Christmas in Paraguay passed much differently than any I’ve experienced before. Since the holiday takes place in the middle of summer and vacations, the fiesta turned out to be like a strange mix between the Fourth of July, Mardi Gras, and perhaps a little Christmas, too.
Our festivities began on Monday, Christmas Eve. We worked only half a day on the school construction, and then took off the rest of the afternoon to celebrate our Savior’s birth. Eric, Joel, and I took a bus to Mercado Cuatro, a shopping bonanza of clothing, artisan, electronic, jewelry, juice, and Paraguayan shops. The place was crowded and still open even at four in the afternoon on Christmas Eve; our bus line, too, would go until its normally-scheduled final 8 o’clock round. The area was crowded, as usual, but the celebrations for Christmas seemed to already have begun. Corner eateries with grilled sausages and roasted chickens and boiled mandioca and fresh juice and cold beer were full of merry revelers, drinking and eating to celebrate the human birth of God. Strangely enough, people weren’t rushing about buying gifts. Paraguayans give their gifts on January 6th, the day that tradition celebrates the arrival of the three wise men to the Nativity scene, with perhaps a more biblical foundation for gift-giving than the Santa Clause myth in North American countries.
Anyways, being North Americans and feeling like we had to buy something in the rush and bustle of Christmas Eve, we picked up some gifts for family and friends at home then went back to Lambare. Early evening, Eric and I had the chance to visit another church for their Christmas Eve service. Since Christmas Eve is usually celebrated with so much family and church services are usually so poorly attended on La Noche Buena, the Apostolic Church in Lambare gave up on Christmas Eve services a few years back. Thankfully, we found another church with a full service and thus remembered the Lord’s birth in grand liturgical style.
The later evening we passed with Ben, Vivi, and Joel at their place. We enjoyed a few rounds of cards, then had a full 10:30 pm meal of stuffed chicken, mashed potatoes, bean salad, chipa guazu, tomato-cucumber salad, and plenty of soda. Ben even made a celebratory cheesecake with cream cheese brought down straight from the U.S.. In the end, it was a perfect mix between the hot Christmas dinners of cold North America and the cool Navidad suppers of hot South America.
Around 11:45 the Paraguayans really started to celebrate Christmas. Fireworks started going off all around us, breaking up the night with the loud bangs of firecrackers and screaming whistles of bottle rockets. The neighborhood sounded off like a battle zone, with the noises of sharp fighting nearby and more muffled conflict in the distance. The blasts were loudest at midnight, when it seemed as if every Paraguayan household was suddenly setting off its entire arsenal of gunpowder in a moving salute to Jesus’ birth. The Nativity was celebrated with much noise and great joy, a fantastic show of Paraguayan social and religious unity in Christmas tradition.
After enjoying a bottle of traditional Paraguayan champagne-like cider, we all headed very-tired to bed at around 2:00 in the morning. It was the latest, and certainly most lively, Christmas I’ve ever enjoyed. Although many Paraguayans spend the holiday in excessive revelry, I think I learned a new colorful way to celebrate Christmas and found something good to hold on to for a lifetime.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Yep, Still a Doofy American
The time was running out. My visa only had a few more of its 90 days left before it would expire-- a few more precious days of legal residency in Paraguay before I’d become an illegal alien and open to all sorts of problems. In my irresponsible procrastination I’d put off renewing my visa until the last minute, and when I finally went to the migration office, I realized the documents I needed would take longer to procure than my short time allowed. I decided to take a drastic measure and go to Argentina, hoping and praying that on my return to Paraguay I’d get another stamp on my multiple-entry-visa that would allow me to stay for a longer time.
The trip lasted an afternoon, and made me realize I’m still much more of a foreigner than a resident in Paraguay. I got to the central bus station all right – a short trip from Lambare on a single bus. At the station, though, I found an amazing array of bus companies, each offering various trips to destinations all over South America. I was hoping to go to Clorinda, the first major city in Argentina beyond the Paraguayan border, and began asking in earnest at every company’s line whether they had buses that went that way. The Paraguayan workers, perhaps afraid to offend me with a simple answer of “there are no bus lines to Clorinda,” kept pointing me on to other companies with promises of my final destination. After trying four or five companies, though, I realized that mine was a lost cause. Clorinda was too close (about an hour drive) and not an important enough destination for any bus line to have a route there. I finally asked a police man how I could get there, and he pointed out a place where shared vans were supposed to pick up passengers and take them to the Argentine border.
Waiting for half an hour and not seeing one official-looking vehicle, though, I became quite discouraged. Finally, I saw a decrepit old van with a young 20-something driver and asked him if he could take me to the border. Come to find out, he had just dropped off a load of people coming back from Argentina and was looking for more passengers back that way. He was going to be returning to the border anyways, but had the courtesy, you might say, to charge me 50 mil guaranies- about ten extravagant dollars- for the trip. Desperate to get to Argentina, though, I paid.
The ride was bumpy and rough. The steering wheel on the van kept turning all around even though the vehicle itself miraculously went forward in a straight line. The wooden floorboards nearly burned through the bottoms of my sandaled feet as the heat came up from Heaven-knows-what overused mechanical parts underneath. One consolation of the ride, though, was that my driver loved 80s American music. In my desire to please him as much as possible (as my life really was in his hands), I tried translating for him the songs “Red, Red Wine” and “We Don’t Need No Education.” It didn’t work out well.
After an hour ride we arrived at the desolate border, a crossing point in the middle of nowhere. There were a host of people and buses and trucks crossing, though, as three- days-before-Christmas seemed to be a popular time to travel. My driver told me that I’d need to change my money over to Argentine pesos before crossing, and kindly arranged for a friend to do the job. I gave him 100 mil Paraguayan guaranies, and got back 50 Argentinean pesos. After the exchange, I paid my driver for the trip, at which point he also told me that I still needed to pay him 50 mil more guaranies for my 50 Argentinean pesos. Not knowing the exchange rate (Oh, fool that I was!) and trusting the man (he had told me that he used to go to a Pentecostal church, after all), I obliged him, said goodbye, and headed to cross the border with another of his friends who would help arrange things for my crossing. I’m not sure how this new guy, who had one bloody and broken eye that looked like it’d been sling-shotted out and only spoke Spanish like everyone else, was supposed to help me cross over, but somehow I felt a little more comfortable being accompanied by the acquaintance of a stranger I’d known in a foreign country for only a very short while.
