POST by JED: Evangelising El Salvador – Part 2

Rene & Yader waiting at the Coach Terminal in El Salvador

It was a BUMMER HEIGHTS HIGH, the day we left Anna & Jazz behind. I found it difficult to keep up my chirpy, CAN DO attitude, but I had to. Our success in El Salvador depended on it. God couldn’t possibly use a bunch of sad, whinging, mopers. I needed to lead the parade, not jump on the sad-wagon! 

I initiated tickle torture, joking, laughing out loud BROADWAY style – with mouth WIDE OPEN, etc. I danced, sung, played charades, anything to keep the mood light and expectant. I tell you, our bus ride from the border of El Salvador, to the city of San Salvador, was akin to a Spanish version of John Candy’s coach trip in Planes, Trains & Automobiles, when he leads his fellow travelers in singing the Flinstones theme song.

The sun was just setting when we arrived in San Salvador. We’d spent 15 hours on a double decker bus, and it was with great difficulty that we pried our behinds out of our seats. Sezni’s legs refused to function, and so I carried him on my shoulders, nearly passing out on account of his woofiness, and nearly decapitating the poor lad upon our disembarkation.

Waiting in King Quality (San Salvador)

Our host, Pastor Mario, was not surprisingly nowhere to be seen. We’d e-mailed back and forth, and I’d let him know of our arrival time, but things tend to run a bit loosey-goosey in Central America, and so I’d already assumed he’d most likely be fervently waiting by his phone for our call.

Jed, in his own little Magazine ShOot World!

I looked around. The bus terminal was a bit mish-mash. The perimeter barrier was tall, with barbed wire atop. The departures/arrivals lounge was a tiled room with 3 walls, opening out to the fumes of the busses. No a/c here, but to our delight, the convenience of clean bathrooms and a broken down snack machine. The check-in counter was home to make-up clad beauties, who could have easily been relaxing in some glam magazine shoot.

I asked Fran and Rene to use their phones to call the pastor. No funciones… I approached one of the check-in staff with a handful of American & Nicaraguan coins. She must have been struggling violently to hold her eyes open, on account of the heaped mascara she’d troweled across her lashes. I wanted to offer her a baby wipe, but alas for us babies are well and truly a thing of the past…

I explained our situation to the Princess at King Quality and she was only too happy to help. I dialed Pastor Mario’s number and talked for a moment, just so he’d know it was me. I then handed the phone to Fran who spoke for a time, just so he’d know what we wanted. The phone then went back to the King Quality lass for a second’s chat, just so he’d know where to come.

The Nicavangelist Team, on their FIRST EVER international tour... (El Salvador)

I’d be lying if I said it was an easy wait. We were pretty pooped by this stage, desperately needing to nap. An hour or two passed, and one of Pastor Mario’s pastors, whose name was also Pastor Mario, arrived with a broad grin upon his face, ready to take us “home.”

The boys threw our baggage in the back of the ute (pick-up truck), and by “threw” I mean dragged upwards and plonked. My 4 kids and our 8 boys climbed onto the tray and I was graciously offered a seat in the cabin – which I took. The ride home was pleasant. It was fun and windy through the streets of San Salvador and then as we climbed into the hills I drowsily watched the flickering lights of the city below.

I thrive meeting new people, but could barely hold a conversation due to my groggy state. I elected to ask open-ended-questions so as to keep the conversation flowing, but with minimal effort on my part. I do remember asking my last question, but was rather embarrassed when Pastor Mario’s hand woke me from my slumber. We were in Apopa, in front of our Church. I sprang into action…

Hugs, kisses, love, laughter. I was delighted to be amongst my new comrades. Less delighted when Fran came and tried to break up my little party, pointing out that I was with the people from the wrong Church. Ba-hA! Strike 2! I needed a bed fast… It turned out that the local Pentecostal Church also shared the same eating space as the local Baptist Church. But, as we’re all brothers and sisters in God, no probs, aye?

