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.

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.

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, his claim was not unbelievable to a generally disconnected and ignorant North American. And so, in good preparation for the revolution, I impetuously purchased

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 North America families for those in poorer places, are distributed through an organization called Kids for Kids.

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.

Goin´ on a Jetplane

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

Update

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

Ascenion and Assumption in Asuncion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Terrible Tropical Voodoo Rash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Glorious.



The closeup.

Argentina AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much More than a Potato

I found this Asuncion fast-food chain french-fry carton on the side of the road. Translated, it says, ¨McCain: Much More than a Potato.¨


Just wait until the McCain presidential campaign gets ahold of it as a slogan-- they´ll hire me on as a campaign manager for sure, even all the way from Paraguay. Just think of it: ¨Vote for McCain, because he´s much more than a potato.¨Has a good ring to it, doesn´t it?


Stance on abortion? Doesn´t matter. The Iraq war? Ha- a non-issue. Surging energy prices? Out the door.

I´m just voting for McCain because he´s much more than a potato.

Big Anniversary

Saturday marked the ten-year anniversary of my baptism. If I were traditional Apostolic, I’d say ten years ago I was baptized into the flock of faith, accepted as a member of the church, and my rebirth through repentance sealed by the Holy Spirit in the laying-on of hands. If I were Baptist, I’d say ten years ago I was symbolically buried with Christ in the waters of baptism as an outward sign and public testimony of the work that God did in saving the inner-most parts of my soul at an earlier time. If I were Presbyterian, I’d say ten years ago I was baptized and welcomed into a New Covenant Christian community much like Old Testament Hebrew babies were circumcised as a sign of their membership in the People of God. If I were Eastern Orthodox, I’d say ten years ago baptism marked my passing from death to life, from darkness to light, from Canaan to the Promised Land, even as Joshua and the people of Israel crossed through the waters of the River Jordan. If I were Catholic, I’d say ten years ago my baptism sacramentally broke the chains of Original Sin and drove away the darkness of Adam’s curse from my soul, indelibly marking me as a Christian and ushering me into the newness of life in Christ.


Whatever one’s views of baptism, though, ten years is a long time. Think of it: I’ve officially been on the walk of faith for a full decade now. After so much time, it seems that I ought to be arriving already from my journey to the New Jerusalem. As I look around at the road signs, though, I realize I’m only a few steps outside of my door. My soul was changed when God first met me and I started out on a path of faith, but I still struggle with a whole lot of the same sins that I struggled with a decade ago. Lust didn’t get any better after being thirteen; many of the temptations that seemed innocent to me then have become much bigger, bolder, and uglier to me now. My pride and self-dependence don’t seem to have shrunken any, either; my higher education and greater achievements in the eyes of the world only seem to add kindling to an egotistical fire that was sparked in elementary school. Ironically enough, though, I’m still just as self-conscious as my thirteen-year-old self who did everything he could to please the people around him in a never-ending search for acceptance and success; with scores of friends recently making over a $100,000 a year, joining the ranks of the political elite, and starting their own families, the stakes have just become much higher and my vulnerability to criticism much greater.


In spite of all this, however, I wouldn’t trade a day’s walk with Jesus for anything else in world. I don’t ever regret a moment giving my life away to Him and being publicly identified with Him in the obedience of faith. I’m not perfect, I struggle with sin, and a lot of times I fall down flat on my face recognizing the poverty of my still-prone-to-be-spiritually-poor soul in the presence of His rich holiness and awesome grandeur of perfect righteousness. As the people here in Paraguay tell me, though, I’m “joven todavia,” still young. God-willing, I’ll have a few more decades on the road of faith and a whole lot more of sanctification to be had. I thank God for however long I have to live that He’s patient with me. I know He’s walking by my side, straightening out my course when I get sidetracked to the right or left by my sin and pulling me forward out of the pits when I get stuck in self pity, regret, and hopelessness.


