Dispatches from the Front E-Book

Tim Keesee

• Herausgeber: Crossway
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 341

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

China, Pakistan, Egypt, Iraq . . . God is at work. Christians are testifying. The gospel is advancing. In this captivating travelogue, a veteran missions mobilizer leads readers to experience global Christianity, exploring the faith and lives of Christians living in some of the world's most perilous countries. The incredible accounts recorded here—stories that span the globe from the Balkans to Afghanistan—highlight the bold faith and sacrificial bravery of God's people. Ultimately, this book magnifies Christ's saving work in all the earth and encourages Christians to joyfully embrace their role in the gospel's unstoppable advance!

Leseprobe

DISPATCHES

FROM THE

FRONT

STORIES OF GOSPEL ADVANCE IN THE WORLD’S DIFFICULT PLACES

TIM KEESEE

FOREWORD BY JUSTIN TAYLOR

Dispatches from the Front: Stories of Gospel Advance in the World’s Difficult Places

Copyright © 2014 by Timothy D. Keesee

Published by Crossway

1300 Crescent Street

Wheaton, Illinois 60187

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except as provided for by USA copyright law.

Pseudonyms for people and places are used in this book to protect the identities of individuals who are serving Christ in difficult and dangerous places.

“The Power of His Rising,” harmonization copyright © 2013, Fred and Ruth Coleman. Used by permission.

“Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed,” Isaac Watts and Bob Kauflin, copyright © 1997, Sovereign Grace Praise, www.sovereigngracemusic.org. Used by permission.

Graham Kendrick, “Knowing You,” copyright © 1993, Make Way Music, www.grahamkendrick.co.uk. Used by permission.

Eddie Askew, “I See Your Hands,” copyright © 1985, The Leprosy Mission International. Used by permission.

Cover design: Faceout Studio

Cover photography: Jason Speer. On the Plains of Ur, southern Iraq

First printing 2014

Printed in the United States of America

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway. 2011 Text Edition. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-4335-4069-1 ePub ISBN: 978-1-4335-4072-1 PDF ISBN: 978-1-4335-4070-7 Mobipocket ISBN: 978-1-4335-4071-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Keesee, Timothy.

   Dispatches from the front : stories of gospel advance in the world's difficult places / Tim Keesee ; foreword by Justin Taylor.

        1 online resource.

   Includes bibliographical references and index.

   Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

   ISBN 978-1-4335-4070-7 (pdf) – ISBN 978-1-4335-4071-4 (mobi) – ISBN 978-1-4335-4072-1 (epub) – ISBN 978-1-4335-4069-1 (tp)

   1. Missions.  2. Christianity—21st century.  I. Title.

BV2061.3

270.8'3—dc23            2013046692

Crossway is a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

To my father Carlton Eugene Keesee (1934–2013) a hero in the battle of life

Blessed are the eyes that see what you see! For I tell you that many prophets and kings desired to see what you see, and did not see it, and to hear what you hear, and did not hear it.

Luke 10:23–24

Little by littleOne travels far.

J. R. R. Tolkien

CONTENTS

Foreword by Justin TaylorAcknowledgmentsPrologue: Danville, Virginia 1  End of Empire: The Former Soviet Republics 2  Children of Cain: The Balkans 3  Ten Sparrows: China 4  Within a Yard of Hell: Southeast Asia 5  Souls of the Brave: Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan 6  Amazing Grace: Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea 7  Prison Break: The Horn of Africa and Egypt 8  Dimmed by Dust: Afghanistan and IraqEpilogueNotes

FOREWORD

The apostle Paul, responding to criticism that he was putting himself forward and commending himself, acknowledged that he and his gospel coworkers—men and women on the frontlines of the advance of the kingdom—actually do “commend” themselves “in every way” (2 Cor. 6:4).

But how? What could he cite to demonstrate their missional integrity? What items make it on to their ministry résumé?

Explaining that they experienced the following with “great endurance,” Paul paints a picture of what they have endured:

afflictionshardshipscalamitiesbeatingsimprisonmentsriotslaborssleepless nightshunger (2 Cor. 6:4–5)

Welcome to life on the frontlines.