I managed to greet almost 50 people; babies, toddlers, children, youth, adults and the elderly. Everyone was there and so excited about the missionaries from Australia and Nicaragua. Our boys were visibly taken back, they were being treated like celebrities, but were unable to remember the events that propelled them to this position of fame. I smiled and winked at them, as they suffocated in the embraces of men, women and children. Lorenzy, as always, was a gigantic HIT, instantly being mobbed by young girls who hugged her, touched her hair, and jabbered away in Salvadorian Spanish.

Our El Salvadorian Baptist Church

Inside the double storied Church building, we were asked to sit at a long table. We were served grandiose amounts of pupusas, which are a traditional Salvadoran dish made of a thick, handmade corn tortilla (made using masa de maíz, a maize flour dough used in Latin American cuisine) and filled with queso (cheese) and frijoles refritos (refried beans).

Dinner time in our Apopa Church (El Salvador)

Pastor Mario jumped behind the keyboard and started singing Hillsong United songs, and I joined him before too long and sung a few of my own favourites. Wild applause filled the auditorium, as not too many of the locals had actually gone home. They were watching fascinatedly as we performed every action in preparation for bed. “Oh, he brushes his teeth!” and “Good gracious! They’re walking barefoot on the Church floor!” It suddenly felt eerily like we were on an episode of Big Brother, but our viewers weren’t behind telly sets, they were sitting right in front of us.

I changed in the pastor’s bathroom, and then organised my children and our youths to sleep on the floor. We each had a pillow and a sheet. I had the boys sleep up one end of the auditorium, and I had my 4 kids sleep around me. Before leaving the Pastor warned, “No one is to leave the building at any time.”

We eventually fell asleep at some time before midnight, with people still there watching us.

Morning arrived prematurely and I jumped out of bed. There was so much to be done and such little time. Pastor Mario was already in the building, ready to get the show on the road. We chatted a bit, and he shared that the Church didn’t have sufficient funds to feed us.

In no time at all we were at the supermarket, buying supplies for our stay. We bought rice and beans, juice, eggs, and other bits and pieces to make healthy, cheap meals, which a lovely lady from the Church would prepare for us.

One of the LOVELY ladies who cooked for us, & Renz

We spent several hours practicing our street theatre production, Created, in preparation for our evangelism outreach and performances at the Church. We have never practiced in a different location, and so there was a lot of “Which way is front?” Mr. G nearly died that day… The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that Latinos can ALWAYS pull it off when it comes down to the wire.

Practicing "Created"

We were escorted around the corner to a bakery. Now from what I could tell of El Salvador, in general they are a little bit better-off than Nicaraguans, but not by much. Of course, all of my analysis is skewed because I have only visited one barrio in San Salvador, but I have UN statistics to back me up. At this point in my stay, the things I had noticed to be superior were the construction of the roads (I hadn’t driven on one dirt road since arriving in El Salvador, and the “poor” area where we were staying had wide, paved streets), the construction of the houses (no tinned roofs, instead clay tiles. No dirt floors, but tiled/concreted floors), and the brighter faces of the people – clearly having much more hope in their hearts, and probably a better diet too.

We showered one-by-one under the cool, hose-like tap. The boys were getting nervous and I loved watching this, the unraveling of tough guys.

I was interrupted half way through the cleansing process by one of the Church’s pastors. This chap was nervous about the seating arrangement I had requested. The Church had a stage too small for our performance, and in front of the stage was a large space with a step halfway through – far too dangerous for our troupe. I hence suggested (not taking “no” for an answer) that we use the space in front of the entrance for performing, and use the stage, the area in front of the stage, and the space around our performance area, for seating.

One thing I have learnt about Central Americans is that they struggle with being flexible. They are laid back, but not flexible – if that makes sense… Sort of the opposite to Americans, who I find to be flexible, but not laid back, and completely different to Aussies who are both flexible and laid back (which is why I am ALWAYS in trouble), or Brits who are neither flexible, nor laid back – but who have the best sense of humour (hopefully finding this paragraph hilarious – complaints can be send to Elizabeth.Brien@gmail.com).

