Have you heard the expression “Boots on the Ground?” Well our Live Dead Missionaries are the boots on the Silk Road. Here we’d like to take a moment and allow one of them to share a snapshot of their life with you. Some names and details have been changed, but this is a true story from this colorful, vibrant, and sometimes surprising region.

Roughly six months after moving to Central Eurasia, I had an opportunity to travel to a remote area south of the city where I lived with another expat and a few local friends.  The last few days of the trip stretched across Good Friday and both my friend and I decided we would capitalize on the opportunity to share the Gospel with these young men that we had grown so close to.

On Good Friday, we traversed hundreds of miles of lush countryside and took in the amazing mountain views, hunted for mushrooms, and finally stopped in the late afternoon to set up our tents and make camp.

As the sun was setting, we pulled out our Bibles in two languages and began to explain the significance of the day. My language skills were very low at the time so I handed my local friend the Bible in his language and asked him to read the story of the crucifixion in Luke 23-24.  After he read it, we began to ask these young men questions.  Do you understand what was read?  Do you understand that Jesus was the final sacrifice?  Do you understand that this is why we believe we can go to heaven?

To say that the conversation was lively would be an understatement.  The young men slowly became more and more upset until it was clear that the topic was closed.  My friend and I wandered away from the fire to think and pray.  We were confused and distressed.  The leading of the Holy Spirit had seemed so clear.  We felt so certain this was the time and place we were to share, and it had gone so badly.  We wondered, was it our insufficient language skills?  Should we have studied more?  Should we have chosen a different story? Setting? Approach?

The campsite we had selected was a few hundred feet up on the side of a mountain above a quaint little village.  We had seen dozens of these villages on our travels with little or no electricity or running water.  A few dozen mud shacks clustered together in a mountain valley.  As our fire burned brightly on the mountainside, young men had begun to make their way up the mountain to see who was camping there.  Tony and I walked back into camp and noticed several battered and worn motorcycles parked near the fire.  In the hour we were away from camp, several village men had arrived at our campfire and settled in to talk with our local friends.

One of the two young men we had traveled and shared with was speaking loudly and confidently with all these newcomers around the fire.  We could pick up enough of the speech to understand he was retelling the story of the crucifixion in great detail.  When he finished his masterful retelling of Luke, he went on to explain that this was why we (Christians) do not sacrifice animals as they (Muslims) did.  He explained that we believed we could be friends with God and that Jesus was God’s son.  In his FLAWLESS local language, he shared, preached, and even fielded questions from those around the fire.  Tony and I stood just down the hill and wept as God’s purposes were accomplished as the Gospel went forward and as people in a tiny mountain village heard the story of Jesus Christ for the first time.