But this isn’t a Pauline pity party. He goes on to explain that in the upside-down, world-confounding kingdom, things are not as they seem. From a limited, worldly perspective, these workers on the frontlines look like losers. But in reality, they are men and women of whom the world is not worthy. Paul makes the contrast between how they are perceived and what they really are. They are treated:

as impostors—and yet are true;as unknown—and yet well known;as dying—and behold, we live;as punished—and yet not killed;as sorrowful—yet always rejoicing;as poor—yet making many rich;as having nothing—yet possessing everything. (2 Cor. 6:8–10)

In particular, it’s the phrase “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” that comes to mind when I think of Tim Keesee and his ministry of visiting gospel workers on the front lines.

There’s nothing fancy about the man. He’s not famous. In fact, unless you’ve watched the Dispatches from the Front DVD series, you’ve probably never heard of him—and even if you have, you probably didn’t catch his name. He’s quiet and unassuming. He’s humble and without guile. He’s a faithful and ordinary man who serves an extraordinary God.

There’s a certain world-weariness etched onto his face as he has spent years crisscrossing the globe, visiting and supporting and documenting the church around the world. But if you look closer, there is unmistakable joy. You can see it in the warmth of his smile and the twinkle of his eye and the welcome of his embrace as he greets a new brother and a new sister on the other side of the world and worships with yet another outpost of the global family of God. If the new heavens and the new earth will be filled with the redeemed from “every tribe and language and people and nation” (Rev. 5:9), then Tim Keesee has gotten a foretaste of the world to come.

In this book you will have a front-row seat to the most important work in history, as the great news of a bloody-sacrifice-turned-risen-King transforms lives around the world. You’ll follow along with Tim’s journeys over the past several years as he travels from the former Soviet Republics to the Balkans, from China to Southeast Asia, from Bangladesh, India, and Pakistan to Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea, from the Horn of Africa to Egypt, from Afghanistan to Iraq. You’ll see the joy and the sorrow, the pleasure and the pain, as he sees the glory of the gospel revealed afresh and yet still mourns the danger and bondage of soul-destroying sin.

No one will be reached with the gospel unless we go to them. Because no one will “hear without someone preaching” (Rom. 10:14), we must “go therefore and make disciples of all nations [Greek, ethne, or people groups]” (Matt. 28:19). In order to do this, some of us are called to “send them on their journey in a manner worthy of God” (3 John 1:6). But whether you are a goer or a sender, none of us can see it all. We can only get a small glimpse of the kingdom based on where God has called us to serve. That is why I am excited for you to read this book. You can read it straight through or skip around according to your interests. But as you do, you will see the curtain pulled back on the glorious and unstoppable advance of the gospel. This is a dangerous book to read, for you may never be the same.

Come and see.

Justin Taylor

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people have helped me along the path that wends its way through the pages of this book. I am so grateful for friends whose mentoring and interpreting have guided me on this journey. For Jan Tolwinski of Warsaw, who first showed me the way when the Iron Curtain was parting. For Misko Horvatek of Croatia—his courageous compassion during the war modeled risk-taking gospel ministry for me; along bomb-shattered roads he always had a talent for finding a good cappuccino in a war zone! For David Hosaflook, pioneer missionary to Albania, my friend, my brother, my hero. For Natasha Vins—her experiences and those of other believers during the Soviet persecution were cross-shaped; she regaled me with many of their stories on long train rides across Russia. For Paul Choo of Singapore—his vision for unreached fields have lifted the eyes of many, including mine. For JD Crowley—who first showed me that Christ’s kingdom has no borders.

There are others whose acts of kindness kept me going. Their names cannot be published here, but they are written in the Lamb’s book. Though they were surely aware they were not entertaining an angel unawares, they showed generous hospitality to this stranger by providing a refuge for the night or helping me get on the right train or introducing me to my brothers and sisters meeting in secret.