Providentially, though, I got out of Paraguay and into Argentina all right with my right hand man who lacked a working right eye and arrived at a small coke, smoke, and empanada joint on the other side. I learned the trip to Clorinda was further and more expensive than I wanted, so I decided to turn straight back around again for Paraguay. Luckily, the immigrations officials coming back into Paraguay were different people in a different location from the ones I’d just seen (I had told them all I was planning on going to Clorinda, which was true at the time, but then I changed my mind), so there should have been no problem upon my reentry.
It seemed that I hit a snag, though, when I spoke with the Paraguayan migrations official. After looking at my passport and visa, he invited me back into his nice air-conditioned office for a privileged conservation with. A kind grandfatherly figure with a huge gut, the immigrations official asked me if I new my visa was soon to expire. I told him that I did, and that’s why I had gone to Argentina and come back to buy some more time. He gently lectured me and told me this wasn’t allowed, then offered to give me ninety days more time if I’d pay him a certain amount. Not having the money on me a suspecting it was a bribe, I kindly thanked him and asked for a shorter, but-free-of-cost, stamp on my visa. He ended up giving me a month’s more time in his country – a kind Christmas present, he told me, and certainly enough time to get my official documents in order.
I left with my prized month-long stamp and, accompanied once again and hurried on by my one-eyed friend, I came back to the money changers. Not needing my 50 pesos anymore, a money-changer took my Argentinean currency and gave me back 60 mil guaranies. Not thinking, I dumbly accepted and continued on. Thus, in my two money exchanges, I went from 150 mil guaranies, to 50 pesos, to 60 mil guaranies, and didn’t buy a single thing. Somewhere in the process, I lost some 90 mil guaranies (about 17 dollars) and got screwed over.
I arrived back to the van loading area and got on with the same fellow who had driven me the first time. Now, however, the 7-passenger van looked completely different, packed as it was with some 15 people. I dropped my cycloptic friend a two-dollar tip, then boarded for Asuncion. Miraculously, I made it back home after a long day of being taken advantage of like some ignorant foreigner in a strange land. Indeed, though, I really was an ignorant foreigner in a strange land who learned a good lesson that procrastination doesn’t pay. The cost of this adventure was far too high for me, and from now I’ll be doing to best to keep everything legitimate and on time.
The trip lasted an afternoon, and made me realize I’m still much more of a foreigner than a resident in Paraguay. I got to the central bus station all right – a short trip from Lambare on a single bus. At the station, though, I found an amazing array of bus companies, each offering various trips to destinations all over South America. I was hoping to go to Clorinda, the first major city in Argentina beyond the Paraguayan border, and began asking in earnest at every company’s line whether they had buses that went that way. The Paraguayan workers, perhaps afraid to offend me with a simple answer of “there are no bus lines to Clorinda,” kept pointing me on to other companies with promises of my final destination. After trying four or five companies, though, I realized that mine was a lost cause. Clorinda was too close (about an hour drive) and not an important enough destination for any bus line to have a route there. I finally asked a police man how I could get there, and he pointed out a place where shared vans were supposed to pick up passengers and take them to the Argentine border.
Waiting for half an hour and not seeing one official-looking vehicle, though, I became quite discouraged. Finally, I saw a decrepit old van with a young 20-something driver and asked him if he could take me to the border. Come to find out, he had just dropped off a load of people coming back from Argentina and was looking for more passengers back that way. He was going to be returning to the border anyways, but had the courtesy, you might say, to charge me 50 mil guaranies- about ten extravagant dollars- for the trip. Desperate to get to Argentina, though, I paid.
The ride was bumpy and rough. The steering wheel on the van kept turning all around even though the vehicle itself miraculously went forward in a straight line. The wooden floorboards nearly burned through the bottoms of my sandaled feet as the heat came up from Heaven-knows-what overused mechanical parts underneath. One consolation of the ride, though, was that my driver loved 80s American music. In my desire to please him as much as possible (as my life really was in his hands), I tried translating for him the songs “Red, Red Wine” and “We Don’t Need No Education.” It didn’t work out well.
After an hour ride we arrived at the desolate border, a crossing point in the middle of nowhere. There were a host of people and buses and trucks crossing, though, as three- days-before-Christmas seemed to be a popular time to travel. My driver told me that I’d need to change my money over to Argentine pesos before crossing, and kindly arranged for a friend to do the job. I gave him 100 mil Paraguayan guaranies, and got back 50 Argentinean pesos. After the exchange, I paid my driver for the trip, at which point he also told me that I still needed to pay him 50 mil more guaranies for my 50 Argentinean pesos. Not knowing the exchange rate (Oh, fool that I was!) and trusting the man (he had told me that he used to go to a Pentecostal church, after all), I obliged him, said goodbye, and headed to cross the border with another of his friends who would help arrange things for my crossing. I’m not sure how this new guy, who had one bloody and broken eye that looked like it’d been sling-shotted out and only spoke Spanish like everyone else, was supposed to help me cross over, but somehow I felt a little more comfortable being accompanied by the acquaintance of a stranger I’d known in a foreign country for only a very short while.
Providentially, though, I got out of Paraguay and into Argentina all right with my right hand man who lacked a working right eye and arrived at a small coke, smoke, and empanada joint on the other side. I learned the trip to Clorinda was further and more expensive than I wanted, so I decided to turn straight back around again for Paraguay. Luckily, the immigrations officials coming back into Paraguay were different people in a different location from the ones I’d just seen (I had told them all I was planning on going to Clorinda, which was true at the time, but then I changed my mind), so there should have been no problem upon my reentry.