Perhaps the greatest joy to me on this anniversary of my baptism is that God continues to lead and want to be with me. Although I stumble sometimes and don’t keep up with where I ought to be, by His love I continue to follow and He continues to change me and help me along. Time teaches me everyday to love my Lord more and more, and, by His grace, I really am being transformed.

Visit Wrapped-Up

Me and the family at Foz de Iguazu
Dad definately should have been a cowboy
The team and their lot of tile work

The past two weeks have been jam-packed with the excitement of winter vacations and a visit from Ohio family and friends. A work team came down from Vesper Lake Bible Fellowship, the church where I grew up, with my dad, brother Joey, sister Jennifer, youth pastor Brad, second-cousin Steve, and two other young friends, Chad and Matt. They came down with the intention to do some tiling and painting work for the school, visit with and get to know the Paraguayan Church and culture, and visit with and encourage me. Now that they’re finished, I can say with a big thankful smile that everything they wanted to do was accomplished, and accomplished well.

Although their trip started and ended rather roughly (coming down, a one-day delay in Atlanta because of Hurricane Bertha and nearly a half-day in Argentina because of a missed flight; going back, an extra day in Buenos Aires because of a missed connection to the States and an extra stop in Cincinnati because of their re-routed itinerary), everything they did while in Paraguay went along smoothly and basically without a hitch. The weather was in the mid-seventies and sunny every day, a real Paraguayan miracle in the middle of winter (Paraguayan folklore says that these two weeks of summer weather in the middle of winter usually come two weeks before the Feast of St. John on June 24^th. As Oscar joked, though, this year, when St. John asked permission from God for the good weather to be in the middle of June, God must have told him to wait until the middle of July when some Protestants would be visiting Paraguay). Although the team suffered a bit from runny noses, sore throats, one multi-day case of diarrhea, and a trip to the Paraguayan emergency room after Brad passed out from a badly-sprained ankle (an emergency room, by the way, where a visit with a doctor cost two dollars and x-rays with family and friends standing all around you in the x-ray room only cost $4.50), God was good and no one’s health was ever seriously in danger. The work was never hindered by sickness, and neither was the sightseeing.

Tourism perks of the trip for the team included a trip to Foz de Iguazu (the South American jungle Niagara Falls), a Paraguayan meatfest buffet, seeing Itapu Dam, boating on the River Paraguay, shopping at a Paraguayan bazaar, visiting the Center of Town and seeing historical monuments and sights twice, and climbing up a little mountain for a beautiful view of the Paraguayan countryside in Yaguaron. Visiting with the people from church, they had dinner prepared for them six times on a trip of only a week and a half, and every day ate an excellent Paraguayan lunch prepared by a sister from the church for only about $2.50. They received much good hospitality, which helped them work hard with determined purpose to lay and grout tile floors and clean and paint the church soccer field. They were able to bless the church in Lambaré as well as the church in Sajonia, where the team spent some visiting with church members in a rough area of Asunción and was able to purchase for the congregation badly-needed fans and lights.

For me, the trip was a huge blessing as well. I was kept very busy throughout my winter vacation with making plans and organizing details for the team, but I got to share a lot of time with my dear family and friends. I had the chance to see Paraguay through their eyes, once more as a new, foreign, and exotic place full of adventure and hospitality. They showed me how not to take small things for granted, and made me appreciate much more everything I’ve come to know and have in my missionary life in Paraguay. The snickerdoodles and small American necessities they brought from my mom, along with the peanut-butter-popcorn balls and chocolate chip cookies they brought from my aunts, ought to hold me off on good home-cooking at least until I return home in four and a half months. Speaking of home, having my family stay with me for a week and a half made me realize how much I really do like home and miss my family. I’m going to keep doing my best as an English teacher and missionary in Paraguay, but I’m also looking forward to Christmastime in Ohio half a year away.

Trip over

The family is back home after a day delay in Buenos Aires. Thank God.

