Today is October 31st. If I were in the States, I’d probably go to a costume party wearing some sort of clever outfit and eat way more candy corn than is healthy for any one person to eat in the course of a decade. Last year, for example, I dressed up as a Republican who’d been badly beaten up by an angry electorate and ate probably three pounds of the white-yellow-orange card-board tasting pyramidal treats. I had a grand time celebrating with folks dressed up as ghouls and even went on a tour of haunted houses in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. As a child, Halloween candy was an important part of my autumn diet and someday I’ll probably take my own kids trick-or-treating, too. I think it can be a healthy, human, and good thing to confront the realities of death with a sense of humor and a touch of spook. For the Christian believer, after all, the grave will never win any permanent victory nor will death have any lasting sting.
Here in Paraguay, though, Halloween is different. Christian believers take the holiday as a time of very real spiritual danger. This past month, the pastors at church have been preparing us all for October 31st, a day on which they believe satanic forces are much more at work than the rest of the year. In the school and church, October was proclaimed a month of spiritual warfare and the Devil’s forces were battled with much prayer and fasting, for some kinds of demons “cannot be driven out by anything but prayer and fasting.”
Thus, I won’t be celebrating anything related to Halloween this year. I’ve hung up my ideas for clever costumes in the closet of my mind for another place and time, and I’ve even shied away from glancing at the candy corn displays in the supermarket. And what’s all this for?
The rational part of me wants to say that the Paraguayan church is superstitious, believing in ghosts and spiritual forces that the rest of the modern world has given-up on. How many people do I know, for example, who have been demon-possessed in the U.S.? I definitely heard of one person once, but even then my skeptical mind attributed her demons to mental illnesses and her exorcism to an act of social readjustment.
Yet here, people do believe in satanic forces and demon possession and evil powers and they do believe in it strongly. Many from the church, for example, have told me of ritualistic demonic sacrifices on Cerro Lamabare, the same hill just a few miles away where we were mugged just a week ago. Other believers have told me of extended family members who have made pacts with Bombero, an ancient demon firmly established in pre-Christian mythology and the Paraguayan mind. At a funeral vigil I attended last week, there was a cup of water placed under the coffin to ward away evil spirits. For better or worse, the Paraguayan people and the church here have strong beliefs in the world of spirits.
This Halloween, I’m giving up my so-called reason and American point-of-view and embracing the attitude of Paraguayan believers. The belief in invisible spiritual powers is, after all, thoroughly Christian and biblical. I want to believe in spiritual realities, both good and bad that I cannot see, because I know scripture teaches so much about “cosmic powers” and “spiritual forces.” Our own Lord Jesus Christ cast out evil demons while on earth, and is now seated in Heaven with all “angels, authorities, and powers having been subjected to him.” When Jesus Christ himself saw and understood spiritual forces and is described as the Lord and ruler over every one, it would require no small amount of hubris on my part to claim that, intellectually, I’ve moved beyond a belief in other-worldly powers. Oftentimes my faulty reason is a hindrance to true biblical and Christian faith and too often I quickly abandon very important aspects of belief in favor of a modern, rational interpretation.
Hence, this Halloween I’m trying to give up some of that prideful and wrong thinking. I’m fasting from Halloween candy and costumes and praying for God’s protection over the church. I’m paying closer attention to what my brothers and sisters in Christ say about spiritual realities and truths, and doing my best to leave my unchristian modernist ideas at home in America. I’m slowly learning about things I cannot see and doing my best not to jump to conclusions. While I think I may be starving for lack of candy corn, I trust that the harvest of faith I reap in its place will be longer-lasting and more satisfying anyways.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Que Paso (What Happened)
With the exception of strong rain in the morning, Sunday started off as normal as any day I’ve seen here. I got up around 6:30, went to church at 8:30, and then talked with friends afterwards until about 10:30. I was looking forward to an afternoon of visiting Cerro Lambare, a tall hill overlooking the River Paraguay and much of
We walked to the Cerro Lamabare by way of Cacique Lambare, which is the main road through plain-old Lambare (the suburb of
About halfway up the Cerro, our group decided to spilt up. Unbeknownst to us, this choice sealed the fate of our trip. The three Paraguayan guys and Peter decided to go straight up the mountain, cutting through the woods and climbing up at a steep angle. This left the two Canadian ladies, Emmy, and I to take the winding and paved road up the hill.
Emmy and I were in a lively chat about Saint Roeca, a martyred Paraguayan Jesuit, when I saw something move behind my back. Having traveled the world and considered myself a safe tourist, I quickly glanced behind as a precautionary measure to make sure no one was following us. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw a few steps back.
There quickly catching up to us was a sixteen year old youth in a brown shirt with a pistol in his right hand. I did a double-take to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, and then announced to the group that there was a man with a gun following us. We all four turned around just as quickly as I mentioned it. Facing our pursuer and forming a semi-circle around him as he came up to meet us, the youth pointed his gun at all our fragile frames and began demanding cell phones.
The next couple minutes are a complete blur in my mind, but I do remember a few things distinctly. Being the only brave man in the group, I did the best thing that I could to help the situation. Promptly losing all control of bodily and mental function, I passed a gas that was entirely uncalled for and indecent in such mixed company. I then proceeded, in as cowardly and terrified a voice as I could muster, to beg for our lives in strained and broken (yet incredibly fervent) por favors. My voice, in utter terror, sounded like that of a small child who, fearing for his life, runs away from a giant farm animal chasing him in the pasture. It kind of sounded like “eeaaauuhhhhhhh.”