It seemed that I hit a snag, though, when I spoke with the Paraguayan migrations official. After looking at my passport and visa, he invited me back into his nice air-conditioned office for a privileged conservation with. A kind grandfatherly figure with a huge gut, the immigrations official asked me if I new my visa was soon to expire. I told him that I did, and that’s why I had gone to Argentina and come back to buy some more time. He gently lectured me and told me this wasn’t allowed, then offered to give me ninety days more time if I’d pay him a certain amount. Not having the money on me a suspecting it was a bribe, I kindly thanked him and asked for a shorter, but-free-of-cost, stamp on my visa. He ended up giving me a month’s more time in his country – a kind Christmas present, he told me, and certainly enough time to get my official documents in order.
I left with my prized month-long stamp and, accompanied once again and hurried on by my one-eyed friend, I came back to the money changers. Not needing my 50 pesos anymore, a money-changer took my Argentinean currency and gave me back 60 mil guaranies. Not thinking, I dumbly accepted and continued on. Thus, in my two money exchanges, I went from 150 mil guaranies, to 50 pesos, to 60 mil guaranies, and didn’t buy a single thing. Somewhere in the process, I lost some 90 mil guaranies (about 17 dollars) and got screwed over.
I arrived back to the van loading area and got on with the same fellow who had driven me the first time. Now, however, the 7-passenger van looked completely different, packed as it was with some 15 people. I dropped my cycloptic friend a two-dollar tip, then boarded for Asuncion. Miraculously, I made it back home after a long day of being taken advantage of like some ignorant foreigner in a strange land. Indeed, though, I really was an ignorant foreigner in a strange land who learned a good lesson that procrastination doesn’t pay. The cost of this adventure was far too high for me, and from now I’ll be doing to best to keep everything legitimate and on time.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Update
Hi friends,
A quick update- our friend and brother Adam for the time being seems to have lost the fight against his addiction, and left the church for his mother´s house on the other side of the country. Please say a pray for his recovery and well-being today.
A quick update- our friend and brother Adam for the time being seems to have lost the fight against his addiction, and left the church for his mother´s house on the other side of the country. Please say a pray for his recovery and well-being today.
Monday, December 17, 2007
But the Greatest Is Love
His name is Adam* and he’s more than just a regular member at our church. Yes, he’s much more. The 22-year old’s larger-than-life testimony about the power of God precedes him everywhere he goes, and he practically lives in the sanctuary of the church (his small room is actually behind the baptismal, past the hallway). He’s always around, inviting everyone to church with big hugs and enthusiastic “hah-lay-lou-yahhs.” The kids from the school and community all know him well, and he often takes the time to play with and look after some of the younger ones.
Adam became an official part of the church a couple years ago when he was released from prison after spending most of his adolescent years behind bars. He was a hardened criminal back then, raised by thieves and mentored by murderers. His life was marked by constant danger, his experiences shaped by hardship and hatred. Today, his lower torso bears a foot-long scar from the time he was slit open from behind with a crude knife. The weapon pierced him completely from one side to the other and, if you ask him, he’ll show you where it nearly missed his kidneys. He can also show you how he used to defend himself from attackers with kung-fu like moves, probably learned from bad American movies. While in jail he became a master at Jackie-Chan knifework and Churck Norris karate, spending all of his time refining and refining even more his precise skills. He must have been pretty dedicated and learned pretty well, because he managed to kill two other inmates with his own hands before he left.
Also before he left prison, though, he came to know Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior through a prison ministry. His soul was changed by the encounter, and finally he was given a hope and vision for his life. He learned how to be a Christian and, in the carefully-structured and closely-guided environment of the jail ministry, grew much in his faith and new way of life. He became a new man with a new religion and a new reason to live. His was the type of miraculous turn-around and tremendous testimony of faith that has the power to lead many others to the healing and cleansing streams of blood flowing from Christ’s own pierced side.
A year and a half after leaving prison, however, things have become more complicated for Adam. The fire-like vibrancy of new-found faith has left him, and he now faces the shadows and coldness of his past along with all the spirits of substance abuse that have returned full-force to haunt him.
Adam hasn’t been Adam the past few weeks. He’s been inhaling terrible things to send him on short trips of self-destructive pleasure. He’s become an ashamed introvert, shying away from human community and real life for the false high of a chemical-induced state. And everyone at the church can see it, too. Just as before when his testimony of faith was in the spotlight, so now his great fall and serious sin, too, is apparent to all. He always has a dazed look on his face, and his breath smells like industrial-strength solvents. The church yard, too, testifies to his problem -- used emapanada bags smeared with shoe polish litter the ground outside. It’s a real problem, and people are really scared.
So far, the pastors haven’t been able to do much. They’ve tried to exhort Adam and pray with when he’s in his right mind, but the power of addiction holds strong and his times of clarity are fewer and fewer in between. They’ve talked, too, with the more-qualified head of the prison ministry about the situation, but even he says that sometimes saved criminals have to fall really far before they finally come back to the church and Christ again. There is also a certain fear among the church in general of kicking Adam out his room in the church. He might, they think, come back some time for revenge in a much worse state of mind and with many bad intentions.
Perhaps most importantly, though, the church’s sense of Christian charity recognizes that, were he forced to leave, Adam has no where else to go in the world; he has no family or any community except for this body of believers in Lambare (and it’s a good thing that he has them, too). The church here is committed to caring for and loving Adam, even to the point of putting in dangerous jeopardy its Christian testimony before the community and putting in danger, too, those around this young man with judgment clouded by so many unnatural and unhealthy chemicals.
The situation is exceedingly difficult. It certainly raises far more questions than anyone here is capable of answering, and it’s showing in great relief just how human a church and its leadership can be. No one knows what to do, least of all the pastors and those in authority who ought to be doing something.
And yet, through it all, it seems that something very important remains. This Paraguayan church, rooted and established in Christ’s own love, desires to love and reach out to Adam, too. The church can see that he is a broken man, ruined by his own sin and hopelessly lost in his own self-destruction. Where he is unable to have the faith that he can change, though, the church does for him. Where he can’t see the hope in his situation, there are many praying for and trusting in his redemption. Where he hates himself and can only see the evil in his soul, the church loves him with Christ-like compassion and welcomes him even as he is. So we see now in this church that “faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest is love.”
Finally, I can see here a church that really is being Jesus Christ to someone who represents the lost and dying world; even to someone who, though now causing great hurt and shame to the congregation, is still considered, cherished, and also grieved over as one of their own. It is painful and tiring and dangerous work for the congregation, yet it is work that incarnates and demonstrates the power of a living God. It is no easy fix, magic remedy, or quick conversion, but it is good and ultimately will abide, like the God upon which the work is founded, forever.
