Thursday, September 13, 2012
This is probably just an audacious start to the academic year, but I hope to begin blogging again to record some of my thoughts and observations about life as a learning theologian in the Bronx. My perspectives are my own, but the result of a pile of different influences and ways of thinking.
If you’ve ever been to a Catholic Church you know that, upon entering the sanctuary, there’s usually a small container of holy water on the side to dip your hand into. Most Catholics do just that and, with fingers wet, make the sign of the cross on their forehead in a ritual that says, “Here I am, God, ready for Mass.” A Catholic understanding of sacrament means that this water is sanctified—made holy—by a priest’s blessing. In effect, touching holy water and making the sign of the cross is sort of like a rebaptism, or anointing, for believers to receive divine blessing and renew/remember their Christian identity in preparation for an encounter with God through the Mass.
Last Sunday, as I went to Mass at a local and largely Latino parish, I saw a variation on the tradition I’ve known. Instead of each member of the family dipping their hand into the water and making their own sign of the cross, the mother—or maybe abuela—took it upon herself to make sure that each of her children was properly prepared to enter the Church. Lavishly dipping her hands in the bowl of holy water, she took them out to give each of her children a generous washing in the sign of the cross. It reminded me of when I was young and my mom would give me spit baths before church. In the course of childhood the time between Saturday evening baths and Sunday morning church was an eternity, and certainly plenty of time to get muddied in the great outdoors or smeared with the leftovers of breakfast. I still remember the way my face would scrunch up when Mom gave me a certain look: I could tell by the way she eyed me that there was something on my face —probably a piece of egg— that she was going to wipe off to make me presentable for church.
All of this goes to say I smiled in knowing recognition of what these kids were going through. I was taken aback, though, when one—probably twelve or thirteen—received an especially thorough holy water scrubbing. I imagined this poor adolescent’s situation: probably in the midst of finding her identity, with all the complexities and difficulties involved, and here she was, in public, getting a face bath. I’m sure the matriarch knew more than I did, so I didn't want to judge her actions. Maybe the daughter had been out late the night before, or spoken filthy words and needed some special cleansing before entering the sanctuary.
It all made me smile, but it also made me consider the importance of mothers in our lives. They were the ones who made sure that we were ready to go out into the world; that we were outwardly presentable in appearance, but also that we were inwardly spiritually prepared to face life's challenges. How many mothers, my own included, have spent years teaching their children the truths of faith and relationship with God? How many have fretted when their sons and daughters have sullied their childhood innocence with youthful rebellions and sinful follies? And how many have interceded on their behalf, approaching the throne of God for their children’s sake, to beg for the forgiveness of sins and a right relationship with God?
None of us became believers on our own. We have a community of faith who encouraged us on and helped us along the road to Christian discipleship. Many of us have our sins forgiven because God used holy men and women to point out to us our dirty state when we couldn’t see it otherwise. And many of us are clean and able to enter God’s sanctuary because we’ve received a holy washing through graces God’s given by way of our mothers.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Why I'm Catholic Now
Dear friends and family,
Here is a short synopsis of how I came to be Roman Catholic. It is an abbreviated version of the story of my conversion, and by no means represents all the myriad ways that God has worked in my heart and the countless doctrines with which I have wrestled, but it does offer a starting point for conversation. As many of you may know, I am more than happy to talk about it and to share about God's calling on my life. Just let me know, and we can get coffee or a meal for the longer story. Thanks, and God bless,
Jason
I am originally from Westfield Center, where I was blessed to have been raised in a Christian home. Growing up with both parents and five younger siblings in an evangelical church, I heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ preached often and learned of my need for a personal relationship with God. When I was in sixth grade, I realized my sin separated me from God; wanting to avoid the consequences of sin and be forgiven, I asked Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior. I trust that was when I first converted and began to live a life of faith.
At the age of 13, I took another step of faith and asked for baptism. At my evangelical church, this sacrament was only considered an outward sign and symbol of salvation's work already finished in my heart. It was tied to church membership and a public confession of faith, much like Confirmation in churches that baptize infants. I saw God's blessing for following His leading to baptism, though, even though not many people in my church were baptized as young as I was. The testimony I gave before my church in a public proclamation of faith gave me a dear community of encouragement and accountability throughout high school. God used my evangelical church to grow me spiritually in countless good ways.
College found me at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, a Jesuit school where I was committed to studying political science in preparation for law school and a life of public service. Before leaving home, though, I was genuinely worried that my faith would not be able to stand up to the pressures and temptations of college life. Georgetown is technically a Roman Catholic university, but very few students actually take their faith seriously. Shortly after arriving, however, I joined several interdenominational Christian fellowship groups for community and accountability. God worked through Bible studies, service opportunities, and fellowship with other Christian believers to protect me from losing faith and my Christian witness. My faith truly became my own at Georgetown, and, praise God, grace carried me through all four years.
It was at Georgetown that I first met Catholics who were serious about serving Jesus. Growing up, I had several Catholic friends who only attended Mass on Christmas and Easter. Their lack of understanding and living out of faith seemed to confirm the negative stereotypes that I had been taught at my Protestant church about Catholics. Thankfully, however, through interdenominational ministries at Georgetown, I came into contact with Catholic believers, and had the chance to see their faith manifested in lives of Christian witness before I even knew they were Roman Catholic. I was completely taken aback, for example, when I learned that a prayer partner in my freshman dorm, who shared my evangelistic concern for our lost friends, was a devout Catholic. I thank God, though, that the anti-Catholic stereotypes with which I had been raised melted away in the first few months at university.
My sophomore year I added a theology major focusing on biblical literature to my course of studies. The classes, taught from a secular and academic perspective, de-constructed as social and cultural commentary all the scriptures that I considered sacred and revealed by God. Faced with new (and unchristian) opinions of my Christian faith, I started to question what was essential to belief. Was a literal understanding of the Bible necessary? Could I ever really find the truth in a specific church, creed, or interpretation of the Bible? I was still actively involved in an interdenominational campus fellowship, so I was being exposed to the whole spectrum of Christian belief and practice. God was calling me to find Christian Truth; a Truth that I knew should not result in the plurality of sects and multiple interpretations of scripture. My Protestant convictions, however, told me that I was the abiter of my own truth and reality: that I could choose my denomination, my specific beliefs, and the way I wanted to follow God.
Junior year I had the chance to visit Israel for a semester of study abroad in the Holy Land. There, God worked in my heart in many ways. First, I was exposed to the beauty of liturgy and the importance of the Christian liturgical year. Concerning the liturgy of the Mass, I realized for the first time in Israel that I felt more comfortable and at peace in a Roman Catholic Mass than I did in an evangelical Baptist service. Living as a foreigner in a dangerous country far away from home, the words of scripture and ancient truth in the liturgy gave me the comfort and peace for which my soul hungered. Secondly, I had the first chance of my lifetime to really live out the liturgical year. Raised in an evangelical faith, we understood Lent as a papist practice, and were lucky if we got hear about the Resurrection on Easter morning. Being in Jerusalem, however, I took full advantage of the opportunities to celebrate Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, with the liturgical Protestant and Catholic communities in Jerusalem. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday from a Catholic Bishop in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I fasted from meat during Lent for 40 days near the desert where Christ himself was tempted in the wilderness, I joined in with the throngs waving palm branches to welcome our Lord and King on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, I kept vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane on Maundy Thursday, I was kneeling at the sight of the true cross when the church bells rang out at 3:00 pm to remember Jesus' death on Good Friday, and I got up before dawn to remember our Savior's resurrection for a sunrise service at the Mount of Olives on Easter Sunday. I found that the experiences of Christian holy days strengthened immeasurably my faith in Christian Truth and my relationship with God.
It was also in Israel that I got to see and interact with churches of Orthodox and Catholic origins. These churches, many of them being in the Holy Land since the time of Christ and the apostles, claimed an authority of faith through apostolic succession from Jesus himself. Seeing the land of the scriptures, that I had studied eagerly as a Protestant, so closely tied to these apostolic churches and traditions, spoke volumes to me. I realized that in the land where Christ lived, the truth about Christ continued to be made manifest in these churches.
Returning to Georgetown for my senior year, I still was not convinced to become Roman Catholic. Although I wanted to believe in a sacramental understanding of reality (as a Protestant I believed only in symbols and faith), I still did not believe in the Real Presence in the Eucharist or the literal washing away of sins by baptism. My soul longed to trust Catholic doctrine and to believe God's use of physical objects as the means of grace for me, so I began to pray for faith to accept the Catholic understanding of the sacraments. A dear Catholic friend and mentor of mine was patient every step of the way to answer questions, and explain the significance of Catholic teaching. He encouraged me to go to a Catholic chapel on campus and spend time praying to the Blessed Sacrament, asking, "Jesus, is that you there?"
After much time spent praying in the Catholic chapel, I began to feel a peace and presence that I did not find in Protestant worship spaces. I began to spend more and more time there, going to prayer several times a week, and began genuflecting and crossing myself when I entered the chapel, out of respect for the Catholic tradition. Somewhere along the way, another friend shared with me the scriptural grounds for belief in the Real Presence and, thank God, by the end of my senior year I was a believer.