Our assaulter then went to each one of us, demanding once again our cell phones and cash with all the authority he had in his pistol. Since he didn’t believe us when we told him that we had none (three North Americans without cell phones? Come on, give me a break), he promptly groped us to make sure we were telling the truth. In the course of the assault, we did as much as we could to please the thief and pacify his gun-wielding self. To prove to him that I had no cell phone and in an attempt to make him happy, I began taking off my shirt and pants and offering them to him. He didn’t want my clothes, though, and I ended buttoning my pants back up only after the ladies told me I was undressing unnecessarily.
The ladies, by the way, were calm the entire time. Emmy was more afraid that I had lost my mind than she was of the robber, so she did her best to keep me quiet and controlled. I’m pretty sure her calming words of “tranquilo, Jason, tranquilo” to me during the ordeal were the only things that kept me from getting us all shot.
In the end, I offered the crook all my cash (about $6) and my watch, a cheap $5 WalMart timekeeper that he didn’t even have to ask for. Larissa lost the most in the mugging when Ellen offered the crook her backpack which held Larissa’s camera, Larissa’s $300, and Larissa’s credit and bank cards. Be that as it may, the gift seemed to appease our criminal. He took it and then, with a flurry of Spanish and Guarani words, cursed me as a cowardly American man, pointed the gun at my head, and then inexplicably left just as quickly as he arrived.
The entire time, I thought for sure I was going to die. To my shame, I didn’t even think to pray. Unreasonable impulse took over, and the only thing I could think of was how sad and senseless my death would be on this Heaven-forsaken mountain in
Afterwards, we ran up the hill and met with the other guys. A motorcycle club picnicking there saw our plight and promptly went out riding in search of the assailant. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Fifteen minutes later the Paraguayan police came by and gave us all a ride in the back of their truck to the police station, where we signed our names on a piece of used, wrinkly paper. I’m pretty sure, though, that it was just a formality. The police had no idea how to even contact the Canadian Embassy, and I’m certain our cause and justice’s cause was lost from the moment we were robbed. What we lost was lost for good, swallowed by an ocean of poverty and crime.
Still, though, I consider us all very lucky to have even survived (and without being shot once, a miracle!). In spite of my best efforts to make the situation turn out badly, God’s protection over us all trumped all. There must have been an army of angels with us that day, as our safety through the robbery seems to defy all logic. I call it a miracle that I’m still here after staring into the barrel of my assailaint’s gun, and can only thank God that I’ve got more time to serve Him here on Earth.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Just Gotta Wait
I’ve got a blog entry in the making that is quite a story. So, to get you excited about it ahead of time, I’m offering some possible titles for the tale as a sneak preview:
1. The Worst Idea Ever: A Paraguayan Travel No-No
2. The Incredible Adventure of Jason and the Three Ladies
3. Where’d that Drunk with a Pistol Come from?
4. Why Don’t They Teach You the Word “Assault” in High School Spanish?
5. I Wish I Had Thought of This ahead of Time
6. Yes, Junior, People Really Do Lose Control of Bodily Functions in Terrifying Situations
7. Staring Down the Gun Barrel
8. My Own Personal Portal to Glory
9. At Least I Thought I Was Ready to Go
10. Someone’s Prayin’, Lord
11. Yes, Sir, Please Take My Pants, Too
12. American Cowardice
13. If I Were a Cat, I’d Have 8 More Lives
14. Angels Watchin’ Over Me, My Lord
15. Every Day Now Is a Gift
I bet you can’t wait to hear what happened. For me, it’s still kind of fresh, so it may take a few days for me to process everything and write about it.
1. The Worst Idea Ever: A Paraguayan Travel No-No
2. The Incredible Adventure of Jason and the Three Ladies
3. Where’d that Drunk with a Pistol Come from?
4. Why Don’t They Teach You the Word “Assault” in High School Spanish?
5. I Wish I Had Thought of This ahead of Time
6. Yes, Junior, People Really Do Lose Control of Bodily Functions in Terrifying Situations
7. Staring Down the Gun Barrel
8. My Own Personal Portal to Glory
9. At Least I Thought I Was Ready to Go
10. Someone’s Prayin’, Lord
11. Yes, Sir, Please Take My Pants, Too
12. American Cowardice
13. If I Were a Cat, I’d Have 8 More Lives
14. Angels Watchin’ Over Me, My Lord
15. Every Day Now Is a Gift
I bet you can’t wait to hear what happened. For me, it’s still kind of fresh, so it may take a few days for me to process everything and write about it.
Straight Talk
Being in a foreign country makes me feel very fragile, helpless, and human. For someone who’s been told all his life that he can do anything he puts his mind to, it’s a good but tough lesson to learn that I have my limits. I’m being humbled very much.
For instance, when I try to converse in Spanish, I’m sure I sound to native speakers more like a crazed pagan with Turretts than a sane and healthy Christian. Because of the all too-slowly dissolving language barrier, I’m holding on to many un-communicated thoughts in my mind like my dad holds on to the oversized and unwanted zucchinis in his August garden.
I often feel like a helpless fool, tripping over pronouns and conjugated verbs and my very own tongue (who seems to have gained some measure of independence in this foreign land). No longer does my tongue listen obediently when I try to say something smart. Instead, he now squeaks and squabbles and hobbles and does his best to make a fool out of me. I’m certain my tongue is not Spanish. Rather, he’s got to be Hungarian, German, or Irish just like me, because he’s very stubborn and is obstinately taking his time in adapting to the new life here.
Already, I’ve said plenty of things in Spanish that I look forward to laughing about in a few years. When I was in the first grade class sharing about my favorite food, for example, I told them I like ensalada taco, taco salad. Unfortunately for the Paraguayan pupils, they were unfamiliar with the Mexican taco tradition and thought I meant shoe heels salad, the literal translation of ensalada taco. They got a good laugh from it.