Closer to home, I am indebted to the entire Frontline team, who have cheered me on and prayed me on—especially John Hutcheson, Steve Leatherwood, and Al Carper, steadfast friends since the first days of Frontline Missions. I am grateful, too, to Pete Hansen. His skillful videography has added color and voice to many of these kingdom stories through the Dispatches from the Front DVD series. For Allan Sherer, who is another Epaphroditus, “my brother and fellow worker and fellow soldier . . . and minister to my need” (Phil. 2:25). I am also grateful to Senator Jim DeMint for the doors he has encouraged me to walk through. As his star has risen, the compass of his life has remained fixed—centered in the truth of his life’s verse: “For freedom Christ has set us free” (Gal. 5:1).

Justin Taylor at Crossway has been a Barnabas to me since the day this book was conceived. Justin has an enormous capacity for work matched with an enormous capacity for kindness. He is truly a gift of grace to the church and to me personally. Special thanks also to Tara Davis—editor extraordinaire—who was a joy to work with!

Special thanks to my daughter and son, Sarah and Tim, who grew up with their passports handy. Their companionship has brought me great joy as we shared many journeys and adventures together. My wife, Debbie, has been my dependable friend and indispensable partner during all these years and miles of ministry. And as is her gift, Debbie brought order out of the chaos of a dozen or more journals scribbled across four continents and turned them into a working manuscript. Her love for me has been more evidence of God’s love for me. Though our life together has often meant life apart from each other—together we share in this adventure of following Christ and the joy of finding treasure in unreached fields.

PROLOGUE

DANVILLE, VIRGINIA

A train calls to me in the night silence. For as long as I can remember, it has provided the music—and my pen the words—to a restless life. A million miles later, I’m back where I grew up—and the train’s whistle is as sweet and lonely as ever. Outside my window, a half-moon lays its light over the contours of the backyard. I can still trace the lines of our old ball field. Actually, moonlight isn’t needed. I can see and hear it best with my eyes closed: It’s another summer night long ago—fireflies swirl in a ballet of light, and the game goes on until it’s too dark to see.

Just down the road is the place where I stood beneath a star-filled sky much like tonight and knew that Christ had forgiven all my sins. I felt the rush of freedom like a pardoned prisoner who suddenly finds that not only has his name been cleared, but he has been loaded with titles of honor—beloved, heir, son.

Here in my old room, Mama used to play hymns on a beaten-up piano with a keyboard that looked like an ugly grin—its ivories yellowed, cracked, or missing. I remember how pretty she was at the piano. She had a lilting style that made me sing, even when I was too young to read. An old plaque still hangs on the living room wall: “The way of the Cross leads home.” Mama has finished that journey, and yet tonight on this side, amid a clutter of memories and the mocking monotony of a ticking clock, I miss her.

One of the things I love her for is that she gave me to the Lord—which meant that she had to let me go. Travel just wasn’t in our family’s DNA. Our roots run deep in the red clay of the Virginia foothills. Only things like world wars and great depressions could move us away, but always we came back to these familiar hills. I was the first in ten generations to leave Virginia. So even though Mama did not understand my wanderlust, like Hannah, she had given her son to the Lord, and she kept her word, even when it hurt. She bought a globe—it’s still here on the dresser—and over the years, she traced the paths of her promise.

And so, I’ve gone far from this place. A sixteen-year-old sailor who used to be me looks down from the shelf. The picture is faded, but I still smell the salt. Back then, my small world suddenly became as vast as the ocean. And everything I saw I wrote about, filling in the blanks that only imagination could attempt before.

My path wound on. For a while I took up writing textbooks, and then teaching, but I escaped my cubicle and classroom to help pastors in Eastern Europe, as the winds of freedom began to stir in persecuted churches as well as in these prison states. Browsing them now, my journals seem to read like the pages of the history of our times. I witnessed the pullout of Soviet troops and tanks in Poland, stood at the barricades in Vilnius with Lithuanian patriots, and walked through the fresh rubble of the Berlin Wall. Once Soviet Communism fell, the pieces could never quite be put together again. Freedom unleashed forces of both war and peace, so there were times in the new Russia’s first springtime when everything seemed possible, and there were times in Bosnia during the last winter of the war when everything seemed hopeless.

With the dissolution of the Soviet Empire, I witnessed the fall of one great power and the rise of another. China was stirring and stretching, her influence evident far beyond her soaring cities. I saw it from the backwaters of Laos and Vietnam to the diamond fields of Sierra Leone in West Africa. At the same time my travels in Asia and Africa brought me face to face with another force—violent Islam.