My senior year, I also took a course taught by an excellent professor and dedicated Jesuit priest on the teaching of Saints Augustine, Bonaventure, Anselm, and Aquinas . Explaining Catholic doctrine through the lens of these fathers and doctors of the Catholic Church, Fr. Fields showed me more and more the great continuity and treasure of faith passed on through the Roman Catholic Church. I realized that if these teachers were alive today, they would probably be Roman Catholic, and, as a Protestant, I would probably be at odds with them. I felt a growing longing to be united with the doctors and traditions of the Catholic faith, while the division caused by the Protestant Reformer seemed to make less and less sense to me. I remember one day trying to justify myself as a Protestant and to tell myself at what one point the Catholic Church "went wrong," so as to require the Reformation. I realized that I probably ought to become Catholic when I could not think of anything.
After Georgetown, I decided to spend some time doing missionary work as an English teacher in Paraguay. I went to serve with the evangelical denomination in which I was raised, believing that if my interest in Catholic faith continued throughout the year, it really was something from God and not something I was doing on my own. While at Georgetown, I was worried my conversion to Catholicism might be the result of peer pressure or my own pride, so I decided to give the choice a time of discernment in South America. There, I reckoned I would see (and indeed did) the worst stereotypes of Catholicism-- that is, Catholic faith polluted by folk traditions in a society where very few actually faithfully practiced their religion. The evangelical church where I served was full of ex-Catholics, all very eager to share their negative opinions of the Catholic Church. I wanted to make sure I got every perspective before I became Catholic.
I realized in Paraguay more than ever, though, that God was calling me to become Roman Catholic. Although much of what I saw in South American Catholicism was not good, I realized that the heart of the faith and the teaching of the Church was good and true. Although many Paraguayans are not faithful to the Church and the society in many ways has fallen fall short of God's ideal, the Church remains the Church and holds the fullest revelation of Jesus Christ for salvation in the world.
Upon return, I knew for certain that I had to join the Catholic Church. I began attending St. Francis Xavier, contacted Jenny Bonarrigo, and, after a few meetings with her and First Reconciliation with Fr. Hollis, was received into full communion with the Catholic Church on February 15. I praise God for the way He has worked in my heart along the way, and it gives me such great joy to consider how He's finally led me here. For years I have thought about becoming Catholic and imagined the joy of being able to share in the Holy Eucharist, and now it feels as if all the gifts of Heaven are mine through Jesus Christ and His Church.
Here is a short synopsis of how I came to be Roman Catholic. It is an abbreviated version of the story of my conversion, and by no means represents all the myriad ways that God has worked in my heart and the countless doctrines with which I have wrestled, but it does offer a starting point for conversation. As many of you may know, I am more than happy to talk about it and to share about God's calling on my life. Just let me know, and we can get coffee or a meal for the longer story. Thanks, and God bless,
Jason
I am originally from Westfield Center, where I was blessed to have been raised in a Christian home. Growing up with both parents and five younger siblings in an evangelical church, I heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ preached often and learned of my need for a personal relationship with God. When I was in sixth grade, I realized my sin separated me from God; wanting to avoid the consequences of sin and be forgiven, I asked Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior. I trust that was when I first converted and began to live a life of faith.
At the age of 13, I took another step of faith and asked for baptism. At my evangelical church, this sacrament was only considered an outward sign and symbol of salvation's work already finished in my heart. It was tied to church membership and a public confession of faith, much like Confirmation in churches that baptize infants. I saw God's blessing for following His leading to baptism, though, even though not many people in my church were baptized as young as I was. The testimony I gave before my church in a public proclamation of faith gave me a dear community of encouragement and accountability throughout high school. God used my evangelical church to grow me spiritually in countless good ways.
College found me at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, a Jesuit school where I was committed to studying political science in preparation for law school and a life of public service. Before leaving home, though, I was genuinely worried that my faith would not be able to stand up to the pressures and temptations of college life. Georgetown is technically a Roman Catholic university, but very few students actually take their faith seriously. Shortly after arriving, however, I joined several interdenominational Christian fellowship groups for community and accountability. God worked through Bible studies, service opportunities, and fellowship with other Christian believers to protect me from losing faith and my Christian witness. My faith truly became my own at Georgetown, and, praise God, grace carried me through all four years.
It was at Georgetown that I first met Catholics who were serious about serving Jesus. Growing up, I had several Catholic friends who only attended Mass on Christmas and Easter. Their lack of understanding and living out of faith seemed to confirm the negative stereotypes that I had been taught at my Protestant church about Catholics. Thankfully, however, through interdenominational ministries at Georgetown, I came into contact with Catholic believers, and had the chance to see their faith manifested in lives of Christian witness before I even knew they were Roman Catholic. I was completely taken aback, for example, when I learned that a prayer partner in my freshman dorm, who shared my evangelistic concern for our lost friends, was a devout Catholic. I thank God, though, that the anti-Catholic stereotypes with which I had been raised melted away in the first few months at university.
My sophomore year I added a theology major focusing on biblical literature to my course of studies. The classes, taught from a secular and academic perspective, de-constructed as social and cultural commentary all the scriptures that I considered sacred and revealed by God. Faced with new (and unchristian) opinions of my Christian faith, I started to question what was essential to belief. Was a literal understanding of the Bible necessary? Could I ever really find the truth in a specific church, creed, or interpretation of the Bible? I was still actively involved in an interdenominational campus fellowship, so I was being exposed to the whole spectrum of Christian belief and practice. God was calling me to find Christian Truth; a Truth that I knew should not result in the plurality of sects and multiple interpretations of scripture. My Protestant convictions, however, told me that I was the abiter of my own truth and reality: that I could choose my denomination, my specific beliefs, and the way I wanted to follow God.
Junior year I had the chance to visit Israel for a semester of study abroad in the Holy Land. There, God worked in my heart in many ways. First, I was exposed to the beauty of liturgy and the importance of the Christian liturgical year. Concerning the liturgy of the Mass, I realized for the first time in Israel that I felt more comfortable and at peace in a Roman Catholic Mass than I did in an evangelical Baptist service. Living as a foreigner in a dangerous country far away from home, the words of scripture and ancient truth in the liturgy gave me the comfort and peace for which my soul hungered. Secondly, I had the first chance of my lifetime to really live out the liturgical year. Raised in an evangelical faith, we understood Lent as a papist practice, and were lucky if we got hear about the Resurrection on Easter morning. Being in Jerusalem, however, I took full advantage of the opportunities to celebrate Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, with the liturgical Protestant and Catholic communities in Jerusalem. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday from a Catholic Bishop in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I fasted from meat during Lent for 40 days near the desert where Christ himself was tempted in the wilderness, I joined in with the throngs waving palm branches to welcome our Lord and King on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, I kept vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane on Maundy Thursday, I was kneeling at the sight of the true cross when the church bells rang out at 3:00 pm to remember Jesus' death on Good Friday, and I got up before dawn to remember our Savior's resurrection for a sunrise service at the Mount of Olives on Easter Sunday. I found that the experiences of Christian holy days strengthened immeasurably my faith in Christian Truth and my relationship with God.
It was also in Israel that I got to see and interact with churches of Orthodox and Catholic origins. These churches, many of them being in the Holy Land since the time of Christ and the apostles, claimed an authority of faith through apostolic succession from Jesus himself. Seeing the land of the scriptures, that I had studied eagerly as a Protestant, so closely tied to these apostolic churches and traditions, spoke volumes to me. I realized that in the land where Christ lived, the truth about Christ continued to be made manifest in these churches.
Returning to Georgetown for my senior year, I still was not convinced to become Roman Catholic. Although I wanted to believe in a sacramental understanding of reality (as a Protestant I believed only in symbols and faith), I still did not believe in the Real Presence in the Eucharist or the literal washing away of sins by baptism. My soul longed to trust Catholic doctrine and to believe God's use of physical objects as the means of grace for me, so I began to pray for faith to accept the Catholic understanding of the sacraments. A dear Catholic friend and mentor of mine was patient every step of the way to answer questions, and explain the significance of Catholic teaching. He encouraged me to go to a Catholic chapel on campus and spend time praying to the Blessed Sacrament, asking, "Jesus, is that you there?"
After much time spent praying in the Catholic chapel, I began to feel a peace and presence that I did not find in Protestant worship spaces. I began to spend more and more time there, going to prayer several times a week, and began genuflecting and crossing myself when I entered the chapel, out of respect for the Catholic tradition. Somewhere along the way, another friend shared with me the scriptural grounds for belief in the Real Presence and, thank God, by the end of my senior year I was a believer.
My senior year, I also took a course taught by an excellent professor and dedicated Jesuit priest on the teaching of Saints Augustine, Bonaventure, Anselm, and Aquinas . Explaining Catholic doctrine through the lens of these fathers and doctors of the Catholic Church, Fr. Fields showed me more and more the great continuity and treasure of faith passed on through the Roman Catholic Church. I realized that if these teachers were alive today, they would probably be Roman Catholic, and, as a Protestant, I would probably be at odds with them. I felt a growing longing to be united with the doctors and traditions of the Catholic faith, while the division caused by the Protestant Reformer seemed to make less and less sense to me. I remember one day trying to justify myself as a Protestant and to tell myself at what one point the Catholic Church "went wrong," so as to require the Reformation. I realized that I probably ought to become Catholic when I could not think of anything.