*I changed the fellow´s name, but it´s close enough
Adam became an official part of the church a couple years ago when he was released from prison after spending most of his adolescent years behind bars. He was a hardened criminal back then, raised by thieves and mentored by murderers. His life was marked by constant danger, his experiences shaped by hardship and hatred. Today, his lower torso bears a foot-long scar from the time he was slit open from behind with a crude knife. The weapon pierced him completely from one side to the other and, if you ask him, he’ll show you where it nearly missed his kidneys. He can also show you how he used to defend himself from attackers with kung-fu like moves, probably learned from bad American movies. While in jail he became a master at Jackie-Chan knifework and Churck Norris karate, spending all of his time refining and refining even more his precise skills. He must have been pretty dedicated and learned pretty well, because he managed to kill two other inmates with his own hands before he left.
Also before he left prison, though, he came to know Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior through a prison ministry. His soul was changed by the encounter, and finally he was given a hope and vision for his life. He learned how to be a Christian and, in the carefully-structured and closely-guided environment of the jail ministry, grew much in his faith and new way of life. He became a new man with a new religion and a new reason to live. His was the type of miraculous turn-around and tremendous testimony of faith that has the power to lead many others to the healing and cleansing streams of blood flowing from Christ’s own pierced side.
A year and a half after leaving prison, however, things have become more complicated for Adam. The fire-like vibrancy of new-found faith has left him, and he now faces the shadows and coldness of his past along with all the spirits of substance abuse that have returned full-force to haunt him.
Adam hasn’t been Adam the past few weeks. He’s been inhaling terrible things to send him on short trips of self-destructive pleasure. He’s become an ashamed introvert, shying away from human community and real life for the false high of a chemical-induced state. And everyone at the church can see it, too. Just as before when his testimony of faith was in the spotlight, so now his great fall and serious sin, too, is apparent to all. He always has a dazed look on his face, and his breath smells like industrial-strength solvents. The church yard, too, testifies to his problem -- used emapanada bags smeared with shoe polish litter the ground outside. It’s a real problem, and people are really scared.
So far, the pastors haven’t been able to do much. They’ve tried to exhort Adam and pray with when he’s in his right mind, but the power of addiction holds strong and his times of clarity are fewer and fewer in between. They’ve talked, too, with the more-qualified head of the prison ministry about the situation, but even he says that sometimes saved criminals have to fall really far before they finally come back to the church and Christ again. There is also a certain fear among the church in general of kicking Adam out his room in the church. He might, they think, come back some time for revenge in a much worse state of mind and with many bad intentions.
Perhaps most importantly, though, the church’s sense of Christian charity recognizes that, were he forced to leave, Adam has no where else to go in the world; he has no family or any community except for this body of believers in Lambare (and it’s a good thing that he has them, too). The church here is committed to caring for and loving Adam, even to the point of putting in dangerous jeopardy its Christian testimony before the community and putting in danger, too, those around this young man with judgment clouded by so many unnatural and unhealthy chemicals.
The situation is exceedingly difficult. It certainly raises far more questions than anyone here is capable of answering, and it’s showing in great relief just how human a church and its leadership can be. No one knows what to do, least of all the pastors and those in authority who ought to be doing something.
And yet, through it all, it seems that something very important remains. This Paraguayan church, rooted and established in Christ’s own love, desires to love and reach out to Adam, too. The church can see that he is a broken man, ruined by his own sin and hopelessly lost in his own self-destruction. Where he is unable to have the faith that he can change, though, the church does for him. Where he can’t see the hope in his situation, there are many praying for and trusting in his redemption. Where he hates himself and can only see the evil in his soul, the church loves him with Christ-like compassion and welcomes him even as he is. So we see now in this church that “faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest is love.”
Finally, I can see here a church that really is being Jesus Christ to someone who represents the lost and dying world; even to someone who, though now causing great hurt and shame to the congregation, is still considered, cherished, and also grieved over as one of their own. It is painful and tiring and dangerous work for the congregation, yet it is work that incarnates and demonstrates the power of a living God. It is no easy fix, magic remedy, or quick conversion, but it is good and ultimately will abide, like the God upon which the work is founded, forever.
*I changed the fellow´s name, but it´s close enough
Travel Wish List
A blog lacking in inspiration, but a window into where I’m at right now:
A list of things I’ve asked for from the States, traveling with my cousin who arrives on Tuesday:
-Peanut Butter- There’s no American peanut butter to be found here. Apparently, Paraguayan moms aren’t so choosy as American moms, because JIF is nowhere to be found on supermarket shelves. Instead, there’s a more oily, grainy, and expensive substitute that they call peanut butter, which is much sweeter than it’s American cousin butter but completely lacking in saltiness. Paraguayans are very much against mixing salty and sweet foods together. There are clear distinctions: traditionally sweet food shouldn’t taste so salty, and traditionally salty food shouldn’t taste sweet, either.
-A GRE Study Guide- There’s not really a big book market here, and I really miss the Barnes and Nobleses from up North. That said, I’ve got to be doing some prep work for taking the GRE test, a pre-requisite exam to being accepted into many masters and doctoral university programs for continuing my studies. I don’t think college administrators will take my stay in Paraguay as an excuse for doing poorly on the exam, so I need it sent down. Don’t worry, mom, I plan to return next year and keep on going with my education. I’m not sure where or what I’ll be studying yet, but I’ve got plenty of time to figure it all out.
-A Nice Candle- All the candles for sale here are pretty crummy devotional ones for putting in front of loved ones’ graves or on the altars before Mary, other saints, and perhaps God, too. Because they’re made from some cheap petroleo material, they’re quite disposable and burn really dirtily. Thus, I asked Mom and Dad to send me down a nice-smelling and clean burning candle to enjoy.
-The Office, Season Three- The Office is pretty much the funniest tv show out right now. I didn’t watch it often when I was in the States, and I don’t really miss tv right now, but it is a good reminder of American culture and humor and something that’ll be good in lifting my spirits up and to share with others.
