Recently Published

david — Sun, 03 May 2009 18:00:21 +0000

For an update on David’s work and articles published follow links below

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=112066036

http://www.lausanneworldpulse.com/perspectives.php/1143

http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2008/s08100104.htm

http://www.facebook.com/#/group.php?gid=50018554696&ref=share

Speaking Schedule

david — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 20:30:28 +0000

Feb. 22 Cairo, Egypt

Mar. 4-9 Amman, Jordan - Beruit, Lebanon

March 10-17 Iraq

Book Excerpts

david — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 22:30:13 +0000

Chapter 1

A Little Girl Named Nasan

“You are insane to try and create a home for Chechen orphans,” the surly Russian soldier said. “We’re going to be putting a bullet through their heads in five years.”

That was the voice of evil in Chechnya during the ten years I ministered there, trying to create an island of hope in a land so filled with hate and violence that it was said that even the Devil blushed with embarrassment at the atrocities committed there. It was not the only such voice, and at times they seemed to call out from all directions.

I had often rumbled along Chechen streets escorted by armed personnel carriers, protection provided by my hosts, and I would stare out at the grey sky and burned-out buildings, and wonder why God’s Spirit had seemed to have departed this place. The capital, Grozny, was liked Paris in the minds of the people in this Northern Caucausus region, but it had become nothing more than a sarcophagus with broad avenues. I saw a whirlwind of ashes through the armored vehicle porthole once, and the furtive face of an elderly lady who was out seeking food. I recognized these as icons of the netherworld I was in, a place where corruption was the currency of the land and death was the oxygen that people breathed. I uttered a brief prayer, asking God to spare the old woman from the snipers.

I had not gone to Chechnya because it was the reasonable thing to do. Even those who cared most deeply about me said I must be crazy for my willingness to take the heat of that sin-scorched place. Of course, reason and sanity had nothing to do with it. The Lord had spoken to me about sharing the Gospel in Chechnya, a Muslim republic in Russia, and all the pros and cons boiled down to a matter of simple obedience to God’s will for my life.

And then, of course, there were the children. They were the ones caught in the vortex of madness in the region, where tribal fueds have been raging for millennia, and had been aggravated by Soviet-era interference. Russian president Vladimir Putin wanted to keep the “renegade” Chechen government under his control.

There was suffering for everyone in this parade of malignant regimes, but especially for the children. Up until this point I had only seen their anguished faces in magazines and on the nightly BBC news and I knew I needed to see conditions for myself in Chechnya. It was during my first attempt to get into the war zone that God spoke to me about our future ministry to Chechens. He spoke through a child, and her name was Nasan.

(continued)

Chapter 5

Christmas In Hell

The cold January air knifed through the car as we joined the convoy of trucks on the jammed M29 road heading towards Grozny, the same familiar route I had taken many times before. At the Kavkaz checkpoint we picked up a Russian military escort - an APC carrier- its crew nursing a couple of bottles of cheap vodka, which they considered human anti-freeze. One of the soldiers joked and asked, “Why are you Americans going to Grozny? Don’t you know you will be spending Christmas in Hell?”

The afternoon turned cold and gray as a light snow began to fall.The winter white somehow helped mask the ugly scars of war that blighted the landscape as we passed Samaski, Achoi Martan, Batumi, and the road leading to Vedeno in the mountains, each village carrying horrible memories of massacres. Chechen women stood by the road,some holding babies wrapped like Mexican burritos in blankets, some in bright clothes and high heeled boots, waiting in the snow for packed mini-buses to take them somewhere - anywhere.

Five young Chechen boys walked along the road selling home-refined petrol and cigarettes, their faces dirty with soot from kerosene fires they burned to keep warm. Idris stopped and bought some cigarettes from them. One boy wore a knit cap with the L.A. Lakers logo on it - in black and silver, a pirated copy. He didn’t care, it was warm.

Our trucks rolled slowly towards the next checkpoint. Two OMON guards left their guard shack and walked over to inspect our documents and trucks. After a few moments of chit-chat and the exchange of a few rubles, our vehicles pulled forward and began the familiar snake like weave through the final barriers of the maze.

Back onto the road, staring us in the face, was a huge, crudely painted sign with the words “Welcome to Hell” written in large red letters in English. The words of the soldier at the border hit me like a cold slap in the face. I realized that it was January 7, 2001, Russian Orthodox Christmas Day. His remark made sense- we were going to Hell on Christmas Day!

(continued)

Book Reviews

david — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 22:05:52 +0000

“No Escape From Grozny” is a moving page-turner describing

how one man’s destiny was to see the Chechen people reached

with the love of God through meeting the simple necessities of

life. Having had the privelege of seeings David’s work first hand, I

know the reality of what IHF faced each journey into Chechnya.

This book will grip your soul as well as bring tears to your eyes.

