Goin´ on a Jetplane

Bought my tickets today. Lord willing I´ll be home December 9 after a brief stay in Miami and Nashville.

Update

Holy smokes- this new president has spent no time in showing his real colors. Lugo´s first act as president: touring Paraguay with Hugo Chavez. Heaven have mercy.

Ascenion and Assumption in Asuncion

Friday most of Christendom celebrated the Feast of the Assumption, a day calling to joyful remembrance Mary’s bodily assumption into Heaven after her life and mission on earth were completed. In Paraguay, the day has special meaning since Asunción, the capital city, was founded on this feast day in 1537 and thus takes as its name the predominantly catholic and orthodox belief. Yesterday was an even more special day for Paraguay, however, because of the peaceful political transition of executive power to Fernando Lugo, the former Catholic and rebel bishop who is now the lay and secular president of the Republic of Paraguay. Sixty-one years of corrupt one-party rule by the formerly dictatorial Colorado party came to an abrupt end, ushering in a presidency with many expectations for change and reform. Not wanting to miss the festivities celebrating Lugo’s inauguration or the founding of Asunción, I headed downtown to the Centro to see what was happening.

I arrived at 8:30 and found a mammoth crowd surrounding the temporary stage that had been set up for the inauguration ceremony. Only dignitaries could enter the stands to watch, but normal folk crowded around for peeks inside at the president-elect and foreign heads of state who came to the event. I was lucky to see past the crowds to the stage because of my height, but my best point of view was among a large group of Paraguayan Communists waving Che Guavera flags. Dressed as a conservative from Ohio, I may or may not have imagined dirty looks from so many frumpy-looking Marxists.

The ceremony started with introducing foreign dignitaries: around a dozen Latin American heads of state, a prince from Spain, a few African leaders, the president of Taiwan, and the vice-president of Iran. The inauguration proceeded with other normal inauguration proceedings: the national anthem, the swearing-in, the oath to uphold the constitution, the speech. I didn’t listen very much because I wanted to take pictures of all the interesting normal people who showed up: rich and poor; young and old; Guaraní and Spanish; Asunceños and campesinos; Mennonites and Catholics; everyone was represented. I even saw a group of feminists who were handing out owl-eye masks that said President Lugo ought to look at the abortion issue with “ojos laicos,” “lay eyes,” now that he is no longer a priest and is free to disobey the Church. (As a side note, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lugo did legalize abortion after all. He never obeyed the Church even when he was a bishop.)

The National Church of Asuncion
(No worries about separation of church and state here)

It was only after the inaugural ceremony, however, that the real excitement for the crowds began. Every head of state had to travel three blocks from the temporary stage to the central church in Asunción, where a celebratory mass was held to install the new president. Along this route crowded thousands of common individuals to hail leaders from all over the world, and among these I found myself, like the others, wooed with the excitement of seeing and shouting at royalty and heads of state. The most exciting part for me was when the most notorious world leader in the Western Hemisphere passed within a mere ten feet of where I stood. Had I the desire and courage, I could have physically attacked and punched Hugo Chavez, the bedeviled president from Venezuela. Not wanting to be a bad missionary or start an international incident, though, I kept quiet and instead crowded close to the terrible man to take his picture. Along with Chavez, I came within a few feet of presidents from Argentina, Ecuador, Peru, Taiwan, Guatemala, Columbia, and vice-presidents from Iran, Brazil, and Cuba. The procession, in many ways, could be summed up as a who’s-who of corrupt and bad world leaders; still, they were corrupt and bad world leaders that I got to see face-to-face and at whom I got to shout with much popular excitement.

Hugo Chavez, South American Foe of USA Foreign Policy Number 1
(So close I could´ve punched him)

The president of Argentina, looking like a superstar
(Yeah, I´m that cool and famous.)