Another Spanish-blooper moment, shared with a young lady from the church in a much more serious conversation, was also a much more embarrassing mistake. She asked how my transition to life and to the church here was going, and I responded as best I could that the church was amazing and welcoming me with open arms. The trouble was that I accidentally substituted the Spanish word for “legs” when I meant to say “arms.” I very quickly realized my mistake and profusely apologized for what I said. She understood that I was a bit confused with my words and was very gracious in correcting me, but it still didn’t help the embarrassment of the whole thing.
Here, I am no longer the eloquent and intelligent fellow that I am in English-speaking lands. My trendy idol of speech, built from flashy smart words and large clever turns of phrase, has been smashed to smithereens by the blunt and often traumatic force of this new language. I know neither the tongues of men nor angels in Spanish, but praise God that, as 1 Corinthians 13 suggests, this isn’t the most important thing. Although my speech in Spanish isn’t worth anything, I am getting to know better the privilege and opportunity of sharing in the love of God, which is worth everything. It’s a love that I’ve felt through all the awkward times when I stand alone, when my tongue fails me and I can no longer speak. Wonderfully, it’s a love that is stable and strong and persists. When all my showy plastic English words cease in silence, this life-giving love springs from within and speaks something different and true. For me, el amor de Dios, the love of God, gives the grace to “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, (and) endure all things,” even when my words cannot.
For instance, when I try to converse in Spanish, I’m sure I sound to native speakers more like a crazed pagan with Turretts than a sane and healthy Christian. Because of the all too-slowly dissolving language barrier, I’m holding on to many un-communicated thoughts in my mind like my dad holds on to the oversized and unwanted zucchinis in his August garden.
I often feel like a helpless fool, tripping over pronouns and conjugated verbs and my very own tongue (who seems to have gained some measure of independence in this foreign land). No longer does my tongue listen obediently when I try to say something smart. Instead, he now squeaks and squabbles and hobbles and does his best to make a fool out of me. I’m certain my tongue is not Spanish. Rather, he’s got to be Hungarian, German, or Irish just like me, because he’s very stubborn and is obstinately taking his time in adapting to the new life here.
Already, I’ve said plenty of things in Spanish that I look forward to laughing about in a few years. When I was in the first grade class sharing about my favorite food, for example, I told them I like ensalada taco, taco salad. Unfortunately for the Paraguayan pupils, they were unfamiliar with the Mexican taco tradition and thought I meant shoe heels salad, the literal translation of ensalada taco. They got a good laugh from it.
Another Spanish-blooper moment, shared with a young lady from the church in a much more serious conversation, was also a much more embarrassing mistake. She asked how my transition to life and to the church here was going, and I responded as best I could that the church was amazing and welcoming me with open arms. The trouble was that I accidentally substituted the Spanish word for “legs” when I meant to say “arms.” I very quickly realized my mistake and profusely apologized for what I said. She understood that I was a bit confused with my words and was very gracious in correcting me, but it still didn’t help the embarrassment of the whole thing.
Here, I am no longer the eloquent and intelligent fellow that I am in English-speaking lands. My trendy idol of speech, built from flashy smart words and large clever turns of phrase, has been smashed to smithereens by the blunt and often traumatic force of this new language. I know neither the tongues of men nor angels in Spanish, but praise God that, as 1 Corinthians 13 suggests, this isn’t the most important thing. Although my speech in Spanish isn’t worth anything, I am getting to know better the privilege and opportunity of sharing in the love of God, which is worth everything. It’s a love that I’ve felt through all the awkward times when I stand alone, when my tongue fails me and I can no longer speak. Wonderfully, it’s a love that is stable and strong and persists. When all my showy plastic English words cease in silence, this life-giving love springs from within and speaks something different and true. For me, el amor de Dios, the love of God, gives the grace to “bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, (and) endure all things,” even when my words cannot.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Good Times
I can’t imagine I’m ever going to get sick again. My immune system will be stronger than the strongest steel, faster to react than the quickest cat, and be more knowledgeable about various germs than the largest germ database in the world. And why? Because I’m living in Paraguay. I’ve been meeting dozens upon dozens of new people, and have been sharing just as many straws and cups and utensils with every one of them.
Folks in Paraguay are not squeamish about sharing anything related to food and drink. The most important cultural and culinary example here is the phenomenon of yerba mate. It’s a sort of green tea, grown and made famous in Paraguay and shipped all over the world. Enjoyed everywhere from the dark and dense tropical forests of traditional Brazil to the light and airy coffee shops of trendy California, yerba mate is a powerfully energizing and healthy antioxidant drink that finds its origin among the Paraguayan people.
Yerba mate can be had with hot or cold water. The former, sipped slowly and carefully in the mornings or during cold weather, is the steamy mate. The latter, a warmer-weather and afternoon/evening drink, is the frigid terrere. No matter the weather or time, every fourth or fifth person carries around a thermos for mate or a jug for terrere. Whenever there is a break in the day or any sort of socializing, out comes the giant thermos or jug alongside a small cup filled with the yerba mate.
From what I’ve learned so far, etiquette teaches that the youngest person in the group ought to be the one who fills up the communal cup. From my experience, though, it’s most often been the owner of the jug of water who fills the cup and then passes it around. Inside the prized cultural chalice, yerba mate floats freely and mixes with the water, which is then sipped through a filtered straw. The cup holds enough water for about two sips, the second of which is the most enjoyable because the tea mixes with the air and makes playful mate bubbles.
