Two years ago, I had the great privilege to travel to Cuba to teach on worship in a little seminary in Havana, and to preach in some house churches. Yes, Cuba. My father went with me on the trip, and we knew we were walking into a history of hostility—that simply by being Americans, we could be lightning rods for trouble. Overall, I had peace about making the trip, but this was Cuba, and there were times when our planning was tinged with doubts.
As it turned out, the only nervous moments came on the way into the country. When our plane landed, we were met by soldiers wearing olive drab uniforms, just like in the movies. It was a little surreal. In the terminal, our group of five gringos stood out among the other travelers. We were questioned at length by customs officials. We were honest about why we had come, but were evasive about the names of our Cuban contacts and their churches. We were eventually allowed in without incident.
The rest of the trip was a joy. The Cuban believers were passionate, gracious, and hospitable. They have very little material wealth, but they are rich in love and courage. Over the past 20 years, a slow revival has taken place in Cuba, beginning in the eastern provinces. Thousands have come to faith. They both needed and appreciated our teaching and encouragement. But things don’t always go so pleasantly.
Three years earlier, I spent several weeks in the suburbs of Paris, ministering among North African Muslim children. This was only months after 9/11. When the children learned we were Americans, they immediately started poking at our political nerves. Several of them chanted, “Bin Laden! Bin Laden! Il est mon pere!” (“He is my father.”) One Muslim man, maybe 25 years old, gazed provocatively at me and said, “Vive Saddam Hussein.” The worst was a small boy with a huge grin on his face who mimed planes crashing into the World Trade Center and the collapse of the towers.
That hurt.
In that moment, I had to decide who I was. Was I in the country as an American, or was I there as a Christian? I’m used to standing up for my country and for my political convictions. But I knew that to do so would mark me as their enemy, and that by clinging to my identity as an American, I would lose the opportunity to represent Jesus to them.
Christians serve a God without borders. We have been commanded by King Jesus, the Lord of all the earth, to go into the world and share the gospel. Sometimes that means letting our country be insulted, even right in front of us. It took some effort, but the team and I let the taunts go and kept serving—with no regrets. In France, we left behind 24,000 French-Arabic New Testaments and a few new believers. In Cuba we left behind a red-hot church who felt anew their American brothers’ love and encouragement. That’s worth more than my American pride.
Discuss:
- How has our identity as Americans impacted the people we’re serving on this trip?
- How does our identity as Christians complement our identity as Americans? In what ways do those two identities contrast?
- How can we use this trip to become citizens of heaven first and America second?
This article originally appeared inour sister publication Leadership Journal, © 2007 by Christianity Today International. For more articles like this, visit leadershipjournal.net.
