While I was a missionary in Brazil, my friend, Sebastão, invited me to
his hometown of Marecã, a spot-in-the-road town about seventy miles
from Rio de Janeiro. He was a twenty-six-year-old factory worker who
had visited our congregation and was involved in a Bible study.
Slow-talking, tall, gangly; this fellow was no city slicker. He was a
bit too honest, simple, and quick to smile to have any roots in the
urban jungle.

I welcomed the opportunity to see some of the Brazilian countryside.
What I didn’t know, however, was that I was about to learn a lesson on
faith.

Waiting for us when we arrived was Sebastão’s father, Senhor José. He
certainly did not look his seventy plus years. Eyes shaded by an old
straw hat, he smiled a toothless grin when he saw us. His barreled
brown chest and narrow waist testified to thousands of hours of hoeing
and planting. His flat bare feet were stained the color of the soil and
his hands were crusty and thick.

“Good to have you,” he welcomed. You could tell he meant it.

Senhor José took me on a tour through his segment of the world. For
thirty-seven years he had plowed and tilled his two acres. It was
obvious that he knew every hole and turn.

“I fed fourteen mouths off this land,” he smiled, fingering a lettuce
plant. “Where did you say you were from?”

“The U.S.”

“What do you do here?”

I explained a bit about my work. He did not respond immediately, but I
could tell he was thinking.

“A missionary, huh? Your job must be pretty easy.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“I have no trouble believing in God. After I see what he has done on my
little farm, year after year, it is easy to believe.” He smiled another
toothless grin and yelled to his wife to bring out some beans.

As we drove home, I couldn’t help thinking about Senhor José. My, what
a simple life. No traffic jams, airline schedules, or long lines. Far
removed from Wall Street, IRS, and mortgages.

I thought of his faith, his ability to believe, and his surprise that
there were some who couldn’t. I compared his faith with others I knew
had more difficulty believing; a university student, a wealthy
import-export man, an engineer. There was such a difference between
José and the others.

His faith was rooted in the simple miracles that he witnessed every day:

A small seed becoming a towering tree.

A thin stalk pushing back the earth.

A rainbow arching in the midst of the thundercloud.

It was easy for him to believe. I can see why. Someone who witnesses
God’s daily display of majesty doesn’t find the secret of Easter
absurd. Someone who depends upon the mysteries of nature for his
livelihood doesn’t find it difficult to depend on an unseen God for his
salvation.

“Nature,” wrote Jonathan Edwards, “is God’s greatest evangelist.”

“Faith,” wrote Paul, “does not rest in the wisdom of men, but in the
power of Go.”(1 Corinthians 2:5).

“God’s testimony,” wrote David, “makes wise the simple”(Ps. 19:7).

God’s testimony. When was the last time you witnessed it? A stroll
through knee-high grass in a green meadow. An hour listening to
seagulls or looking at seashells on the beach. Or witnessing the shafts
of sunlight brighten the snow on a crisp winter dawn. Miracles that
almost match the magnitude of the empty tomb happen all around us; we
only have to pay attention.
____________________________________
 From No Wonder They Call Him The Savior
Copyright 2004 Max Lucado