The Day God Told Me to Disband Christafari

We’ve arrived in Vanuatu.

After a long travel day to Port Vila, followed by another travel day to the island of Tanna, we’re finally here.

Tanna is a volcanic island where the first season of Survivor was filmed.

When we landed, we were told we’d be taking a drive around the island, visiting the highest-ranking official on Tanna, stopping by the church we’re helping raise funds for, enjoying a special lunch, and only then heading to our hotel.

None of that was in the original plan.

But then again, very little on this tour has gone according to plan.

We’ve dealt with canceled ferries, canceled flights, delayed baggage, rerouted ministry, canceled concerts, and we just learned that another outreach in Nadi, Fiji, has fallen through. We’re already scrambling to replace it.

I don’t know about you, but I like plans. I like knowing what’s next.

When things don’t go according to plan, it’s easy to become frustrated.

It reminded me of the movie Click. Adam Sandler’s character receives a remote control that allows him to fast-forward through the parts of life he finds inconvenient. At first it seems brilliant. Why wait in traffic? Why endure boring meetings? Why sit through difficult seasons?

But later he realizes he’d skipped some of the most meaningful moments of his life.

How often do we do the same thing?

Sometimes God calls us to put down the remote.

Sometimes He simply asks us to get in the raft, lean back, trust the Guide, and let Him navigate the rapids.

On the mission field, so much is completely outside of our control.

Last night the power went out in the middle of the outreach.

We spent hours trying to get it restored. When we finally did, rain came in the middle of the concert and scattered the crowd.

Would we have chosen differently?

Probably.

But God is the Author of this story.

The Father knows best.

“What father among you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?” (Luke 11:11)

Then, late last night, just after we finished the concert, one of the local leaders walked up and casually announced:

“We have a 6:00 a.m. volcano tour scheduled for the whole team.”

My first thought?

We don’t do early mornings. Then I remembered that every complaint can be eradicated by the simple phrase, “I am a missionary.”

So we said, “Yes,” of course.

Roll with it.

Go with the flow.

As I write this, our team is bouncing around in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser, sitting on wooden planks, climbing one of the roughest roads I’ve ever experienced toward the most accessible active volcano in the world.

God is good.

Ironically, this whole experience has transported me back fourteen years.

It was 2012, our very first mission to Melanesia.

Ziza wasn’t even six months old.

We had just released our Reggae Worship: Roots Revival album, and after a brief stop in Fiji, we landed in New Caledonia.

I had no idea what “protocol” meant.

Throughout Melanesia, protocol is a way of honoring people.

You don’t simply show up and play a concert. You visit chiefs.

You meet government officials. You attend banquets. You receive gifts. You build relationships.

It’s simply how things are done.

To the local people, these moments are an honor.

To someone who prefers rigid schedules and as much rest as possible before exerting yourself on stage for three hours that night, they can feel like interruptions.

That first trip exposed a major divide within our band.

Some of the guys were hired session musicians. They were accustomed to flying in, playing the concert, collecting a paycheck, and flying home.

By the second or third official dinner, several members of the team refused to attend.

“Why do we have to do this?”

“Why wasn’t this on the schedule?”

Instead, some chose to go to McDonald’s.

They missed one of the greatest feasts I’ve ever experienced.

Literally.

There was an entire roasted pig on the table with an apple in its mouth, like something straight out of a movie.

The local people honored us beyond anything we expected.

They presented each guest with gifts, including genuine black Tahitian pearl necklaces worth thousands of dollars.

The people who skipped protocol also skipped the blessing.

Ironically, that only made them more frustrated.

Looking back, God was teaching me something much bigger than island culture.

He was teaching me about ministry.

Then came the final straw.

The promoter who had promised to cover our flights and expenses informed us that he couldn’t contribute anything.

Once again, I found myself paying for airline tickets, travel expenses, and musicians out of pocket.

Sadly, this wasn’t new.

We’d experienced similar situations in Brazil and other nations.

It always left me with the same tension.

I’m not here for the money.

But airline tickets cost money.

Equipment costs money.

People have families to feed.

How do you balance a missionary heart with the realities of running an international band?

The answer came the very next day.

We boarded a tiny puddle-jumper headed from New Caledonia to the remote island of Lifou.

An island once known for cannibalism.

We were flying there to meet village chiefs inside traditional grass huts and to do an outreach concert.

Somewhere during that short flight, the Lord spoke clearly to my heart.

“I want you to disband Christafari as you know it.”

Instead of hiring musicians, every member would become a full-time missionary.

Or as we like to say now, “Musicianaries.”

Needless to say, not everyone was excited.

The vision was simple.

Each missionary would raise personal support.

The ministry would raise the travel budget.

Together we could take the Gospel to places most Christian artists would never consider visiting.

Places many have never even heard of.

That vision changed everything.

Within a year, every single member of the team from that trip was gone.

Every one of them.

Except for Avion and me.

Jesus said,

“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.”

We experienced that reality firsthand.

God wasn’t simply removing people.

He was building something entirely different.

He began assembling a team of missionaries instead of hired musicians.

That vision has now carried us across more than 90 nations.

We’ve witnessed well over one million documented decisions for Christ.

And we’re still just getting started.

As I write these final words, we’re still climbing toward the crater.

This road is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

We’re being thrown around in the back of this truck like we’re on a ride at Magic Mountain, only without seat belts.

They told us it would be an hour from the hotel.

It’s already been well over two.

But then…

I look up.

The view is breathtaking.

The volcano towers before us.

My jaw drops.

Yes, the road has been rough.

Yes, it’s been longer than expected.

Yes, this tour has stretched us in every imaginable way.

But I wouldn’t trade this adventure for anything.

I’ve decided to put down the remote control.

Things are outside my control.

They’re never outside His.

Thank you for standing with us through every detour, every canceled flight, every unexpected expense, every delayed ferry, every muddy road, every mountaintop, and every soul reached along the way.

Please continue praying for our team as we finish this Melanesia mission.

The road may still be rocky.

But the Guide has never lost His way.

In His hands,

Pastor Mark Mohr