Arrival

Hooray! After many difficulties and no short voyage, the group from Vesper has arrived! Thank God!

Stuck in Atlanta

Crew Update: The work team is stuck in a Atlanta, Georgia for a day until the passing of Hurricane Bertha. I guess it´s better than being stuck in the Atlantic. God´s surely answering our prayers for their safety, though, just maybe not in ways we expected.

My Fourth of July

Friday was a day I was tempted to complain. There were plenty of good reasons to do so, too: it was a really long week, all my dishes were dirty, it was the Fourth of July and I was in Paraguay, and all the Americans in the mission were off to travel the world on the day of American Independence. A couple people wished me a happy Fourth of July, but overall it could have been a really downer day.


Thankfully and by many graces, though, it turned into one of the most enjoyable and consoling days of my time here. This past week was Missions Week at Adonai, a time set aside each year to remember the countries and cultures of the world in prayer. This year the assigned countries all came from Europe. Each class was responsible to research and present to the rest of the school a report on their assigned country, and to pray for the evangelization of that country every morning of the week. The week ended, then, with a Missions Fair and every grade presenting its nation to the school along with its way of dress, typical food, and style of music.


Each grade took the project as a matter of class pride and did their best to participate, from the tiny preschoolers dressed as Greek philosophers to the 11th graders as classy musicians from Austria. Each stand representing a country was meticulously decorated with banners, balloons, and billowing polyester fabric by parents, students, and teachers working together to finish the project. There were vast banquet tables set with dishes from all over Europe, although somehow a lot of Paraguayan food snuck its way in to the mix, too. In the course of the night, I sampled a thick quiche and coffee from Finland, fondue from Switzerland, roast pork and sweet potato from Ireland, fried mashed potato finger from France, lemon meringue pie from Greece, a tuna, egg, and tomato sandwich from Norway, and paella from Spain. Needless to say, by the end of the night I was feeling a little sick.


Still, there was a world of beauty to the entire event: to see all the students putting their best effort forward in study, planning, and prayer for Missions Week was an awesome privelege; to participate in the Missions Fair and see hundreds of students, their parents and teachers, and people from the neighborhood come to the school together was an amazing blessing; and to have my Fourth of July occupied with such excitement and activity was an unbelievable grace.


Missions Week at Adonai really showed me what the school is all about: preparing students to reach out to the world with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The awesome part of the event was that the students of every grade were really excited to participate, learn, and pray. Even better, though, was that included in the festivities were dozens and dozens of parents and guests from the neighborhood. Thus, the value of my own participation in the school and the time I’ve set aside this year to teach at Adonai were confirmed to me in a mighty positive way as I got to see the mission of the school “to educate children, molding their character in order to serve God and the nations” lived out practically and powerfully.

Family´s Coming

The family is coming along with some friends from the church today... Please say a prayer for their safety!

A Prayer for the US

There’re a lot of things messed up about Paraguay: corruption in the current government basically prevents any major national economic development; a lack of security means you have to build high fences around your house and always be ready at a moment’s notice to give out your cell phone or wallet to an armed attacker; and the average Paraguayan family is broken beyond imagination and irreparably hurt by marital infidelity, alcoholism, and general lack of male responsibility.

Although I see so many evil things resulting from sin in the Paraguayan people, though, there is one great and perhaps greatest evil of which, thank God, they are entirely innocent. It is an evil that has been prevented at every level of society by what many consider to be an outdated, archaic, and stale Catholic society. Still, it is an evil that, because of the Roman Catholic Church’s influence, has largely been avoided and is, in any case, a Paraguayan social stigma punishable by many years in prison if found out. Sadly, however, it is also this greatest evil to which my own foundationally Protestant and “more advanced” United States have succumbed. This great evil, eschewed by Paraguay but embraced by the United States in the Holocaust of our generation, is abortion, the intentional murder of pre-born children.

