Friday, July 8, 2011
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The End
The old Peruvian man stepped out of the cab. He took a few slow steps down the dirt road, and then turned and addressed the young American, who was still standing next to the car, about to re-enter. “Bendiciones” (blessings), said the Peruvian to the American with a smile and a slight bow of his head. The old man heard the young American respond, “y a usted” (and to you too), and the man saw the boy smile back. What he didn´t see were the tears that began to form in the American´s eyes as he got back in the cab and was whisked away through the small Peruvian town for the last time.
He hadn´t known the man at all, in fact they hadn´t even shared a conversation in the car, but he had wished him blessings, and that´s what got to the American. And as he passed through the town, his eyes rested on the familiar sights of fruit markets, motor cars and small children selling candy, bread, and whatever else they could find to bring in a few cents to their families. He passed the stands of mothers selling drinks made from the exotic jungle fruits, and he passed the tiny restaurant where he had first ordered in broken Spanish almost a year ago. And what made his eyes well up was that he was leaving all of it.
He was leaving the children to whom he had taught English. There were those girls who always had their blue and white uniforms so neatly pressed and their homework always done, and those boys who were only interested in phrases like “I love you” so they could call them out to the Caucasian women they saw in Pucallpa. He was leaving that first grade class that always gave him a group hug so big they would knock him down when he came in for class in the mornings.
He was leaving all those patients who had come to their clinic. There had been thousands of people who had received penicillin shots, parasite meds, wound cleanings, and glasses. There were those surgical patients too; folks with tumors and cysts who had let him operate on them, thinking he was some kind of surgical specialist from the states. If only they had known. If only they had known he was just a kid.
He was leaving all those patients who had come to their clinic. There had been thousands of people who had received penicillin shots, parasite meds, wound cleanings, and glasses. There were those surgical patients too; folks with tumors and cysts who had let him operate on them, thinking he was some kind of surgical specialist from the states. If only they had known. If only they had known he was just a kid.
But so were the rest. Those amazing missionaries with whom he had worked were all just students. But they had taught health in the communities, and preached, and constructed churches, and run medical clinics, clinics that were functioning with clock-like precision by the end of the year. But the missionaries were leaving, each to their respective worlds, and they would never serve together again. The team was gone, but what were left, were incredible bonds that can only be formed from working together for such a time in such a place.
But probably what pained him the most, the main reason his eyes were a little moist in the cab, was because he was leaving folks that he would probably never see again. He was leaving all those families who had opened their homes to receive bible studies. Some had received all 20 lessons, but had backed out of a decision for baptism at the last minute, though the young mother who had a baby a few hours before the baptism was certainly understandable. However there were those eight others, Peruvians he had studied with and struggled with, who had given their lives to Christ and had gotten baptized. He knew he would probably never see them again, but they had all promised to meet each other in heaven, and now for sure he had to be there to see if they were there too.
And as he sat there and realized that he couldn´t be apart of these peoples lives any more to help, to encourage, or to learn from, he realized there was only one thing to do. He prayed to the Man who had led him there in the first place. He placed all the people in His hands, and then he thanked Him for all the lessons he had learned.
And he had learned many things, and not just things about teaching, preaching and medical care. He had learned that that the richest experiences in life can only be obtained if you step outside your comfort zone, or in his case, fly out of it. He had found that learning a new language was the gateway to some of the things he valued most on earth: meaningful conversations and deep friendships. But most importantly, he had learned that no matter how inadequate and unqualified you feel, if you step up to the task in faith, God will equip you to do His work. And in the process, He will lead you, not necessarily down the easiest road of your lifetime, but on the adventure of your lifetime. About these things, he prayed he would never forget.
And as the cab continued to whisk him away on the first leg of his journey back home, as it took him away from a country where strangers wished you blessings towards a very different country, the blazing Peruvian sun sank out of the sky and the coconut palms began to sway, as if to wave good bye to the young American as he was taken away into the night.
The End
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Villacortas
I once heard a pastor giving his testimony. He told us he liked to think of life in terms of BC and AD, to underscore the dramatic change that took place in his life after Christ came in and cleaned him up. He went on to tell an amazing life story, but as is often the case, I only saw the AD part of the man. Here in Peru, I got to witness the whole transformation, first hand. Here is the story of the Villacorta family. I’ll start with the BC part, as told to me by the mother of the family.
Marlini and Luis grew up in the slums of Lima Peru. Their relationship, from the very beginning was marked by deception and control. Louis needed someone to care of his four children that he had from a previous relationship. Marlini, a single mom with three children of her own and desperate for any kind of work, answered the call. She got more than she bargained for. She tells me that after a few weeks of coming and taking care of the kids while Louis was at work, Louis basically sequestered her, forced her to live with him, and to perform all the duties of a wife. It’s hard to believe, but easier if you know how male dominated society is here, and how desperate Marlini was for financial support. And if there were in fact any romantic feelings between them at first, they were soon squelched by Louis’s treatment of his “wife.” Marlini tells me that Louis would not let her out of the house, and often give her and her children three soles a day to live on (Peruvian currency, three of them are one US dollar). Any extra money he made didn’t go to his family but to support the prostitutes of Lima. What really got to Marlini, was his treatment of her own children. When he wasn’t just completely ignoring them, she says, he was making fun of them.
After a year or so of living with this man, she had had enough. Marlini fled the house in Lima with her children and went to the jungle of Peru. She found a small shack next to a pond on the outskirts of Pucallpa. Surely she was free from the bondage that she had lived in for a year, or so she thought. She doesn’t know how, but after a time, Louis found her and followed her to Pucallpa. He promptly moved in. She tells me it was just as well, because in reality she had no work and her children were starving. Louis had found a decent job near Pucallpa that took him away from the home except for two days a month. She found the situation tolerable and they even had several children together, whom Louis loved. In fact, all seemed well until Louis was relieved of his duties at work for an unknown reason, and the family’s only source of income dried up. That was the first of January. I met them two days later.