-Some Good Coffee- Dang it, it’s South America- I thought they grew good coffee everywhere here. I suspected it would be cheap, fresh, and delicious, like the pictures of Brazil and Columbia and Argentina on so many coffee containers. And I was wrong. Not many folks here drink real coffee, and when they do, it’s of the instant variety. I asked Mom and Dad to send me some real stuff to fill up my lonely French Press.
Good Sugar-Free Gum- There’s plenty of gum here, even sugar-free gum, and it’s cheap, too. The problem is, it loses it’s flavor really quickly. So, I’m asking for some good Orbits or Dentyne Ice or something like that.
Mink oil- My deck shoes and leather sandals are drying out, and I can only find sticky shoe polish in the store. A little mink oil from those Northern minks ought to do the trick.
A list of things I’ve asked for from the States, traveling with my cousin who arrives on Tuesday:
-Peanut Butter- There’s no American peanut butter to be found here. Apparently, Paraguayan moms aren’t so choosy as American moms, because JIF is nowhere to be found on supermarket shelves. Instead, there’s a more oily, grainy, and expensive substitute that they call peanut butter, which is much sweeter than it’s American cousin butter but completely lacking in saltiness. Paraguayans are very much against mixing salty and sweet foods together. There are clear distinctions: traditionally sweet food shouldn’t taste so salty, and traditionally salty food shouldn’t taste sweet, either.
-A GRE Study Guide- There’s not really a big book market here, and I really miss the Barnes and Nobleses from up North. That said, I’ve got to be doing some prep work for taking the GRE test, a pre-requisite exam to being accepted into many masters and doctoral university programs for continuing my studies. I don’t think college administrators will take my stay in Paraguay as an excuse for doing poorly on the exam, so I need it sent down. Don’t worry, mom, I plan to return next year and keep on going with my education. I’m not sure where or what I’ll be studying yet, but I’ve got plenty of time to figure it all out.
-A Nice Candle- All the candles for sale here are pretty crummy devotional ones for putting in front of loved ones’ graves or on the altars before Mary, other saints, and perhaps God, too. Because they’re made from some cheap petroleo material, they’re quite disposable and burn really dirtily. Thus, I asked Mom and Dad to send me down a nice-smelling and clean burning candle to enjoy.
-The Office, Season Three- The Office is pretty much the funniest tv show out right now. I didn’t watch it often when I was in the States, and I don’t really miss tv right now, but it is a good reminder of American culture and humor and something that’ll be good in lifting my spirits up and to share with others.
-Some Good Coffee- Dang it, it’s South America- I thought they grew good coffee everywhere here. I suspected it would be cheap, fresh, and delicious, like the pictures of Brazil and Columbia and Argentina on so many coffee containers. And I was wrong. Not many folks here drink real coffee, and when they do, it’s of the instant variety. I asked Mom and Dad to send me some real stuff to fill up my lonely French Press.
Good Sugar-Free Gum- There’s plenty of gum here, even sugar-free gum, and it’s cheap, too. The problem is, it loses it’s flavor really quickly. So, I’m asking for some good Orbits or Dentyne Ice or something like that.
Mink oil- My deck shoes and leather sandals are drying out, and I can only find sticky shoe polish in the store. A little mink oil from those Northern minks ought to do the trick.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Yep, I´m getting old
The rebel look just doesn’t float for Paraguayan ACers. Tattoos in general and long hair along with pierced ears for guys specifically are complete taboo. Church discipline often-times requires that interior spiritual change be accompanied by very physical outward changes in appearance, too. In order to become a member, you’ve got to cut your hair like everyone else and stop being a wannabe radical by taking out your earrings. I suspect there are now at least two Christian youth in the church who have yet to be baptized and become members because they don’t want to bend their knees to the pastors’ authority. They like long hair and pony tails and tattoos and piercings.
Although I’ve never had any part of my body pierced (except for one time when a pair of pruning shears fell on my right foot and left me with a permanent stigmata-looking mark), I have indeed grown out my hair pretty long before and tattoos… well, I’ll leave that one up to your imagination. The point is, though, that the church here condemns many things that are accepted by me and what you might call more culturally progressive churches in North America. It seems as if the congregation in Ansuncion is about ten years behind the trends of my home church in Akron, Ohio, where today nearly everything modest in outward appearance is acceptable. There, about a decade ago, several folks very strongly condemned a young man – my middle school Bible study leader and mentor at the time- for the scandal of his shiny earring. Since that time ten years ago, though, a lot has changed. Today, for example, the church has a head pastor who used to have very long hair in his public ministry and also has a leader on the missionary board with a tattoo.
So, which church system is right? They represent two very different standards of outward appearance and conformity to church discipline: the one requires a somewhat strict, legal code of dress and style, while the other permits very many culturally-popular and what are sometimes-perceived as rebellious fashions.
Part of me (the wrong, sinful man) wants to condemn the Paraguayan Church leadership for its legalism and focus on outward appearance. How can the pastors be so backwards as to only be concerned with exterior looks? How can they let their youth, who are foregoing real commitment and real service to the body of Christ, slip right through their hands because of the rules some old fuddy-duddies have made up? In my own experience, after all, I’ve known believers who sometimes looked strange or dressed funny to the world, but were actually far-better suited in their hearts for service to God: people who, although they didn’t look like they had everything together on the outside with their well-worn sweat pants and dirty hoodies and crappy shoes, had everything together on the inside with divine creativity and passion for the truth and the warmth of God’s own love.
On the other hand, though, I have also known people who looked good on the outside to the church (even myself sometimes with a short haircut, plaid, khakis, and Bible in hand), but on the inside were all messed up by many hidden sins (even myself sometimes with lust and pride and selfishness). Our Savior knew the hypocrites when he saw them, too, saying that the Pharisees were like white-washed tombs: nice-looking and clean in appearance before men, but ultimately lost with hearts full of stagnant death before God. Hence, we can see for sure from both scripture and experience that outward appearance matters nothing to God.
The truth of the matter, though, is far more complex. We must also take into account why Paraguayan youth, or perhaps any youth, dress so strangely in the first place. Where are they coming from, and is it possible that they might be sinning in the way they present themselves?