The cup is passed from person to person, each one taking their two sips through a shared straw and then passing it back to water-jug-holder. The mate or terrere continues as long as there is water, and it’s not uncommon on a summer night to refill a water jug several times in the course of an evening. From after-church activities to lunch-time breaks from work, yerba mate touches every part of Paraguayan life and provides a common shared drink and experience.
And the germs? I’d imagine they’re passed along with the cup and straw, too. In the name of friendship and hospitality, however, no one cares. Community takes precedent over individual well-being or illness. If everyone is fine, everyone is fine together. If someone has a bug, everyone may get it and that’s just the way it is. This is, perhaps, the great blessing of living and sharing life together. The shared cup brings Paraguayans to a place where they can know very intimately the health or sickness, the joy or pain of their neighbors and friends. It very practically requires a participation in the rejoicing or weeping of everyone taking sips from the cup, and unites all together in a grand spirit of Christian empathy.
Folks in Paraguay are not squeamish about sharing anything related to food and drink. The most important cultural and culinary example here is the phenomenon of yerba mate. It’s a sort of green tea, grown and made famous in Paraguay and shipped all over the world. Enjoyed everywhere from the dark and dense tropical forests of traditional Brazil to the light and airy coffee shops of trendy California, yerba mate is a powerfully energizing and healthy antioxidant drink that finds its origin among the Paraguayan people.
Yerba mate can be had with hot or cold water. The former, sipped slowly and carefully in the mornings or during cold weather, is the steamy mate. The latter, a warmer-weather and afternoon/evening drink, is the frigid terrere. No matter the weather or time, every fourth or fifth person carries around a thermos for mate or a jug for terrere. Whenever there is a break in the day or any sort of socializing, out comes the giant thermos or jug alongside a small cup filled with the yerba mate.
From what I’ve learned so far, etiquette teaches that the youngest person in the group ought to be the one who fills up the communal cup. From my experience, though, it’s most often been the owner of the jug of water who fills the cup and then passes it around. Inside the prized cultural chalice, yerba mate floats freely and mixes with the water, which is then sipped through a filtered straw. The cup holds enough water for about two sips, the second of which is the most enjoyable because the tea mixes with the air and makes playful mate bubbles.
The cup is passed from person to person, each one taking their two sips through a shared straw and then passing it back to water-jug-holder. The mate or terrere continues as long as there is water, and it’s not uncommon on a summer night to refill a water jug several times in the course of an evening. From after-church activities to lunch-time breaks from work, yerba mate touches every part of Paraguayan life and provides a common shared drink and experience.
And the germs? I’d imagine they’re passed along with the cup and straw, too. In the name of friendship and hospitality, however, no one cares. Community takes precedent over individual well-being or illness. If everyone is fine, everyone is fine together. If someone has a bug, everyone may get it and that’s just the way it is. This is, perhaps, the great blessing of living and sharing life together. The shared cup brings Paraguayans to a place where they can know very intimately the health or sickness, the joy or pain of their neighbors and friends. It very practically requires a participation in the rejoicing or weeping of everyone taking sips from the cup, and unites all together in a grand spirit of Christian empathy.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Myth Busters
“… Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.”
I only caught the words because they mentioned my name. Sitting in a classroom observing a Paraguayan teacher teach, my mind was completely somewhere else where the thoughts were English and disinterested in the outside world. Then I heard the words, “Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.” “Jason, our missionary.”
The phrase wasn’t addressed to me. Instead, I was being used as an example for the children’s lesson. I was something special -- a model for them to look up to, somehow related to the Bible story being taught. A missionary.
Being in Paraguay generally, and hearing my name in the classroom specifically, has gotten me thinking much about what being a misionero means. What’s the significance of being known as a missionary? What does it mean for me to actually be a missionary?
There are many gratifying elements to being labeled a misionero, although not all are quite so spiritually edifying. Before I left home, for example, I heard so many people tell me just how brave I was to go to a foreign country. They thought out loud about how they could never do it and how it must require some special sort of person to travel half a hemisphere away. And my pride grew a little. Then there were the admiring looks from the Christian girls, who (and I may be/probably am just imagining this) were thinking, “Wow, what a special, very handsome, Christian missionary guy.” And my ego grew a little, too.
There are also some elements to being labeled a missionary, though, that don’t feed my ego or make me feel great. It seems as if I’m under many microscopes and am having most every aspect of my life inspected for narrowly-defined and culturally-conservative orthopraxy. In some ways this is good, as it helps me to stop being a hypocrite and to “keep my conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak evil against me as an evildoer, they may see my good deeds and glorify God.” In other ways this is bad, though, as Satan often uses it in my life to intensify my already strong, and wrong, desire to please men. I become less concerned with what my Heavenly Father thinks, and more concerned with what people think. I fear those who can kill my reputation and talk badly about me, but never “Him who can destroy both body and soul in Hell.”
The good and bad elements of being labeled a misionero, however, all seem to point in one direction: missionaries are different, somehow special, and completely unlike everyone else. There is a high standard, some grand calling, and perhaps even an extraordinary manifestation of God’s holiness in the misionero’s life.
Unfortunately for everyone else’s expectations but fortunately for my own sanity and good sense of Christian humility, most of the stereotypes I’ve been carrying around of what a misionero ought to be (that often feel heavier than the luggage I brought to Paraguay) don’t always fit the reality of my life.
