Where the World Ends

Define "all nations." Now, define it again.

I memorized the Great Commission in a little corner of the basement of the Indian Creek Missionary Baptist Church. There were four or five of us in that tiny little room located directly under the baptistry. From the maze of ancient copper piping above our heads hung a buffet of cardboard fruit dotted with crumpled balls of colored tissue paper and labeled, “patience, “kindness,” “love,” “joy,” etc. The pipes had a habit of sweating when the pool above was being filled, so most of the Fruits of the Spirit had taken on a slightly wavy appearance. The ceiling was low enough that Sister Maudie, who was my great-aunt, had to bat “temperance,” from the crown of her immaculate bouffant every time she walked the full length of the natty green flannelgraph mounted carefully to the back wall. She was a tall woman, and her teased crown of dark hair streaked with silver was an ever-present reminder that she knew in her heart of hearts that she was the daughter of a King.

Sister Maudie had been drilling us all week on Matthew 28:18-20. At one point, she insisted that Dwayne Hensley, a little boy so blonde his eyebrows were nearly invisible, recite the passage backwards. It took him some thinking, but that child actually pulled it off. That’s how good a teacher Sister Maudie was. We stood up in front of the entire congregation on the last night of Bible School and earned our plate of the best fried chicken ever made (that would be Sister Peachey’s contribution) by slowly, carefully, and loudly pronouncing each and every syllable of the verses in perfect, Appalachian King James.

And Jesus came and spake unto them, saying, All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.

Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost:

Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.

It’s no surprise that 42 years later, there’s still a folder in the filing cabinet of my mind from which I can access these words. They’ve not sat untouched; instead, they’ve formed the backbone of a life played out over decades far removed from the basement VBS at Indian Creek. I’ve given those words a lot of thought, and they still challenge me, shape me, and spur me on.

As missionaries, my family has seen the literal all nations. My children have walked through the North Korean Tunnels of Aggression near Seoul. They have delivered supplies to maternity clinics in rural Nepal. They have handed a Bible to their taxi driver in Doha. These experiences have driven home the truth of the breadth of the Gospel and its value, as well as its ability to transcend cultures and social status.

But it’s a different mission field that has captured some of us; it’s the small place, the place where, for most of us, the world both begins and ends. It’s home.

Myself, my eldest daughters… we’ve all chosen to teach the least of these and friends, it is a mission field. You know this, and it’s something that you would eagerly share with a friend whose ability to personify longsuffering (there are those fruits again!) was in danger of running dry.

You are on the mission of motherhood! you would tell her.

This was not meant to be easy; you are planting the seeds of faith amongst unbelievers! you would assure her.

But when it comes to shoring up your own vision of yourself sharing the Gospel, you see yourself booking tickets to some faraway land where you’ll have to be careful to steer clear of drinking unfiltered water and maybe even suffer a few jabs to avoid getting a firsthand understanding of the state of health care in developing nations. The world’s end, after all, is far from wherever it is that you are sitting right now, reading this.

Or is it?

Over more than two and a half decades of parenting, I’ve come to the realization that Jesus’ promise of being with us always, even unto the end of the world is a far bigger assertion that my mortal mind can grasp on any given day. I used to ask, “Is He talking about time? Place? A specific event?” Now I know the answer, and it is simply this: Yes.

From a church nestled in one of East Kentucky’s most beautiful hollers, to the congested streets of an ancient capital city on another continent, to the cozy clutter of a living room crowded with good books and squirming children, we are charged with teaching all nations. We are all commissioned. And we are all valuable in the work of building the Kingdom, one moment at a time!

In Christ,

Heather