Bigte Rotunda, Norzagaray, 14.8572, 121.0856

This particular junction of Bigte, in Norzagaray, has long been a burden for me—a place where I have desired to lift up the voice of the Gospel for many a season. It is a location where three main thoroughfares of Bulacan converge, a crossroads that is never without a multitude hurrying toward their various earthly errands. Three times before, I had allowed the opportunity to pass me by, permitting the cares of the day or the hesitations of the flesh to forestall the work. Yet, on this day, I set my face like a flint. I spoke with a firm intent to my own heart: "I am going today." I would no longer dally with delay nor allow my own convenience to rob the Master of His service today. It was a day to go where the spirit had long since yearned.

The area is a vast and bustling expanse, a central hub where the commerce of the world and the authority of man sit side by side. Here, the marketplace teems with activity, surrounded by a police station, and different terminals of public transports, with various businesses on every side and corner. It is one thing to muster the spiritual courage to enter such a stronghold; it is entirely another to discern the work that lies ahead. 

I did not automatically know where to stand simply because I had arrived here. I found myself walking amongst the crowd, scouting the terrain for a place to stand. I encountered a vacant waste-ground just behind the stalls—a place where the market garbage was dumped that offered a small cement structure to stand on and address the crowd inside the market, of whom I perceived more than half were Mohammedans, followers of the moon god allah.

Yet, even as I surveyed that place, there was a persistent thought at the back of my mind, whispering that the rotunda was my appointed station. Knowing that the Lord’s place is rarely the one that offers the most comfort to the flesh. I saw several potential stations where I could have stood, yet the flesh tugged at me, making excuses to justify my passing them by. With every suitable ground, a corresponding reason came up to avoid it within my mind—a delay to preserve my own ease at the expense of my duty. I saw the opportunities clearly enough, but I allowed my hesitation to mask itself as prudence, turning me away from what I knew to be my appointed work. 

As I retraced my steps toward the rotunda, I passed by two women of the Watchtower cult, diligently plying their cursed and soul-damning materials to the unsuspecting. It was a sobering sight to behold such zeal spent in the service of a false hope, offering the husks of heresy to those who perish for want of the Bread of Life. They stood as witnesses of a false kingdom, their hands full of labor but their vessels void of the Truth. The sight of their industry served only to press the gravity of my own mission further, for where the enemy sows his tares with such resolve, how much more must the servant of Christ be found faithful in scattering the good seed of truth?

I had heard reports that other preachers occasionally visited this ground to sow the Word, and in the deceitfulness of my own heart, I sought to use their presence as a cover for my own hesitation. I reasoned that if the work was already begun, my own hand was no longer required; I sought to check off this location from my list as if the debt of my obedience had been settled by the service of others.

Yet, I knew this to be a grievous error on my part. For whatever divine purpose the Lord chose to press this burden so heavily upon my spirit, only He—in His infinite wisdom—knows the full account. I realized then that to carry any burden for the sake of the Gospel is, in truth, the lightest weight that could ever be laid upon the shoulders of a man. Rather than shrinking from the task, I should be filled with a profound and humble gratitude. It is, therefore, but a small and light thing that I should render my obedience to the King, for to serve Him is not a hardship to be endured, but a privilege to thank and worship Him for.

After some time, this physical body begins to fail; my water was spent, my throat was parched it hurt to swallow, and my mouth was just as dry. The sun had gone to its rest, withdrawing its light from me, and a heaviness of spirit and body descended upon me until I was dizzy for I was short of sleep. Yet, even as the flesh cried out to stop, the spirit refused to yield. I found that in the service of the King, there is no retreat, only a pressing toward the mark. 

There was nowhere for the soul to turn but forward—leaving behind the comforts of the self and moving ever onward to Christ. It was a moment where the weakness of the creature served only to magnify the sufficiency of the Creator, proving that when we are most spent, His strength is most perfectly displayed.

Tonight I slept early and soundly. The first good sleep I have had in a long while.