I was walking down the dusty road in my section of town for soliciting bible studies. I had a Bible in my hand and trepidation in my heart, a normal symptom of the first time you randomly knock on doors asking people if they would like to study the Bible with you. It was at the end of the road that I stumbled upon the shack next to the pond. The Villacortas were all working in their garden. Barely had I had time to start my bible study spiel that I was enveloped in 6 children and their mother, Marlini, and whisked into their home, given a warm welcome by Louis, a hot drink and alligator chunks to eat. Goats and ducks wandered in and out of the home. Peruvian music blared from the television (their one luxury). I stuffed down the chunks while Louis peppered me with questions about politics and American culture, and the children with questions about why my hair and skin were so light. Maybe there was no sun in the US, a little one suggested. Before I escaped from the circus, I secured bible studies and promised I’d be back in a couple of days to start.
And start we did. Both parents were fairly eager to study with the blond American, and had many questions on my first visit. Marlini was a moderately devout Christian woman, but Louis, as I found out later, had never been interested. He was a man who was open to many ideas, so bible studies from a gringo was met with a, “why not.” The problem at the beginning was the studies seemed only a platform for him to discuss his own ideas. And I mean everything. I remember our first study ended up being a discussion on why he thought aliens built Macchu Picchu. He was an avid reader and would tell me about the ideas of Lenin and Marx. He brought up the Marx quote that says religion is the “opium of the people”, a thing that numbs people’s minds and pacifies them while other more enlightened folk take advantage
of the naïve Christians. I combated the idea as best I could in my less than perfect Spanish. He still seemed skeptical, but we continued the studies.
Marlini and Luis grew up in the slums of Lima Peru. Their relationship, from the very beginning was marked by deception and control. Louis needed someone to care of his four children that he had from a previous relationship. Marlini, a single mom with three children of her own and desperate for any kind of work, answered the call. She got more than she bargained for. She tells me that after a few weeks of coming and taking care of the kids while Louis was at work, Louis basically sequestered her, forced her to live with him, and to perform all the duties of a wife. It’s hard to believe, but easier if you know how male dominated society is here, and how desperate Marlini was for financial support. And if there were in fact any romantic feelings between them at first, they were soon squelched by Louis’s treatment of his “wife.” Marlini tells me that Louis would not let her out of the house, and often give her and her children three soles a day to live on (Peruvian currency, three of them are one US dollar). Any extra money he made didn’t go to his family but to support the prostitutes of Lima. What really got to Marlini, was his treatment of her own children. When he wasn’t just completely ignoring them, she says, he was making fun of them.
After a year or so of living with this man, she had had enough. Marlini fled the house in Lima with her children and went to the jungle of Peru. She found a small shack next to a pond on the outskirts of Pucallpa. Surely she was free from the bondage that she had lived in for a year, or so she thought. She doesn’t know how, but after a time, Louis found her and followed her to Pucallpa. He promptly moved in. She tells me it was just as well, because in reality she had no work and her children were starving. Louis had found a decent job near Pucallpa that took him away from the home except for two days a month. She found the situation tolerable and they even had several children together, whom Louis loved. In fact, all seemed well until Louis was relieved of his duties at work for an unknown reason, and the family’s only source of income dried up. That was the first of January. I met them two days later.
I was walking down the dusty road in my section of town for soliciting bible studies. I had a Bible in my hand and trepidation in my heart, a normal symptom of the first time you randomly knock on doors asking people if they would like to study the Bible with you. It was at the end of the road that I stumbled upon the shack next to the pond. The Villacortas were all working in their garden. Barely had I had time to start my bible study spiel that I was enveloped in 6 children and their mother, Marlini, and whisked into their home, given a warm welcome by Louis, a hot drink and alligator chunks to eat. Goats and ducks wandered in and out of the home. Peruvian music blared from the television (their one luxury). I stuffed down the chunks while Louis peppered me with questions about politics and American culture, and the children with questions about why my hair and skin were so light. Maybe there was no sun in the US, a little one suggested. Before I escaped from the circus, I secured bible studies and promised I’d be back in a couple of days to start.
And start we did. Both parents were fairly eager to study with the blond American, and had many questions on my first visit. Marlini was a moderately devout Christian woman, but Louis, as I found out later, had never been interested. He was a man who was open to many ideas, so bible studies from a gringo was met with a, “why not.” The problem at the beginning was the studies seemed only a platform for him to discuss his own ideas. And I mean everything. I remember our first study ended up being a discussion on why he thought aliens built Macchu Picchu. He was an avid reader and would tell me about the ideas of Lenin and Marx. He brought up the Marx quote that says religion is the “opium of the people”, a thing that numbs people’s minds and pacifies them while other more enlightened folk take advantage
of the naïve Christians. I combated the idea as best I could in my less than perfect Spanish. He still seemed skeptical, but we continued the studies.Many a Bible study over the next three months, I left wondering if I had communicated anything useful to get through to the complicated mind of Louis Villacorta. But I realize now it didn’t matter if I was communicating anything useful, the Holy spirit was working. How do I know? Because somewhere in between discussions on communism and aliens, Jesus Christ touched the heart of Louis Villacorta. Marlini told me so herself. After a couple of months of study, Marlini caught me outside of church to talk to me in private. She told me the story of how they met, and of how she had escaped to Pucallpa and how he followed her. She told me about the prostitutes and the bad treatment of her children. Then she told me how this man had begun to change. How since the studies, he had treated her children with love, and began to treat her more than just an object, but like a wife and even a lover.
