Like lambs led to slaughter
I returned to Grenada the summer of ’88, thrilled to be back on the exotic Isle of Spice. This time I stayed in the in-town house with several of the young missionaries I had worked with the summer before. The house was on a major thoroughfare, and early every morning when I awoke to roosters crowing, I rolled over in bed and watched out the window as folks walked on the road below me, carrying huge bundles on their heads and leading goats and cows through the town.
The kids were all still there and ready to greet me for another summer of smiles, adventure, and stories about Jesus.
My favorite Rastafarian, Michael, was there, too, with dreadlocks grown one year longer. He spent some of his time in the jungles behind his home, cutting down coconuts, almonds, and other free foodstuffs, but the rest of the time he was eager to discuss anything that crossed his mind. Of course, our conversation always turned to Jesus and Michael’s own spiritual quest. But not too long after I arrived in Grenada, he grew increasingly concerned.
You see, I landed in Grenada during the fever heat of preparation for the biggest event of the year, Carnival. It happens all over Latin America and the Caribbean and is somewhat similar to Mardi gras. In Grenada, it is held in August and when I arrived, the big day was almost here.
Michael told the YWAMers that he’d heard scuttlebutt that some of the men in the village resented the Christians’ involvement in the Carnival parade. They didn’t appreciate the large cross and banners about Jesus that the team would be bearing through the streets of Sauteurs on their special day. And talk of trouble was brewing.
After discussion and prayer back at the house, the team decided to participate nonetheless, but the visitors would remain back at the base. I breathed a sigh of relief, not wanting to deal with potential danger. However, my relief was short-lived; Kim, one of the young leaders there, pulled me aside and told me that she wanted me to join them because I knew how to pray. Here we go, I thought.
Carnival morning arrived; our banners were ready, the cross was waiting, and its bearer was poised for action. We gathered for prayer before we joined the parade.
Filtering up from my spirit were words from Isaiah 53:7. “Like a lamb that is led to slaughter, and like a sheep that is silent before its shearers, so He did not open His mouth.”
I froze. I’m not saying that, I told myself. That can’t be God! I couldn’t shake the words, though, and quietly prayed against them, hoping they weren’t from God. And then one of the YWAMers spoke. He said, “Like a lamb that is led to slaughter, and like a sheep that is silent before its shearers, so He did not open His mouth.”
Great, I thought. Now I’ll be going home to my dad in a casket! I’d better start praying. NOW!
We joined the parade and our banners rippled in the breeze while the cross-bearer took up the rear. We were singing from Psalm 149. The lyrics were:
“With the high praises of God in our mouths and a two-edged sword in our hands,
“We shall launch an assault on the portals of hell and against us they shall not stand.”
To my left in the crowd was a man covered from head to toe in tar and black grease, a jab-jab costume—one of the main get-ups for Grenadian men during Carnival, meant to represent devils from hell. Glaring at the band of believers, he grabbed up a boulder from the ground and with a roar, ran straight for the team with the boulder hoisted high. I started praying fast and furiously in tongues, bypassing the courtesy of asking if such prayer might offend anyone who believed the gift had ceased to exist with the Apostles. (Something about getting attacked by a man in grease and tar makes one forget her manners.)
Next thing I knew, the man threw himself into the banner right in front of me, boulder gone from his hands, as the Grenadian women carrying the sign lowered it and then lifted it back up, greasy but intact. We continued with our song:
“Singing praise, praise, praise to the Lord; praise, praise, praise to the Lord.
“Praise, praise, praise to the Lord, for the battle is in God’s hands.”
The next day, we walked to the spot where the jab-jab went berserk. There was the boulder, smudged with his tar and grease. When I stooped to pick it up, I was amazed at how heavy it was—I couldn’t budge it. I knew that if jab-jab had had his way that stone would have visited a whole heap of hurt on some of us. But it didn’t—that muscular jab-jab dropped it. Why?
We didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Later that afternoon one of the village women stopped by, and in her beautiful Caribbean accent told us quite a tale. She had just returned from the beach where she encountered the jab-jab lying on the shore at the edge of the waves, letting the surf break over his shoulders. She laughed at him, reminding him of his outrage the day before.
He said to her, “Those Christians made me so mad! They were ruining Carnival! So I took a big rock to hit them, but when I picked it up and ran, my shoulders, back, and neck went into cramps. I could not hold the rock! I had to drop it, and here I am, still in pain, hoping the salt water will help me.”
Like lambs we were led to slaughter, but the Lamb of God, that great Shepherd of the sheep, protected us from all harm.
“Now the God of peace, who brought back from the dead that great shepherd of the sheep, our Lord Jesus, by the blood of the everlasting agreement, equip you thoroughly for the doing of his will! May he effect in you everything that pleases him through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever.” (Hebrews 13:20-21, Phillips).
God is good!
Dorothy