The answer, I think, is a strong “yes.” This is not, though, because I believe there is something inherently wrong with masculine pony tales or shiny metal adornments or permament unnatural body markings or anything else in outward appearance. Christian scriptures, after all, can be interpreted in many ways to defend any particular viewpoint on style and dress; even, I might add, to defend progressive, culturally-edgy styles (for example, I’ve heard tattoo proponents say that Christian tattoos are all right because Jesus has one on his thigh when he returns in glory – Rev. 19:16). No, there certainly are no biblical Christian mandates or certainties regarding cultural norms of dress. Instead, I think outward appearance ultimately is a matter of the heart and can be an important reflection of inward spiritual realities. Why, we must ask ourselves and others, do people (or perhaps we ourselves) want to look different from the rest of society?
In the church community here, rebellious dress is one very big and important way for someone to say, “No, I will not submit myself to your authority, and I will not go by your rules. I shall dress and adorn myself as I please, no matter how goofy or perhaps socially defiant I may seem.” Outward appearance can be the most practical and perhaps simplest form of disobedience to parents and society. I think of the ease with which a youth can pierce his own ear in the back of the bus to surprise and offend his loved ones, or how quickly and easy (although certainly not painless) a trip to the tattoo parlor can be to receive some permanent form of society-forsaking self-expression. The outgrowths of these simple actions, though, when stemming from the roots of rebellion in the heart, are definitively wrong. When a culture of parents and pastors with authority given from God Himself tells us that we need to dress or appear more conservatively, then we had best better do it if we want to live good Christian lives of obedience. We must submit ourselves to the norms of culture and outward appearance when those into whose care we’ve been entrusted require it. We must give ourselves wholly over to God and forsake entirely our own rebellion and independence, even if it means looking like a Mormon or a Baptist or even a Paraguayan Apostolic.
So, which church and mode of outward appearance is ultimately right? I’m afraid I’ve got to conclude in a terrible post-modern way and say that both can be healthy and good systems to dress by. In the end it is all a matter of the heart: in a culture where looking like a rebel doesn’t buck church or parental authority, go for it—dress like James Dean or Fabio or even Ozzi Osbourne. On the other hand, where God-ordained systems of authority say that a Leave-it-to-Beaver look is more appropriate, then by all means, put on your brown corduroy pants, spin-top hat, and button-up shirt. Cut your hair and take out your earring, cover up your tattoos and put a smile on your face. You might feel and look goofy, but in the end you’ll learn humility and obedience and, finally, how to be more like Jesus, too.
Although I’ve never had any part of my body pierced (except for one time when a pair of pruning shears fell on my right foot and left me with a permanent stigmata-looking mark), I have indeed grown out my hair pretty long before and tattoos… well, I’ll leave that one up to your imagination. The point is, though, that the church here condemns many things that are accepted by me and what you might call more culturally progressive churches in North America. It seems as if the congregation in Ansuncion is about ten years behind the trends of my home church in Akron, Ohio, where today nearly everything modest in outward appearance is acceptable. There, about a decade ago, several folks very strongly condemned a young man – my middle school Bible study leader and mentor at the time- for the scandal of his shiny earring. Since that time ten years ago, though, a lot has changed. Today, for example, the church has a head pastor who used to have very long hair in his public ministry and also has a leader on the missionary board with a tattoo.
So, which church system is right? They represent two very different standards of outward appearance and conformity to church discipline: the one requires a somewhat strict, legal code of dress and style, while the other permits very many culturally-popular and what are sometimes-perceived as rebellious fashions.
Part of me (the wrong, sinful man) wants to condemn the Paraguayan Church leadership for its legalism and focus on outward appearance. How can the pastors be so backwards as to only be concerned with exterior looks? How can they let their youth, who are foregoing real commitment and real service to the body of Christ, slip right through their hands because of the rules some old fuddy-duddies have made up? In my own experience, after all, I’ve known believers who sometimes looked strange or dressed funny to the world, but were actually far-better suited in their hearts for service to God: people who, although they didn’t look like they had everything together on the outside with their well-worn sweat pants and dirty hoodies and crappy shoes, had everything together on the inside with divine creativity and passion for the truth and the warmth of God’s own love.
On the other hand, though, I have also known people who looked good on the outside to the church (even myself sometimes with a short haircut, plaid, khakis, and Bible in hand), but on the inside were all messed up by many hidden sins (even myself sometimes with lust and pride and selfishness). Our Savior knew the hypocrites when he saw them, too, saying that the Pharisees were like white-washed tombs: nice-looking and clean in appearance before men, but ultimately lost with hearts full of stagnant death before God. Hence, we can see for sure from both scripture and experience that outward appearance matters nothing to God.
The truth of the matter, though, is far more complex. We must also take into account why Paraguayan youth, or perhaps any youth, dress so strangely in the first place. Where are they coming from, and is it possible that they might be sinning in the way they present themselves?
The answer, I think, is a strong “yes.” This is not, though, because I believe there is something inherently wrong with masculine pony tales or shiny metal adornments or permament unnatural body markings or anything else in outward appearance. Christian scriptures, after all, can be interpreted in many ways to defend any particular viewpoint on style and dress; even, I might add, to defend progressive, culturally-edgy styles (for example, I’ve heard tattoo proponents say that Christian tattoos are all right because Jesus has one on his thigh when he returns in glory – Rev. 19:16). No, there certainly are no biblical Christian mandates or certainties regarding cultural norms of dress. Instead, I think outward appearance ultimately is a matter of the heart and can be an important reflection of inward spiritual realities. Why, we must ask ourselves and others, do people (or perhaps we ourselves) want to look different from the rest of society?