For example, I am a sinner. I have let down God and other believers countless times in the past, I will surely do it today, and, for as long as God allows, I’ll be a sinner tomorrow, too. I have constantly left undone those things I ought to have done, and have done those things which I ought not to have done; and there is no health in me. According to Old Testament law, I should have been stoned several times by now -- and that’s just under the statute of cursing parents. Christ’s teaching in the Sermon on the Mount confirms my guilt: I am a murderer and an adulterer in my heart, wholly deserving eternal punishment in the fires of Hell. I am a fallen person, my attempts at right living being dirtier than filthy rags and my trespasses against a Holy God completely damning.
Yes, friends, I am a sinner misionero. I am wholly dependent on the grace of God for my righteousness, and anything positive that comes from my life – any manifestation of love or character or fruit of the Spirit – is completely foreign to me and is entirely a result of God’s mercy through Jesus Christ. I fail my friends, family, church, and God, but thankfully that same God never will fail them or me. I fall apart spiritually and some day soon my body will fall apart, too, but the God who knows my body and spirit together never will.
Thus, the misionero stereotypes just aren’t true of me. I’m not especially holy or strong, but am especially sinful and broken and messed up. It is only by the grace of God that I continue on and am able to doing anything of value, my own resources being of no worth and altogether consumed by weaknesses. So, please don’t look to Jai-saun, nuestro misionero, or put any faith in his so-called abilities. The missionary will fail you. Rather, if you’re looking for the Good and the True that never will disappoint, keep your sight set on God. Then, when my weaknesses are so plain to you (or even if they’re not and I’ve got you fooled into thinking I’ve got it all together), you won’t see me any more but instead the awesome God Who’s grace is sufficient for you and me and whose power is made perfect in weakness.
I only caught the words because they mentioned my name. Sitting in a classroom observing a Paraguayan teacher teach, my mind was completely somewhere else where the thoughts were English and disinterested in the outside world. Then I heard the words, “Jai-saun, nuestro misionero.” “Jason, our missionary.”
The phrase wasn’t addressed to me. Instead, I was being used as an example for the children’s lesson. I was something special -- a model for them to look up to, somehow related to the Bible story being taught. A missionary.
Being in Paraguay generally, and hearing my name in the classroom specifically, has gotten me thinking much about what being a misionero means. What’s the significance of being known as a missionary? What does it mean for me to actually be a missionary?
There are many gratifying elements to being labeled a misionero, although not all are quite so spiritually edifying. Before I left home, for example, I heard so many people tell me just how brave I was to go to a foreign country. They thought out loud about how they could never do it and how it must require some special sort of person to travel half a hemisphere away. And my pride grew a little. Then there were the admiring looks from the Christian girls, who (and I may be/probably am just imagining this) were thinking, “Wow, what a special, very handsome, Christian missionary guy.” And my ego grew a little, too.
There are also some elements to being labeled a missionary, though, that don’t feed my ego or make me feel great. It seems as if I’m under many microscopes and am having most every aspect of my life inspected for narrowly-defined and culturally-conservative orthopraxy. In some ways this is good, as it helps me to stop being a hypocrite and to “keep my conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak evil against me as an evildoer, they may see my good deeds and glorify God.” In other ways this is bad, though, as Satan often uses it in my life to intensify my already strong, and wrong, desire to please men. I become less concerned with what my Heavenly Father thinks, and more concerned with what people think. I fear those who can kill my reputation and talk badly about me, but never “Him who can destroy both body and soul in Hell.”
The good and bad elements of being labeled a misionero, however, all seem to point in one direction: missionaries are different, somehow special, and completely unlike everyone else. There is a high standard, some grand calling, and perhaps even an extraordinary manifestation of God’s holiness in the misionero’s life.
Unfortunately for everyone else’s expectations but fortunately for my own sanity and good sense of Christian humility, most of the stereotypes I’ve been carrying around of what a misionero ought to be (that often feel heavier than the luggage I brought to Paraguay) don’t always fit the reality of my life.
For example, I am a sinner. I have let down God and other believers countless times in the past, I will surely do it today, and, for as long as God allows, I’ll be a sinner tomorrow, too. I have constantly left undone those things I ought to have done, and have done those things which I ought not to have done; and there is no health in me. According to Old Testament law, I should have been stoned several times by now -- and that’s just under the statute of cursing parents. Christ’s teaching in the Sermon on the Mount confirms my guilt: I am a murderer and an adulterer in my heart, wholly deserving eternal punishment in the fires of Hell. I am a fallen person, my attempts at right living being dirtier than filthy rags and my trespasses against a Holy God completely damning.
Yes, friends, I am a sinner misionero. I am wholly dependent on the grace of God for my righteousness, and anything positive that comes from my life – any manifestation of love or character or fruit of the Spirit – is completely foreign to me and is entirely a result of God’s mercy through Jesus Christ. I fail my friends, family, church, and God, but thankfully that same God never will fail them or me. I fall apart spiritually and some day soon my body will fall apart, too, but the God who knows my body and spirit together never will.
Thus, the misionero stereotypes just aren’t true of me. I’m not especially holy or strong, but am especially sinful and broken and messed up. It is only by the grace of God that I continue on and am able to doing anything of value, my own resources being of no worth and altogether consumed by weaknesses. So, please don’t look to Jai-saun, nuestro misionero, or put any faith in his so-called abilities. The missionary will fail you. Rather, if you’re looking for the Good and the True that never will disappoint, keep your sight set on God. Then, when my weaknesses are so plain to you (or even if they’re not and I’ve got you fooled into thinking I’ve got it all together), you won’t see me any more but instead the awesome God Who’s grace is sufficient for you and me and whose power is made perfect in weakness.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
A Day in the Life
I’ve been in Paraguay for past two weeks now, and praise God things are starting to have some sense of familiarity. The time I’ve spent here has been jam-packed with so much: from a wedding I got to attend a week and half ago to campamento -- a youth camp that Ben and Vivi led through the church, I’ve had plenty of experiences to share in learning about Paraguayan culture.