After Georgetown, I decided to spend some time doing missionary work as an English teacher in Paraguay. I went to serve with the evangelical denomination in which I was raised, believing that if my interest in Catholic faith continued throughout the year, it really was something from God and not something I was doing on my own. While at Georgetown, I was worried my conversion to Catholicism might be the result of peer pressure or my own pride, so I decided to give the choice a time of discernment in South America. There, I reckoned I would see (and indeed did) the worst stereotypes of Catholicism-- that is, Catholic faith polluted by folk traditions in a society where very few actually faithfully practiced their religion. The evangelical church where I served was full of ex-Catholics, all very eager to share their negative opinions of the Catholic Church. I wanted to make sure I got every perspective before I became Catholic.
I realized in Paraguay more than ever, though, that God was calling me to become Roman Catholic. Although much of what I saw in South American Catholicism was not good, I realized that the heart of the faith and the teaching of the Church was good and true. Although many Paraguayans are not faithful to the Church and the society in many ways has fallen fall short of God's ideal, the Church remains the Church and holds the fullest revelation of Jesus Christ for salvation in the world.
Upon return, I knew for certain that I had to join the Catholic Church. I began attending St. Francis Xavier, contacted Jenny Bonarrigo, and, after a few meetings with her and First Reconciliation with Fr. Hollis, was received into full communion with the Catholic Church on February 15. I praise God for the way He has worked in my heart along the way, and it gives me such great joy to consider how He's finally led me here. For years I have thought about becoming Catholic and imagined the joy of being able to share in the Holy Eucharist, and now it feels as if all the gifts of Heaven are mine through Jesus Christ and His Church.
Friday, December 12, 2008
I Thank God
Thank God, the travel is all over. It's a privilege to be back home with family and friends; to realize there is a country, a state, and even a family where I belong. There are people who dress just like me, speak just like me, and eat just like me. I hear familiar music play on the radio, and I watch familiar programs on tv. It's good to be home.
Thank God, my flights from South America went well. Not a single piece of luggage lost or damaged, not a single flight delayed or connection missed. I arrived in Miami for a splendid visit with Mrs. Moxley, then continued on to Nashville to meet up with Luke. After a short visit to Music City, we flew northward to meet up with our family for Thanksgiving Day.
Thank God, everyone was able to be together the Friday after Thanksgiving for my Grandpa's funeral. All my mom's family, much of my dad's, and a whole host of old friends from church came to offer sympathy and pay their respects. I officiated my first funeral service, and I trust that God used it as a tribute to both my Grandpa's life and His faithfulness revealed in it. It was a cold, cold, day, but one filled with many warm memories and the sweet consolation of grace.
Thank God, following a very short weekend search, an affordable and well-working car was provided for my use. It's a black 97 Toyota Corrolla with only 98 K miles, and a splendid first car for a very-recently-returned missionary. It runs smooth, and, when the day comes to sell, ought to fetch a good price as a used vehicle, too.
Thank God, after a busy weekend, I was able to travel on a university-touring expedition with my new car. With gas prices so low, it cost next-to-nothing to visit Notre Dame with Dad on Tuesday, and Boston College and Yale on Thursday. Along the way, I had the chance to visit with a dear friend from high school in Boston and a dear friend from Georgetown in New Jersey.
Thank God, last weekend I spent a wonderful time in Washington, DC, where I got to meet up with every one of my good friends from university. Most have stayed in the greater DC area, and the weekend was filled with sweet reunion after sweet reunion. Old friends hosted me at their houses, and several fed me as well. Highlights from the weekend included an early morning hike with old roommates and a midday lunch at the Jesuit residence at Georgetown with a dear priest, mentor, and professor friend.
Thank God, Sunday was spent congregating with Georgetown Baptist Church. I was invited to sing in the choir once again, and was overjoyed to find Pastor Carl in good health and cheerful spirits. Truly, God was faithful and good to this congregation, and faithful in answering so many petitions prayed on their behalf.
Thank God, this week has been much more laid back. The family is passing through a rough time, but I've been able to spend time with each one sharing and listening. A job search continues, with a possible opening and interview set for Monday morning. God-willing I'll be able to work next week and settle into a good healthy routine.
Thank God, because it's good to be home.
Thank God, my flights from South America went well. Not a single piece of luggage lost or damaged, not a single flight delayed or connection missed. I arrived in Miami for a splendid visit with Mrs. Moxley, then continued on to Nashville to meet up with Luke. After a short visit to Music City, we flew northward to meet up with our family for Thanksgiving Day.
Thank God, everyone was able to be together the Friday after Thanksgiving for my Grandpa's funeral. All my mom's family, much of my dad's, and a whole host of old friends from church came to offer sympathy and pay their respects. I officiated my first funeral service, and I trust that God used it as a tribute to both my Grandpa's life and His faithfulness revealed in it. It was a cold, cold, day, but one filled with many warm memories and the sweet consolation of grace.
Thank God, following a very short weekend search, an affordable and well-working car was provided for my use. It's a black 97 Toyota Corrolla with only 98 K miles, and a splendid first car for a very-recently-returned missionary. It runs smooth, and, when the day comes to sell, ought to fetch a good price as a used vehicle, too.
Thank God, after a busy weekend, I was able to travel on a university-touring expedition with my new car. With gas prices so low, it cost next-to-nothing to visit Notre Dame with Dad on Tuesday, and Boston College and Yale on Thursday. Along the way, I had the chance to visit with a dear friend from high school in Boston and a dear friend from Georgetown in New Jersey.
Thank God, last weekend I spent a wonderful time in Washington, DC, where I got to meet up with every one of my good friends from university. Most have stayed in the greater DC area, and the weekend was filled with sweet reunion after sweet reunion. Old friends hosted me at their houses, and several fed me as well. Highlights from the weekend included an early morning hike with old roommates and a midday lunch at the Jesuit residence at Georgetown with a dear priest, mentor, and professor friend.
Thank God, Sunday was spent congregating with Georgetown Baptist Church. I was invited to sing in the choir once again, and was overjoyed to find Pastor Carl in good health and cheerful spirits. Truly, God was faithful and good to this congregation, and faithful in answering so many petitions prayed on their behalf.
Thank God, this week has been much more laid back. The family is passing through a rough time, but I've been able to spend time with each one sharing and listening. A job search continues, with a possible opening and interview set for Monday morning. God-willing I'll be able to work next week and settle into a good healthy routine.
Thank God, because it's good to be home.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Bitter Sweet Homecoming
As many of you may have heard, my Grandpa Donahey passed away yesterday (Sunday) at 5:00pm. He was as prepared, both spiritually and physically, as he possibly could have been to go Home. As a family, we count many fond memories with Grandpa over the past few years, and have been blessed with plenty of time to prepare for his departure. Thankfully, I got to talk to him on Friday and say goodbye and tell him I love him.
As many of you may not know, for the past half year I´ve also been intending to fly home early and surprise my family for Thanksgiving. So, surprise! God-willing I´ll see you on Thursday for Thanksgiving, or on Friday at 10:00 am for my grandpa´s funeral. Viewing hours start at 10:00 am with the actual funeral service at 11:00 am at Waite and Sons in Medina. I hope to see you there!
As many of you may not know, for the past half year I´ve also been intending to fly home early and surprise my family for Thanksgiving. So, surprise! God-willing I´ll see you on Thursday for Thanksgiving, or on Friday at 10:00 am for my grandpa´s funeral. Viewing hours start at 10:00 am with the actual funeral service at 11:00 am at Waite and Sons in Medina. I hope to see you there!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Argentina!
Argentina, when compared with Paraguay, is a really big country to get to know. For that reason, along with my limited time and pocketbook, I chose to visit only three major cities in the middle part of the country.
The first leg of my trip was to Buenos Aires, the most European major city in South America. After an 18 hour through-the-night bus ride from Asunción, I arrived to the most Western civilization I’d seen in more than a year. Since Buenos Aires was settled and populated by Spaniards and Italians, the architecture, parks, and beauty of the city reflect Western and especially Western European styles and ways of living. There were beautiful old buildings and imposing ornate churches, flowing gothic fountains and clean Victorian parks.
I also arrived to the most materialism I’ve seen in a year. The first day I spent wandering around wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the shopping district, visiting store after store and mall after mall. I saw brands of clothing and food and entertainment that I had almost forgotten about in my year away from American culture. The best surprise was a man dressed up as a sandwich who led me to Subway.
Sunday in Buenos Aires I went to San Telmo, a neighborhood world-famous for its antiques shops and street fair. I bought a small $10 religious painting a couple centuries old that had been ripped out of a church in Peru.
Monday saw me visiting Palermo, the ritzy part of town, and buying a ham and cheese sandwich for $10. In my defense, I was really hungry after walking around and visiting the Recoleta, a little city-cemetery where all of Argentina’s famous folks are buried (including Evita).