After the morning mass, which only specially invited guests could attend, the new president and his cabinet shared lunch with the other world leaders. In the afternoon was a military parade for Lugo, symbolizing the peaceful transition of military power to the new administration. What I can imagine to be all of Paraguay’s armed forces marched by on foot in a line perhaps a mile long, while the entire air force of eight airplanes and ten helicopters flew overhead. I half expected the tanks and military vehicles going down the road to take over in a grand revolutionary coup, but thankfully the day was peaceful and the military accommodating to the choice of the people.

It was a long, beautiful, sunny day. A new president was installed by the people and the Church, and no few Paraguayans or foreign leaders were able to attend. For me, I came closer than perhaps any of my high-fallutin friends to real political power, even though it was only South American political power and I was only a spectator among a crowd of common folk. Still, it was a real special day for me and for Paraguay and for everyone who got to take part in the uniqueness of an Ascunción Feast of the Assumption.

My Terrible Tropical Voodoo Rash

I look in the mirror and sigh quietly to myself. Ehhhhhhhh: another day, another cross to carry; another moment as a missionary, another burden to bear. Sometimes the days just seem so weary. Sometimes the load just seems too much.

I look in the mirror again. The little red circle on the skin of my jaw bone seems to grow larger every moment I watch. It quickly transforms, defiantly shining and pussing and becoming uglier no matter how much I wish it away. At one point I imagine that in its little red irritability it screams and yells at me announcing the arrival of endless filth and pain.

I picture myself with a chunk of cheek missing, eaten away so many days from now by what started off as this terrible tropical voodoo rash. Maybe, I fancy, I’d look like one of those old men in middle school health books with chewing-tobacco induced face cancer, their appearances twisted and scarred like soda pop bottles rescued from the middle of a roaring fire. Or, perhaps I’d appear like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator II when the outer flesh of his bionic face gets blown away to reveal cold hard metal inside . Yes, I think to myself, that second option sounds much better. Super movie star cool. Arnold Schwarzeneggar cool.

When it first appeared, I thought the rash was just a bit of acne, perhaps from eating too much of the peanut butter that my family brought for me in July. I’ve been mostly stingy in keeping the JIF to myself, so a patch of acne to accompany my sin would in no way be an unsuitable or illogical judgment for me on God’s part When the splotch started to grow into a bigger perfectly round circle and a similar one appeared on my leg, though, I realized the redness was more than peanut butter punishment. It was ringworm.

I once made fun of my wrestler brothers for getting ringworm. I thought the sickness, its accompanying creams, and all stigmas were really funny. They were jocks and I wasn’t, so they deserved it and I laughed at them. Rolling around on greasy dirty wrestling mats with a bunch of greasy dirty wrestlers? Yep, they definitely deserved it. It was probably even God’s judgment on them for caring too much about a dumb sport.

Now I sit in Paraguay, not laughing and very humbled. I think to myself, what could have caused this terrible tropical voodoo rash? I look around at my room, and it isn’t difficult to imagine. I haven’t washed my sleeping bag since I arrived nearly a year ago; my towels are both damp because I haven’t taken them outside to dry in a couple weeks; some of my clothes have a funny smell because I haven’t taken them to be washed in a while; my bedroom has that same funny smell as the locker room where all the wrestlers used to change.

On top of all this, I recently took in a kitten from the street. My mind flashes back to Israel: a dear friend there once took a fancy to a stray kitten, too, and she got ringworm as a result of it. I remember laughing at her and mocking her misplaced compassion in a cat from the street. Now the joke’s on me, though. I’ve been taken in by the whiley purr of a friendly tomcat I’ve taken to calling Charlie. I realize in horror that my own misplaced compassion for Mr. Whiskers is maybe what has caused my terrible tropical voodoo rash. It’s all my own fault.

I swear to myself that I won’t be taken in by Mr. Whisker’s wiles another time. He won’t come near me again, and I won’t ever let him cuddle on my bed or even come into my house from this day to eternity. I make a solemn and holy vow that I’ll wash every sheet and send my sleeping bag to the cleaner to quit my house of every hint left by Mr. Whisker’s fungal fur, even if that means I won’t have a blanket one night or two. I just want to be clean myself.