In the church community here, rebellious dress is one very big and important way for someone to say, “No, I will not submit myself to your authority, and I will not go by your rules. I shall dress and adorn myself as I please, no matter how goofy or perhaps socially defiant I may seem.” Outward appearance can be the most practical and perhaps simplest form of disobedience to parents and society. I think of the ease with which a youth can pierce his own ear in the back of the bus to surprise and offend his loved ones, or how quickly and easy (although certainly not painless) a trip to the tattoo parlor can be to receive some permanent form of society-forsaking self-expression. The outgrowths of these simple actions, though, when stemming from the roots of rebellion in the heart, are definitively wrong. When a culture of parents and pastors with authority given from God Himself tells us that we need to dress or appear more conservatively, then we had best better do it if we want to live good Christian lives of obedience. We must submit ourselves to the norms of culture and outward appearance when those into whose care we’ve been entrusted require it. We must give ourselves wholly over to God and forsake entirely our own rebellion and independence, even if it means looking like a Mormon or a Baptist or even a Paraguayan Apostolic.
So, which church and mode of outward appearance is ultimately right? I’m afraid I’ve got to conclude in a terrible post-modern way and say that both can be healthy and good systems to dress by. In the end it is all a matter of the heart: in a culture where looking like a rebel doesn’t buck church or parental authority, go for it—dress like James Dean or Fabio or even Ozzi Osbourne. On the other hand, where God-ordained systems of authority say that a Leave-it-to-Beaver look is more appropriate, then by all means, put on your brown corduroy pants, spin-top hat, and button-up shirt. Cut your hair and take out your earring, cover up your tattoos and put a smile on your face. You might feel and look goofy, but in the end you’ll learn humility and obedience and, finally, how to be more like Jesus, too.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Searching for Green Peace
I’ve said before that Paraguay is like a Paradise, a tropical oasis of exotic smelling fruit trees and golden sunshine and gentle rolling hills. All this is true and even more, sometimes. The red sandy dirt feels softer than in the States, for example, and the water from the faucet, too, tastes sweeter than I’ve ever had.
The problem, though, is that it’s a terribly polluted paradise. It seems that Paraguayans, in their carefree lifestyle of ease and anything-goes, care very little for the environment and rarely think of the impact their trash will have on the earth and, ultimately, their neighbors and themselves, too.
For example, yesterday a young man at church -- a member in good standing who plays in the praise band – finished off a pack of cookies. What was the natural thing for him to do when he was done? He threw the plastic container on the ground in the middle of the church playground, expecting it blow away sometime and perhaps become someone else’s problem. And the strange thing is that this small act of selfishness, even from an upstanding member of the church, isn’t so strange here. Everyone throws all their garbage on the ground or out the window or into the river, dumping junk where they can and leaving trash where it’s convenient. For this reason, the tropical paradise is in many places a tropical garbage bin, littered with blowing bags and pocked with used plastic bottles.
The streambeds are where you can see pollution at its worst. Heavy rains may do their best to clean the streets of garbage, but it all collects in the drain basins and eventually the waterways. Here, huge-ton-piles of assorted trash ferment in massive gob-balls of filth, like so many mutant monsters birthed from landfills nursing on humanity’s worst muck. The effect is altogether discouraging, if not depressing, for a North American who prefers tropical paradise to tropical ruin.
Not only does the landscape look bad because of the trash, though, but many waters are also ruined because of it and other pollutions. The Caballero home is close to the Rio Paraguayo, but only the most-daring would think of swimming or fishing in its murky waters. Two weeks ago we had the chance to visit the largest interior lake in Paraguay- a beautiful body of water surrounded by hills and at one time by hotels and resorts, too. The trouble is, the past few years the lake has become so polluted that it’s no longer safe to go swimming in it. The tourists are leaving, the resorts are closing, and the beaches are dying. The water looks and smells like black sewer, and even crusts over in some places with oily residue. The lake is an amazing refuge completely spoiled, pure delight blighted with the diseases of human progress and ruined by the selfish exploitations of an easy-does-it society.
In Paraguay, it’s easy to imagine how creation was supposed to be: a tropical fruit garden with sunny skies and crisp clear waters; a place where it pleased God to walk side-by-side with men. Unfortunately, the effects of the Fall are also clear here. There’s trash everywhere, the lakes stink, and somehow everything’s become dirty. Something’s gone wrong – very wrong -- in the garden, and we can hardly recognize the way things were originally created to be. There’s plenty of suffering to go around because of it, too, as creation itself seems to groan under the weight of humanity’s filthiness. The earth desperately needs and cries out for Health, for a Savior; for Emmanuel, for God-with-us. Ultimately, it cries out for His eternal life and for his final redemption, “Come, Lord Jesus, come!”
The problem, though, is that it’s a terribly polluted paradise. It seems that Paraguayans, in their carefree lifestyle of ease and anything-goes, care very little for the environment and rarely think of the impact their trash will have on the earth and, ultimately, their neighbors and themselves, too.
For example, yesterday a young man at church -- a member in good standing who plays in the praise band – finished off a pack of cookies. What was the natural thing for him to do when he was done? He threw the plastic container on the ground in the middle of the church playground, expecting it blow away sometime and perhaps become someone else’s problem. And the strange thing is that this small act of selfishness, even from an upstanding member of the church, isn’t so strange here. Everyone throws all their garbage on the ground or out the window or into the river, dumping junk where they can and leaving trash where it’s convenient. For this reason, the tropical paradise is in many places a tropical garbage bin, littered with blowing bags and pocked with used plastic bottles.
The streambeds are where you can see pollution at its worst. Heavy rains may do their best to clean the streets of garbage, but it all collects in the drain basins and eventually the waterways. Here, huge-ton-piles of assorted trash ferment in massive gob-balls of filth, like so many mutant monsters birthed from landfills nursing on humanity’s worst muck. The effect is altogether discouraging, if not depressing, for a North American who prefers tropical paradise to tropical ruin.
Not only does the landscape look bad because of the trash, though, but many waters are also ruined because of it and other pollutions. The Caballero home is close to the Rio Paraguayo, but only the most-daring would think of swimming or fishing in its murky waters. Two weeks ago we had the chance to visit the largest interior lake in Paraguay- a beautiful body of water surrounded by hills and at one time by hotels and resorts, too. The trouble is, the past few years the lake has become so polluted that it’s no longer safe to go swimming in it. The tourists are leaving, the resorts are closing, and the beaches are dying. The water looks and smells like black sewer, and even crusts over in some places with oily residue. The lake is an amazing refuge completely spoiled, pure delight blighted with the diseases of human progress and ruined by the selfish exploitations of an easy-does-it society.