At this point if I am to be honest, I have to say my thought on this matter was that the pastor merely wanted the performance to be like a normal Church service, without too much disruption. His argument was that the Church was expecting upwards of 200 people for the Saturday night service, and using a third of the space for performance would inhibit maximum seating.

I argued that in utilising the raised stage and elevated area in front of the stage for seating, we’d easily recover the lost space where people usually sat (but which we now wanted to use for performance). In addition, people would better see the production, and the Church would feel more like in a theater. But oh dear, I could see it on his face – unsaved people, SITTING ON THE STAGE!!!

I grabbed his hand, like a father grabbing the hand of his son. “Vamos!” I said.

I dragged my kids along too, because on this trip, their safety was of utmost importance to me – I was the only one who would truly care for them. My kids were never left unattended or out of sight, not even for a second – the sexual exploitation of children, in Latin America, occurs at a staggering rate. I honestly believe, now that I have lived amongst the Nicaraguan people, that there are little or no children who don’t have a keen understanding of sexual matters, even if it is only observing their parents having sex at night.

“Dad, I’ve only made-up one eye!” Francesca argued. It was true, but without a significant interception, this pastor would just rearrange the seating as he pleased. We walked along, shaking hands with the local Salvadorians, trying to keep pace, but taking time to look into eyes and smile genuinely, with love.

The seating was beautiful, I was impressed. “But the microphones won’t reach the stage” protested the pastor. “Then we’ll sing from behind the people!” came my response. It didn’t take long for the pastor to realise that this seating plan would work and that his prior concerns were now null and void.

I hurried back to my troupe. They were nearing readiness. We finished up, cleaned up, locked up and some of them began to choke up. They were nervous, it was delicious!

We strolled back to the Church. I had my people wait upstairs, in a children’s Sunday school room. The Church was filling up and the roar of conversation was now deafening. Jonny got into quite the strop, as did several of the others. They were objecting to parts of their new costumes. Stubbornness set in – I asked everybody to stand up and had them pray together – Pentecostal Nicaraguans, are almost as fervent pray-ers as Koreans. I love seeing how far these boys’ prayer lives have come. When they first arrived with us, if we were in a hospital praying for the sick, these lads would no doubt thank the Lord for my family, for the beautiful day we were experiencing and for the food we were about to eat – even though they had their hands laid on a patient suffering with cancer, in a room without windows and not a wiff of food in smelling distance.

We asked God almighty to come and fill us and the Church. Prepare the hearts Lord! Make hearts be open. Help us to remember our choreography and blind the eyes (especially with several of the boys’ bachata moves) when needed, also making the hearing to be deaf (when I was to sing “Chains” – Tina Arena).

I climbed down the stairs to check out the mood, and I became OTT excited. Standing room only, and eyes full of excitement. The pastor asked us to begin. I had our troupe line the stairs of the building. The Nicavangelists were introduced. Jonny, Beycker, Sezni & Rafael walked quietly in and took position, just as we had planned.

The audience first sat in silent awe, and then out of nowhere came the thunderous applause, causing Beycker & Rafael not to hear the music. With a little confusion they started to dance – the King (Beycker) & the Prince (Rafael). 

Performing the Palo de Mayo, a part of CREATED, in El Salvador

Moments later, the rest of the troupe arrived and performed the Palo de Mayo. I had concern over this part of the production, because for many Christians in Latin America, dancing is considered to be sinful. In addition to the dancing factor, the Palo de Mayo contains strong themes of sexuality – hence the Palo.

However, it is difficult to represent sin, without really shocking people or showing it. We believe the Palo de Mayo, coupled with acting out the 7 deadly sins, appropriately conveys our fleshly humanity. It didn’t matter, because the Salvadorians thought it was all wonderful – which really encouraged our troupe on.