I got to be a witness to the BC, AD change. I was there when, during one of our nightly meetings, Louis and Marlini stood together, hand in hand, to give their life to Christ. I was there when they decided to get married, to officially commit themselves to each other, so they could get baptized and commit themselves to God. And I was there the day of their baptism, where Louis, Marlini, and one of their sons were baptized. I was also there when Louis told me that he had been offered a job. He had looked everywhere for one during the past couple of months, but work was scarce in Pucallpa. The family was barely getting by on the produce they sold from their garden. Then, two days before his baptism, by chance he had run into another Seventh day Adventist Christian. They started talking, and the man said that he had a job opening at his food processing plant, would Louis happen to need a job? He wouldn’t have to work a single Sabbath.
Jesus says in Luke that his mission is to seek and save that which was lost. He will use any means necessary to seek. It may mean he sends an American kid with a stammering Spanish tongue to the jungle. It may mean he will fire someone from a job. You see, Louis would have never been able to receive studies from the American kid had he been employed by that job that took him away from home. God will find what he is looking for. And it doesn’t matter how broken a family is Before Christ is in it, After Divinity comes, it will make all the difference in the world. The Villacortas are proof of that.
I got to be a witness to the BC, AD change. I was there when, during one of our nightly meetings, Louis and Marlini stood together, hand in hand, to give their life to Christ. I was there when they decided to get married, to officially commit themselves to each other, so they could get baptized and commit themselves to God. And I was there the day of their baptism, where Louis, Marlini, and one of their sons were baptized. I was also there when Louis told me that he had been offered a job. He had looked everywhere for one during the past couple of months, but work was scarce in Pucallpa. The family was barely getting by on the produce they sold from their garden. Then, two days before his baptism, by chance he had run into another Seventh day Adventist Christian. They started talking, and the man said that he had a job opening at his food processing plant, would Louis happen to need a job? He wouldn’t have to work a single Sabbath.
Jesus says in Luke that his mission is to seek and save that which was lost. He will use any means necessary to seek. It may mean he sends an American kid with a stammering Spanish tongue to the jungle. It may mean he will fire someone from a job. You see, Louis would have never been able to receive studies from the American kid had he been employed by that job that took him away from home. God will find what he is looking for. And it doesn’t matter how broken a family is Before Christ is in it, After Divinity comes, it will make all the difference in the world. The Villacortas are proof of that.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Skin is a Dead Give-a-way
About a kilometer from the area we are currently living in and working in since January, is a community known as Mario Peso. Twelve months ago, a group of evangelical, white, missionaries tried to enter the area and were unsuccessful. The natives wouldn’t let them in, even picking up stones to make their point. The culprit was “Pela Cara”.
When we first came to Peru seven and a half months ago, we were warned about being accused as “pela caras”, or in English, “face peelers”. I have talked to as many sources as I can to figure out the history of pela cara. I’ve gotten some greatly exaggerated tales, I’ve gotten some truth (I believe) and I’ve run into many who won’t talk to me about it.
From what I can gather, three or so years ago, some corpses of Peruvian children were found with all their fat and organs taken out. The culprits were Peruvians working for white foreigners, one online news source I’ve found said Italians. The same source said that human fat can be sold for 15,000 dollars a liter, which, for those people whose consciences have rotted completely, gives them an incentive to befriend natives and then kill them for money. It’s happened several other times; mass killings that normally take place in very remote areas of Peru. The culprits are normally Peruvian gangs, but the killings are inevitably associated with white foreigners, and it certainly serves the gangs to do what they can to sustain that belief among the people.
We haven’t had any problems with this association until now, as we are currently working very close to Mario Peso, a sight of some of the killings. When we first came, some mothers would not let their kids come to our vacation bible school because we were white. Others, as we went door to door looking for bible studies, hid in their homes and did not answer our calls. However, as we began to establish our reputation in the community as harmless gringos who ran a great medical clinic and taught things about the Bible that were new and exciting, the community began to warm up to us. We began to form friendships and break many deeply rooted mentalities about foreigners that had been held for generations.
Establishing this reputation was an uphill battle. It certainly didn’t help that there was a certain non-Adventist church in the area that decided to use our white-ness to their advantage. As we began going from home to home signing people up for studies and then teaching the Word of God, the already established church must have felt threatened. Some of their members went from home to home, telling the people that the reason we were writing names down was because we were creating a list of those that were to be killed and robbed of fat and organs. There were a few Bible students of my own, that, looking back I imagine I lost to this tactic. The students of another bible worker in our group were particularly hard hit and deceived by the efforts of these Christians.
About a month into the campaign, a child in our neighborhood died from an unknown cause. A rumor went around that we had somehow killed the kid, maybe with our medicine, and we were just waiting for a good opportunity to collect on the fat. This was right in the middle of our public evangelism campaign, an event consisting of nightly meetings in a large tent for two weeks. We were afraid our meeting attendance would go down on account of the new rumor. On the contrary, our meeting attendance continued to grow each night until the very end. Hard work and the Holy Spirit had prevailed.
The other day, I was heading back home after giving Bible studies, and a family who I hadn’t met before waved me over to their home. As I approached, the man of the house held out his hand and gave me a firm hand shake, while the mother and their children gave me warm smiles. They offered me a Peruvian Cola drink and a chair. We sat and talked about Peru, and Peruvian culture. They asked about what America was like, and I told them of its culture. They expressed their appreciation for the work our team was doing in their neighborhood. As I stood to leave, the father told me, a little sheepishly, that the family had thought we were pela caras when we first came. The family then burst into laughter as if to show me how ridiculous they thought that notion was now. I joined in the laughter and we joked about how on earth I´d be able to kill anyone as I showed them that the only thing I had in my backpack was my Bible.