The pastor this evening preached on Jesus, who cleansed the leper who had faith. I feel like a leper myself, but I’m thankful that everyone still shakes my hand even though I have ringworm on my face. They don’t cast me out, and don’t even mention my skin condition. I wonder if I’m contagious. I think that this is what it might be like to have AIDS, then I condemn myself for making the comparison. AIDS is much more serious than ringworm.

A friend told me that he once had Paraguayan ring worm and that it spread very quickly in a big mess all over his legs and interior parts. I run as fast as I can to the pharmacy and buy an antifungal cream, the same kind I made fun of my brothers for using once. Now I don’t make fun of myself, but I am thankful that one can buy anti-fungal cream in Paraguay without a prescription. I apply it lightly and hastily without rubbing because the cream itself can spread the disease, and put on a fully body-suit of pajama to keep the fungus on my leg and face from contaminating all my healthy parts. I will not sleep well tonight since my mind is worried at profound conscious and subconscious levels about a terrible tropical voodoo rash. I may not sleep at all, I think, and just then my heart sinks inside of me. Mr. Whiskers sits on the window sill crying for me to feed him, but I won’t. I can’t. He and his fungus-bearing fur must leave and find a new owner. He and the terrible tropical voodoo rash he’s carrying must find a new place in which to torment another face.


Glorious.



The closeup.

Argentina AC

The past weekend saw me off on a trip to the Argentinean frontier city of Formosa, a largely untamed countryside far away from the delicacies of civilization in Buenos Aires. I went for the Seventh Annual Formosa Church Retreat, a weekend of preaching, singing, and sharing put on by the two churches in the city after which the retreat is named. Although the retreat usually finds a large group of Paraguayans coming to visit (the Lambaré congregation is only a three and a half our ride away, unlike those in Buenos Aires that could require a full day’s trip), this time only I, two brothers originally from Formosa, and a divorced single mom from Asunción were able to make the voyage. It was eye-opening weekend as I got to meet and greet Apostolic Christians (in South America called Nazarenos) from all over Argentina.

One surprise to greet me when I arrived at the camp was the lodging logistic. We stayed at a public school near the church where mattresses were brought in and where folks stayed one family per room. Because I didn’t have a family of my own, though, I slept in the cafeteria-turned-general-meeting hall/church and didn’t have a moment of privacy for three days straight. There were no showers and the water in the bathrooms was turned off, so by the end of the first day both the facilities and the people had a distinctly people smell. When someone did finally get the nerve to flush the toilet or take a bath, the water had to be carried in bucket-style from the one working faucet. I felt like a good abused missionary the entire weekend and I’m certain I gained a lot of crowns in Heaven from my misery, although I think the sophisticated Portenos (those from Buenos Aires) had an even worse time of it.

As with any good AC camp, there was an overabundance of romantic drama and sexual tension as well. The Formosa brothers who live in Asunción kept trying to hook me up with there cousin, a beautiful young believing lady studying literature at the university there. I met her in January when I visited Formosa the first time, thought she was pretty, and can even say I may have liked her a little bit, but thankfully my discernment and self-control this time around was stronger than my desire for an Argentinean spouse. I told her up front and a couple more times throughout the weekend that God is calling me back to the United States and not to move to Argentina. Although she was disappointed, she eventually accepted it. Unfortunately, however her cousins didn’t, and that made for a really awkward weekend being around her and having so many accusatory smiles thrown at me from every angle. Her unbelieving dad was at the camp too, which made things even better. He was a funny little man who drank too much, apologizing to me on the first day at lunch when he had to take his “medicine” —a little bit of wine—after the meal. I smiled and told him not to worry about it because Proverbs 31:6-7 says it’s ok. He eventually saw the banter going on between the cousins, me, and his daughter, though, and took to calling me his “yerno,” son-in-law.