The horizons of my world were changing, but in an unexpected way. It had less to do with passport stamps and frequent flyer miles than it did with my own heart. Growing up, when I thought about the church around the world, it looked like my church. That was all I knew. Sure, Christians in other countries had different languages and cultures, but if their worship styles were different or their theological preferences deficient, well, that’s why I was going over to teach them. And so, as is too often the case in missions, church planting resembles church franchising instead.

However, it was soon evident that I had more to learn than to teach. What I learned wasn’t just a crash course in Cultural Appreciation 101, although I did learn to adapt—whether using chopsticks, tying my own turban, or eating bamboo worms. What I really learned was more of the gospel in all its dimensions—its height and depth and extent as I saw it cross every kind of barrier to save souls. The cultural differences in the church only displayed the truth that “by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation” (Rev. 5:9).

I have seen empires come and go, but never have I seen anything so radical and pervasive as the gospel of the kingdom. The kingdom of Christ is diverse yet unified, boundless yet bound; for our lives are forever bound up in his life—and thus bound up with all other believers. We are like family, his body. The more I grasped the gospel, the more I loved Christ—and the more I loved him, the more I loved his people. I found a certain likeness in them.

In difficult places I have met brothers and sisters living like lambs among wolves. They seem to have stepped right out of Hebrews 11 because “some were tortured, refusing to accept release, so that they might rise again to a better life. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment” (Heb. 11:35–36). They are my friends, my teachers, my heroes. Yet the gospel gives me perspective not to think that the greatest Christians are over there; neither are the greatest Christians over here. Actually, Christ is the greatest, and in every land he is saving, calling, and enabling men and women to take risks to advance his kingdom—cross-bearers who love him more than their stuff, even more than their own lives.

These are the foot soldiers of gospel advance, and I love to walk point with them and write their stories. I share Ernie Pyle’s affection for those at the front in every danger and season. Pyle, the legendary combat journalist of World War II, wrote, “I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are the guys that wars can’t be won without.”1

On the gospel front as well—one that also has its share of real bullets and bombs—it’s the foot soldiers that God uses to move the boundaries of his kingdom into more and more hearts. Not long ago I was on the Syrian border where Christians run a little clinic, providing medical services along with the gospel to Bedouin tribes. A British nurse named Claire told me that radical Muslims have threatened to kill them and burn the hospital down. She also told me they had not reported these threats because the government would close the clinic for the safety of the staff. She said matter-of-factly, “Whether it’s the bad man with the gun or the nice man with the tie, the result is the same—the clinic will be closed. We have no reason to stop now. They have stolen our vehicles and threatened to kill us, but they have not harmed us yet and cannot unless God permits it—and even then, it will be OK because we will be with the Lord.” Even though she had faced armed robbers and lethal force, Claire’s voice was as steady as her faith. Claire doesn’t have a death wish; she has a living hope. She knows Christ is powerful to save her—and to save all who come to him.

A million miles lie between me and this room where I spent my childhood. Here I dreamed of the world beyond my view. I could never have imagined that the world I wanted to explore was just a window to my King’s saving work. The following are the stories of kingdom advance—dispatches written along the way, often scribbled in the moment, praising our Captain’s brilliance, describing his victories, and telling of his gracious, sleepless care as he walks among us on the front lines.

1

END OF EMPIRE

The Former Soviet Republics

It’s easy to romanticize the experiences of the underground church in the Soviet Union: cool, courageous stories of smuggling Bibles; cat-and-mouse games with the KGB; and images of Soviet Christians worshipping in the forest, their pews fallen logs and their chapel walls silver birch with a cathedral ceiling that reached the sky. But it was no picnic, no James Bond movie. The Soviet Christians were brutally persecuted, and their pastors’ preparation for ministry usually took place in a prison rather than a seminary.