In fact, Sezni was so encouraged by the audience’s enthusiasm that he departed from the routine we’d rehearsed no less than a thousand times. He walked across the stage on his hands (instead of aggressively twirling his kung-foo stick and attacking his victims - he’s a demon in our play and can apparently hand-stand his prey to death). He grabbed the victorious Rafael (the Prince, representing Jesus) by the throat at a moment when Rafael needed to be seen as the victor, and almost strangled him to death. He stopped mid-breakdance number to stare at the large woman, front row, who laughed raucously whenever Sezni did anything.

But besides Sezni’s whoopsy-daisies, the performance was a grandiose success. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house when Rafael (the Prince, Jesus…) died. And then the hooting, hollering and howling, when he rose from death – it was deafening. Once the production was complete, we sung Te Doy Gloria (I give you glory), which is the number one praise song in Latin America.

The dancing hands, the grandiose singing, the eyes full of conviction and love. The Latin American Church, sweeping along the debris of shattered lives, into the Kingdom! How awesome to be a part of something so beautiful. Lives being changed forever…

Created, in El Salvador

 The cost of our evangelistic outreach tour to El Salvador was $2,000. If you would like to contribute to our outreach costs, and hence help us to secure our next evangelism tour, please visit our support page and make a contribution (CLICK here) – you will be investing directly into the Christian crusade for saving souls…

POST by JED: Planes, Trains & Automobiles - Part 5

It was to be the beginning of many an introduction, though in this scenario our hosts had to have been especially curious. We'd never met, never even talked on the phone. Our communication had been confined to e-mail and internet photo stalking - Liz and I (well actually myself alone... It sounds less weird if I include Liz as she's more mature) had scoured their website and they may have looked at our Capital-on-the-Edge facebook albums,  and our blog. In any case, each was as unknown to the other. We were from different lands, working in different communities, but united in purpose that all men should know salvation through Jesus.

Wendy had offered for us to stay in her lakefront Minnesotan, home. We were honoured by this gesture, and being ex-YWAM, had no difficulties with the thought of lodging with complete strangers for the night. We snapped up the offer.

Now whether people believe it or not, in my mind I'm the funny guy. Things that race through my brain I just have to say aloud (sometimes prior to thinking and other times not). However, there'd been much self-talk and I'd decided to throw away my hilarious Mike Warnke, Pat Mesiti and Jim Carey laugh-a-minute road show persona and employ the guise of a more serious, all-knowing itinerant preacher type.

I glided spiritually towards the front door, not totally submitting to the natural law of gravity. As my hostess walked before me I stumbled over a step in the dark, tripping and then bounding into the house just ahead of Liz (who must have been thinking how absurd I was to try and race). I was still clutching my Bible when I landed, head nearly smashing into the deluxe fridge-freezer combo-machine. As per usual, Lizzie tip-toed by, proving just how easy it is to place one foot carefully in front of the other.

 And there they were, sitting before me, in all their lovely Americaness; wide grins, warm eyes, welcoming hearts. I was chuffed to be amongst them. Every chap sat next to his spouse and there wasn’t a seat to spare in this creatively decorated country cottage.

We had arrived in Nica style an hour and a half late, not really knowing where we were going (or coming from). Because of the time pressures we hadn’t nourished ourselves with a sufficient lunch prior to our departure from Dom’s wedding – hence we’d stopped on the freeway for a tantalizing taste of cardboard flavoured food. Yum… However, despite the taste and nutritional factors (for that matter), in terms of our desire for additional food, we were now entirely satisfied.

These beaut folk had put on quite a spread. It was in fact a potluck meal and so the diversity of food options were amazing. We each took a plate and enjoyed fare from all over the World. I was now liking these people all-the-more.

We chatted for a while and enjoyed learning all about our new found family. Because truly, that is what the people of Zimmerman Community Church are – they’re our heart and spirit – our home. They are ordinary people who have come together and achieved extraordinary things, because they have stayed the course and sought the face of God.