Before I talk about these extra ordinary experiences, though, I’ll let you know how typical life goes. I’m staying with the Caballeros right now, so much of my day is shared with them and normal family activities. I get up around 5:00 every weekday morning to roosters crowing and exotic birds singing outside my window. There are no screens here, so everything sounds and feels as if it’s very close and very real. I look out my window to Oscar’s magnificent backyard, enjoying the happy purple orchids growing in the trees, the magnificent perennial hibiscus, and other plants that I’ve never seen before.
Around 5:30 I get to take part in breakfast with the Caballeros, which many times includes a fresh savory sort of pancake made with mandioca (a very starchy plaintuber) flour and cheese. After morning family devotions, we get into the car at 6:00 and head to school. 6:30 finds me at Colegio Privado Adonai with the other teachers, administrators, and directors for a pre-school devotion. I try to listen and pray along as best I can, but most of the time I only understand what’s going on when I can read along with the morning’s scripture in my bilingual Bible.
Classes begin at 7, and that’s when the real school day starts. Right now, I’m mostly helping Ellen, the Canadian teaching most of the lower grades, and Monica, a Paraguayan-taught-English-by-a-Texan, who’s teaching the higher grades. I generally just smile at the kids and act like I know what they’re saying while working on becoming their friend even before I know how to talk to them. I also get to work with the kids one-on-one with individual classwork, tutoring first graders with the English names of animals and the older kids with points of grammar that I hardly understand.
There’s a recess break around 8:30 when I grab a snack -- if I’m feeling skinny a fried empanada (like perogies, only with fried, flaky dough and most-often meat fillings) or, if I’m feeling healthy, a vegetable (with egg salad, too) sandwich. Lunch is an hour at noon, then, and several teachers stick around to eat together. I’ve only stayed twice for lunch, but everyone is friendly to share what they have. I wish I could have brought a little to share, too, but I’m just getting used to the culture of sharing everything.
Afternoons are much like the mornings, although this week I’ll begin tutoring sessions with two students at a time for half an hour each. The largest number of kids from any one class comes from 7th grade. I’m not sure if they especially need the extra help, but the class has a bunch of teenage girls who like to giggle and smile at me. I don’t especially mind, though, because it’s much easier to practice talking to someone in broken Spanish if you know they already like you.
Around three I hop in the Caballero car for the ride home. We arrive to a wonderful meal that Karen cooks every day and devour it very expeditiously. After dinner devotions and helping clean up, it’s time for a siesta and break from the day. Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights find us back at the church (which, very conveniently, is connected to the school), and other nights find Brandon and Gabby (the Caballero boys) doing homework and me reading about culture or studying Spanish.
All in all, I’ve found another family and church family here in Paraguay. I’ve jumped right into Lamabare life and have been safely caught by a whole community of wonderful folks. I’m committed here, and so many here have also already committed to me. And through it all, I bless the name of God. As the Lord says to this Asuncion Church and the Caballero home, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”
Before I talk about these extra ordinary experiences, though, I’ll let you know how typical life goes. I’m staying with the Caballeros right now, so much of my day is shared with them and normal family activities. I get up around 5:00 every weekday morning to roosters crowing and exotic birds singing outside my window. There are no screens here, so everything sounds and feels as if it’s very close and very real. I look out my window to Oscar’s magnificent backyard, enjoying the happy purple orchids growing in the trees, the magnificent perennial hibiscus, and other plants that I’ve never seen before.
Around 5:30 I get to take part in breakfast with the Caballeros, which many times includes a fresh savory sort of pancake made with mandioca (a very starchy plaintuber) flour and cheese. After morning family devotions, we get into the car at 6:00 and head to school. 6:30 finds me at Colegio Privado Adonai with the other teachers, administrators, and directors for a pre-school devotion. I try to listen and pray along as best I can, but most of the time I only understand what’s going on when I can read along with the morning’s scripture in my bilingual Bible.
Classes begin at 7, and that’s when the real school day starts. Right now, I’m mostly helping Ellen, the Canadian teaching most of the lower grades, and Monica, a Paraguayan-taught-English-by-a-Texan, who’s teaching the higher grades. I generally just smile at the kids and act like I know what they’re saying while working on becoming their friend even before I know how to talk to them. I also get to work with the kids one-on-one with individual classwork, tutoring first graders with the English names of animals and the older kids with points of grammar that I hardly understand.
There’s a recess break around 8:30 when I grab a snack -- if I’m feeling skinny a fried empanada (like perogies, only with fried, flaky dough and most-often meat fillings) or, if I’m feeling healthy, a vegetable (with egg salad, too) sandwich. Lunch is an hour at noon, then, and several teachers stick around to eat together. I’ve only stayed twice for lunch, but everyone is friendly to share what they have. I wish I could have brought a little to share, too, but I’m just getting used to the culture of sharing everything.
Afternoons are much like the mornings, although this week I’ll begin tutoring sessions with two students at a time for half an hour each. The largest number of kids from any one class comes from 7th grade. I’m not sure if they especially need the extra help, but the class has a bunch of teenage girls who like to giggle and smile at me. I don’t especially mind, though, because it’s much easier to practice talking to someone in broken Spanish if you know they already like you.
Around three I hop in the Caballero car for the ride home. We arrive to a wonderful meal that Karen cooks every day and devour it very expeditiously. After dinner devotions and helping clean up, it’s time for a siesta and break from the day. Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights find us back at the church (which, very conveniently, is connected to the school), and other nights find Brandon and Gabby (the Caballero boys) doing homework and me reading about culture or studying Spanish.