But the underground church was not underground. Believers spoke of Christ and won many to him, even in prison. This was Galina’s story. Galina Vilchinskaya was a twenty-three-year-old Sunday school teacher who spent five years in prison for her gospel work; but prison, hunger, and beatings could not silence her. She led many in her prison to the Lord, so she was transferred to another prison—and after that, yet another. For her, these transfers were just new gospel opportunities. Finally, Galina was transported by prison train to the utter east of Siberia, along with scores of other prisoners—the worst of the worst. As the condemned in their cages rumbled on through the Siberian vastness, the din of cursing and fighting was broken by a clear, sweet voice of singing. It was Galina singing of her Savior. A hush fell over the train car. Even the most hardened criminals turned their faces away to hide their tears—and mile after mile, hymn after hymn, Galina sang the gospel.1

It’s really absurd, though, that the full force of the Soviet Union was bent on crushing a Sunday school teacher for the crime of “being a Sunday School teacher.” Such senseless hatred, when it erupts to the surface, is like opening a furnace door to hell. But the gates of hell were no match for Galina’s God. One striking proof of that is that today Galina is a pastor’s wife in Siberia, where once she was a prisoner of an empire that no longer exists.

The collapse of the Soviet state brought unprecedented freedom and gospel opportunity to believers living across the eleven time zones of that massive empire. Fifteen new countries rose up from the rubble—and new tyrants rose up, too. Persecution has returned—but now, it’s not only from tyrannical governments but also from resurgent Islam, over a vast swath of central Asia, from the Caspian Sea to Kazakhstan.

The rise and crash of nations provides a perfect backdrop for our Christ’s unending kingdom and his saving grace—news so good that even a starving prisoner couldn’t help but sing of it! Christians in these unshackled lands are still singing of Jesus, still speaking of him.

RIGA, LATVIA

This afternoon Sergei and Ilona, friends of mine from Warsaw, drove me to the outskirts of Riga. There along the shores of the Daugava, the old Soviet naval base and airfields sit in quiet decay. Once the proud vanguard of a great empire, the sprawling military complex is succumbing to the ravages of rust and crabgrass. Yet many retired veterans still live in the crumbling apartments near the base, and that is what took me there today—to look up an old friend. I’ve been here before—a dozen years ago. Then it was a blustery night with a light dusting of snow. A friend of mine arranged for me to stay with a Christian, and so I was brought here. Nothing looked familiar today, though, until the door of apartment 38 opened up, and there was Alexei Beloborodov. He was a bit grayer, but still ramrod straight with a soldier’s bearing, and he was as kind as ever. Twelve years ago he took a stranger in on a cold night. I remember he made me a meal of black bread and fried eggs with steaming black tea. It was right after the USSR collapsed, and the ruble was worthless. I learned later that my host was so poor that he only ate one meal a day at that time, but his little one-room apartment was a place of joy and hospitality.

How good it was to see Brother Alexei again today! He invited us to tea. There have been so many questions I have wanted to ask him about his life, and today was my chance. Alexei went to war at age sixteen—that was in 1943. As a young tank commander, he quickly proved himself in battle, as evidenced by the box of medals he brought out of his closet and by his scars. He fought all the way to the smoldering ruins of Hitler’s Berlin. He returned home in victory, only to find he had no home. His village near Moscow had been destroyed in the war and his family all killed or scattered. So Alexei returned to the only life he knew—the Soviet military. He became a naval intelligence officer, got married, raised children, and spent nearly thirty years in the service.

As an officer, Alexei had access to shortwave radio, and he heard Christian broadcasts beamed into the Soviet Union. The gospel changed him forever! He repented of his sins and received Christ into his life. That was 1968. He had no Bible, no church, no pastor, no Christian friend—no one to fellowship with, except the Lord. Alexei told me that he would often take long walks deep into the woods, where he would pray and weep and sing. His was a lonely walk. It was seven years before he met another Christian—after he left the military. He said when he first learned the man was a Christian, Alexei gave him a big bear hug before he could even get the words out to the surprised man!

Yet Alexei’s walk would get even lonelier. Shortly afterward, he was baptized, and this public testimony of his faith was a great dividing line in his life. His wife divorced him, and his children would have nothing to do with him. For several years he was homeless, living in a cold, dank basement without electricity or running water. He eventually found a job in a factory and a place to stay, but his penchant for passing out smuggled tracts and sharing his faith kept him in trouble with the KGB during the years of persecution.