As I walk through the streets of what has come to be our home, I no longer see children crouched in the shadows whispering of pela caras. Our vacation bible schools are full, the playground we built is always teeming with kids, and we will soon have thirty some newly baptized members worshiping God in a new church that we have built. I have learned the powerful lesson, that the best way to break a mentality is through your actions. Surrounded by a cloud of skeptics, mockers, and the incredulous, the best course of action is to work hard to build your reputation and show them your values by the example you leave. The fruits of your labor cannot be refuted, and the skeptics (the ones that count anyway) will be won to your cause. If I am ever tempted to neglect the importance of example, I´ll remember our small Peruvian community, a place that will now always have its doors open to those that want to make a difference, no matter what color their skin is.
Here is the report I referenced in the blog:
http://www.news.com.au/world/killers-harvested-human-fat-for-30-years/story-e6frfkyi-1225801529641
When we first came to Peru seven and a half months ago, we were warned about being accused as “pela caras”, or in English, “face peelers”. I have talked to as many sources as I can to figure out the history of pela cara. I’ve gotten some greatly exaggerated tales, I’ve gotten some truth (I believe) and I’ve run into many who won’t talk to me about it.
From what I can gather, three or so years ago, some corpses of Peruvian children were found with all their fat and organs taken out. The culprits were Peruvians working for white foreigners, one online news source I’ve found said Italians. The same source said that human fat can be sold for 15,000 dollars a liter, which, for those people whose consciences have rotted completely, gives them an incentive to befriend natives and then kill them for money. It’s happened several other times; mass killings that normally take place in very remote areas of Peru. The culprits are normally Peruvian gangs, but the killings are inevitably associated with white foreigners, and it certainly serves the gangs to do what they can to sustain that belief among the people.
We haven’t had any problems with this association until now, as we are currently working very close to Mario Peso, a sight of some of the killings. When we first came, some mothers would not let their kids come to our vacation bible school because we were white. Others, as we went door to door looking for bible studies, hid in their homes and did not answer our calls. However, as we began to establish our reputation in the community as harmless gringos who ran a great medical clinic and taught things about the Bible that were new and exciting, the community began to warm up to us. We began to form friendships and break many deeply rooted mentalities about foreigners that had been held for generations.
Establishing this reputation was an uphill battle. It certainly didn’t help that there was a certain non-Adventist church in the area that decided to use our white-ness to their advantage. As we began going from home to home signing people up for studies and then teaching the Word of God, the already established church must have felt threatened. Some of their members went from home to home, telling the people that the reason we were writing names down was because we were creating a list of those that were to be killed and robbed of fat and organs. There were a few Bible students of my own, that, looking back I imagine I lost to this tactic. The students of another bible worker in our group were particularly hard hit and deceived by the efforts of these Christians.
About a month into the campaign, a child in our neighborhood died from an unknown cause. A rumor went around that we had somehow killed the kid, maybe with our medicine, and we were just waiting for a good opportunity to collect on the fat. This was right in the middle of our public evangelism campaign, an event consisting of nightly meetings in a large tent for two weeks. We were afraid our meeting attendance would go down on account of the new rumor. On the contrary, our meeting attendance continued to grow each night until the very end. Hard work and the Holy Spirit had prevailed.
The other day, I was heading back home after giving Bible studies, and a family who I hadn’t met before waved me over to their home. As I approached, the man of the house held out his hand and gave me a firm hand shake, while the mother and their children gave me warm smiles. They offered me a Peruvian Cola drink and a chair. We sat and talked about Peru, and Peruvian culture. They asked about what America was like, and I told them of its culture. They expressed their appreciation for the work our team was doing in their neighborhood. As I stood to leave, the father told me, a little sheepishly, that the family had thought we were pela caras when we first came. The family then burst into laughter as if to show me how ridiculous they thought that notion was now. I joined in the laughter and we joked about how on earth I´d be able to kill anyone as I showed them that the only thing I had in my backpack was my Bible.
As I walk through the streets of what has come to be our home, I no longer see children crouched in the shadows whispering of pela caras. Our vacation bible schools are full, the playground we built is always teeming with kids, and we will soon have thirty some newly baptized members worshiping God in a new church that we have built. I have learned the powerful lesson, that the best way to break a mentality is through your actions. Surrounded by a cloud of skeptics, mockers, and the incredulous, the best course of action is to work hard to build your reputation and show them your values by the example you leave. The fruits of your labor cannot be refuted, and the skeptics (the ones that count anyway) will be won to your cause. If I am ever tempted to neglect the importance of example, I´ll remember our small Peruvian community, a place that will now always have its doors open to those that want to make a difference, no matter what color their skin is.
Here is the report I referenced in the blog:
http://www.news.com.au/world/killers-harvested-human-fat-for-30-years/story-e6frfkyi-1225801529641
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Jungle Warfare
We start with a battle hymn. I and the four other warriors gather around a Spanish hymnal and belt out a song. It’s an upbeat one that speaks of working in the “vineyard of the Lord”. As we sing, a certain energy runs through the group. An energy that only comes from knowing you are about to step out onto the front lines and do battle. And its not just any battle, but one against “principalities and powers and rulers of darkness.” When I read verses like that, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Yes, a battle song is definitely necessary.
The song finishes. We have prayer and embark, each to our respective communities. The front line for me is a squatter’s community, or invasion community, in the jungle of Peru. The streets are incredibly dusty, and they are littered with the mangiest looking dogs you’ve ever seen. The houses are patchwork jobs of cardboard boxes, aluminum, and thatch. Its no paradise, but then again, front lines normally aren’t
I make my way to Victor’s house, my first student. When I first came to his home, a few weeks earlier, the whole household of nine was sitting outside enjoying the shade of evening. I explained a little about our mission and how I wanted to study the Bible with the family. Victor was the only one interested. I always looked forward to studying with this 24 year old because unlike most of my other students, he hasn’t really ever heard of the most basic Bible principals.