All in all, I’ve found another family and church family here in Paraguay. I’ve jumped right into Lamabare life and have been safely caught by a whole community of wonderful folks. I’m committed here, and so many here have also already committed to me. And through it all, I bless the name of God. As the Lord says to this Asuncion Church and the Caballero home, “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.”
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Where to Start
My first experience of Paraguay began after Oscar, Karen, and Ellen picked me up from the airport. Oscar calmly drove me and all my luggage back to the Caballero homestead while I, with frozen, ghost-white knuckles and clenched jaw, clung to the armrest of the car. You see, driving in Paraguay is much different than driving in the States. There are few traffic signals and no speed limits that count for anything. When you add to this general lack of law a grand array (or disarray, as it were) of transportation ranging from new, high-speed BMWs to ancient horse-drawn carriages and nimble, European scooters to giant clumsy buses, the newcomer’s experience of Paraguayan traffic can be awfully overwhelming. Cars and buses and carts and motorcycles dart in and out of non-existing lanes, often passing one another with greatly different velocities but always doing so with the smallest hair’s width of room. Friendly horns seem to take the place of turning signals, and a real organic, flowing humanity the place of ordered, sterile law.
After a while in the car, my sensory perception of the new country mixed into a grand whirling haze of bright colors and sudden movements, probably most like the boat ride scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Just like Willy Wonka, though, Oscar guided the car through the mayhem to safety. After the trip I wondered if the crazy driving wasn’t some secret test of new missionaries to see if they really are Christians and pray to God. If that were the case, I think I passed with flying colors. I also think it was quite an easy test to pass, since even an atheist would probably pray during such a harrowing trip.
***I’ve come to find out (unless there have been many prayer tests since that first day) that Oscar’s driving was and is pretty typical of Paraguay. Although the traffic patterns go against logic and order, I haven’t seen any road rage here and everyone, no matter how fast or slow they like to travel, seems to be pretty laid back and easy-going. Somehow it all seems to work out.
After a while in the car, my sensory perception of the new country mixed into a grand whirling haze of bright colors and sudden movements, probably most like the boat ride scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Just like Willy Wonka, though, Oscar guided the car through the mayhem to safety. After the trip I wondered if the crazy driving wasn’t some secret test of new missionaries to see if they really are Christians and pray to God. If that were the case, I think I passed with flying colors. I also think it was quite an easy test to pass, since even an atheist would probably pray during such a harrowing trip.
***I’ve come to find out (unless there have been many prayer tests since that first day) that Oscar’s driving was and is pretty typical of Paraguay. Although the traffic patterns go against logic and order, I haven’t seen any road rage here and everyone, no matter how fast or slow they like to travel, seems to be pretty laid back and easy-going. Somehow it all seems to work out.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Yes, Junior, the Toilets Flush Differently Here
I left DC and home at 6 in the morning on Tuesday, the 25th. My shuttle van picked me up like a fresh, scared soldier on his way to boot camp and took me to BWI airport, where I boarded my first of what seemed like many interminable flights. My first destination was LaGuardia in NYC, where I had to pick up my luggage (containing all 140 lbs of my life in a couple bags) and then move it somehow to JFK airport on the other side of Queens. For the rest of the eight hours in between my NYC flights, I had the grand opportunity of lugging everything I own around with me. I learned quite well the metaphor of “carrying baggage,” and I prayed to God I wouldn’t bring too much spiritual or emotional baggage with me to Paraguay, any future job, or (Lord willing and with many needed mercies) my future marriage.
My flight then from JFK to Brazil required ten more precious hours, but I arrived safe and sound in Sao Paolo on the morning of the 26th. My sleep during the night was difficult at best, but I did manage to squeeze in a few winks of shuteye. When I arrived in Brazil the morning after the long night, my hemisphere and whole world had changed.
My final flight was to Asuncion, Paraguay, and it was a short, pleasant affair with great Brazilian food and friendly hostesses. As the plane came in for its landing, I looked out the window in great anticipation to see my new home for a year. The land was unlike any I had ever seen before from the air. There were no large plots of cultivated land like in the Midwest, but small, irregularly shaped plots and homesteads. There were no neat lines of pavement marking highways like on the East Coast, but instead rusty roads of red dirt. When we finally landed at ASU airport, we quickly passed a small building which I assumed was a building for storage or perhaps airport maintenance crews. When our airplane slowed down and turned around, though, I realized the building was the terminal. Cows grazed in pastures just a hundred yards from the runway.
I picked up my baggage and was met (and I thank God for this) by Oscar, Karen, and Ellen. I was whisked away to start again in Paraguay, surrounded by all new intriguing and beautiful people and places and things. I said a quick prayer, “Lord, please give me the grace to serve you here. I need you so very much.”
***I had been worried I wouldn’t have enough things to write or think about here, but my fears have now passed. There’s such a richness of culture and life here that I could go on for a very long time. The direction that water goes down the toilet isn’t the only thing that’s different.
My flight then from JFK to Brazil required ten more precious hours, but I arrived safe and sound in Sao Paolo on the morning of the 26th. My sleep during the night was difficult at best, but I did manage to squeeze in a few winks of shuteye. When I arrived in Brazil the morning after the long night, my hemisphere and whole world had changed.
