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Salvador is an enigma among the Harakmbut. I stood in the entry way of Salvador's cooking hut as I had done numerous times before. I greeted him in the customary way. He sat at the rustic, wooden table where he ate his meager fare and sipped some warm concoction while the smoldering cooking fire behind him heaved tired sighs as it succumbed to the ashes beneath its faltering flame, giving out its last crackling protests.
I always delighted to visit Salvador. He is the perfect gentlemen, at least for tribal people. His eyes project confidence and warmth. His quiet demeanor speaks of someone who is comfortable just being himself. And, he always seems willing to put life on hold to invite me into his jungle world.
Physically, Salvador is not the man he once was. I don't know how old he is. It never seemed important to ask. It was such a pleasure being in his presence that such thoughts lazily drifted away with the last wisps of smoke rising from his cooking fire. This day he was seated on a crudely built bench that looked as old as he was. It was evident that Salvador was once a strong man, but his muscles had long since lost their tone, overcome by the incessant pull of gravity from a life of lessened activity. Yet, as always, he was master of himself. He was poised on his bench in perfect posture, a man at peace in his surroundings.
To my knowledge Salvador never aspired to greatness. He never talked about himself, his life's accomplishments, or any such trifle pursuit.
Salvador is an enigma among his people, the perfect form of dignity and confidence.
These were the impressions burned into my memory upon seeing him that morning. And while I was glad to spend a few moments chatting, the bulk of my attention was shifted off of Salvador by the alarm bells going off in my brain.
When I walked into Salvador's cooking hut, I was singularly focused on...well, Salvador. I failed to notice the thouands of ants just about everywhere, marching in dutiful lines on the ground, scaling the split wood walls, and trailing off to who knows where. Salvador noticed my concern and as a master of the jungle he instructed me which ants had severe bites and which ones gave just normal bites. How comforting! His information didn't engender any warm, fuzzy feelings.
I don't know how I had managed to avoid getting bitten on my way in, but looking toward the only opening in the hut, it would take some fancy footwork to avoid crossing their lines on my way out. One wrong step and I would feel the chilling sensation of tiny crawling feet up my legs followed by the stabbing pain of their bites-pain that would last for hours to come. Well, that's life in the Amazon.
I carefully worked my way out of Salvador's hut to invite other tribespeople to the church service that morning, with Salvador assuring me he would be there.
Church service went well that morning as I dramatized Jacob wrestling with the angel and having the hollow of his thigh out of joint. I limped around the wood patio trying to convince the indians that Jacob had won a great victory by hanging on for the blessing--the blessing of surrender and a changed life. Smiles were abundant on their faces as they followed my every drag of the foot. When the action was dying down and I poured on the application, the old familiar excuse issued from the lips of someone in the crowd, "But we are indígenas (indians). How can we understand such things?"
I'd heard this line of reasoning before. It was the common cop out of the tribal people. In essence they were saying, "We like what you say. But, we are not able to live up to what you say." I was quick to raise my objections, but it didn't seem to raise the stature of their self-image. The reason? These are the ant people. The old American saying, "You're only as young as you feel," would better be said, "You're only as tall as you feel," to capture the shattered self-image of the tribal peoples. Most of the indígenas feel about as tall as ants.
Hearing their self-deprecating remarks reminded me of another tribe--the tribe if Israel. When they left Egypt and wandered through the desert for a time, they finally meandered up to the river Jordan. They were at the very cusp of receiving their inheritance! With growing anticipation in the hearts of the multitude, twelve men, princes of the people, departed the camp to spy out the promised land. Oh, what a report the people heard upon their return! This was Beulah Land, a land flowing with milk and honey.
Only one problem stood between them and this wonderful real estate: a crippled self-image. After all, they were grasshoppers (so said ten of the spies) compared with the giants and men of great stature in the land, and they even went on to say that they were grasshoppers in their own sight (see Numbers 13:3) The result? The heart of the people melted, and faith was eclipsed by their fear. That generation went back out into the desert until every last one of them, with exception of the two faithful spies, Joshua and Caleb, had breathed their last breath. What a tragedy! Instead of trapsing through fields laden with fruit simply bursting in sweetness, they had chosen to crunch on gravel and breathe in hot, dusty air for years to come. They traded their inheritance for a miserable wind-swept existence. What a life! These were the grasshopper people.
The difference between the dying generation in the desert and their children who went on to cross the Jordan River and receive the promise had everything to do with faith and identity. They believed it was their destiny as God's chosen people to receive the inheritance. "Many are called but few are chosen." The hope of the grasshopper people was embodied in two men who had a transformed identity, two men who believed they could do anything when God was added into the equation.
Salvador is an enigma among his people because he has the heart of Caleb. He has risen above the defeatist mentality of his people. The hopes of his people are wrapped up with men like Salvador, who have accepted Christ as personal savior and have assumed new identities: heirs with God and joint-heirs with Christ.
But the reality of present tribal ministry is that Salvadors are rare. They are well outnumbered by Ant People. And because the short-statured hold majority, Salvador goes on in quiet confidence longing for the day that his people will also take on the identity of Christ and abandon self-fulfilling prophecies of defeat and failure.
Will you pray for the Harakmbut and the other tribes among whom we minister that God will raise up men of a different spirit? While our hopes soar with men like Salvador, we long to see a move of God that will compel a multitude of others to claim Christ. And most importantly the tribal work needs God-called leaders of similar spirit and magnitude as that of Caleb and Joshua of old to lead their own people into a spiritual land of abundance. | 
Dear Friends of the Ministry,
"The Ant People"