I learnt that evening of many horrific obstacles this Church has faced. I also was blessed to find unity and devotion cemented into the very foundations of them. The leaders of the Church were very different from one another, in terms of their sexes (lady senior pastor), age (youth pastor in his 20s), occupations (white and blue collar unite), and so-forth. Yet, it was the number one Christian ingredient that completely won me over, love.

We chatted and laughed, talked seriously, prayed, worshipped, ate and sat in complete silence. The night air held anticipation and the hours passed quickly by. Before we knew it we were hugging, kissing, talking of tomorrow and saying our toodle-loohs.

Liz and I bade our farewells and walked pastorally into our designated sleeping chambers. I brushed my speaker’s teeth, washed my presenter’s face, and went to lay out my preacher’s clothing. My preacher’s clothing… MY PREACHER’S CLOTHING? Holy SUIT!!! I had left my suit in my other flip-floppin’ Minnesotan lake front cabin (with Jacuzzi and room for a pony)! What would I do? What would I say? It was at this point I considered trading my profession as a humble missionary from Nicaragua for the role of Holy Ghost Miracles Man.

There were no options available. I had to confront the moment head-on. I slunk sheepishly back into the lounge room and tapped my pastoral friend, Wendy, who was now reading her Bible (darn, I thought to myself – I should have brought my Bible!), on the shoulder and explained my predicament. Wendy, in complete grace, let out whimsical laughter.

“Jed!” she said, “you’re looking at a woman who just a few years ago wouldn’t let her daughters go to Church in jeans. I now preach in jeans! The freedom we have in Jesus, Jed, it’s a mighty thing.” Wow, I thought, humbled. I’m not the focus, I’m merely the signpost, pointing people towards Jesus.

We slept comfortably, though fitfully, on the eve of our first speaking engagement in the USA.

It’s funny to me. I love my father, though have never really liked so many things about him. I didn’t like the “home school classroom” concept, and now I run a school in exactly the same way. I didn’t ever like what he looked like or spoke like, and I’m now I´m a carbon copy. I didn’t like that he was poor and wrote prayer letters – look at me today, speaking to people I´ve never before met and living in Latin America´s second poorest country! I didn’t like that he was a preacher or a missionary, and blow-me down if I’m not dancing around in his shoes, AND singing the same song (though I pray, more in tune).

Upon the morrow I bounded out of bed like a Labrador ready to play fetch. Breakfast? Ho no, not a chance – I knew I’d be the most nervous guest speaker they’d ever had, and didn’t want to add the reproduction of my breakfast to an already freakishly overloaded repertoire of speaking, song, video and audience participatory events.

The drive to Church was a speedy one. Wendy does NOT muck about when stepping behind the wheel. We arrived with plenty of time to set up, pray and completely lose it on account of nerves!

Wendy gave us the tour of their brand new building and we encountered lots of enthusiastic introductions and getting-to-know you conversations. All-in-all, we managed to relax and really felt the heartbeat of the Church (every Church, I have learnt, has it’s own particular flavour).

Our Irish friend led us in a time of heart-felt praise and worship. I really love the profound simplicity of today’s American praise and worship sessions. By-and-large the Mariah Carey BIG voices of our congregations have been confined to sing back-up and the new era of young worship leader and voice of the Church has emerged. The songs are sing-able, less entertaining, and provide an atmosphere for communion with God.

Deep in thought I approached the platform. Liz and I had decided to open with a song, I Will Exalt You, which we sing in Spanish. It’s a Hillsong worship song written by Brooke Fraser, and so many people know it.

The idea of singing a song first was to have people focus on God and to help us relax. Blunder number 1! We must have incorrectly explained the order of our program to the friendly sound fellow. The song we were now singing, At the Cross, which is vocally impossible first thing, and which in our presentation also contained a video file meant to induce weeping in the aisles, pulling out of hair, and the begging of us for them to send prayers, financing and teams, now played…

Liz and I looked at each other and rolled with it. If there’s anything we’ve learnt in being a missionary to Nicaragua, it’s that we must, must, MUST be flexible. I was cool, I was calm, I was winding the microphone cord over my fingers, hand and forearm. Oh gracious, I was transitioning to cocoon mode. In a matter of minutes nothing of me would be visible, just the drone of my worship, “my hiiiiiiiiiding place, my saaaaaaaaaafe refuuuuuuuge…”

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. As a child on King’s Kids, performing at YWAM in Canberra, for the very first time (snore), I’d entered into this exact same zone.