My final flight was to Asuncion, Paraguay, and it was a short, pleasant affair with great Brazilian food and friendly hostesses. As the plane came in for its landing, I looked out the window in great anticipation to see my new home for a year. The land was unlike any I had ever seen before from the air. There were no large plots of cultivated land like in the Midwest, but small, irregularly shaped plots and homesteads. There were no neat lines of pavement marking highways like on the East Coast, but instead rusty roads of red dirt. When we finally landed at ASU airport, we quickly passed a small building which I assumed was a building for storage or perhaps airport maintenance crews. When our airplane slowed down and turned around, though, I realized the building was the terminal. Cows grazed in pastures just a hundred yards from the runway.
I picked up my baggage and was met (and I thank God for this) by Oscar, Karen, and Ellen. I was whisked away to start again in Paraguay, surrounded by all new intriguing and beautiful people and places and things. I said a quick prayer, “Lord, please give me the grace to serve you here. I need you so very much.”
***I had been worried I wouldn’t have enough things to write or think about here, but my fears have now passed. There’s such a richness of culture and life here that I could go on for a very long time. The direction that water goes down the toilet isn’t the only thing that’s different.
Going, Going, Gone
What a wonder technology is. In the course of 24 hours, I’ll have traveled from one hemisphere to the next, flown over perhaps a dozen nations, and done most of it while remaining in touch with home via the internet. Right now, I’m sitting in New York’s JFK Airport listening to works by Cluadio Monteverdi, completely oblivious to the chaos and stress of the travel around me. I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I’ve made it through the first and only major day of travel, and am ready to board my flight to another world.
The past few weeks before leaving for Paraguay have been everything I could have wished for and more. It’s amazing to think of all the gifts, many unexpected, that God has given out of his abundant mercy and grace. It should have been much harder to leave, but God’s hand has been guiding and providing all the way.
At VLBF, some wonderful mothers from the church put on a fundraising lunch for me. Early in September, I worried that my procrastination in raising support would force me to take out loans to support the trip. I prayed about it and, as He so often does, God answered in a very concrete and amazing way through some of my spiritual parents. They organized a lunch for me so that, on the day that I shared with the congregation about my desire and plan to serve in Paraguay, God worked a miracle to demonstrate His great love through VLBF. A prayer of commission and blessing along with countless dozens of encouragements caused me to praise God for His awesome provision.
The Tuesday before I left, my aunts prepared a grand Thanksgiving dinner for me and my family. Since I won’t be home for the holidays this year, they made sure that I would have a meal to remember for just as long. It was a splendid time to visit with them, and I’m pretty sure I’m still working off the calories from all the holiday trimmings. For dessert, cousins and uncles and aunts also arrived, and once again God overwhelmed me with His Goodness.
I also received countless other gifts and meals and gifts of meals at home. My last week in Ohio was an incredible blessing as I got to visit with so many. If those days and the encouragement I received were any indication, I’ve got an army of folks up North who care tremendously for me and are interceding before God for me even now.
After leaving Ohio, I spent a few days in Washington, D.C. visiting old friends and seeing old sights. I stayed with some InterVarsity fellas in Georgetown, and once again God provided for all my needs. I also celebrated my dear friend Stephanie’s birthday, and had plenty of opportunities to hang out with Eric and Matt, my closest confidants from college. At Georgetown Baptist, my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in Christ surrounded me too with much love, sending me off with prayer, a gift, and all the tenderness of God’s very own family. It was a good weekend filled with so many visits and marked once again by so much of God’s provision.
Thank you to all who have contributed to my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs. Your care does not go unnoticed either by me or by God. I trust that “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness,” and I know that “You will be enriched in every for all your generosity, which through us will produce thanksgiving to God.”
The past few weeks before leaving for Paraguay have been everything I could have wished for and more. It’s amazing to think of all the gifts, many unexpected, that God has given out of his abundant mercy and grace. It should have been much harder to leave, but God’s hand has been guiding and providing all the way.
At VLBF, some wonderful mothers from the church put on a fundraising lunch for me. Early in September, I worried that my procrastination in raising support would force me to take out loans to support the trip. I prayed about it and, as He so often does, God answered in a very concrete and amazing way through some of my spiritual parents. They organized a lunch for me so that, on the day that I shared with the congregation about my desire and plan to serve in Paraguay, God worked a miracle to demonstrate His great love through VLBF. A prayer of commission and blessing along with countless dozens of encouragements caused me to praise God for His awesome provision.
The Tuesday before I left, my aunts prepared a grand Thanksgiving dinner for me and my family. Since I won’t be home for the holidays this year, they made sure that I would have a meal to remember for just as long. It was a splendid time to visit with them, and I’m pretty sure I’m still working off the calories from all the holiday trimmings. For dessert, cousins and uncles and aunts also arrived, and once again God overwhelmed me with His Goodness.
I also received countless other gifts and meals and gifts of meals at home. My last week in Ohio was an incredible blessing as I got to visit with so many. If those days and the encouragement I received were any indication, I’ve got an army of folks up North who care tremendously for me and are interceding before God for me even now.
After leaving Ohio, I spent a few days in Washington, D.C. visiting old friends and seeing old sights. I stayed with some InterVarsity fellas in Georgetown, and once again God provided for all my needs. I also celebrated my dear friend Stephanie’s birthday, and had plenty of opportunities to hang out with Eric and Matt, my closest confidants from college. At Georgetown Baptist, my brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in Christ surrounded me too with much love, sending me off with prayer, a gift, and all the tenderness of God’s very own family. It was a good weekend filled with so many visits and marked once again by so much of God’s provision.
Thank you to all who have contributed to my physical, spiritual, and emotional needs. Your care does not go unnoticed either by me or by God. I trust that “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness,” and I know that “You will be enriched in every for all your generosity, which through us will produce thanksgiving to God.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)