Tuesday I went back to Palermo and Argentina’s National Fine Arts Gallery, where I saw paintings by as many modern artists as you can name. Picasso, Monet, Manet, Rivera, Van Gogh, Degas--- everyone was there, and all their paintings saw me trying to be an artsy fartsy arts aficionado. I figured just standing and staring long enough would make me look like I appreciated art, and I think it worked.
Wednesday morning I arrived in Mendoza, a mountain city on the other side of Argentina and in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. It reminded me much of Boulder, Colorado. The city has a complex system of canals which channels melting snow from the mountains to water its thousands of beautiful sycamore trees. The city would be a desert without this genius system, which also provides the necessary irrigation water for surrounding vineyards and orchards.
My first full day in Mendoza, I took a trip high into the Andes Mountains to the border with Chili and an altitude of about 11,000 feet. I saw snow there, and took my picture with Mount Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. I met on the tour two American men who were both former contract security officers with American military forces overseas. We had a hearty lunch, since it got really cold so high up in the mountains.
Day two in Mendoza saw me on a bicycling vineyard tour of the surrounding countryside. I don’t know who ever thought mixing bicycles with wine tastings and crazy Argentinian traffic was a good idea, but thankfully I survived the afternoon along with my two new friends from Tufts University that I met along the way. Perhaps it was God’s will to protect us on the roads and to keep me from getting into trouble, but we started off late and were only able to see two vineyards and one specialty liqueur shop. Around a dozen vineyards were originally on the tour schedule. I ended the day dehydrated and with a literally blistered behind.
The last day in Mendoza I went to visit La Difunta Correa Shrine, the center of a folk cult to a woman who, a century and a half ago, was found dead in the desert with her live baby still sucking at her breast. Although the cult is condemned by the Catholic Church, many Argentineans believe La Difunta Correa, or the Dead Lady Correa, can perform miracles for people who ask. Thus, at her shrine, people bring models of their houses to ask for La Difunta’s blessing, leave parts of their cars for safety in travel, and climb the stairs to an altar with a statue of her dead body and suckling baby to ask for good health and prosperity. The idolatry and paganism of it all, along with a bad raw ham sandwich I ate for lunch, made me soul- and stomach-sick the rest of my trip.
Monday I arrived in Córdoba, a beautiful colonial city in central Argentina nearly as old as colonialism itself. With several beautiful churches downtown, I was impressed that native Cordobans nearly filled each one to capacity for mass on a weekday morning.
Besides seeing a few churches a few blocks away from my hostel, I was too sick to do anything else in Córdoba, and ended up passing two days indoors close to the toilet and sink. Fed up with being far away from home and with no one to take care of me, I arranged to leave my hostel early and zoomed on a bus back to Asunción.
Experiencing Argentina, although much bigger and perhaps with many more exciting things to do than Paraguay, was nothing like experiencing home again in Lambaré. I went away to foreign lands only to come back appreciating even more the community of dear friends and Christian brothers and sisters that I have here in Asunción. I missed them all so much while I was gone, and I’m even thankful now that my sickness in Mendoza and Córdoba gave me good reason to return home early to spend more time with them these last few weeks in Paraguay.
The first leg of my trip was to Buenos Aires, the most European major city in South America. After an 18 hour through-the-night bus ride from Asunción, I arrived to the most Western civilization I’d seen in more than a year. Since Buenos Aires was settled and populated by Spaniards and Italians, the architecture, parks, and beauty of the city reflect Western and especially Western European styles and ways of living. There were beautiful old buildings and imposing ornate churches, flowing gothic fountains and clean Victorian parks.
I also arrived to the most materialism I’ve seen in a year. The first day I spent wandering around wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the shopping district, visiting store after store and mall after mall. I saw brands of clothing and food and entertainment that I had almost forgotten about in my year away from American culture. The best surprise was a man dressed up as a sandwich who led me to Subway.
Sunday in Buenos Aires I went to San Telmo, a neighborhood world-famous for its antiques shops and street fair. I bought a small $10 religious painting a couple centuries old that had been ripped out of a church in Peru.
Monday saw me visiting Palermo, the ritzy part of town, and buying a ham and cheese sandwich for $10. In my defense, I was really hungry after walking around and visiting the Recoleta, a little city-cemetery where all of Argentina’s famous folks are buried (including Evita).
Tuesday I went back to Palermo and Argentina’s National Fine Arts Gallery, where I saw paintings by as many modern artists as you can name. Picasso, Monet, Manet, Rivera, Van Gogh, Degas--- everyone was there, and all their paintings saw me trying to be an artsy fartsy arts aficionado. I figured just standing and staring long enough would make me look like I appreciated art, and I think it worked.
Wednesday morning I arrived in Mendoza, a mountain city on the other side of Argentina and in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. It reminded me much of Boulder, Colorado. The city has a complex system of canals which channels melting snow from the mountains to water its thousands of beautiful sycamore trees. The city would be a desert without this genius system, which also provides the necessary irrigation water for surrounding vineyards and orchards.
My first full day in Mendoza, I took a trip high into the Andes Mountains to the border with Chili and an altitude of about 11,000 feet. I saw snow there, and took my picture with Mount Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. I met on the tour two American men who were both former contract security officers with American military forces overseas. We had a hearty lunch, since it got really cold so high up in the mountains.
Day two in Mendoza saw me on a bicycling vineyard tour of the surrounding countryside. I don’t know who ever thought mixing bicycles with wine tastings and crazy Argentinian traffic was a good idea, but thankfully I survived the afternoon along with my two new friends from Tufts University that I met along the way. Perhaps it was God’s will to protect us on the roads and to keep me from getting into trouble, but we started off late and were only able to see two vineyards and one specialty liqueur shop. Around a dozen vineyards were originally on the tour schedule. I ended the day dehydrated and with a literally blistered behind.
The last day in Mendoza I went to visit La Difunta Correa Shrine, the center of a folk cult to a woman who, a century and a half ago, was found dead in the desert with her live baby still sucking at her breast. Although the cult is condemned by the Catholic Church, many Argentineans believe La Difunta Correa, or the Dead Lady Correa, can perform miracles for people who ask. Thus, at her shrine, people bring models of their houses to ask for La Difunta’s blessing, leave parts of their cars for safety in travel, and climb the stairs to an altar with a statue of her dead body and suckling baby to ask for good health and prosperity. The idolatry and paganism of it all, along with a bad raw ham sandwich I ate for lunch, made me soul- and stomach-sick the rest of my trip.
Monday I arrived in Córdoba, a beautiful colonial city in central Argentina nearly as old as colonialism itself. With several beautiful churches downtown, I was impressed that native Cordobans nearly filled each one to capacity for mass on a weekday morning.
Besides seeing a few churches a few blocks away from my hostel, I was too sick to do anything else in Córdoba, and ended up passing two days indoors close to the toilet and sink. Fed up with being far away from home and with no one to take care of me, I arranged to leave my hostel early and zoomed on a bus back to Asunción.
Experiencing Argentina, although much bigger and perhaps with many more exciting things to do than Paraguay, was nothing like experiencing home again in Lambaré. I went away to foreign lands only to come back appreciating even more the community of dear friends and Christian brothers and sisters that I have here in Asunción. I missed them all so much while I was gone, and I’m even thankful now that my sickness in Mendoza and Córdoba gave me good reason to return home early to spend more time with them these last few weeks in Paraguay.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Nightmares
I have never been one to think too much of my dreams. In our over-analyzed post-Freudian world, what ought to be taken as innocent dreams are often twisted around and interpreted to tell us that we have very dark desires and are actually very bad people. As for me, I don’t think that what I dream is necessarily always what I want to do, and I know that if I dream about trees and buildings and people and normal things that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m 100% repressed.
In my spiritual life, my dreams have never been a very big part of my relationship with God. Although I once met the pope in a very lively night of dreaming, I can’t recall meeting God or an angel by way of vision, and I’ve certainly never received any clear instructions for my life while asleep. Although I’ve dreamt of Christian reconciliation between people who have been separated for a long time and of the spiritual salvation I so greatly desire for many friends and loved ones, I claim no prophetic vision and write it off more as wishful thinking on my own part than the reality of God’s workings in the world. I’m generally very skeptical and uncharismatic when it comes to interpreting dreams as revelations from God.
All this goes to say that I’m really surprised at myself for being so impacted by what’s been going on in my dreams the last two nights. I’ve had terrible nightmares for two nights straight: nightmares where everything around me in my bedroom—my blankets, my clothes, the fan, and even my roommate, turn into menacing demons and grotesque diabolic forms. The room swirls with evil, an endless maze of altered reality and torment. I cannot explain it well, but it has terrified me at night and left me feeling completely helpless.
Last night, when the nightmare was at its worst two or three times, I had no recourses left but to cry out to God with the Lord’s Prayer. I didn’t speak with any authority as one rebuking demons, but instead, as a lost and terrified child crying out to his father, I prayed for salvation from what I dreamt was evil all around me. As I recited the “Our Father," the incubus world quickly receded and I was left quiet, alone, and trembling in my bed.