Today I teach lesson five and six of a twenty lesson set. Lessons five and six deal with salvation and the pardon of sins. He listens with wrapped excitement and wonder as I share the story of Jesus and his sacrifice and how if Victor were the only person in the world who needed salvation, Christ still would have died for him. The lessons are question and answer format. I have Victor read the questions, but he starts to choke up near the end. Admitedly, I have a lump in my throat as I watch the power of divine love bring a man to accept Christ for the first time.
As I move on the next house. I feel so humbled by the fact that a man’s eternal life is no longer in question, as it was just a half an hour before.
My next student is Pedro. As soon as I walk in the door, the first question he asks me is what church I’m from, something that hasn’t come up before. As a rule I don’t tell my students what church I’m from right off the bat. I tell them I’m Christian and am here to teach them the Bible. But since he asked, I tell Pedro I´m a Seventh Day Adventist. His face lights up and he tells me the story of his son. A boy who dabbled in everything the word had to offer until a missionary got a hold of him. The father said he hardly recognized the boy, as his life had been completely changed. The missionary was a Seventh Day Adventist. Pedro can’t wait to complete the lessons and join his son in the faith.
Not everyone is that easy to reach. I go to Monica’s house next. She acts kind of bothered by my presence and tells me she’s busy and to come back later. The problem is, that’s what she told me the last time and the time before that. Its time to let her go. I bid her good day and as I walk away, I draw a line through the name “Monica” on my sheet. We had made it to lesson four, just before the salvation lesson. I walk with my head down for a little while.
The next family cheers me up. They are a lively bunch with eleven kids. With Peruvian music blaring in the background, children pulling my hair, and ducks waddling in and out of the house, we make it through lesson five and six with time to spare. They insist I stay for lunch. I´m served up a heaping bowl of cooked alligator chunks. I plunge chunks into my mouth and assure the woman of the house that it’s the best alligator I´ve ever had. I´m going to have a hard time explaining myself when we get to lesson 17, the health message.
Re-energized by broiled alligator, I´m ready for the afternoon. I continue from house to house, teaching and explaining the Good Book. Some students show great interest and nod enthusiastically throughout the lessons. Others simply stare at their lessons, without saying a word, making me feel like I’m teaching a statue. The ones I really enjoy are those that ask questions. Omer, one student, asks me things like, “if God is love, why did he send the flood?” Today, when I explain lesson five, he asks me if I would die on a cross for anyone. I said I probably wouldn´t.
The last lesson of the day is with Yoshi, a 24 year old mom with a two year old son. She´s heard lesson five and six before. In fact she´s heard the exact lessons. Adventists had come to the community in which she used to live. She told me that she was scared of Baptism, lesson 19, and didn´t finish. I told her we would take one lesson at a time, and I would do my best not to force anything. Today after we finished studying, she tells me her story. The father of her two year old, and the baby she will have in a month, is a drug addict. He left her several months ago and is living on the street. Tears started streaming down her cheeks as she told me how close she came to becoming a prostitute so she could feed her son. Thank God I didn´t come to that point, she says as she wipes her face with her shirt. Before I leave, I tell her that it isn´t by chance that she is studying the lessons for a second time, or that a white boy from southern United States was in her house teaching the Bible. “God is searching for you, Yoshi”, I say. We have prayer and I leave.
I make my way back to our camp. The other warriors are coming in too, their swords in hand. They look just as tired as I do, but we all have smiles on our faces. Then comes one of my favorite parts; over supper we all share our battle stories. They too have eaten strange things today. They too have heard stories of anguish and sadness. They too have led others to accept Christ for the first time. Our hearts are thrilled as we talk and sing late into the night. We lay our swords down and go to our respective tents to sleep. We all know that with lesson ten still ahead, the Sabbath, the struggle in these tiny homes in Peru is just beginning. But that also means that the finest hour of battle is yet to come.
The song finishes. We have prayer and embark, each to our respective communities. The front line for me is a squatter’s community, or invasion community, in the jungle of Peru. The streets are incredibly dusty, and they are littered with the mangiest looking dogs you’ve ever seen. The houses are patchwork jobs of cardboard boxes, aluminum, and thatch. Its no paradise, but then again, front lines normally aren’t
I make my way to Victor’s house, my first student. When I first came to his home, a few weeks earlier, the whole household of nine was sitting outside enjoying the shade of evening. I explained a little about our mission and how I wanted to study the Bible with the family. Victor was the only one interested. I always looked forward to studying with this 24 year old because unlike most of my other students, he hasn’t really ever heard of the most basic Bible principals.
Today I teach lesson five and six of a twenty lesson set. Lessons five and six deal with salvation and the pardon of sins. He listens with wrapped excitement and wonder as I share the story of Jesus and his sacrifice and how if Victor were the only person in the world who needed salvation, Christ still would have died for him. The lessons are question and answer format. I have Victor read the questions, but he starts to choke up near the end. Admitedly, I have a lump in my throat as I watch the power of divine love bring a man to accept Christ for the first time.
As I move on the next house. I feel so humbled by the fact that a man’s eternal life is no longer in question, as it was just a half an hour before.
My next student is Pedro. As soon as I walk in the door, the first question he asks me is what church I’m from, something that hasn’t come up before. As a rule I don’t tell my students what church I’m from right off the bat. I tell them I’m Christian and am here to teach them the Bible. But since he asked, I tell Pedro I´m a Seventh Day Adventist. His face lights up and he tells me the story of his son. A boy who dabbled in everything the word had to offer until a missionary got a hold of him. The father said he hardly recognized the boy, as his life had been completely changed. The missionary was a Seventh Day Adventist. Pedro can’t wait to complete the lessons and join his son in the faith.