I was 10 years old and my leader, Sandra Winslade, gesticulated at me to the point of having a seizure, that I needed to let go of the microphone cord. I wanted to stop, but I just couldn’t. I knew I should stop, but my paws just wouldn’t. I had learned from other kids the art of telling my testimony, and had gotten so into it that I couldn´t work out how to stop.

Sharing testimonies, I had learnt, was all about publicly discussing the horrors of your youth. My fellow Kings Kids team members (all older) went into the greatest detail about their sex crimes, gang activities, satanic involvement, drug abuse and more. As I said, I was just 10 years old, the son of a preacher-missionary. I had plenty of dirt to dig, but just couldn’t decide what to settle on.

And so we sang with all our might! We shared from the heart and I can honestly say God was with us that day. There were no nerves. The people listened. The Holy Spirit spoke.

Upon conclusion (which actually was our first song. I know how Spiritual are we? The first shall be last!!! Ha ha), Pastor Wendy, a beautiful, tall, regal, fifty-something lass and our gorgeous friend, sister and co-worker for the cause, took to the stage and addressed her congregation. “We need to support these people,” she said with authority.

Pastor Wendy went on to explain how we’d met, the time we’d already spent together and the God-connection that clearly existed between Capital on the Edge and Zimmerman Community Church.

In agreement with Pastor Wendy, was another chap from the congregation. With tears he explained to the Church body just how important providing hope for the children of our World is. He conveyed to the folks that the Lord had blessed him with bountiful provision in his lifetime, and that he would now sow back into the Kingdom, above and beyond his 10% tithe.

Our first speaking engagement saw us retrieve 20% of the finances we’d needed for the repayment of our flights to the USA for our fundraising campaign. Zimmerman Community Church also committed to contributing a substantial amount, on a monthly basis, to support the work of Capital on the Edge.

The monthly donation, behind our Australian home and sending Church, is the most any Church has committed to-date. And so it was confirmed in the physical, what we already knew in the spiritual, that Zimmerman Community Church is to be a significant part of Capital on the Edge as the years go by.

Our day with Zimmerman Community Church was emotional. We left in love. We found that although vast differences are evident between the cultures of Australia, the US and Nicaragua, that Jesus is the same and we see him in the Church – everywhere… 

POST by JED: Planes, Trains & Automobiles - Part 5

It was to be the beginning of many an introduction, though in this scenario our hosts had to have been especially curious. We'd never met, never even talked on the phone. Our communication had been confined to e-mail and internet photo stalking - Liz and I (well actually myself alone... It sounds less weird if I include Liz as she's more mature) had scoured their website and they may have looked at our Capital-on-the-Edge facebook albums,  and our blog. In any case, each was as unknown to the other. We were from different lands, working in different communities, but united in purpose that all men should know salvation through Jesus.

Wendy had offered for us to stay in her lakefront Minnesotan, home. We were honoured by this gesture, and being ex-YWAM, had no difficulties with the thought of lodging with complete strangers for the night. We snapped up the offer.

Now whether people believe it or not, in my mind I'm the funny guy. Things that race through my brain I just have to say aloud (sometimes prior to thinking and other times not). However, there'd been much self-talk and I'd decided to throw away my hilarious Mike Warnke, Pat Mesiti and Jim Carey laugh-a-minute road show persona and employ the guise of a more serious, all-knowing itinerant preacher type.

I glided spiritually towards the front door, not totally submitting to the natural law of gravity. As my hostess walked before me I stumbled over a step in the dark, tripping and then bounding into the house just ahead of Liz (who must have been thinking how absurd I was to try and race). I was still clutching my Bible when I landed, head nearly smashing into the deluxe fridge-freezer combo-machine. As per usual, Lizzie tip-toed by, proving just how easy it is to place one foot carefully in front of the other.

