Fire in the Hole

I am driving through a forest of sugar cane on my way to a church in Bungoma, Kenya to preach a message of revival.  There is a sweet, heavy smell that lies in the air as we meander down a mud path that runs alongside fields of 7-foot high sugar cane.  I get this weird feeling of what it would be like to get lost in that jungle with some tiger is in there stalking me … or is that in India? 

Anyway, we are off the beaten track way out in the bush, and I am wondering how many people will be waiting at this church.  This is not the first time that I preached in a mud hut far out into the bush with only a handful of people in attendance, and in every instance, the Holy Spirit drenches the service.  It is almost as if God honors our commitment to preach even to the least of His people in these small, out-of-the-way churches where other big-time preachers will not come. 

There is a lot to be said for preaching at small churches.  Things happen there that cannot be duplicated in big arenas.  Besides the issue of humility and brokenness in extending mercy to the few and the poor, there is something to be said about watching God take a small beginning and using it to magnify His power.  Peter was called to a very small meeting in Acts 10, and it opened the door to the dispensation of the Gentiles – no small thing at all.

Regardless of the agenda, I am going to preach there whether there is a dozen or a hundred … that is, if we can find our way through these back roads.  As for everything else, I will let God figure out -- I’m just following His lead.

So far, I have preached in over 30 churches … or maybe that was 40 churches.  Everything has become a kaleidoscope of places, churches, pastors, messages, names and places.  Sometimes I wake up with this startling realization that I am halfway around the world, but mostly I just keep marching through a blur of services, aiming for that final date so I can head back home. 

As tired as I am, however, it seems like the power of God that falls on each service is greater than the one before –regardless of the size of the congregation.  While the message of repentance and revival is just as shattering in each service, the altar calls at the close of service seem to be increasing in power as we go from church to church. 

People are touched so deeply that you can feel chains snap and hearts break open like a flower in bloom.  Some people seem like they are getting charged, as if they have been plugged into an electrical socket as soon as I touch them.  Many sway back and forth, floating in a sea of the Spirit as I pray over them, while others simply go into a swoon as soon as the Spirit of God touches them.

I know what you’re thinking – they are just “emotional” and are easily affected by such an intense experience.  Listen, I know they aren’t faking it because I can feel it as it happens; it’s like the Spirit of God flows through me just as they are slain in the Spirit, and I can feel the release of the Holy Ghost as they go down.  At the end of each service, I feel like I am a hollow vessel that has had a river pouring through it, and is left empty, washed, and drained.  I’m serious – this is as real as it gets!

Something big is going on.  I’m not entirely sure what is happening in the spiritual realms, but I know that whatever it is, it’s increasing in power and intensity as I go from church to church.  Whatever it is, this is something we haven’t seen in a long time.

When we finally arrived at the church, it was as I expected – a shed cobbled together with mud walls, dirt floor, and a rusty, corrugated iron roof that is just big enough to hold a couple dozen people squeezed in together on rickety benches to hear a message from God.  And once again, the power of the Holy Ghost poured out in a little tiny spot out in the middle of nowhere to touch the souls of those who were hungry for God.

And I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on the face of the Earth.