Paraguayans, most of whom are nominally Catholic, at least get this one thing right: they understand that abortion is an atrocious sin, abhorrent before God and intolerable in society. And their country is blessed because they believe it. Paraguayans are a fruitful people, and they are growing fast. New human life sprouts from every corner here, and demographic studies show that half of the now nearly-six million Paraguayans are under the age of twenty. In the United States over the past twenty-some years, on the other hand, we’ve murdered nearly seven times the number of Paraguay’s entire population in children before they were even born, and we are now faced with the crisis and curse of a declining native population.

It literally makes me sick to think how many people my age never had the chance to breathe because of legalized abortion. In the words of Saint James, I “am wretched, mourn and weep” for my nation. I see that although we have plenty of money, power, and “civilization,” we lack the greatest thing of life itself, and oftentimes we even allow that to be taken away from those who are least able to defend themselves. Yes, we find our rights, liberties, and freedoms in the United States, but we also find our hands stained with the blood of millions of innocents.

I believe that soon we shall reap the consequences for our sins. We cannot cheat God forever, because one day He “shall arise, his enemies shall be scattered; and those who hate him shall flee before him” and “in the hand of the Lord there is a cup with foaming wine, well mixed, and he pours out from it, and all the wicked of the earth shall drain it down to the dregs.”

For that reason, this Fourth of July I pray, Lord, have mercy. Forgive our nation for the atrocities we have committed in selfishness and the innocent lives we have taken in cold blood. Christ, have mercy. Free us from our self-seeking lives to live in your Life, being able and willing to love You and our neighbor, from the greatest and most powerful to the smallest and most defenseless. Lord, have mercy. Give our leaders the grace of repentance and the strength of will to turn our nation away from its massacre of innocents to a society that recognizes the divine blessing of human life and the value of every person created in the image of God. We pray this through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns together with God the Father and God the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever, Amen.

Hard knocks

Every once in a while things in life hit you that just make you say, “Wow, that hurts.” They seem to come flying out of nowhere and, even if they’re things that don’t touch you, your family, or even your close friends directly, you can still feel the knock on your soul and empathize in bleeding heart with those who are going through the unimaginable pain. Within the past week, Colegio Privado Adonai and the AC Church here have both been hit with news that wrenches at the heart; news that makes us question the basic justice of the world and leads us out wondering and wandering around in a mess of pain and unanswered questions.

The first hard knock came about a week ago. I found out in my first class last Friday that one of my second-grade students, Josué, was nearly burned to death in a dreadful accident that ravaged his tiny body. What makes the situation even more tough to comprehend is that even before the accident Josué’s story was so sad to begin with. Abandoned by his mother and having a father who works so much that none of the teachers at Colegio Privado Adonai had ever seen him before, Josué was basically being raised by his ten year-old brother who cooked and looked out for him. In the classroom, although a kind and quiet student, he was unable to concentrate and learn in any significant way because of the problems at home.

Then, a week ago Wednesday, seven-year-old Josué tried to finish up the job of burning a trash pile in his back yard. In the process he was doused in a large quantity of gas that, quite naturally, was quickly absorbed by his warm winter clothing. When the fire jumped up to meet him, Josué’s clothing burst into flames like the ignited tip of a sulphur match. His brother made a good effort to save him by taking off Josué’s burning fleece sweatshirt, but in the process he also took off half the skin from his little brother’s face. He then put Josué in the shower to douse the flames, but the burning continued to the point of charring one of Josué’s entire legs beyond much good future use.

I went with the second-grade teacher Liliana to visit Josué in the hospital on Saturday. He’s in the I.P.S., a massive communist-looking government-run run-down complex offering sub-standard medical care to the thousands of poor Paraguayans who can’t afford anything else. It’s a hospital comprised mostly of medical-student doctors because all the good professional ones work in private practice. It’s a place with broken windows and leaky roofs, where cleaning ladies mop the floor without putting up signs warning against the slippery surface and where surgeries are delayed because the surgical instruments haven’t been sterilized well enough.

