You Are the Kingdom

A pastor friend of mine just re-posted an entry on his blog about a trip we took four years ago to three Asian countries. We were backpacking through villages, leaving traces of the Gospel and praying for those people we encountered - and many others we will never see.

His post recounts the last leg of our journey, when a six-hour trip turned into 13 after an out-of-season rainstorm flooded the country, turning dusty mountain roads into red-clay mush.

We caught one of the last buses out of town after having lost contact with our American team leaders. When we came to a place where the deluge had overtaken the road, we crossed a torrent of water on a makeshift bamboo bridge, and everyone on our bus crammed into another one on the other side of the river that was almost full already.

On another occasion, we waited an hour for workers to use a tiny chainsaw to cut a massive tree out of our path. Further down the road, we twice had to get out as the driver made impossible turns on mountain ledges, spinning the wheels of the dilapidated school bus that carried us to this country's border. At one point, the water was three- to five-feet deep, and we all applauded as our intrepid driver plowed through, getting us one step closer to home. We had a plane to catch to the U.S., and there was no telling if we'd make it.

I spent about half the journey standing up, holding a bar for support, or sitting on my pack or a bag of produce in the middle aisle. The rest of the time, I shared about one cubic foot with a native woman and her baby. With all the canvas bags of garlic-y crops scattered about and a bus filled to twice its capacity with hot, disgruntled patrons, it's amazing that I ever got to sit, even more amazing that the kids behind me were the only ones losing their lunch.

My friend mentions that at the end of this hellish ride we spent Easter Sunday at the border between two countries, one open to the Gospel, one militantly opposed to it. Did I mention that we had spent three hours the day before detained at the border of another country?

We were talking the other day about how life-changing it was to celebrate the risen Christ in a land where worshiping him is not permitted, where believers don't have the same privilege that we enjoyed in as we sat partaking Easter Communion in that river town. We broke bread from a local shop and sipped mango juice as wine.

"People just can't understand what that was like when you explain it to them," I told him the other day about the impact of the trip.

"You know," he replied, "People in this country just don't get that there are times when you are the Kingdom of God. You're it."

For that reason, the bus ride was worth it, even with all the obstacles along the way. In a way, it was like God leading us in a dramatic crescendo to the resounding final note on our journey. The roadblocks, he seemed to be showing us, were the reason we were there.

Before our trip even began, before we knew all the transportation trouble we'd face, our team had a name. It was the Roadmakers.

See my original blog posts from that trip here.

Classical History on the Open Road

America has got to be the best country in the world for road trips. We have gorgeous scenery, quality roads, a ton of land, and best of all, 300 million people itching to show their creativity. Through bustling metropolis and country town alike, the best and worst of American ingenuity and artistry is on full and unabashed display.

Sometimes these exhibitions are serious and awe-inspiring. Others, like the "Goats on the Roof" convenience store in North Georgia (yes, they literally have goats on their roof), are just plain hilarious. Click here for video...

What my wife Katy, my friend Evan and I saw as we traveled recently on the I-65 corridor from Louisville, Ky., to Nashville, Tenn., was somewhere in the middle of that continuum.

The drive was reminiscent of a coming-of-age excursion Evan and I took after high school graduation. Five years ago, we packed up his mom's Cadillac and took a 7,700-mile journey to 13 different baseball stadiums over two and a half weeks. On that trip, for various ridiculous reasons, we covered the stretch of highway between Nashville and Louisville at least three times.

On this recent jaunt, we were headed home to Georgia from my cousin's wedding in Kentucky, but didn't want to give up the road trip spirit just yet. Fittingly, Evan had brought along the same tattered atlas we used during our inaugural baseball trip. We consulted it to see if there were any interesting bits of Americana we had missed while zipping by Nashville.

The Music City did not disappoint.

"We can go to the Parthenon," Evan said with the typical mix of utter seriousness and whimsy that makes him such a great travel companion.

I didn't know how to respond. He explained.

"Nashville has a full-scale replica of the Parthenon in the middle of a city park."

"With the ruins built in, or as it was supposed to be?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. You wanna check it out?"

How could we not?

We took awhile finding it, but soon we came upon Nashville's Centennial Park. This is no Acropolis, but the modern-day Parthenon's digs are not too shabby. Students threw frisbees on open, grassy fields near the imposing edifice. Folks sat on picnic blankets and wandered on concrete walkways next to man-made lakes, where greedy ducks gorged themselves on store-bought bread. To me, the Parthenon stuck out, its concrete columns and sculptured frieze out of place in the park setting. To locals, it's simply the anchor of this public space.

Turns out, this Parthenon was built to show what the real thing would have looked like before erosion and looting took its toll. As far as I can tell from the Web site, it was initially built in 1897 for Nashville's Centennial Exhibition, which means this was a hundred-year-old replica of a 2,500-year-old architectural wonder: a historical portrayal of history.

We didn't make it inside. The museum was about to close, and we felt satisfied without paying $4.50 to see the 42-foot Athena statue (another exact replica) they keep behind 24-foot bronze doors.

For me, the best part was the fact that no one thought this was weird. Everyone seemed perfectly content to enjoy their Sunday afternoon in the shadow of what the Web site calls the "pinnacle of classical architecture." Even street signs apparently saw no need for explanation: "Parthenon, Straight Ahead," they said.

And then there were the modern rules posted near the "ancient" building: No skateboarding on the Parthenon, and if you go into the building, which also serves as Nashville's art museum, make sure to put out your cigarette and toss your water bottle.

A meal at Five Guys near the Vanderbilt campus brought us back to the 21st century. It was a brief stop but a historic discovery for the three of us.