Not everyone is that easy to reach. I go to Monica’s house next. She acts kind of bothered by my presence and tells me she’s busy and to come back later. The problem is, that’s what she told me the last time and the time before that. Its time to let her go. I bid her good day and as I walk away, I draw a line through the name “Monica” on my sheet. We had made it to lesson four, just before the salvation lesson. I walk with my head down for a little while.
The next family cheers me up. They are a lively bunch with eleven kids. With Peruvian music blaring in the background, children pulling my hair, and ducks waddling in and out of the house, we make it through lesson five and six with time to spare. They insist I stay for lunch. I´m served up a heaping bowl of cooked alligator chunks. I plunge chunks into my mouth and assure the woman of the house that it’s the best alligator I´ve ever had. I´m going to have a hard time explaining myself when we get to lesson 17, the health message.
Re-energized by broiled alligator, I´m ready for the afternoon. I continue from house to house, teaching and explaining the Good Book. Some students show great interest and nod enthusiastically throughout the lessons. Others simply stare at their lessons, without saying a word, making me feel like I’m teaching a statue. The ones I really enjoy are those that ask questions. Omer, one student, asks me things like, “if God is love, why did he send the flood?” Today, when I explain lesson five, he asks me if I would die on a cross for anyone. I said I probably wouldn´t.
The last lesson of the day is with Yoshi, a 24 year old mom with a two year old son. She´s heard lesson five and six before. In fact she´s heard the exact lessons. Adventists had come to the community in which she used to live. She told me that she was scared of Baptism, lesson 19, and didn´t finish. I told her we would take one lesson at a time, and I would do my best not to force anything. Today after we finished studying, she tells me her story. The father of her two year old, and the baby she will have in a month, is a drug addict. He left her several months ago and is living on the street. Tears started streaming down her cheeks as she told me how close she came to becoming a prostitute so she could feed her son. Thank God I didn´t come to that point, she says as she wipes her face with her shirt. Before I leave, I tell her that it isn´t by chance that she is studying the lessons for a second time, or that a white boy from southern United States was in her house teaching the Bible. “God is searching for you, Yoshi”, I say. We have prayer and I leave.
I make my way back to our camp. The other warriors are coming in too, their swords in hand. They look just as tired as I do, but we all have smiles on our faces. Then comes one of my favorite parts; over supper we all share our battle stories. They too have eaten strange things today. They too have heard stories of anguish and sadness. They too have led others to accept Christ for the first time. Our hearts are thrilled as we talk and sing late into the night. We lay our swords down and go to our respective tents to sleep. We all know that with lesson ten still ahead, the Sabbath, the struggle in these tiny homes in Peru is just beginning. But that also means that the finest hour of battle is yet to come.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The Beauty of the Beast
The beast described in Revelation 13 is a formidable foe. But when I decided to preach a revelation series to our newly formed church here in Peru, I knew it would have to be reckoned with. My nervousness was two-fold. For one, I would be revealing this beast power to Peruvians, whose country is 85 percent Catholic. And secondly, well, I would be preaching to Peruvians, who speak Spanish. And while my Spanish has come a long ways, I’ve still got a long ways to go.
For these reasons, if you would have stumbled upon my cabin here in the jungle of Peru a month ago, you would have found me preaching late in the evening to my bunk bed and the jungle crickets outside, who gave me the same monotonous droning no matter how passionate my appeals. At times, you would have found me flinging my Spanish dictionary across the room, frustrated that I couldn’t word a phrase exactly how I wanted, its meaning compromised in translation. Honing the message just right was a long and arduous process, but when Wednesday nights came around, I was ready.
And the first beast sermon went well, albeit there were only ten people in attendance. After preparing so extensively for these things, I fantasized about preaching to a stadium full of people. The lord, however, has many ways to keep a student missionary humble. But ten is better than none, and as they left I reminded them not to miss next Wednesday night’s sermon on “The Lady in Red.” I thought perhaps a fancy title for a sermon on Bablyon might bring more people.
And whether it was the mysterious title, or the better weather, or the fact that folks just wanted to see a white boy raving about some beasts in broken Spanish, a few more did make it to the next Wednesday night meeting. Again I preached my heart out, and let the Holy Spirit fill in the gaps in the language. At the end of the meeting I told the dozen or so people who had missed the beast message the previous week that it was crucial to hear that one before they heard the next sermon on the mark of the beast. We all agreed on having an extra meeting Friday night to catch up.
Friday night arrived, and almost an hour early, in walked my friend Dora with a woman and four small children who I hadn’t seen before. Dora pulled me aside and explained that this woman was her neighbor. The woman, who I’ll call Maria, had recently found her husband in her own bed with another woman. A day later the husband left Maria and her four children. The distraught woman, having no one else to turn to, came to her neighbor Dora (recently baptized in our church). Dora, doing the logical thing, decided to bring her to church on the night that I was preaching on the beast of revelation 13!
I reckon all would have been sort of well if more people had shown up. A group of believers would have been there to console Maria. But no one else did. Seven o’clock came and went and the only people sitting in the small rustic church were Dora, Maria, and her four children. I stepped outside and looked up at the stars to question God. What do I do Lord? This woman needs counseling and a shoulder to cry on, not a discourse on little horn powers and apostate Christianity. She doesn’t even know the Sabbath truth! Surely Lord, I should just sit down, listen to her story, and call it a night. I, however, got the distinct impression that I should continue with the message that I had prepared. Shaking my head I walked back into the church and began to preach.
And preach I did, imagining the church was full. Starting in Daniel I laid out characteristics of the little horn power and their implications. I moved to revelation 13 to draw parallels. I furiously wrote on my white board that I normally use to teach English so my five member audience could visualize the web of Bible prophecy. Throughout the presentation, Maria was breastfeeding her child. Occasionally, when the other three kids would become restless, she’d wrangle them in with one arm while holding her son, still feeding, with the other. Her face was incredibly stoic. There were no amen’s or pensive looks, but a poker face throughout the lesson. Even as I was preaching, I couldn’t believe I was doing it. “This is not what she needs!” my mind was screaming.