For over twenty-five years now—during persecution and during freedom—Alexei has never missed church a single time. In fact, when he worked at the factory and was scheduled to work on Sunday, he would pay a coworker a full day’s wage to take his place!

We talked until dusk, and he took out a little box of mementos. Among them were yellowing photographs of a handsome, young officer in his crisp uniform, decorated with many medals. He took one of them out of the box. Stamped in red on dull silver were the Russian words—“for bravery in battle.” He gave it to me, but I said, “I cannot take this—it is a treasure won at great cost.” He smiled and said, “I am going home soon and will have no need of it there.”

My friend has known so much loneliness in his life, and yet the Lord has filled the emptiness with himself. We walked outside, prayed together, and parted ways. As I set out for Riga, the last, long light of day brightened the birches as old Brother Beloborodov turned and walked back alone.

ON THE RAIL, MOSCOW TO KAZAN, RUSSIA

The Kazan Express jostled out of the dusty Moscow rail station and lurched eastward, slipping through a sprawling, industrial section of the city cast in hues of concrete gray and rusty red. Outside of Moscow, though, even with approaching twilight, there was vibrant color—a spring countryside waking from the long Russian winter—dappled forests of birch, fresh green fields, and little cherry orchards wreathed with white blossoms. Despite the unseasonable heat, Pavlo, my friend and interpreter from Kiev, fills the teapot a second time. I enjoy another strong, steaming cup as we settle in for the evening and our five-hundred-mile trek to the east.

KAZAN, RUSSIA

After a long night on the train, I awoke to see the morning sun shimmering on the vast Volga River. Thin light fingered through birches and maples dressed in the crayon colors of spring. Mist hung over the vast swath of the great river, leaving the minarets of the White Kremlin in silhouette on the sunrise side of the city.

I think my heart skipped a beat at first sighting this storied shore. The legendary city of the Golden Horde was Ivan the Terrible’s prized conquest, the gateway to Siberia and an even greater empire. But I had little time to relive the past, for as soon as we stepped off the train, we were stuffed into a little Lada and went careening through the streets of Kazan with Pastor Mikhail Trofimov. He drives like Jehu, but it was well that he did, for we barely made it in time for the Sunday service, where I joined the slate of preachers. Typically, there are two or three sermons in a service, punctuated with hymns, prayer, and poetry. The morning service concluded around noon with the afternoon service following at 1:30. This proximity is necessary, since few people have vehicles; the distances to walk and the cost of train tickets make it best to have the two services before and after lunch.

Between services I got better acquainted with Pastor Mikhail over a flavorful lunch of pickle soup, smoked sardines, and buttermilk. Pastor is an intense and energetic man whom God is greatly using here in the Kazan region. Because of his commitment to a trained ministry, he has organized a two-week Bible school. I’m teaching Pastoral Epistles starting in the morning.

KAZAN, RUSSIA

We have a good group of students at our Bible school, which is meeting in a borrowed classroom of a public school. Despite the fact that they have seven hours of instruction each day, they are attentive and diligent. We had expected about twenty students, but as of today we have thirty-three. Most of them are pastors who, during the years of persecution, never had the opportunity for formal Bible training. Some of the pastors have traveled considerable distances to be here, even from as far as the city of Perm—a seventeen-hour train trip to Kazan.

Lectured this morning, and in the afternoon accompanied Pastor Gennady Yeliazarov of Kazan to appeal to the commandant over all the prisons in Tatarstan to allow us into the strict-regime prison on the west bank of the Volga. Gennady also hoped to gain greater concessions for his ministry among prisoners, such as having Communion for believers and baptizing new converts.

Gennady, who serves as one of the pastors here, has a great heart for prisoners, for he was once a prisoner himself. His crime? Preaching the gospel and organizing choirs in various parts of the Soviet Union. When the KGB caught up with him, he was in Uzbekistan, training choirs among the underground churches there. Gennady was sent to prison in Rostov near the Black Sea. Each cell in his gulag held a hundred and fifty men with barely enough room for all to stand. The only facilities was a bucket in each cell. When Gennady first arrived, the guard took him to his cell. When he opened the door, it was so packed with standing prisoners that Gennady said, “There is no room here.” The guard then shoved him in with a laugh saying, “Then make room,” and slammed the door. Gennady spent three years in this gulag for the cause of Christ.