I’m really at a loss as to how to interpret what actually is happening. Perhaps I just am eating too much chipa, and my dreams the result of too much Paraguayan cheese in my system. Or, perhaps I have a lot of subconscioius transition stress and it’s working itself out in nightmares. I’m tempted to believe, though, that it really is some sort of spiritual warfare going on and a very real vision of the constant fight going on within my soul between good and evil and light and darkness. Whatever it is, though, it’s shaking me up, and I’m coming out of it able to testify to the power of God in the midst of demonic terror, and of the presence of divine peace in the struggle with very dark dreams.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
A Lively Update
You might say it’s been a while since I’ve updated, so here’s a smattering of information:
1. Jason Jacobs, the fellow to replace me, arrived from Richmond two weeks ago. He stayed with Oscar and Karen a week and then moved in to the house with me and Christian. So far, everything goes real well. Some of our discussions and adventures in the house might make for a good comedy—“Two Missionary Dads Raising a Christian,” or some bad use of words to that effect. You can check out Jason’s blog to get his perspective at jayzilla.com.
2. A week ago Saturday I took the GRE for my graduate school applications. The paper edition is offered once or twice a year in Paraguay at the CCPA, a sort of American-Paraguayan cultural and linguistic exchange center. I arrived around 8 in the morning to find a very large crowd of Peace Corp volunteers who were also taking the test. Most were from the Midwest and looked eerily like me—light hair, blue eyes, and slightly sunburned all around. I met one girl named Ellen who lives in the San Pedro province and who is keeping bees. Apparently Taiwan donated (thank you, obscure South American country, for your vote in the United Nations) a pile of bee-keeping equipment to Paraguay to inspire new forms of sustainable agriculture, but the only person who interested in the project is this fine volunteer from Wisconsin.
The test room was air conditioned like a refrigerator, but we still all protested that no water bottles were allowed anywhere near us during the nearly four-hour test. The room was also a sort of exhibition hall, and on that day were shown blown-up pictures of violence and war from conflicts of recent memory (read: Iraq, Vietnam, Bosnia, Africa). Needless to say, we were all inspired to do well by pictures of blood and gore and sadness and utter hopelessness. I chose to sit underneath a picture of what looked like grieving Bosnian women wailing around their now-dead son. I thought, perhaps, that they were Eastern Orthodox and might have some symbol of religion or hope in the form of a cross. I realized later they were probably Muslim and without any such comfort. One girl went to sit down in a chair and, when she looked up, was startled back out of her seat again. She had sat below the infamous picture showing a group of US soldiers in Vietnam with their backs turned to a presumably-innocent parade of Vietnamese, including one young female victim crying and without any clothes. Clearly frightened and bothered, the test-taker chose a more comfortable spot in front of some Guantanamo Bay detainees. If any of us do poorly on the test, I reckon that at least we’ll have a good excuse.
3. God-willing I’ll leave for Argentina this Friday. My route will go from Buenos Aires, the lively European-like capital on Argentina’s Eastern coast, to Mendoza, Argentina’s primer wine-making region among the Andes Mountains in the Western frontier, to Cordoba, the quiet, colonial, and intellectual town in the center of the country. I probably will be out of touch, but please say a prayer for my safety and well-being on the trip.
4. After my Argentinean excursion, I come back to Asuncion for a while before I finally fly to the States to be home on December 9. God-willing I’ll find work in Ohio, where I’ll be with my family for at least a half-year before I head on off to grad school at Notre Dame, Boston College, Yale, or Duke, or go back to DC to find a job in the nation’s capital.
Thanks for your prayers in everything. My family especially needs them right now. God bless!
1. Jason Jacobs, the fellow to replace me, arrived from Richmond two weeks ago. He stayed with Oscar and Karen a week and then moved in to the house with me and Christian. So far, everything goes real well. Some of our discussions and adventures in the house might make for a good comedy—“Two Missionary Dads Raising a Christian,” or some bad use of words to that effect. You can check out Jason’s blog to get his perspective at jayzilla.com.
2. A week ago Saturday I took the GRE for my graduate school applications. The paper edition is offered once or twice a year in Paraguay at the CCPA, a sort of American-Paraguayan cultural and linguistic exchange center. I arrived around 8 in the morning to find a very large crowd of Peace Corp volunteers who were also taking the test. Most were from the Midwest and looked eerily like me—light hair, blue eyes, and slightly sunburned all around. I met one girl named Ellen who lives in the San Pedro province and who is keeping bees. Apparently Taiwan donated (thank you, obscure South American country, for your vote in the United Nations) a pile of bee-keeping equipment to Paraguay to inspire new forms of sustainable agriculture, but the only person who interested in the project is this fine volunteer from Wisconsin.
The test room was air conditioned like a refrigerator, but we still all protested that no water bottles were allowed anywhere near us during the nearly four-hour test. The room was also a sort of exhibition hall, and on that day were shown blown-up pictures of violence and war from conflicts of recent memory (read: Iraq, Vietnam, Bosnia, Africa). Needless to say, we were all inspired to do well by pictures of blood and gore and sadness and utter hopelessness. I chose to sit underneath a picture of what looked like grieving Bosnian women wailing around their now-dead son. I thought, perhaps, that they were Eastern Orthodox and might have some symbol of religion or hope in the form of a cross. I realized later they were probably Muslim and without any such comfort. One girl went to sit down in a chair and, when she looked up, was startled back out of her seat again. She had sat below the infamous picture showing a group of US soldiers in Vietnam with their backs turned to a presumably-innocent parade of Vietnamese, including one young female victim crying and without any clothes. Clearly frightened and bothered, the test-taker chose a more comfortable spot in front of some Guantanamo Bay detainees. If any of us do poorly on the test, I reckon that at least we’ll have a good excuse.
3. God-willing I’ll leave for Argentina this Friday. My route will go from Buenos Aires, the lively European-like capital on Argentina’s Eastern coast, to Mendoza, Argentina’s primer wine-making region among the Andes Mountains in the Western frontier, to Cordoba, the quiet, colonial, and intellectual town in the center of the country. I probably will be out of touch, but please say a prayer for my safety and well-being on the trip.
4. After my Argentinean excursion, I come back to Asuncion for a while before I finally fly to the States to be home on December 9. God-willing I’ll find work in Ohio, where I’ll be with my family for at least a half-year before I head on off to grad school at Notre Dame, Boston College, Yale, or Duke, or go back to DC to find a job in the nation’s capital.
Thanks for your prayers in everything. My family especially needs them right now. God bless!
Friday, October 10, 2008
Lord, Increase My Faith
It was easy to come here: listless after university, seeking adventure, eager for foreign lands, Paraguay was a good and logical choice. Girls swooned, guys admired, people prayed.
Lord, increase my faith.
My family was a wreck, my college friends spread out across the globe, and the times were changing. I had no home. It was good for me to leave.
Lord, increase my faith.
It was cool to go abroad in an exercise of faith. God was calling me, I was listening and following. New difficulties came with new possibilities and new challenges with new graces. It was in style to be poor, a bohemian college graduate without anything and depending on the grace of God and others for everything. I was grown in faith to trust and to not value so much the things of this world.
Lord, increase my faith.
A year later, I’m packing up and getting ready to follow God again. This time, though, it’s to much more familiar lands, and this time it’s not so glorious. “Yeah, I come from Ohio,” I tell everyone here. “The most normal state in the United States.” People won’t be so impressed when I tell them I’m getting an office job. I’ll probably get crossed off several prayer lists a few weeks after my return.
Lord, increase my faith. .
My family is still a wreck, and after a year away there’s nowhere now where I can run away from the reality. “The divorce is December 9.” My friends are still all over the country, but now they have really cool jobs in elections and government agencies and national banks. They’ve found success, and I’ve found a pauper self to be self-conscious about.
Lord, increase my faith.
I’m going back to Ohio without a car, without a cellphone, without health insurance, and without a job. At one time I spurned these “things of the world,” but now they´re all looking pretty attractive as I start dealing with American reality. At one time I thought settling down in a place with friends and family was pretty boring, but now I envy those who have never moved out and have it mostly all figured out.
Lord, increase my faith.
A lot has changed the past year, and a lot will change this next year, too.
Lord, increase my faith.
Lord, increase my faith.
My family was a wreck, my college friends spread out across the globe, and the times were changing. I had no home. It was good for me to leave.
Lord, increase my faith.
It was cool to go abroad in an exercise of faith. God was calling me, I was listening and following. New difficulties came with new possibilities and new challenges with new graces. It was in style to be poor, a bohemian college graduate without anything and depending on the grace of God and others for everything. I was grown in faith to trust and to not value so much the things of this world.
Lord, increase my faith.
A year later, I’m packing up and getting ready to follow God again. This time, though, it’s to much more familiar lands, and this time it’s not so glorious. “Yeah, I come from Ohio,” I tell everyone here. “The most normal state in the United States.” People won’t be so impressed when I tell them I’m getting an office job. I’ll probably get crossed off several prayer lists a few weeks after my return.
Lord, increase my faith. .
My family is still a wreck, and after a year away there’s nowhere now where I can run away from the reality. “The divorce is December 9.” My friends are still all over the country, but now they have really cool jobs in elections and government agencies and national banks. They’ve found success, and I’ve found a pauper self to be self-conscious about.
Lord, increase my faith.