Her seven-year-old daughter, the eldest child, wasn’t helping my confidence either. She listened, but with the most incredulous look on her face. She had one eyebrow raised and she wasn’t smiling. Even when I tried to coax a laugh out of her as I acted out the bear of Daniel seven, the eyebrows only rose higher and I detected a slight role of the eyes.
I finished with a tactful appeal explaining how Catholics were our friends and how the sermon wasn’t an attack on them but the devil and his conniving. We finished with prayer. I was glad it was over, just knowing that I had been mistaken by preaching a beast of a message to a grieving mother.
I finished with a tactful appeal explaining how Catholics were our friends and how the sermon wasn’t an attack on them but the devil and his conniving. We finished with prayer. I was glad it was over, just knowing that I had been mistaken by preaching a beast of a message to a grieving mother.
Then something amazing happened. As she stood to leave, she smiled- the first break of the stoic face. She firmly shook my hand and told me thank you very much for the message. She then asked me when the next meeting was. I was stunned, and stammered something about meeting the next morning for church. We have church on Sabbath I said. She told me she’d be there.
And she was. She was there the next morning, and the next Wednesday night. In fact she came almost every time the church door was open for the rest of the time I worked at that site (about a month). And as far as I know, she is still attending that church.
I praise God. I praise Him for his wisdom in knowing what is best, and knowing just what people need to hear. I praise Him for the work of His Holy Spirit, without which, this gringo kid playing pastor with broken Spanish would never have made an impact on anyone. I praise him for giving the Adventist church this message. Now, I am not advocating that we go around preaching the beast to single, grieving moms. If you want that tactic to work, come to Peru where the ground is incredibly fertile. I am however, advocating the simple preaching and sharing of the word of God. We are the only church preaching this end time message. And if an abandoned mother of four was thirsty for it. I have good reason to believe the rest of the world is too.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Hug
The homes my students live in are about the size of a cluster of six office cubicles. Often, a family of eight will reside in these four walled structures made of plywood and tarps. When I first saw entire communities living in these boxes, I gaped at it. I had a similar reaction of disbelief when I first saw small children frolicking in the open sewer systems that ran out onto the street. However, just like a body being exposed to disease, one gets immunity to such sights with time of exposure and they become normal. As a resident of a developing country, you are constantly surrounded by wretched quality of life. The needs are so immense, that you cannot spend too much time pitying people or loosing sleep over what you see. Otherwise, you would never get any sleep. You live on idealism and optimism, a shield from the reality.
However, even for the most hardened SM, the shield will crack, your optimism will run out, and your hope for humanity along with it. This happened to me yesterday.
It was afternoon, and I was out walking through the community where I teach. It has a large population of around 2,500 people, yet there always seems to be at least one of my student’s homes on every street. They will call out to me, and I’ll go visit their homes and their families. I very much enjoy visiting my students. Some of my fondest memories here have been sitting on front porches with a Peruvian drink in my hand as the sun sets, shooting the breeze about politics, education, what the United States is like, or just listening to stories of weathered old grandparents about their hunting days in the deep jungle of the North.
Yesterday was no different. The first house I visited was of a third grade student, and I found myself captivated by the stories of the girl’s mother. She had grown up in a family that raised cocaine. The drug trafficking world was something she had known intimately from a child. There were stories of good harvests and bad, stories of close calls with drug police, honest and corrupt. But more than those, there was the story that unfolded of many Peruvian families, and the decision they had to make. On one hand they could go into agriculture, raising corn and beans, and eek out a living often times insufficient to provide their own family with food. Or, they could grow cocaine, a crop that can be harvested four times a year, as opposed to one, and a crop that will be paid for in American dollars, as opposed to Peruvian currency. For many, this means that your family will eat and you may be able to send your kids to college.
As I walked to the next house, my mind was filled with ethical decisions and catch twenty-twos. In the rhetoric about drug wars in the U.S., the side of the Peruvian or Columbian family is lost. Nevertheless, I continued on and soon found myself on the front porch of another family, this time one of my second graders. As I chewed away on fresh coconut, the mother of the home began unloading her concern for her younger sister. Apparently, her sibling had slept with a neighbor boy four times. She was thirteen. Even for Peruvians, where the average girl enters motherhood at seventeen or eighteen, this is young. As she continued on telling me about her brother who was steeped in drugs, all I could do was shake my head and continue listening, feeling like lending an ear would help relieve her pain a little.
Her husband, a well respected man, walked up about this time. Upon hearing the topic of conversation, he said, “Mateo, our primary concern should be for our own family, not for the family of our parents.” It was obvious the couple had had this conversation before. He explained how he wanted to move away so they wouldn’t have to deal with the wife’s family, but she wouldn’t hear anything of it. Marriage counseling isn’t my specialty, but I
offered a few words of advice, doing the best I could to peace make, and then stood up to leave. As I did, a scream of anguish pierced the evening sky from a neighbor home. It continued in bursts. I shot a questioning glance at the mother. “That’s Gerald she said”, shaking her head sadly. “His mother is beating him.” I was astonished. Gerald is one of my second grade students. He always wears his pants too high, exposing his ankles. He is an awkward but intelligent kid, who is always first to shout out an answer of some kind in class. He is picked on frequently. I’ve noticed signs of neglect before, but no bruises. Upon further questioning, the beatings are an almost nightly occurrence, screams as predictable as the rooster’s crowing.