Every story brings to life the victories and defeats of this lone missionary

in his attempt to change the course of this dark spot in the world.

This book has renewed my passion for the lost as well as strengthened

my modern day view of those called “pioneer missionaries”.

Sean Rafferty

Mission Pastor

Rocky Mountain Calvary - Colorado

What an opportunity to crawl into someone’s travel bag for a time

thru “No Escape from Grozny” and to experience the joys, uncertainties,

and fears of thier specific journey! I tend to wonder, “If David LeCompte

hadn’t been obedient to go and love on the people of Chechnya, what

thread would have been pulled to wreck the fabric of God’s redemption

for that area?” I’m so grateful God held David as a hostage of love to the Chechen

people for those 9 years!

Brian J. Bell

Senior Pastor

Calvary Chapel Murrieta -Murrieta, California

“No Escape from Grozny” is not easily forgotten, as it leaves

an imprint on your heart. It is a must read for those seeking

a reminder that trust and obedience to God’s will provides a shield of

protection and an opportunity for extraordinary services, as well

as for sharing the faithful message of salvation, even in the midst

of chaos. This book describes the mission of a few that required

entering a war zone, crossing the border of Chechnya, into the

capitol city of Grozny with humanitarian supplies. Chechen people

stood in lines for rations of soup and bread. Bibles were distributed

and services provided. David also tells of Lamb’s Home, the orphanage that was

established in Grozny to which many of us at Calvary Chapel

helped by sending supplies. You must read this book to understand the

extent of the work that was accomplished in bringing the Lord’s

message of hope to these suffering people.

Phae K. - Calvary Chapel St. Petersburg - Florida

Just received your book, “No Escape from Grozny“. Couldn’t

put it down until I had finshed it. May God continue to use you

in sharing His Word and may He continue to keep you under His protection.

Phyllis - Alabama

David - Don’t know what to say about “No Escape from Grozny”!

Your heart poured off every page without being sappy or sentimental. You

drew me into the situations you were in and had me thanking God

when they were over, yet I knew you made it through them. Your book

has inspired me to be a better man for Jesus. This book is a must read!

Richard - Pennsylvania

David - I enjoyed everything about “No Escape from Grozny”.

It reminded me of former trips to Russia. This is an excellent

story and I pray the Lord continues to bless the distribution of the book.

Every Christian should read it!

Connie - Arizona

Hey Dave, we’re lovin’ your book dude! What a talented, gifted writer!

John & Barb - Colorado

Mr. LeCompte,

Thank you, thank you for your amazing book, “No Escape from Grozny”!

I heard you speak at Calvary Chapel Ocean City, N.J. last week and God

has sure opened my eyes to so much. Thank you for teaching of lovingly working

with Muslims and allowing God to plant His seeds. You have helped

convict me of my own sin in this matter and I look at things so differently

now. Thank you! I could not put your book down and I intend to share it

will all who will listen.

Lynda - New Jersey

Photos - Chechnya

david — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 23:12:11 +0000

Other Writings

david — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 20:20:17 +0000

Palestinians & Jesus

The warmth of the day slipped into a cool evening on a late Friday afternoon in June, 2006. My friend and I walked down the narrow maze of streets that distinguish the Old City of Jerusalem. Along our way, we had witnessed Hassidic Jews leaving the Wailing Wall hurrying home to begin their Shabbat.

Muslim men with white head-coverings sat in the doorway of their shops smoking copper pipes and drinking sweet tea after Friday evening prayers at the Al Aqsa mosque which ironically is located on the mount where the Jews believe Solomon’s Temple once stood. Foreigners, religious and non-religious, frantically scooped up their last souvenirs before heading back to distant lands.

I had come to Jerusalem not as an American tourist; they get plenty of those. Like millions before me, I had come as a pilgrim in search of answers. I had been invited by my friend to join him and a group of Middle Eastern Christians who meet each Friday evening in the Arab quarter of the Old City. My friend had told me that many Palestinians were hearing the gospel and coming to Christ. Palestinians and Jesus…in today’s world…in Jerusalem? I had to see this.

They say that Jerusalem is the spiritual center of the world for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Each of these three religions considers this to be true. Yet, throughout history, millions have been killed in the name of the God which supposedly dwells in their shrines, temples and mosques in which they so fervently worship. Even God’s Son died here. There is a church built on the site they say is the location, but it is inside the city walls. Those who were crucified as he was by the Romans were put outside the city walls as a warning to other thieves of Rome’s punishment for trouble makers. The Bible tells me to pray for Jerusalem’s” “Peace”. Sadly, many who live here know very little of that. I still pray for it.