I got to meet and know a youth about ten years my junior who looked about the same as I did ten years ago. You can imagine my delight to find that I wasn’t the only blonde-haired blue-eyes German at the camp, as there was this Argentine named Franco who could’ve been my kid brother. His great-grandparents came to Argentina a few years after mine came to the United States and belonged to the same church, too. It was surreal to meet someone who could’ve been me on a completely different continent with a completely different language and culture.

From what I learned, the Argentinean AC Church was originally founded in the 1880s a few years after the North American AC Church, but really established itself as a denomination in the mid-war period of the 1920s and 1930s. The church went through a boom of growth from the 1960s through the 1970s, but since the late 80s has been declining considerably. Its membership is much like the American AC Church with Germans, Serbians, Czechs, Swiss, and all other sorts of Eastern European nationalities mixed in, too, although there is no lack of Hispanic families that have converted, either. Today, there are Apostolic Christian churches all over the country, with dozens in Buenos Aires alone.

The church is still very traditional. Perhaps because it’s been united in the difficulty of spreading the denomination in the midst of a very Catholic Argentina, the church has seen none of the divisions plaguing its North American counterparts. Moustaches are ok, but jewelry is not. All the elders agree that women should wear head coverings and skirts, but only during church services. (As a side note, the head coverings here are bold, huge, and clumpy affairs that look very little like the delicate, discrete, and beautiful laces that North American AC sisters wear). Elder and ministerial authority remains very strong in Argentina, as do harsh forms of discipline and excommunication. One pastor I spoke with said nothing of grace or restoration in church discipline, and left me with a sick feeling after he told me that many people who sin in the church are never restored to fellowship again or counted as brothers and sisters in Christ after they’ve morally messed up. I think this same man, too, really believed that he had never sinned after becoming a Christian; a belief which, no matter how proud or self-deluded he may be, is wrong and anti-biblical. Along with many other things, I took away from the weekend a greater appreciation for biblical truths of sin, grace, and forgiveness that many times I’ve taken for granted because of my Christian upbringing.

The women cooked and cleaned all weekend long while the men talked. The ladies worked like horses, the gentleman laid around like pigs. I was astounded, but not so much to make me remedy the situation except by showing a lot of appreciation for all the great food, hospitality, and service coming from the pastors’ wives. You might say I was just as guilty as the rest of the men, although not quite. When I and two other guys accepted the offer to wash dishes after one meal, the women were all amazed and three or four young single ladies came out of nowhere to take our pictures in the kitchen. The moms told us that no one had taken a single photo of them serving all weekend long, but there we were-- ten minutes with our hands in the sinks-- and we were the all-male stars of the camp.

The theme of the weekend was “Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD in vain.” When I first arrived I was thrilled and thought, “finally, a practical topic that every South American Christian needs to hear.” Many evangelicals here think nothing of saying “Dios Mio,” or “Oh, my God.” Whereas in the US we see this as breaking one of the ten commandments and using the Lord’s name in vain, here in the South they just don’t think of it that way. The topic, though, wasn’t what I expected, and the preaching was more of an exhortation to act like Christians if we willingly take that name upon ourselves. Thus, breaking the commandment and taking the Lord’s name in vain would consist in living a secret life of hypocrisy and sin while claiming to be a believer in public.

The weekend ended with an altar call, and a whole lot of people originally from the Formosa Church went up at the end. It used to be a vibrant church, but after many years of serious sin, broken leadership, and bad teaching these days it can only count a handful of faithful members. The story of the congregation is unimaginably bad, but on Sunday many who haven’t been a part of the fellowship in more than a decade went up once again to the altar to renew their commitment of faith. I pray that this past weekend might be the start of a new work in Formosa founded on mercy, grace, and the Gospel to give new hope and life to such a small and sickly church community.