I’m going back to Ohio without a car, without a cellphone, without health insurance, and without a job. At one time I spurned these “things of the world,” but now they´re all looking pretty attractive as I start dealing with American reality. At one time I thought settling down in a place with friends and family was pretty boring, but now I envy those who have never moved out and have it mostly all figured out.
Lord, increase my faith.
A lot has changed the past year, and a lot will change this next year, too.
Lord, increase my faith.
A Prayer for Sion
“Teacher, are you married?” one of my adoring second grade students asked me. “No,” I responded. “Why?” “Well” she continued, “I was hoping to have a little brother. If you were married, I was thinking you could have a son. Then he could be my brother if you adopted me. I would like you for a dad.”
Although I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when I heard it, these words were nothing of a joke for Zion. Her mother abandoned her several years ago for work in Uruguay, she doesn’t know her real father, and, although has a baby brother come along the way since her mother left, she’s never met the child. She lives with her grandmother, who I suspect of many eccentricities and perhaps a touch of senility, and only hears from her mom by way of telephone a couple times a year. The child is starved for attention, doing whatever she can to spend time with me and other teachers and to be heard. Although she is very smart and has a great sense of humor, Zion hardly does her work in class and spends her time in school ambling about the classroom and whispering things in the teacher’s ear.
Zion once asked me in whole and simple faith to pray for her family—her mom and her baby brother in Uruguay, and her grandmother-who-turns-sixty-five-today in Paraguay. Athough nearly abandoned, she loves them terribly and hurts because they’re not all together. I told her I that would, and I really do. She is a beautiful child, but one with so many needs and so much brokenness that only a heavenly father can heal. Her and her family are in much need of grace, so if you think of it please say a prayer today on their behalf. She’s the reason that the ministry at Adonai exists and the reason why I’ve come to Paraguay—to bless and reach out to students with the love and hope of Christ, doing whatever we can, no matter how small it might seem, to offer the good news of redemption and restoration through the Gospel of Peace.
Although I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when I heard it, these words were nothing of a joke for Zion. Her mother abandoned her several years ago for work in Uruguay, she doesn’t know her real father, and, although has a baby brother come along the way since her mother left, she’s never met the child. She lives with her grandmother, who I suspect of many eccentricities and perhaps a touch of senility, and only hears from her mom by way of telephone a couple times a year. The child is starved for attention, doing whatever she can to spend time with me and other teachers and to be heard. Although she is very smart and has a great sense of humor, Zion hardly does her work in class and spends her time in school ambling about the classroom and whispering things in the teacher’s ear.
Zion once asked me in whole and simple faith to pray for her family—her mom and her baby brother in Uruguay, and her grandmother-who-turns-sixty-five-today in Paraguay. Athough nearly abandoned, she loves them terribly and hurts because they’re not all together. I told her I that would, and I really do. She is a beautiful child, but one with so many needs and so much brokenness that only a heavenly father can heal. Her and her family are in much need of grace, so if you think of it please say a prayer today on their behalf. She’s the reason that the ministry at Adonai exists and the reason why I’ve come to Paraguay—to bless and reach out to students with the love and hope of Christ, doing whatever we can, no matter how small it might seem, to offer the good news of redemption and restoration through the Gospel of Peace.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
You Can Thank Me Later, Jason Jacobs
The Spanish word for bribery is “coima.” If I were anywhere else in the world at any other time in my life, I’d probably be disgusted by acts of bribery. When I was in Egypt and got snuck in the back way to see the pyramids, for example, our guides paid the guards coima (in Egypt, backsheesh) for us to get through. Although they saw it as a way of polishing the dancefloor of bureaucracy to make it easier for us and them to dance, I saw it as corruption and dishonesty, and I was angry.
Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.
At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”
Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.
I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.
I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.
Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.
At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”
Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.
I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.
I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.
Tropical Bonfire
This past weekend the church youth group went to camp, where I got to sit by the best campfire of my life. It was huge and full of very hotly-burning hardwood, probably taken from the ancient reserves of Paraguay’s tropical and sub-tropical rainforests. In the United States, people might be sad that these natural rainforests are being cut down and burned by those in the South. For those people actually in the South, however, there’s no fire quite like a wood-from-the-rain-forest fire. It was hot and brilliant and beautiful; in the light and warmth of the fire we could have cared less about the World Wildlife Fund or Green Peace or the environment. Destruction of species? Don’t care. Less oxygen for the world? So what? It really was the nicest bonfire I’ve ever seen.
It was even nicer, though, because Oscar knew how to use it as a form of entertainment. He had a pile of nearly-dried sugar cane stalks, each one about 10 to 12 feet long, and every once in a while threw a few on the hot fire. The cane, which grows in segments like bamboo, would burn evenly and rapidly on the outside, causing the gases inside to quickly build up with immense pressure. Then, when the fibrous cane casing could no longer stand the force of the steam from within, the canes exploded with the sound of a gunshot and sent an explosion of burning coals into the night air. Each explosion came as a complete surprise disrupting the calm and cool countryside, startling us to a very giddy laughter and the most fun I’ve ever had around a fire. Many of us couldn’t stop laughing at the joke of exploding coals and loud firecracker sounds, especially at those who had to jump out of the way of the shooting bursts of pressurized fire. The unpredictability and randomness of the trick made the night, and made for the best campfire I’ll never forget.
It was even nicer, though, because Oscar knew how to use it as a form of entertainment. He had a pile of nearly-dried sugar cane stalks, each one about 10 to 12 feet long, and every once in a while threw a few on the hot fire. The cane, which grows in segments like bamboo, would burn evenly and rapidly on the outside, causing the gases inside to quickly build up with immense pressure. Then, when the fibrous cane casing could no longer stand the force of the steam from within, the canes exploded with the sound of a gunshot and sent an explosion of burning coals into the night air. Each explosion came as a complete surprise disrupting the calm and cool countryside, startling us to a very giddy laughter and the most fun I’ve ever had around a fire. Many of us couldn’t stop laughing at the joke of exploding coals and loud firecracker sounds, especially at those who had to jump out of the way of the shooting bursts of pressurized fire. The unpredictability and randomness of the trick made the night, and made for the best campfire I’ll never forget.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Impertinent Youthful Ratiocinations on the Falling American Economy
One of the greatest pleasures of being young is impertinence. As youths we can throw around opinions without experience, talk about things we really don’t know about, and live in an imaginary world where everything conforms to the way we understand it to be. Some might call it idealism, others smug self-assurance, but it’s a state of being in which I find myself particularly caught up recently. Being in a rather isolated Paraguayan evangelical community where my closest friend is nearly identical to me in many aspects of worldview and identity, the temptation to understand things from a very limited perspective is even stronger.
Today I saw that the stock market crashed. The US economy is in terrible shape, and my mind immediately goes to several impertinent thoughts:
1. The US is reaping what it’s sown.
2. I’m glad I don’t have any stocks or a 401K plan to worry about.
3. I’m kind of thankful I don’t have any money at all.
4. My family knows how to grow and can tomatoes. If there’s another Great Depression, we’ll at least survive on stewed tomatoes all year long.
5. I know how to work, and I also know that no work is below me. I’m ready to wash dishes or do yard work if the economy fails and there are no jobs for me when I return
6. Manual work is a large part of spiritual formation and practice in many Christian communities, from Catholic Trappist monks working on egg farms in Tennessee to Anabaptist Mennonite believers toiling away in dairy production on the Paraguayan frontier. These say that calluses are good for Christians and moral development, and I kind of agree with them.
7. Another Depression could serve the US well. We have, after all, become proud consumerist fat cats. My family has four televisions and only three people are living at home. I have an entire household of appliances in storage waiting for me when I come home, and I’m only 23. Where does all this wealth come from? Most Paraguayans live on a couple dollars a day.
8. I have some friends who lived in Argentina when their economy crashed a few years ago. Without any money, they grew and ate fried manioc (a big tuber) all year long. I kind of envy their frugality, and think fried manioc with stewed tomatoes alongside it would be a good combination.
9. A crashed American economy would show American Christians that the blessings of the Gospel are spiritual, not material. We need to hear and know that. “every spiritual blessing in Christ” does not mean a chicken in every Christian pot or a Mercedes in every Christian driveway.
10. I think I may invest in Paraguayan cattle. Cows can have babies every year, reproducing the investment annually, and I have contacts that, for the price of milk they sell, would manage and breed my herd well.
Yes, I am an impertinent youth. I have a particularly Christian view on everything, too, which makes my impertinence even more dangerous and self-justifying. I have a wild and rebellious streak in my ratiocinations on the economy, a strange mixture of workers rights, just desserts, and flippant disregard for the mammon of this world that I’ve inherited from both Joe Steidl and Jesus Christ and the gist of which goes against established financial wisdom, the power of the wealthy, and most of the economic policies of the Republican Party. I really don’t know what’s going on in the financial markets, but I do like to imagine that I could survive well in mind, spirit, and body with calluses on my hands and stewed tomatoes in my belly. I am, after all, an impertinent youth.
