A 3rd Generation House Church

The road climbed steadily higher, aiming for a gap between two mountains. Me and my companions were on our way to visit a house church in the interior of our island. Years ago, I shared the gospel to Danny, who started his own house church. He shared the gospel with a neighbor, Lena, who started her own house church. Lena had traveled to her home here in the mountains and shared the gospel with her relatives, and they started a house church. Eight baptized believers made up the core of this 3rd generation house church, and this was my first visit.

The scenery was beautiful. Passing through corn fields, the winding road climbed a ridge that eventually took us to a point where we could see down into valleys on both sides. Tree covered mountains loomed beyond that. Small native nepa houses dotted the hillsides. Occasionally, I had to dodge large rattan mats laid out on the road to dry freshly harvested rice.

I recalled the first time I traveled this road, 29 years ago, when Jan and I were still language students. Although our assignment was Roxas City, we were doing language study in Iloilo City, about 75 miles south of Roxas. Eager to visit our place of assignment, Jan and I had set out to traverse the interior of our island, from south to north. Not knowing the way, we did the American thing and bought a map, which showed the road we were currently on.

But 29 years ago, this road was a rocky path suitable for horses and 4 wheel drive vehicles. Pregnant with Sara, Jan didn’t know if she could handle the jarring bumps. When we finally arrived in Roxas, 6 hours later, our friends were shocked that we had come that way. “Why didn’t you take the new highway?”, they asked. Turns out our map was quite outdated. “Don’t you know that there are NPA up in those mountains?” (New People’s Army were communist-backed rebel fighters prominent back then.)

But now the road was paved, at least to where we had to turn off and continue our climb along a narrow dirt road that, at some points, hugged the edge of cliffs. No longer were the mountains distant; we were in them, climbing higher. By the time we arrived at the native hillside house, the temperature was cooler, the wind stronger, and clouds were sitting on nearby peaks.

About a dozen of their neighbors gathered on the bamboo floor as we sang Ilonggo hymns of praise, followed by words of encouragement and hope from God’s Word. Sun wrinkled faces and stiff calloused hands told of a rugged lifestyle. Yet their generosity knew no limits as they prepared a feast of their finest foods, from fruits of banana and papaya, to vegetables of corn and rice, and meats of… well, I’ve learned not to ask!

Someday when I retire from the mission field, I will recline in the comfort of my American living room surrounded by modern conveniences. I will eat recognizable food and maybe look out upon my manicured lawn. But I know deep inside there will be a longing to climb the road once again to enjoy the smiles and fellowship of these mountain people. My main consolation will be knowing that I will see them in heaven someday, and grateful that I shared the gospel to Danny.