Loving the "lost" when the "lost" has a face

The past few weeks I got to spend trekking to various villages in the foothills of the Himalayas. Even as I sit down to write, my mind is overwhelmed with the memories, stories, and scenes that I saw. There were moments of jaw-dropping beauty in the mountains, but there were also tear-filled moments as I experienced the heavy spiritual darkness in some of these villages. While I plan on writing a later blog post on the amazing and inspiring believers we met in the mountains, I want to first share about the no-longer-abstract “lost” people I met these past few weeks. I don’t think I’ll ever be quite the same after my experiences here, and I’d like to take you with me as I reflect back on the past few weeks.

One of the first villages we went to did not have a single believer, and we were warned to be careful here as a Buddhist lama (spiritual leader) had a tight grip on this village and it would be potentially dangerous to share our faith here. As we spent time visiting various houses and sharing the gospel, we were met with nearly the same response from everyone: spiritual interest, but overwhelming fear of family and the lama. One of my staff members explained that in this culture, people don’t pray for individual converts, but for entire villages to be converted. In America, which is a highly individualistic culture, one’s faith is seen as theirs alone, and while influenced by one’s family and context, that decision of faith is widely acknowledged as one’s own personal choice. However, in this communal culture, stepping outside of the village’s current religion and tradition can be very offensive and relationally dangerous, risking ostracism and persecution. I remember one young woman we shared with was interested in what we shared, yet she was afraid of her Buddhist husband. She didn’t want to be the first and only Christian in the village. I am learning that in Asia, the culture and community surrounding the individual heavily impacts that person, and decisions surrounding one’s faith are rarely made alone.

As we left that village, I had to come to terms with the fact that we were walking away from an entire village that was too afraid to follow Christ, and this fear has eternal implications. In the next village, my heart began to fracture as I learned what it looks like to actually love the lost when the lost has a face.

The next village only had one family of believers there. We stayed in an unfinished "house" with holes in the walls and spiders the size of my face crawling around (not exaggerating!). Suffice to say, there was not much sleeping for me that night! In this village, I experienced a spiritual heaviness that I have never experienced before. We went out to share with the villagers there, and we were met with apathy and resistance. Because I do not understand the language, much of my role during evangelistic ministry is to pray as I watch the nonverbal communication, and occasionally I get the chance to share with a translator. As I watched the interactions of my team members with people in this village, it took everything in me not to burst into tears as I saw the hopelessness in these people.

Their daily lives consist of working from sunrise to sunset in the fields, drinking alcohol or smoking weed, and then repeating that the next day. You can feel the weight of the monotony of their lives, knowing that these people have little, if any, access to opportunities to break the cycle of poverty. As we sat in one-room houses covered in smoke, with dried bones and tiny idols hanging on shelves, I wanted to cry as the older women blew the smoke from their weed in our faces as we shared the gospel. The children ran around neglected and unattended as their parents worked all day in the fields. These children were half-naked, covered in dirt, raising each other in the absence of parental figures. If an older adult was present to oversee, they were most often drunk or high, clearly mentally checked out or annoyed by the children. We went into one home that had a disabled man, being cared for by his old mother, and she treated him with frustration and rough hands as she multi-tasked, making alcohol over a hot fire in their one-room hut.

I so badly want to do something to help, but often feel even more helpless here than I did in America. Here, there is no comfortable distance between me and the pain and brokenness of the lost. Here, the “lost” has a face and a story. Here, the “lost” is not an abstract prayer point on a prayer list for the week, it’s the distracted older woman smoking weed across from me in a dirty one-room hut who may never know the peace that Jesus offers. Here, the “lost” is not a sermon topic, it’s the faces of two young, skinny boys whose mother passed away and whose father works in the capitol, leaving these two young boys to fend for themselves. Here, the “lost” is not an interesting topic to discuss in a comfortable cafe, it’s the bruised face of a woman who once was a Christian, but after marrying a Hindu man who beats her every night, has let go of her faith.

Since I’ve seen these things, my heart has wrestled so much with God. After experiencing these things, and not only hearing but seeing with my own eyes these stories, what am I supposed to do? Passivity is no longer an option for me, but what does taking action look like, and what is my role? What is your role? As I ask God these questions, often crying out to Him in the dark after long days of ministry, He quietly asks me to sit in the tension, and so I’m asking you to sit with me. Can we together acknowledge the depths of darkness and brokenness in this part of the world? Can we allow the “lost” to have a face?