Hello Holy Spirit, I am Five Years Old
His Terrifying Beauty
"Having been warned in a dream, he withdrew to the district of Galilee, and he went and lived in a town called Nazareth." - Matthew 2:22-23.
We sat inside on the cool tile floor doing our best to escape the tropical heat of the midday equatorial sun. My good friend and redneck traveling companion was doing his best to hide his nervousness. After spending the previous two years together planting a church in the urban center of one of America’s largest cities I knew when the color drained out of his face and the tops of his ears turned as red as maraschino cherries, it was game over - his heart was pumping. This definitely was not what he had in mind when I asked him to go on vacation with my family to the tropical paradise where we planted a church four years previously.
Only a few months earlier we were sitting together in one of Houston’s up and coming hipster neighborhoods drinking craft beer and smoking CAO cigars under the license of missional contextualization and Gospel expansion. Somehow, we were convinced that if Jesus had lived in the hipster heart of Houston in the 21st century, this is exactly what he would have been doing. So how we arrived a few weeks later in an ancient Hindu village hidden away in the lush volcanic foothills of Bali, far removed from the islands tourist beaten paths is altogether a novel to be written another day. However, for the sake of brevity, it is safe to say that neither one of us could have imagined, even wildly, what God had in store.
The smell of clove cigarettes and incense lightly perfumed the stagnant afternoon air. Only a few short minutes after our arrival my children were wild at play with the children of the village.
The sounds of their laughter bounced off the grey cinderblock walls that dotted the broken dirt path out front and filled the house with color. It is amazing how young children do not view race, culture or socio-economic class when carrying out the daily functions of their economies. Nor do they allow incompatible language to impede their communication. Laughter is laughter in any language. Most of the time, I wish the world was more childlike. However, as two large and formidable Balinese men, almost resembling warriors of days gone by, walked into the house and took a seat in front of us, I knew that was not the world where I currently found myself.
As my redneck friend’s face continued to flush with brilliant hues of culture shock, our host respectfully introduced these two men as her older brothers and then quickly dipped into the kitchen. I was wondering if the awkwardness that usually accompanies the meeting of two strangers introduced by a third would ensue, however, that is not what happened. Without wasting any time, Nyoman, the younger of the two, began to carry out the polite formalities every culture uniquely has when welcoming guests into ones home. After the necessary pleasantries were exchanged he got straight to the point, of which, I was caught completely by surprise.
Dressed in traditional Balinese attire, he told us he was a Hindu priest and recently had a dream while he was meditating in his village’s temple. I could tell this dream disturbed him as mentioning it caused the distance between his eyebrows to furrow, holding together at a point somewhere between concentration and distress. I could also tell he had the capacity to move from everyday surface level chitchat dripping in futility to the deeper and often turbulent water where men’s souls look for meaning. I immediately liked him. I like those who do not fear swimming beneath the surface of the everyday, those who understand there is a world beyond what can be seen by only standing on the shore of their experience.
Nyoman began to recount his dream, Wayan sat stoically motionless, watching us intently with his one good eye (his sister had warned us earlier not to ask him about the gapping hole in his face). If this guy lived during the golden age of piracy he most likely would have been crewing a ship resembling the Black Pearl under the command of Captain Jack Sparrow. Nyoman continued, “In this dream I was praying in my village temple and the spirits showed me two pendetas (holy men) traveling from another country. These two holy men are to come to my village and teach me the ways of God.” He continued, “I believe you are the holy men.” As he finished he held up both of his arms allowing us to see the hair on his forearms standing at attention. I felt a chill run through my nervous system. After he finished sharing his dream, I stared into his eyes, searching for some clue of pre-meditated deception. In no way did I feel the Spirit of God. This encounter was not in my plans, nor did I wish it to be.
“In this dream I was praying in my village temple and the spirits showed me two holy men traveling from another country. These two holy men are to come to my village and teach me the ways of God.” - Mangku
The fact of the matter was I was on vacation. The truth of the matter was I was running from God. The last thing I wanted to happen on this trip was a collision with Christ. I certainly was not looking for a new assignment. I was on the run, not on mission. My heart still laid waste in an unrecognizable heap of broken and smoldering ruin due to a series of soul crushing and hellishly life transforming events. These events violently shook my worldview and helped serve as a catalyst leading my family from inner city Houston, drinking craft beer with hipsters worried about what type of wax to use on their faux masculine mustaches, to an ancient unreached Balinese village who still used wood as its primary energy source to cook.
One of the things I have discovered on my faith journey, or more accurately, one of the things I have learned in life’s higher education of hard knocks is; no matter where I run or where I attempt to hide from God, there he is, and whether I like it or not, so am I. In other words, there is not a place on this planet that I can escape from God. There is not a place on this planet that I can escape from myself. The truth is the loving presence and grace of God given through Jesus is everywhere. His Spirit is omnipresent. David illustrates this in his writing of Psalm 139:7-10.
How did this Hindu priest identify me, someone he had known for less than thirty minutes, as a “holy man?” How did he know I would be able to teach him about God?
Nyoman’s invitation to teach him the ways of an unknown God certainly didn’t stem from my behavior, theology, dress, occupational title, education, reputation or any other externally signaled virtues. During that season, I certainly wasn’t carrying myself as a “holy person” speaking to others from a self-inflated gospel-less moral high ground. Just ask Lee, one of my best friends pastoring in Bali, who still brings up the time I kicked in his neighbor’s door because I needed to rescue my prized gladiator chicken, which happened to fly over the fence searching for freedom.
I don’t share the gospel because I know I am right, it is quite the contrary. I share the gospel because I know I am wrong. I know I am a man in need of forgiveness, acceptance and love. I know the depths of my own depravity, and honestly, it scares me. Christ is the only person who has unconditionally and unequivocally met the needs of my soul without pre-condition. He alone is good. He alone is holy, and he alone is the only person who has the right to stand upon the high ground.
Mangku driving our vintage Toyota over a wooden bridge in his village.
My daughter living in the village.
I don’t share the gospel because I know I am right, it is quite the contrary. I share the gospel because I know I am wrong. I know I am a man in need of forgiveness, acceptance and love.
On the cool tile floor with the smell of clove cigarettes and incense lightly perfuming the afternoon air, air filled with the unbridled laughter of children, God used the dreams of a Hindu priest to work in our lives. In the months that followed our meeting I realized there is no place on this planet where I can run. My family and I spent the next season of our lives, living in the village and sharing Jesus with Nyoman and his family.
2013 my family became the first foreigners to receive the village’s blessing to live within its limits. We were told by Nyoman that we were the first non-Hindus in the elders remembrance (including Dutch colonization and Japanese occupation) to be invited to become official members of its closed and restricted access community.
