year olds LARPing Star Wars while a three year old tries to tag along.  There is a constant breeze; a nice relief from the intense sun that has produced temperatures north of 80.  The heat dissipates quickly though.  By 4:30, it starts to be that kind of weather I was talking about, where you can't feel it, it just is.

The evenings are easy here.  The crickets produce a constant chirp.  The breeze blows my blinds into a clanking nose if I leave the windows open, which I usually do.  I pass the hours with my buddy J.I. Packer, or with my guitar, or with the apostle Paul, or with King David usually while a mixture of Shane & Shane, David Crowder and Walking in Memphis play in the background.  The talented Matt Thiessen reminds me that "loneliness and solitude are two things not to get confused, 'cause I spend my solitude with You."  It really does ring true.  So far, I have coveted my evenings because they are such a wonderful time so spend with my God.  Reading, praying, memorizing.  I can feel my faith growing in the evenings.

Skype is quickly becoming a best friend of mine.  I am thankful that technology affords me the ability to talk with family and friends.  It was difficult to say goodbye.  I try to remind myself that it's only one year, but you never know.  That hug I gave them before I left could be the last one the every receive from me.  Even with the ability to talk and video chat, the reality that none of us are guaranteed tomorrow weighs heavy on my heart.  It is these times that I have to remind myself of Jesus' words in Luke 14.  "If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple."  Please understand the context, here.  I do not hate my family, but I do love Jesus more.  What is even more comforting, is that Jesus gives hope to those willing to commit to such a task in Matthew 19.  "Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands, for my name's sake, will receive a hundredfold and will inherit eternal life."  It is all worth it.  Every tear, every lonely night, every missed moment to come will be worth it.  I am in Honduras so that, one day, the slaughtered Lamb and conquering Lion might receive every bit of glory that he deserves for drinking the full cup of God's holy wrath that was due to us.  It doesn't matter the price.  This mission is worth it.

Now that night has fully overtaken Siguatepeque, the crickets still chirp, but now I can hear the road.  It bustles with motorcycles, and cars, and jake brakes.  Siguatepeque will soon be asleep, only to rise again tomorrow.  To rise again to stare life, or death, right in the face.  Many will rise again and their day will be filled simply with trying to survive until the next.  But there is hope.  There is hope because there is still life, and as long as there is life, there is hope.  There is hope that God might grip a heart with irresistible grace and burden it over its own wickedness.

Will you join me in praying that God might do this to some in Siguatepeque?

You see, had I just taken a picture, you wouldn't have gotten that.  I can still smell the burning trash, but you wouldn't have known that from a picture.   You actually get two pictures tonight because that was about 2,000 words.

Don't worry, the second one's on me.