When we first came to Chabantu, there was no church building waiting for us. There were no rows of chairs, no pulpit, no sound system, and no sign out front with a church name on it.
There was a tree. So we met under it.
That first gathering was simple. We opened the Bible, sang together, prayed, and shared the Gospel with the people who came. We did not know then what Chabantu would become. We certainly did not have some detailed plan mapped out for the next several years.
We just knew God had opened a door, and we wanted to be faithful enough to walk through it. Week after week, we came back to that tree. People began coming back too.
Names became familiar. Faces became friends. We started learning families, hearing their stories, praying over their needs, and walking through life with them. What began as a place where we went to hold a Bible study slowly became somewhere we looked forward to being every week.
Then came the blue tarp.
Now, calling it a “church building” may have been a little generous.
Some poles were put into the ground and a big blue tarp was stretched across the top to give us some shade from the Zambian sun. And you could definitely tell it had been built by Zambians. At over six feet tall, I could not stand up straight underneath most of it. I spent a lot of Sundays preaching slightly bent over, trying not to hit my head.
But it was our church.
At least until the wind decided otherwise.
More than once, right in the middle of a Sunday service, a hard gust of wind would grab that blue tarp and rip it loose. Before we knew it, part of our “roof” would be flapping in the air or hanging in a nearby tree.
So we would stop what we were doing and rebuild the building right in the middle of church. Everybody would pitch in. We would pull the tarp back down, stretch it over the poles again, tie it off as best we could, straighten things up, and then keep going.
Sometimes the sermon had an intermission we had not planned for. But there was something fitting about it. The tarp could come off. The roof could end up in a tree. The preacher could have to duck under the shelter.
But the church was still there.
The people were there.
The Bible was there.
Jesus was there.
So we tied the tarp back up and kept worshiping.
And under that blue tarp, God continued doing something much more permanent than anything we could build with poles and rope.
People were hearing the Gospel.
People were learning Scripture.
Children were growing up hearing about Jesus.
Families were worshiping together.
Men were beginning to take responsibility in the church.
And somewhere along the way, without any big announcement or grand opening, Chabantu stopped being a place where we were doing ministry.
It became family.
Today, things look a little different than those first days under the tree and the blue tarp, but not so different that we have lost the personality of Chabantu. We still have chickens wander through during church. We still have dogs that decide Sunday morning is a good time to come visit. Sharon jokingly calls it “Church’s Chicken.” Every once in a while, a cow will even wander up and stop by as if it has come to see what all the singing is about. And more than once, I have preached a sermon while holding a child in my arms.
That is just Chabantu.
Sometimes a little one decides they want Pastor to hold them, so up they come, and the sermon continues. I have learned that preaching with a Bible in one hand and a child in the other is one of those ministry skills nobody really prepares you for. But honestly, I would not trade those moments. They say something about what this church has become.
These children know us. They trust us. Many of them have grown up with Chabantu as part of their lives. They are not an interruption to church. They are part of the church. So if a chicken walks through while I am preaching, I keep preaching. If a dog wanders in, somebody usually moves it along. If a cow stops by, we count another visitor. And if a child wants to be held while I preach, I pick them up and keep going.
That is Chabantu.
It is not polished.
It is not complicated.
It is real.
It is people gathering together to worship God, hear His Word, pray for one another, love one another, and learn what it means to follow Jesus.
When we think about how far God has brought Chabantu, it is easy to focus on the things we can see.
The tree.
The blue tarp.
Where we meet today.
But the greatest part of the story has never been what God has built around us. It is what He has been building in people. We have watched people who once simply came to listen begin serving. We have watched believers grow in their understanding of Scripture. We have watched children grow up hearing the Gospel week after week. We have watched men begin stepping forward to teach, preach, and lead.
And that is where the next part of Chabantu’s story begins. Because we do not believe God established Chabantu simply so we could have one church in one village. We believe Chabantu is meant to become a mother church. Our prayer is that the people being discipled here today will become the people God sends out tomorrow.
We want to see pastors raised up.
We want to see leaders trained.
We want to see men and women who have grown in their faith at Chabantu carry the Gospel into other villages throughout the Sikute Chiefdom.
And we want to see churches planting churches.
Sometimes Sharon and I talk about what that might look like years from now. Maybe one of the men sitting at Chabantu today will eventually walk into another village carrying his Bible. Maybe he will meet with the headman and ask permission to begin sharing God’s Word with a few families. There may not be a church building waiting for him. There probably will not be rows of chairs or a pulpit. There may just be another tree, and that would be just fine. They can gather underneath it.
Someone will sing.
Someone will pray.
He will open his Bible and begin teaching.
Maybe five people will come.
Then ten.
Then twenty.
And week after week, relationships will form. People will hear the Gospel. Believers will be discipled. Leaders will begin to emerge. And one day someone may look around and realize something has happened. There is a church here now. Then that church can look toward the next village, and begin again.
That is what we see when we think about the future of Chabantu. Not simply a larger building filled with more people on Sunday morning.
We see a church that sends.
A church that trains.
A church that plants.
A mother church with daughter churches scattered throughout the Sikute Chiefdom, each one preaching the Gospel, teaching God’s Word, discipling believers, and looking toward the next village that still needs to hear.
Maybe one day we will hear about a church somewhere deep in the chiefdom that Sharon and I have never personally visited. We will ask how it started. And someone will say, “That church was planted by a church that was planted by Chabantu.”
If God allows us to see that day, I think my mind will go all the way back to the beginning.
Back to that first tree.
Back to that blue tarp.
Back to Sunday mornings when the wind would rip our “church roof” off in the middle of the service and send everyone scrambling to tie it back down.
Back to preaching bent over because whoever built the tarp apparently never planned for a six-foot-tall American pastor.
Back to chickens walking through, dogs visiting, cows stopping by, and preaching with a child in my arms.
And I think we will smile, because God did not need much to begin. He needed willing people, an open Bible, and obedience.
We had no idea what God might do when we first gathered underneath that tree. We still do not know how far He will take it.
But we know this much:
The God who started the work under that first tree is still at work today.
And our prayer is that one church under one tree will someday become many churches throughout the Sikute Chiefdom.