The irony of our meeting today was that the commandant was once the police chief in Gennady’s village. He was the man who had ransacked Gennady’s home looking for Bibles. He was the one who had hounded the pastor and his family and flock. He was the man who had gathered evidence against Gennady for which he was ultimately sent to prison. Now, after all these years had passed, they met again—the preacher and the persecutor.

There was no animosity from Gennady. None. In fact, he had told me earlier that going to prison had been a “good thing.” I was puzzled and asked, “How was it a good thing?” “If I had never gone to prison,” he replied, “then I would not have been able to understand prisoners and reach them with the gospel. The Lord has allowed me to lead thirty prisoners to Christ already.” In fact, that is why we were meeting the commandant. It would take special permission for these men to be baptized and receive the Lord’s Supper inside the Soviet-style prison. Only the commandant could give such permission. Actually, Gennady had already gone “over his head” in asking permission, because he had requested it of the Lord in prayer.

As is typical with these ex-Communist encounters, our meeting with the commandant turned out to be a long wait, interrupted occasionally by promises of a meeting. During the wait, we walked around Lenin University, named for Kazan’s most famous dropout; the impatient revolutionary studied here for only three months. Afterward, Gennady and I returned to the prison headquarters. When we were finally given admittance, we climbed many flights of stairs, and, after more waiting, we were at last escorted into the commandant’s office. There he sat behind a desk with so many telephones on it that I thought he must collect them. Behind his darkened glasses was a hard, oily face. He and Gennady entered into a sometimes intense discussion that lasted for nearly an hour. I had little to do at the meeting, other than the fact that Gennady believed having an American “doctor” present would help the cause of gaining concessions.

At the end of the meeting, we all shook hands and were escorted out. The discussion had been in rapid-fire Russian, so I didn’t know what the outcome was until we walked away and Gennady leaned over and whispered, “Slava Bogu” (Glory to God)! God, by his grace and sovereignty, turned the commandant’s flinty heart. He agreed that we can preach in the strict-regime prison tomorrow night, and my brother Gennady may hold baptismal services there and strengthen believers around the Lord’s Table. I agree with Gennady—Slava Bogu!

KAZAN, RUSSIA

After lectures today, Gennady, Pavlo, and I took the train out to the strict-regime prison, where two thousand murderers, kidnappers, and assorted thieves and rapists are packed in behind steel bars and razor wire. Among these criminals were those who had accepted the Savior, the “Friend of Sinners.” Many of these men came to the service, and I believe our visit encouraged them in the Lord.

To reach the meeting place, we had to surrender our passports, receive warnings about assaults, and go through three steel doors with our escort. Then we proceeded through a maze of cordoned walkways in the prison yard. The men crowded on both sides of us, their faces dark, eyes empty, forms shrunken. This is a maximum security prison, and, unlike its American counterpart, there is no cable TV or air-conditioned fitness center.

It was a privilege to have a service with these prisoners. About thirty gathered, of which about twenty-five are professing believers. We had hymns accompanied by a guitar. I preached, and Pavlo interpreted. There was good attention and many expressions of gratitude from the prisoners before the guards escorted us out. Surprisingly, the officer in charge stayed for the service. He, too, thanked us for coming and even invited us back! We returned by train to Kazan with much joy, recalling Isaiah’s words, “The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound” (Isa. 61:1).

KAZAN, RUSSIA

Spent much of the day in the city. Gennady took us all around Kazan. As far back as the Mongols, Kazan has been an important crossroad between East and West. It developed into an important industrial center during World War II, as strategic industry was moved further east, away from the German offensive. In order to supply the resistance, munitions production and aircraft design were done here. Today, much of the state industries are crumbling, casualties of perestroika. There is one massive plastics factory on the outskirts of Kazan. It is a sprawling, black-plumed complex, belching fumes into the air night and day. Some of the smokestacks look like giant Roman candles, as gas fires lit at the top burn off the most noxious pollutants.