 And there they were, sitting before me, in all their lovely Americaness; wide grins, warm eyes, welcoming hearts. I was chuffed to be amongst them. Every chap sat next to his spouse and there wasn’t a seat to spare in this creatively decorated country cottage.

We had arrived in Nica style an hour and a half late, not really knowing where we were going (or coming from). Because of the time pressures we hadn’t nourished ourselves with a sufficient lunch prior to our departure from Dom’s wedding – hence we’d stopped on the freeway for a tantalizing taste of cardboard flavoured food. Yum… However, despite the taste and nutritional factors (for that matter), in terms of our desire for additional food, we were now entirely satisfied.

These beaut folk had put on quite a spread. It was in fact a potluck meal and so the diversity of food options were amazing. We each took a plate and enjoyed fare from all over the World. I was now liking these people all-the-more.

We chatted for a while and enjoyed learning all about our new found family. Because truly, that is what the people of Zimmerman Community Church are – they’re our heart and spirit – our home. They are ordinary people who have come together and achieved extraordinary things, because they have stayed the course and sought the face of God.

I learnt that evening of many horrific obstacles this Church has faced. I also was blessed to find unity and devotion cemented into the very foundations of them. The leaders of the Church were very different from one another, in terms of their sexes (lady senior pastor), age (youth pastor in his 20s), occupations (white and blue collar unite), and so-forth. Yet, it was the number one Christian ingredient that completely won me over, love.

We chatted and laughed, talked seriously, prayed, worshipped, ate and sat in complete silence. The night air held anticipation and the hours passed quickly by. Before we knew it we were hugging, kissing, talking of tomorrow and saying our toodle-loohs.

Liz and I bade our farewells and walked pastorally into our designated sleeping chambers. I brushed my speaker’s teeth, washed my presenter’s face, and went to lay out my preacher’s clothing. My preacher’s clothing… MY PREACHER’S CLOTHING? Holy SUIT!!! I had left my suit in my other flip-floppin’ Minnesotan lake front cabin (with Jacuzzi and room for a pony)! What would I do? What would I say? It was at this point I considered trading my profession as a humble missionary from Nicaragua for the role of Holy Ghost Miracles Man.

There were no options available. I had to confront the moment head-on. I slunk sheepishly back into the lounge room and tapped my pastoral friend, Wendy, who was now reading her Bible (darn, I thought to myself – I should have brought my Bible!), on the shoulder and explained my predicament. Wendy, in complete grace, let out whimsical laughter.

“Jed!” she said, “you’re looking at a woman who just a few years ago wouldn’t let her daughters go to Church in jeans. I now preach in jeans! The freedom we have in Jesus, Jed, it’s a mighty thing.” Wow, I thought, humbled. I’m not the focus, I’m merely the signpost, pointing people towards Jesus.

We slept comfortably, though fitfully, on the eve of our first speaking engagement in the USA.

It’s funny to me. I love my father, though have never really liked so many things about him. I didn’t like the “home school classroom” concept, and now I run a school in exactly the same way. I didn’t ever like what he looked like or spoke like, and I’m now I´m a carbon copy. I didn’t like that he was poor and wrote prayer letters – look at me today, speaking to people I´ve never before met and living in Latin America´s second poorest country! I didn’t like that he was a preacher or a missionary, and blow-me down if I’m not dancing around in his shoes, AND singing the same song (though I pray, more in tune).

Upon the morrow I bounded out of bed like a Labrador ready to play fetch. Breakfast? Ho no, not a chance – I knew I’d be the most nervous guest speaker they’d ever had, and didn’t want to add the reproduction of my breakfast to an already freakishly overloaded repertoire of speaking, song, video and audience participatory events.

The drive to Church was a speedy one. Wendy does NOT muck about when stepping behind the wheel. We arrived with plenty of time to set up, pray and completely lose it on account of nerves!