Continuing deeper into the quarter, I could feel curious eyes following us- faces through windows, stares from behind doors- shadows creeping their way onto the walls and the narrow alleyways of the Old City. The distinctive and haunting voice of the Muslim imam could be heard giving the final call to prayer to the faithful from the local mosque. On the distant Mount of Olives, the chimes from the Church of all Nations rang out. Each one calling out as if God was calling…maybe He was.

I began to wonder if I would be perceived the same way many in the Arab street see Americans…neo-Crusaders, pro-Israel and anti-Palestinian. After all, we were in the Arab quarter of Old Jerusalem. But, I am going to a Bible study I told myself. Would I witness what Jesus often talked about when He prayed, “Father, that they might be one in Me”…Arabs, Jews, Americans, believers in Jesus? We walked on, I hoped.

We soon came to where the street opened up into a quiet courtyard of an ancient church dating back to the Crusader period. We walked through an old wooden doorway into a small upper room. The cathedral ceilings were graced with massive stone arches that sat on granite pillars.

Simple plastic chairs were arranged in a circle, so each person faced each other…not like in the West where everyone looks at the backs of each others heads. As we took our seats, several of the men came over to greet us. Their broad smiles stretched across their deep leathered faces, weathered by the sun and desert winds. Hands toughened by hard work made for hearty handshakes. From the heart came the sweet words “Salaam” and other Arabic words of greeting.

One older man greeted me with the three “side-to-side kiss” so commonly practiced in this part of the world. Here men are men and the soul is expressed. Just as politely, the women smiled from behind their olive toned skin and deep dark chestnut eyes.

Suddenly, a young man in his mid-thirties came and sat down next to me. With a huge smile and perfect English he said, “Praise the Lord! It is great to have you join us tonight. My name is Sayed and I am a Palestinian believer from the West Bank. I will translate for you as you share God’s word!” Sayed didn’t look like a suicide bomber or a terrorist. He wasn’t a Kalashnikov totting fanatic wearing the green head band of Hamas with Holy Jihad written in Arabic on his forehead. Instead, Sayed was a brother, a Palestinian brother, excited to a believer in Jesus Christ. I relaxed and smiled back; I was among friends.

We began to sing music that was foreign, yet so beautiful…all in Arabic. They had composed their own songs with their own melodies and styles. The minor keys and flowing melodies echoed off of the stone arches of the 16^th century cathedral ceiling. With no instruments to compete with, the harmony of this angelic choir was heavenly. Everyone seemed to be enraptured with true worship of God, not spiritual entertainment, a common occurrence in our Western worship services. For a moment I closed my eyes and wondered if this is what Pentecost must have sounded like.

I couldn’t understand the tongue, but I was sure it was pure…it was Godly. I did not need to understand the language. I opened my eyes. There were no tongues of fire. No rushing wind. Or maybe there was and I couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter…Jesus was there.

Just short of heaven, the singing and worship quietly faded. Sayed prayed and welcomed me as a special friend from America. Opening our Bibles, I briefly shared from Acts 2. Not on the phenomenon of “tongues” or the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Not on the birth of the church. But rather, on the record of the people that was the early church. The nations, the Middle Eastern nations. Those who today are the modern day Islamic countries. Saudi Arabia, Libya, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Turkey, just to list a few. All were there, every nation under heaven. And now, 2000 years later, here we were again. Jerusalem had once again become the center for what God intended it to be, the center of faith for all people, both Jews and Gentiles.

It was beyond surreal to teach from a passage of the Bible and to have the very descendants of those who were written about sitting before to me. To look into the face of the man from Iraq and think that Abraham probably resembled him in his younger days. To imagine Paul the apostle in one of the believers from Turkey was not too far fetched. In fact, if you had replaced the Western style of clothing with tunics and free flowing robes, you would have though you were really in the Holy Land.

After our brief study in the Bible, the group was dismissed, but fellowship continued. The smell of coffee and pastries invited us to linger and talk. In Middle Eastern culture, friendships are built, not manufactured. Food, time and conversation are essential. It is all about relationships. Not status and position in life. No drive-through fellowship here. No soccer or football games to rush off to. No important e-mails or calls to answer. No conflicting schedules to juggle. Just simple breaking of manna, life itself.

Before leaving, many came and thanked me for coming. One lovely Egyptian lady came over and spoke softly, “Please tell our brothers and sisters in America not forget to pray for us. We pray for them everyday. The next time you come, please bring more with you so we can pray and worship together.”

That night, in a small upper room of Old City Jerusalem, a group of believers from the Middle Eastern countries of Jordan, Egypt, Turkey, and the West Bank, experienced the Jewish Messiah Jesus Christ as one family. A family where all the children were color blind and race didn’t matter…without passports…where travel between Ramallah and Jerusalem was permitted, where there were no borders, no castes…politics or nationalities didn’t matter. That night I found the answer I had come looking for. Palestinians are worshipping Jesus…in Jerusalem.