Today I saw that the stock market crashed. The US economy is in terrible shape, and my mind immediately goes to several impertinent thoughts:
1. The US is reaping what it’s sown.
2. I’m glad I don’t have any stocks or a 401K plan to worry about.
3. I’m kind of thankful I don’t have any money at all.
4. My family knows how to grow and can tomatoes. If there’s another Great Depression, we’ll at least survive on stewed tomatoes all year long.
5. I know how to work, and I also know that no work is below me. I’m ready to wash dishes or do yard work if the economy fails and there are no jobs for me when I return
6. Manual work is a large part of spiritual formation and practice in many Christian communities, from Catholic Trappist monks working on egg farms in Tennessee to Anabaptist Mennonite believers toiling away in dairy production on the Paraguayan frontier. These say that calluses are good for Christians and moral development, and I kind of agree with them.
7. Another Depression could serve the US well. We have, after all, become proud consumerist fat cats. My family has four televisions and only three people are living at home. I have an entire household of appliances in storage waiting for me when I come home, and I’m only 23. Where does all this wealth come from? Most Paraguayans live on a couple dollars a day.
8. I have some friends who lived in Argentina when their economy crashed a few years ago. Without any money, they grew and ate fried manioc (a big tuber) all year long. I kind of envy their frugality, and think fried manioc with stewed tomatoes alongside it would be a good combination.
9. A crashed American economy would show American Christians that the blessings of the Gospel are spiritual, not material. We need to hear and know that. “every spiritual blessing in Christ” does not mean a chicken in every Christian pot or a Mercedes in every Christian driveway.
10. I think I may invest in Paraguayan cattle. Cows can have babies every year, reproducing the investment annually, and I have contacts that, for the price of milk they sell, would manage and breed my herd well.
Yes, I am an impertinent youth. I have a particularly Christian view on everything, too, which makes my impertinence even more dangerous and self-justifying. I have a wild and rebellious streak in my ratiocinations on the economy, a strange mixture of workers rights, just desserts, and flippant disregard for the mammon of this world that I’ve inherited from both Joe Steidl and Jesus Christ and the gist of which goes against established financial wisdom, the power of the wealthy, and most of the economic policies of the Republican Party. I really don’t know what’s going on in the financial markets, but I do like to imagine that I could survive well in mind, spirit, and body with calluses on my hands and stewed tomatoes in my belly. I am, after all, an impertinent youth.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Stay on the Sunny Side
It’s amazing how much a difference of perspective can make. As people, I’m convinced we have an amazing capacity to adapt to whatever situation or way of life where we find ourselves; as Christians, I trust we can stay steady and unshaken in soul and spirit like the Apostle Paul who, despite all the tough confusing times of his life, was able to be content in all things. Often times the thing that matters is the attitude we take and the choices we make when confronting life situations.
I take as two examples circumstances from my life here in Paraguay. Last October, when I was only here a month, a vertical blue line appeared on my laptop screen. I did some research and found the line was a factory defect that came along with my computer when I bought it, replaceable with an extended warranty that ended last March. Since the first line appeared, several dozen more have appeared, making my computer screen into a rainbow of Easter-egg colors with new shades added every week. Thankfully, I can still write and do what I need to do, but the messed-up screen is still a pain.
For me, I have a choice to make about how I think of the lines on my computer. I can complain about how technology is worthless and Dell is a terrible brand and woe is me because I’m a poor missionary with a decomposing computer. Or, I can look at the lines and remember and be thankful. I can look at the lines and see one blue one that appeared right after I was robbed at gunpoint and thank God I still have my life. Or, I can look at a red one that popped up during my cousin’s visit, and thank God I had family and visitors with me for a Christmas away from home. Or I can glance at a green one that showed itself in the days after the first grading period ended, and remember too God’s faithfulness to me as a teacher. The choice, really, is up to me as to how I look at my now-defuncting computer screen. I can complain or use it as reminder of God’s faithfulness to me.
A second illustration comes from my experience in the AC church here. Whenever one lives in community, small things start to bother and quirky eccentricities to chafe. Living in a community with a culture far different than one’s own makes the temptation to complain and be grumpy about the way things are done even much more strong. Customs, even church customs, appear sometimes strange, unbiblical, and perhaps even unchristian. For me and the AC church here, this difference in spiritual practice and opinion has made itself clear many times, but perhaps one of the clearest is in the giving of the tithe.
I was raised, as any good North American ACer, in a church with the donation box at the back of the sanctuary. There was never any passing of the plate or possibility for public demonstration of tithing. We discreetly put our money in the back box at the beginning or end of the service, almost embarrassed by the fact that anyone might see us doing so. Scripturally, Christ’s call to not let our right hand know what our left hand was giving made itself manifest in stealthy donations by way of quick, James Bond style handmaneuvers.
The church here, however, makes the tithe giving a big show. There’s a special worship song when it’s announced that everyone can offer their gift, and then everyone goes up front in a big processional line to deposit their money in an open white box. There is a big and public to-do about giving, undoubtedly cultural but entirely foreign to me.
For me, the temptation is to judge. I can look around at everyone who has their money in hand and think that they must be so prideful to make such a public display of their gift-giving. I want to tell the pastors that the way they donate tithe money is wrong and against what Jesus taught, making people more concerned with what other people think as they go up to the offering box and less concerned with what God thinks as they pridefully do so or stay seated in their shame.
Thankfully, though, there’s a way out for me of this temptation to judge. While Christ speaks of giving alms in secret, the scriptures also speak of celebrations after harvest time and during festivals when the people of God joyfully presented their offerings and sacrifices to God, the first fruits of everything with which He had blessed them. Seen is this light, the communal tithe giving becomes a festive occasion to remember God’s many mercies in providing for basic necessities, a sort of public demonstration and testimony of God’s faithfulness in providing for finances. With this view of things, the people lose their pride and the offering becomes an act of worship towards a good God. The pastors are no longer manipulative and wanting to shame people into giving, but leaders themselves of a congregation joyfully giving back to God what is already His.
I pray that everyday we might look for the best in life: to count the little inconveniences as little blessings and the little differences in the practices and opinions of other people, especially among other Christians, as little manifestations of God’s goodness to all differently displayed. Then, as Christians, we may truly be content in all things and live out the love of God that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
I take as two examples circumstances from my life here in Paraguay. Last October, when I was only here a month, a vertical blue line appeared on my laptop screen. I did some research and found the line was a factory defect that came along with my computer when I bought it, replaceable with an extended warranty that ended last March. Since the first line appeared, several dozen more have appeared, making my computer screen into a rainbow of Easter-egg colors with new shades added every week. Thankfully, I can still write and do what I need to do, but the messed-up screen is still a pain.
For me, I have a choice to make about how I think of the lines on my computer. I can complain about how technology is worthless and Dell is a terrible brand and woe is me because I’m a poor missionary with a decomposing computer. Or, I can look at the lines and remember and be thankful. I can look at the lines and see one blue one that appeared right after I was robbed at gunpoint and thank God I still have my life. Or, I can look at a red one that popped up during my cousin’s visit, and thank God I had family and visitors with me for a Christmas away from home. Or I can glance at a green one that showed itself in the days after the first grading period ended, and remember too God’s faithfulness to me as a teacher. The choice, really, is up to me as to how I look at my now-defuncting computer screen. I can complain or use it as reminder of God’s faithfulness to me.
A second illustration comes from my experience in the AC church here. Whenever one lives in community, small things start to bother and quirky eccentricities to chafe. Living in a community with a culture far different than one’s own makes the temptation to complain and be grumpy about the way things are done even much more strong. Customs, even church customs, appear sometimes strange, unbiblical, and perhaps even unchristian. For me and the AC church here, this difference in spiritual practice and opinion has made itself clear many times, but perhaps one of the clearest is in the giving of the tithe.
I was raised, as any good North American ACer, in a church with the donation box at the back of the sanctuary. There was never any passing of the plate or possibility for public demonstration of tithing. We discreetly put our money in the back box at the beginning or end of the service, almost embarrassed by the fact that anyone might see us doing so. Scripturally, Christ’s call to not let our right hand know what our left hand was giving made itself manifest in stealthy donations by way of quick, James Bond style handmaneuvers.
The church here, however, makes the tithe giving a big show. There’s a special worship song when it’s announced that everyone can offer their gift, and then everyone goes up front in a big processional line to deposit their money in an open white box. There is a big and public to-do about giving, undoubtedly cultural but entirely foreign to me.
For me, the temptation is to judge. I can look around at everyone who has their money in hand and think that they must be so prideful to make such a public display of their gift-giving. I want to tell the pastors that the way they donate tithe money is wrong and against what Jesus taught, making people more concerned with what other people think as they go up to the offering box and less concerned with what God thinks as they pridefully do so or stay seated in their shame.
Thankfully, though, there’s a way out for me of this temptation to judge. While Christ speaks of giving alms in secret, the scriptures also speak of celebrations after harvest time and during festivals when the people of God joyfully presented their offerings and sacrifices to God, the first fruits of everything with which He had blessed them. Seen is this light, the communal tithe giving becomes a festive occasion to remember God’s many mercies in providing for basic necessities, a sort of public demonstration and testimony of God’s faithfulness in providing for finances. With this view of things, the people lose their pride and the offering becomes an act of worship towards a good God. The pastors are no longer manipulative and wanting to shame people into giving, but leaders themselves of a congregation joyfully giving back to God what is already His.