In Paraguay, it’s easy to imagine how creation was supposed to be: a tropical fruit garden with sunny skies and crisp clear waters; a place where it pleased God to walk side-by-side with men. Unfortunately, the effects of the Fall are also clear here. There’s trash everywhere, the lakes stink, and somehow everything’s become dirty. Something’s gone wrong – very wrong -- in the garden, and we can hardly recognize the way things were originally created to be. There’s plenty of suffering to go around because of it, too, as creation itself seems to groan under the weight of humanity’s filthiness. The earth desperately needs and cries out for Health, for a Savior; for Emmanuel, for God-with-us. Ultimately, it cries out for His eternal life and for his final redemption, “Come, Lord Jesus, come!”
Monday, December 10, 2007
Best Wishes
Ellen headed back to Canada Tuesday. She was the English teacher/missionary this past year in the church and school, and also the one who trained me most in the ways of Paraguay since I got here. She introduced me to the joys and sorrows of being a first-time missionary a year ago when I first started reading her blog, and last March she was the one who invited me to come take her place as a teacher. Basically, God’s work through her is the reason I’ve arrived where I am.
Now that Ellen’s gotten me all ready to live and teach on my own, though, her work seems complete. A full year-long circle with a trained replacement and all, Ellen’s leaving a well-finished time in the southern tropics for more and new Christian service in the colder North. Her legacy in the church and school is rich in relationship, love, and charisma, and the shoes that she leaves behind for me to fill seem overwhelmingly large. I know I’ll have my own ministries and ways of doing things here, but Ellen has really been a God-given example of faithfulness to the church, His ministries, and Christian service in general.
Seeing her leave brings me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I’m really jealous of her: the fact that she’ll get to spend Christmas with her family, be reunited with her North American church and friends, and get to live at home in a culture that she recognizes and knows. Right now, the idea of spending time with my loved ones on a cold, snowy, winter day inside and in front of a warm fire with sweaters and hot cocoa and football games and a real Christmas tree sounds like a dream come true. On the other hand, though, I recognize really how blessed Ellen has been to spend a year learning another culture and language and making an entirely new spiritual family in South America. The experiences that she’s had, and those that I’m having and am going to have this next year, are invaluable as life and faith lessons-learned. Seeing all the things I’ve learned in only two months and all the new ways I’ve had to trust God more, I can only imagine how much a different, and more spiritually mature, person Ellen is now after a full year. For us short term missionaries in Paraguay, I really think the spiritual environment is much like the physical environment: with plenty of sunny and sometimes uncomfortable heat, enough humidity and rain to stifle or drown even the best-accustomed Ohioan, and the richest, most colorfully fertile soil I’ve ever seen, it seems as if, by the grace of God, our souls can’t help but grow lush and green and be more productive like so many mango trees and hibiscus flowers and banana fruits. Life, spiritual and otherwise, is abundant in all forms here. It’s not always easy, either, but it’s very good.
And so, my prayer for Ellen is that, like a mango tree miraculously transplanted and sustained in the middle of the Albertan winter plain, she might stand out and continue to bear many new spiritual fruits when she returns home. I’m certain, too, that she’ll bring along with her all the sunshine of her God-given gifts, personality, and everything that she’s learned in order to share with so many more. I’ve seen that her “delight is in the law of the Lord,” and for this reason I trust that wherever she goes, Ellen will be like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that (she) does, (she) prospers.”
Now that Ellen’s gotten me all ready to live and teach on my own, though, her work seems complete. A full year-long circle with a trained replacement and all, Ellen’s leaving a well-finished time in the southern tropics for more and new Christian service in the colder North. Her legacy in the church and school is rich in relationship, love, and charisma, and the shoes that she leaves behind for me to fill seem overwhelmingly large. I know I’ll have my own ministries and ways of doing things here, but Ellen has really been a God-given example of faithfulness to the church, His ministries, and Christian service in general.
Seeing her leave brings me mixed emotions. On the one hand, I’m really jealous of her: the fact that she’ll get to spend Christmas with her family, be reunited with her North American church and friends, and get to live at home in a culture that she recognizes and knows. Right now, the idea of spending time with my loved ones on a cold, snowy, winter day inside and in front of a warm fire with sweaters and hot cocoa and football games and a real Christmas tree sounds like a dream come true. On the other hand, though, I recognize really how blessed Ellen has been to spend a year learning another culture and language and making an entirely new spiritual family in South America. The experiences that she’s had, and those that I’m having and am going to have this next year, are invaluable as life and faith lessons-learned. Seeing all the things I’ve learned in only two months and all the new ways I’ve had to trust God more, I can only imagine how much a different, and more spiritually mature, person Ellen is now after a full year. For us short term missionaries in Paraguay, I really think the spiritual environment is much like the physical environment: with plenty of sunny and sometimes uncomfortable heat, enough humidity and rain to stifle or drown even the best-accustomed Ohioan, and the richest, most colorfully fertile soil I’ve ever seen, it seems as if, by the grace of God, our souls can’t help but grow lush and green and be more productive like so many mango trees and hibiscus flowers and banana fruits. Life, spiritual and otherwise, is abundant in all forms here. It’s not always easy, either, but it’s very good.
And so, my prayer for Ellen is that, like a mango tree miraculously transplanted and sustained in the middle of the Albertan winter plain, she might stand out and continue to bear many new spiritual fruits when she returns home. I’m certain, too, that she’ll bring along with her all the sunshine of her God-given gifts, personality, and everything that she’s learned in order to share with so many more. I’ve seen that her “delight is in the law of the Lord,” and for this reason I trust that wherever she goes, Ellen will be like “a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that (she) does, (she) prospers.”
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Sorry
Hi all,
Sorry I havent posted in a while- I´ve misplaced my pen drive, so I´ll get something up as soon as I find it or buy another one. I´ve a few written, though, so don´t worry. All is well here, please pray for some of the folks I´ve left behind in the States.
Best, Jason
Sorry I havent posted in a while- I´ve misplaced my pen drive, so I´ll get something up as soon as I find it or buy another one. I´ve a few written, though, so don´t worry. All is well here, please pray for some of the folks I´ve left behind in the States.
Best, Jason
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