Monday December 14th, 2009
I have monitored an ant hill for hours, watching the almost mystical machine-like precision of the ants as they went about their various tasks like cogs in a mound shaped wheel. Each had a single task it relentlessy pursued and yet not one strayed outside the strict parameters of the collective effort. Three strained together carrying a green stem. A parade of soldiers marching from the other direction never touched them. Dozens of others gravitated toward the center hole, foraging and scouting without ever crossing paths or crossing purposes. When one encountered the sudden danger of my stamped foot, the entire colony seemed to spring into action together as one as if controlled by an unseen force watching from on high. I have often wondered what it would be like to encounter the hive mind. Now I have seen it: it is the mind of Christ.
When we began our adventure we were a rag-tag band of 24 disparate individuals who did not even know each other's names. But that was a lifetime ago. That was Saturday.
Our travels were remarkable mainly because everything went so flawlessly. No one was late to the airport. We all had our passports. The planes took off with minimum delays. The flights were smooth, even luxurious -- some of us even had three seats in a row upon which we could recline as we crossed the Atlantic. The bus was awaiting us upon our arrival in Bristol which was a first for us. The bus was spacious and new and the driver friendly and efficient. We even stayed a bit ahead of schedule as we toured some sites on Sunday. There were, however, a few major glitches.
First, three of us almost missed our flight From Houston to Newark. We all mistakenly assumed that We were all on the same flight which was to depart many hours later. But as a nearby gate was boarding for Newark, David and Kelly Ranney noticed that they were supposed to be on board. Right now! A panic ensued as everyone feverishly began to clamber for their boarding passes to check the gate and flight times. Of course, several of us were shopping deep in the bowels of the airport so footfalls and phone calls were cast to contact them so they could check their boarding passes. The three made their flight and were enthroned in shoeshine chairs waiting for the rest of the team as we arrived in Newark, but there were still some anxious moments.
But the anxiety only resulted in an amusing story. Less amusing, however, was the moment we all shared as we tried to pass through immigration in Bristol. We knew that we were not to mention that we were associated with a church or a mission or we would be expelled from the country. We had even been told by a seasoned Baptist missionary on the ground that with the restrictions being so tightenend by the British government and with so many of us going, that he thought at least some of might not make it through. Allen Rice was particularly worried about this and he had been for weeks.
The real trouble started when a young immigration official began interrogating Tim King trying to pressure him into admitting he was with a religious group. But Tim kept his cool. Next, the official made Allen come forward all the way from the back of the line. Perhaps five minutes of interrogation followed that would make Jack Bauer proud. But Tim and Allen were allowed to pass through, and after them, the rest of the group was permitted to pass without real comment. It was not an altogether stressless moment. But God was faithful and Tim was graceful under pressure.
We had a huge breakfast at a pub which kindly opened just for us (we were seated before the chefs arrived to work). It was an old boathouse with walls like castle fortifications and crossbeams like masts of galleons. It was truly marvelous. Frank Wheeler said he had to keep reminding himself that it was not a Disneyland version of a Welsh pub -- it was real. We spent an hour touring the great ruined monastery of Tintern Abbey, all giant gray stone and holy mists fast by the flowing Wye River which cuts through the sheer limestone cliffs of the deep Wye Valley. The structure is a monument to medieval craftsmanship and to the God they revered. We gloried in the abbey and revered Him too.
Then on to the broad-shouldered triple-moated towers of Caerphilly Castle where we ran smack-dab into a "Medieval Market" which gave the ancient site the kind of circus-like liveliness it must have had in the 1200's when it was completed. There were leaning walls, motley fools, and chainmailed knights for our wonder and amazement. Not even chill winds or a brief spitting rain could dampen the large crowd's spirits or ours.
The next stop was Swansea and the glittering Dragon Hotel where we were met by Derek Rees and his childhood friend and fellow churchman, Iestin. Derek is the 23 year old first time Baptist pastor of a new church -- the first Welsh-speaking church plant in the last 75 years of Welsh History! It is also the only Welsh-speaking evangelical church in Swansea. Ever. There were many bright introductions, animated conversations, and and even a few hugs as the team was finally completed. We ate at a brightly lit pub called Witherspoons where we were accosted and entertained by a drunken Welshman with a booming voice like a tiger's growl. Then we made our way to Capel Gomer where Derek cast his grand vision of what Capel Gomer could be as a beacon of light for Swansea and all of Wales. The team received the vision and merged it with the rainbow creativity of their spiritual gifting:
Kelly Ranney saw a small hole between the kitchen and a fellowship Hall and saw a doorway. Within 24 hours it became a doorway in large part to the leadership of Kory Millard, whose quiet demeanor was usually only broken whe he playfully denied he was a professional construction supervisor. Caleb McCaleb, Construction Team High Commander, assigned the grand task of the Worship Center to Lonnie Hamman whose intensive standards of able craftsmanship drove his team into what seemed to be an ever-increasing pace and fervor as they removed the deacon box, pulpit, and side pews and replaced them with a stage with an ornamental oak facade that made it seem like been in place since the church's foundation was founded. Randy Juengel envisioned an outdoor patio were there stood a stone landing at the base of moss-covered stairs like a bad seventies shag carpet. Tom King put in a fashionable pair of lightning bolt-shaped track lighting assemblies in the curch entryway which advanced the tone to the 21st century back from the sixties -- by which I mean the 1860's. Buddy Hatchell by faith alone willed a utilities truck to appear fifteen feet away from him so a man could consult him on the Byzantine mysteries of British gas and electrical systems. We saw a gray box-like frontage of bland charcoal concrete and Stephen Wilson envisioned the gates of Eden. Joshua McCaleb, Brady Juengel, Jonathan Roth, Blake Ranney, and Michael Cross became a blur of muscular arms and testosterone-powered legs as they lifted, carried, set down, lifted and re-carried a forest of pews and piles of bricks and lumber. Everyone soldiered on in their labors of love, growing stronger in their morale as they went and sensing that their labors of love were part of a bigger picture they could glimpse briefly out of the corners of their eyes when they stooped to catch their breaths or to munch a slice of pizza.
We began a lifetime ago as a ragtag band who did not know each other's names. In one day on the job, we moved in inexplicable harmony, sensing a direction from on high and a wondrous synergy in our spoken and especially in our unspoken actions. Like a Convergence. Like a tribe of ants emerging from the mound of faith and common experience.
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