Wendy gave us the tour of their brand new building and we encountered lots of enthusiastic introductions and getting-to-know you conversations. All-in-all, we managed to relax and really felt the heartbeat of the Church (every Church, I have learnt, has it’s own particular flavour).

Our Irish friend led us in a time of heart-felt praise and worship. I really love the profound simplicity of today’s American praise and worship sessions. By-and-large the Mariah Carey BIG voices of our congregations have been confined to sing back-up and the new era of young worship leader and voice of the Church has emerged. The songs are sing-able, less entertaining, and provide an atmosphere for communion with God.

Deep in thought I approached the platform. Liz and I had decided to open with a song, I Will Exalt You, which we sing in Spanish. It’s a Hillsong worship song written by Brooke Fraser, and so many people know it.

The idea of singing a song first was to have people focus on God and to help us relax. Blunder number 1! We must have incorrectly explained the order of our program to the friendly sound fellow. The song we were now singing, At the Cross, which is vocally impossible first thing, and which in our presentation also contained a video file meant to induce weeping in the aisles, pulling out of hair, and the begging of us for them to send prayers, financing and teams, now played…

Liz and I looked at each other and rolled with it. If there’s anything we’ve learnt in being a missionary to Nicaragua, it’s that we must, must, MUST be flexible. I was cool, I was calm, I was winding the microphone cord over my fingers, hand and forearm. Oh gracious, I was transitioning to cocoon mode. In a matter of minutes nothing of me would be visible, just the drone of my worship, “my hiiiiiiiiiding place, my saaaaaaaaaafe refuuuuuuuge…”

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. As a child on King’s Kids, performing at YWAM in Canberra, for the very first time (snore), I’d entered into this exact same zone.

I was 10 years old and my leader, Sandra Winslade, gesticulated at me to the point of having a seizure, that I needed to let go of the microphone cord. I wanted to stop, but I just couldn’t. I knew I should stop, but my paws just wouldn’t. I had learned from other kids the art of telling my testimony, and had gotten so into it that I couldn´t work out how to stop.

Sharing testimonies, I had learnt, was all about publicly discussing the horrors of your youth. My fellow Kings Kids team members (all older) went into the greatest detail about their sex crimes, gang activities, satanic involvement, drug abuse and more. As I said, I was just 10 years old, the son of a preacher-missionary. I had plenty of dirt to dig, but just couldn’t decide what to settle on.

And so we sang with all our might! We shared from the heart and I can honestly say God was with us that day. There were no nerves. The people listened. The Holy Spirit spoke.

Upon conclusion (which actually was our first song. I know how Spiritual are we? The first shall be last!!! Ha ha), Pastor Wendy, a beautiful, tall, regal, fifty-something lass and our gorgeous friend, sister and co-worker for the cause, took to the stage and addressed her congregation. “We need to support these people,” she said with authority.

Pastor Wendy went on to explain how we’d met, the time we’d already spent together and the God-connection that clearly existed between Capital on the Edge and Zimmerman Community Church.

In agreement with Pastor Wendy, was another chap from the congregation. With tears he explained to the Church body just how important providing hope for the children of our World is. He conveyed to the folks that the Lord had blessed him with bountiful provision in his lifetime, and that he would now sow back into the Kingdom, above and beyond his 10% tithe.

Our first speaking engagement saw us retrieve 20% of the finances we’d needed for the repayment of our flights to the USA for our fundraising campaign. Zimmerman Community Church also committed to contributing a substantial amount, on a monthly basis, to support the work of Capital on the Edge.

The monthly donation, behind our Australian home and sending Church, is the most any Church has committed to-date. And so it was confirmed in the physical, what we already knew in the spiritual, that Zimmerman Community Church is to be a significant part of Capital on the Edge as the years go by.

Our day with Zimmerman Community Church was emotional. We left in love. We found that although vast differences are evident between the cultures of Australia, the US and Nicaragua, that Jesus is the same and we see him in the Church – everywhere…