In the heart of the city, amid the confluence of the Kazanka and Volga Rivers, sits the White Kremlin, a citadel that dates back to the time of the Golden Horde. All around the kremlin, the mosques and orthodox churches reflect the religious and cultural divide between Tatar and Russian. We entered one mosque, and the imam proudly showed us everything—from the pulpit to the washrooms, where men ceremoniously purify themselves in preparation for prayer.

One of the great needs in reaching Tatar Muslims with the gospel is to have the Bible and tracts published in the Tatar language. A century ago, the Gospels and Psalms were published in Tatar, but more needs to be done to effectively reach these six million Tatars!

After visiting the Volga River port, we returned to the apartment to prepare for this evening’s Bible study. When Pastor Mikhail introduced me, I was delighted that he did so with a title of acceptance and respect by calling me by my patronymic name: “Timothy Carlovitch” (Timothy, son of Carl). I spoke on the subject of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, making a careful exposition of the theme. I was struck by the attention of these people, who sat for an hour on pine board benches and listened closely. Afterward, I returned to a believer’s home for supper. Viktor and his wife Lyda prepared a fine meal. When our evening together was drawing to a close, they asked me to tell a story to their eight children, one that would help them learn not to fight and quarrel among themselves. I wasn’t sure how to fill such a tall order, but suddenly I remembered the story of “The King and the Hawk.” It was fun to see their wide-eyed expressions as I dramatized this old tale about Genghis Khan, who ruled their world long ago . . . and who also seemed to have problems with his temper.2

KAZAN, RUSSIA

Preached this morning from the little book of Philemon, emphasizing God’s love to the least and how we must see people as individuals, winning them to Christ one by one. There must have been one hundred and fifty people packed into the room, with many standing along the walls. It was a good service with wonderful singing, especially the choir, who sang the Nicene Creed in Russian. During the service, two people came forward in repentance and profession of Christ. One was an old woman who for years had sought satisfaction in the dead rituals of Russian Orthodoxy but found none. This morning she lifted her voice in confession and thanksgiving to the Savior. A young man also came forward in repentance. His troubled life has been weighed down with the added guilt from his years in the Soviet Army, fighting in Afghanistan. I believe this morning God brought peace to his war-torn soul.

After a quick lunch, Pastor and I walked to the town center for an evangelistic meeting, with Pavlo interpreting. One town official, an old Communist still wearing his Soviet badge, came to the meeting and listened attentively. Three raised their hands, expressing their need for Christ, and Pastor Mikhail counseled with them afterward. It is interesting to see the older people getting saved. Younger people have been so thoroughly indoctrinated with atheism that they must first come to a basic knowledge of God. However, the older generation heard of God in their youth. Now, despite many years under Communism, they have a spiritual hunger to know this God personally.

Late tonight, Mikhail arranged for me to meet his friend, Tahir. Tahir is a converted Tatar Muslim who was raised in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. As a young man, he was led to Christ through the example and witness of believers in Latvia. His heart is for winning his people—Muslims—to Christ. In Tahir’s words, “You must reach Muslims with the language of love.” Then, with his quick smile, he added, “Even a dog responds to that language.” And Muslims are responding to the love of Jesus Christ, as demonstrated through this quiet, courageous evangelist. Tahir has already planted two churches in the Kazan region, which are now pastored by men he won to Christ and discipled. He is now planting a third church; however, like the apostle Paul, “a wide door for effective work has opened” to Tahir, but “there are many adversaries” (1 Cor. 16:9). He has received violent threats from Muslims and Russian Orthodox leaders, and now the KGB has given him orders to leave Kazan within the month. He has already moved his family—his wife and four children—and he will soon join them. For now, he is trying to shepherd his little flock and discern what to do next.

Tahir is brokenhearted over being torn from his people, yet I don’t think this is the end. The imams, in league with the KGB, may think they are through with Tahir—but God isn’t through with him. There is one thing that Tahir said to me tonight that still sticks in my mind and heart like a thorn of truth. Comparing the response to the gospel by Muslims he has reached with the indifference and fear of Christians to speak of the Savior, he said, “The world is more willing to receive the gospel than Christians are willing to give the gospel.”

ON THE RAIL TO MOSCOW