I pray that everyday we might look for the best in life: to count the little inconveniences as little blessings and the little differences in the practices and opinions of other people, especially among other Christians, as little manifestations of God’s goodness to all differently displayed. Then, as Christians, we may truly be content in all things and live out the love of God that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”
Monday, September 15, 2008
A prayer
A beautiful prayer by Thomas Merton, and one I can really call my own:
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road though I
and you will never leave me to face my
My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following
your will does not mean that I am
actually doing so.
But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.
And I hope to have that desirein all that I am doing.
I hope that I will never do anything apartfrom that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road though I
may know nothing about it.
Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem lost and in the shadow
of death.
I will not fear, for you are ever with me,and you will never leave me to face my
perils alone.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Angry Papa Bear
Don´t mess with my kid(Warning- Contains a new bad word I learned in Spanish)
I had a “papa bear” moment with Christian the other day. He came home from school very upset, and when I asked him what it was about, he didn’t really want to talk. Upon further investigation, though, he opened up and told me what had happened. In school that day the art teacher wrote him up for calling a girl “pelotuda,” even the he had no idea what “pelotuda” meant.
From what I gathered, the story was this: Christian’s schoolmate, who talks too much and rarely leaves him alone, called him “pelotudo,” so logically Christian returned the remark in reply, even though he had no idea what it meant. The girl got offended in her uncomprehensible-little-high-school-girl-gets-offended-sort-of-way and went and told the art teacher, who is a very cold and unfeeling person that never greets me or any of the other teachers anyways. The art teacher asked Christian if the accusation was true, and he truthfully responded that it was, even though the girl had called him the name first and he didn’t know what it meant.
Long story shirt, Christian got written up and a point or two added to his record towards a one-day suspension (the only kind of punishment the Paraguayan school system knows how to hand out) because an annoying classmate spit out a tattle tale and the conniving art teacher licked it up. The girl walked away scott-free. I was disgusted and upset at the girl for her hypocrisy and the teacher for her man-hating tendencies and unintelligible punishment towards high schoolers who, after all, can do much worse things than call names.
About a week later, Christian and I both found out that “pelotudo” literally means big-balled, and is a some-what crude word used to insult people. When I got his weekly bulletin, which complained that he used the word in art class, I wrote a curt little response that went something like this: “Neither Christian nor I knew what “pelotudo” meant until his classmate called him the name first. Since neither Christian or his classmate are “pelotudos,” however, there really is nothing for us to be worried about. ---Prof. Jason” Christian was a little embarrassed by the note, as I would have been by my mom or dad sticking up for me like that in high school, but he accepted it and took it to school anyways, facing up to the reality of the situation in a pretty good realistic way.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
On a Chest of Gold Bars at the Bottom of the Sea
The sneaking premonition that nothing in this world lasts forever came up and nipped me quite unexpectedly when I was just four years old. I remember the day clearly, and the thought that came upon me without any warning at all: a chest full of gold if thrown to the bottom of the sea will eventually be dissolved by the water. Even the biggest and best bars, with enough time, disappear with the current as if they had never existed.
Startled by the prospect that even the best things might not last forever, I asked my mom if the dissolving of so much gold at the bottom of the sea could really be so. Perhaps she wasn’t listening to my childish question or really was and instead wanted to instill in me the values of security and eternity, but she answered me wrongly in saying that even if the gold was worn away bit by bit it would last forever. Either way, I was too smart for her answer and reasoned my philosophy through to its logical conclusion that everything on Earth has its time and then dissolves away.
They say that when one reaches about my age they start to realize the reality of worldly impermanence and physical death. Parents start getting sick and the cycle of birth and death can be seen as clear as an unmuddied stream as we start to have kids of our own. I don’t know how I’d come to grips with it all if I didn’t have the assurance of faith that there is a place where gold, even streets made entirely of gold, is never dissolved away and where water represents not the wear and tear of time but instead an eternal life-giving fount of beauty and love.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Ready for the Revolution
A man in the supermarket parking lot this evening told me there was a military coup beginning and that every person should quickly go to his own home because tanks were rolling in from the Chaco to take over. Given the current and tumultuous political environment in Paraguay
1. 5 pounds of bread
2. 2 pounds of sugar
3. 2 pounds of flour
4. Crackers
5. Toilet Paper
6. Suave hair conditioner
7. 3 cucumbers
8. 4 onions
9. Bananas
10. 4 and a half pounds of rice
11. 2 packages of noodles
12. 2 pounds of yerba for terreré and maté
13. A gallon of milk, in boxes
14. A lot of ricotta cheese
When the revolution gets here, you can bet I’ll be ready. After the prices of commodities fly through the roof because of the political instability, people will want to pay me in gold for my food, but I’ll give it to them for free because I’m nice like that.
Ready for the revolution
Visit to Bañado
On Saturday I took up the invitation offered me many, many months ago to spend a day in Bañado, home to the smaller and poorer sister congregation of the Lambaré church and perhaps the poorest neighborhood in Asunción. The pseudo-municipality of about 52,000 inhabitants stretches along the uneven coast of the Rio Paraguayo outside all the comfortable edges of mainstream society. Although so many people call Bañado home, it is formally unrecognized by the government and municipal maps (although they also receive formally unrecognized government water and electricity free of charge). The land here, frequently flooded by rains and soggy through and through, is free and up for the grabs. 70 percent of its inhabitants work as trash collectors, rummishing through wealthier neighborhoods searching for anything that can be recycled for money: plastic bags, pop bottles, newspapers, metal scraps. A mere glance at the neighborhood betrays the profession. Trash carts take the place of family automobiles in front of homes while piles of recyclables take the place of swingsets and sandboxes out back.
I was invited by Alberto, a young man my age, Bañado native, and extraordinary servant of Christ with the Apostolic Christian Church in the neighborhood. Although gifted with so many spiritual and intellectual talents, Alberto has been without steady work for nearly a year now. He started university a while back, but left to pursue a work opportunity and lost out on all his credits. Recognized as an honest and trustworthy leader among neighborhood youth, he helped found and organize several community programs with a former American Peace Corp member. Now that she has left and abandoned the work, however, Alberto remains fully invested in the work of the Bañado church.
The congregation is very poor, and most everything they have has been donated by North American brothers and sisters in Christ. The Canadian AC churches sent work teams and money to build the church building, and my family’s own Vesper Lake Bible Fellowship recently donated the fans, lights, and curtains that the building still lacked several years after its construction.
Although the community is very poor, however, it is a community that is committed to and dependent on living a life of faith. Several members meet every evening of the week to spend time in prayer, and several members rely on this prayer for their basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter. Somehow and with much sharing and charity, the people survive. When someone lacks food, a collection is taken up and God provides. When someone lacks a place to stay, someone opens up their house and God provides. Theirs is a life completely dependent on trust in divine providence.
The congregation also ministers to the neighborhood, sending out groups every Sunday to meet, greet, and pray with new families in the area. There is a weekly Sunday school along with a women’s ministry, and a youth group that often plays sports together on Saturday. Church life isn’t always rosy, but each one I spoke to had a great love for the Lord and a deep commitment to service and evangelism. In Bañado, there are only three evangelical churches and a couple more Catholic churches. The spiritual need, like the economic need, is great.
For all the poverty among the people of Bañado, however, there are signs of hope in community organization and international aid efforts. Alberto showed me a cooperative of women bakers, most deserted by their husbands, who have banded together for the work and profit of making bread. We also passed by the Catholic Church, where a donation from the government of Spain has permitted the building of a vibrant community center where reading and writing classes and public health campaigns are offered free of charge. There was also a community grocery store where the church offers food at bargain prices, a neighborhood pharmacy where the poor can buy medicine at discounted rates, and a library where the luxuries of books and internet are offered to those who would never have the access to knowledge elsewhere. There was even a small radio station, giving public service announcements and keeping the community informed of important news and events. I also got to meet a Catholic missionary from Chicago, an older gentleman with big spectacles and an even bigger heart, fighting drug addiction with the hope of the Gospel. He is a dear friend of Alberto’s, whose oldest sister is a drug addict and who often receives much help by way of the Catholic lay minister.
It was an amazing privilege to see the work of development going on in Bañado, first in the church and then in the community. Often times I wonder if North American aid and volunteer associations actually do their jobs and really accomplish anything at all, but after visiting Bañado I have no doubts. Community development in the poorest places is working. The American Peace Corp is good and effective, as are the donations of churches, civic groups, and governments. A most practical example of this was a school where boxes of school supplies, bought by
Overall, the day was a refreshing visit to a poor place where the work of God often partners with the development of man in bettering the lives of so many poor. I got to see so many organizations at work, so many projects put to good use, and churches using spiritual and economic resources for the good of their fellow man and the greater glory of their transcendent God. Although Bañado is a place of extreme poverty, it is also a place of extreme grace where the work of spiritual and economic redemption is plainly in sight.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Goin´ on a Jetplane
Bought my tickets today. Lord willing I´ll be home December 9 after a brief stay in Miami and Nashville.
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