I walked away. I did not want to hear Gerald crying. A dark cloud was settling over my mind. My shield of immunity was cracking. All I could think about were cocaine raising families, thirteen year old mothers, and Gerald’s screams. And now a new thought, as I remembered the student missionary who was murdered a few days before: a fallen comrade. I trudged through the street, hung my head, and said aloud, “the world is lost.” I can say things like that aloud here, and no one knows what I’m saying.
I felt helpess, powerless, and useless against the problems around me. It was a low point for me. However, my depressing thoughts were interrupted. Three small children playing in the gutter spot me. They giggled, and started running my way yelling, “Professor Mateo!”, no doubt younger siblings of some of my students. They all surrounded me, hugging me with all they had. Now, I’m not a huge hugger. I can go some time without a hug and not feel any withdrawal symptoms. But let me tell you, I clung to those children with all I had too, feeling like I was clinging on to the last pieces of innocence in the world, and also feeling that God himself had sent me human touch and love, just when I needed it. As the four of us stood there in embrace, I looked up at the sky, which was crimson and ribboned with the rising smoke of the evening cooking fires. As I did did, God seemed to say to me, “No Matt, as long as there is just a little love left, good was still worth fighting for, and the world was not lost.” And as I said goodbye to the three little angels who disappeared back to playing in the gutter, and as the sun completely sunk out of the sky, my worry was washed away and I had a new resolve in my step. Because any day where stories of humanity are heard, and a powerful lesson is learned, that day is not lost either.
However, even for the most hardened SM, the shield will crack, your optimism will run out, and your hope for humanity along with it. This happened to me yesterday.
It was afternoon, and I was out walking through the community where I teach. It has a large population of around 2,500 people, yet there always seems to be at least one of my student’s homes on every street. They will call out to me, and I’ll go visit their homes and their families. I very much enjoy visiting my students. Some of my fondest memories here have been sitting on front porches with a Peruvian drink in my hand as the sun sets, shooting the breeze about politics, education, what the United States is like, or just listening to stories of weathered old grandparents about their hunting days in the deep jungle of the North.
Yesterday was no different. The first house I visited was of a third grade student, and I found myself captivated by the stories of the girl’s mother. She had grown up in a family that raised cocaine. The drug trafficking world was something she had known intimately from a child. There were stories of good harvests and bad, stories of close calls with drug police, honest and corrupt. But more than those, there was the story that unfolded of many Peruvian families, and the decision they had to make. On one hand they could go into agriculture, raising corn and beans, and eek out a living often times insufficient to provide their own family with food. Or, they could grow cocaine, a crop that can be harvested four times a year, as opposed to one, and a crop that will be paid for in American dollars, as opposed to Peruvian currency. For many, this means that your family will eat and you may be able to send your kids to college.
As I walked to the next house, my mind was filled with ethical decisions and catch twenty-twos. In the rhetoric about drug wars in the U.S., the side of the Peruvian or Columbian family is lost. Nevertheless, I continued on and soon found myself on the front porch of another family, this time one of my second graders. As I chewed away on fresh coconut, the mother of the home began unloading her concern for her younger sister. Apparently, her sibling had slept with a neighbor boy four times. She was thirteen. Even for Peruvians, where the average girl enters motherhood at seventeen or eighteen, this is young. As she continued on telling me about her brother who was steeped in drugs, all I could do was shake my head and continue listening, feeling like lending an ear would help relieve her pain a little.
Her husband, a well respected man, walked up about this time. Upon hearing the topic of conversation, he said, “Mateo, our primary concern should be for our own family, not for the family of our parents.” It was obvious the couple had had this conversation before. He explained how he wanted to move away so they wouldn’t have to deal with the wife’s family, but she wouldn’t hear anything of it. Marriage counseling isn’t my specialty, but I
offered a few words of advice, doing the best I could to peace make, and then stood up to leave. As I did, a scream of anguish pierced the evening sky from a neighbor home. It continued in bursts. I shot a questioning glance at the mother. “That’s Gerald she said”, shaking her head sadly. “His mother is beating him.” I was astonished. Gerald is one of my second grade students. He always wears his pants too high, exposing his ankles. He is an awkward but intelligent kid, who is always first to shout out an answer of some kind in class. He is picked on frequently. I’ve noticed signs of neglect before, but no bruises. Upon further questioning, the beatings are an almost nightly occurrence, screams as predictable as the rooster’s crowing.I walked away. I did not want to hear Gerald crying. A dark cloud was settling over my mind. My shield of immunity was cracking. All I could think about were cocaine raising families, thirteen year old mothers, and Gerald’s screams. And now a new thought, as I remembered the student missionary who was murdered a few days before: a fallen comrade. I trudged through the street, hung my head, and said aloud, “the world is lost.” I can say things like that aloud here, and no one knows what I’m saying.
I felt helpess, powerless, and useless against the problems around me. It was a low point for me. However, my depressing thoughts were interrupted. Three small children playing in the gutter spot me. They giggled, and started running my way yelling, “Professor Mateo!”, no doubt younger siblings of some of my students. They all surrounded me, hugging me with all they had. Now, I’m not a huge hugger. I can go some time without a hug and not feel any withdrawal symptoms. But let me tell you, I clung to those children with all I had too, feeling like I was clinging on to the last pieces of innocence in the world, and also feeling that God himself had sent me human touch and love, just when I needed it. As the four of us stood there in embrace, I looked up at the sky, which was crimson and ribboned with the rising smoke of the evening cooking fires. As I did did, God seemed to say to me, “No Matt, as long as there is just a little love left, good was still worth fighting for, and the world was not lost.” And as I said goodbye to the three little angels who disappeared back to playing in the gutter, and as the sun completely sunk out of the sky, my worry was washed away and I had a new resolve in my step. Because any day where stories of humanity are heard, and a powerful lesson is learned, that day is not lost either.
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