There we found out more details about Josué’s condition. He’s in the burn unit all alone, without anything to occupy his mind except for pain and where he is able to be visited only by closest family members infrequently. If infection from his wounds doesn’t kill him soon, he will be having reconstructive surgery sometime next week to transplant the skin from his hindquarters to the charred portions of his leg. They say he’ll need six units of blood for the operation: six units of blood that, with one look at Josué’s small size, you’d imagine could probably fill him up two or three times with a little extra to share. Needless to say, he won’t be returning to school any time soon.

Just knowing that an innocent child, who perhaps has never hurt anyone in any significant way, is in such a state of agony seems to entirely protest the idea that any Good could exist at all in the world when there is such clear evil.

The second hard knock to the church community came with the unexpected death of a dear sister from the congregation. Doña Irene, 59, had been a member of the church for no few years, a founding member of the prayer ministry, the church cook on retreats, and a faithful visitor to and prayer warrior for those who were sick themselves. They say that she prayed several family members to salvation; indeed, today both her husband and son are recently-established although not unimportant pillars of the church and the church’s ministry.

About four or five months ago Doña Irene was re-diagnosed with a form of cancer from which she claimed to have been miraculously healed about ten years ago. She stopped coming to church for her sickness and underwent aggressive chemotherapy treatments—the best and most expensive in the country, we were told—that left her weak, tired, and discouraged. Her last treatment, a milestone for her and the completion of a long, painful process, took place last Friday. I almost took her flowers to celebrate, because I thought it would be a big relief for her to have finally triumphed over the treatment.

Little did I know, however, that those same flowers would have still been fresh enough to send to her funeral. Early Monday morning, perhaps the coldest of the winter, Doña Irene was taken to an urgent-care facility where she passed away after a night of agony. After such a long fight against cancer and the completion of such a dreadful treatment, how could she have passed away so easily? The news took us all aback, as we expected her improvement and a new strength after the ravages of the treatment.

I could probably think of a thousand good theological and very Christian explanations for the presence of evil and suffering in the world. Yes, we are fallen sinners and we suffer the consequences of death. Certainly, the world is broken by our choice and every one of us is culpable. And sure, we even serve a God who, in His grace and mercy, knows our pain and has experienced death for us. There’s no doubt He entered it and redeemed it by His own blood, and then triumphed over all the suffering of the world through His resurrection. Absolutely, as Christians we participate in that reality and we have a hope that we, too, do not suffer in vain and that one day we will be bodily resurrected to an eternal relationship of peace and complete joy with our creator.

Having all of these explanations, though, doesn’t necessarily ease the pain. No, life can be really hard sometimes. There is real agony to be felt, no matter what theologians or pastors or anyone else can say to try to ease it. Little innocent children get burned alive, and godly women who have passed through rigorous chemotherapy treatments die of their cancer anyways. And these hard knocks sting.

An American in Asuncion

As an American in another country, sometimes you just need an all-around American day: a day, that is, to indulge yourself in your own culture and get reacquainted with your own way of life; a day full of familiar luxuries and simple wonders taken for granted at home; a day, perhaps, even to wallow around and get dirtied in the mud of what many too-good-for-you-types would consider baser parts of American society.

After eight months in Paraguay, I was long overdue for such an all-around gratifying American day. I was ready, and even hungry for, the shopping and the movie theater and the cheap fast food (which isn’t so cheap, after all, here in Paraguay). And so, last Thursday on a day off from school, I headed out to the “choochy” part of Asuncion on the other side of town. Here one can find many of the luxuries of life patterned after finer American living: nice little bakeries, expensive car dealerships, modern furniture establishments, movie theaters, a mall, and even a McDonalds and Burger King. This little piece of America in Asuncion lies in the rich part of town, about an hour bus ride away from Lambaré, amongst guarded mansions and beautiful embassies and high-fenced English-speaking schools for the children of diplomats and missionaries.

The first thing I did when I arrived to the rich part of tow was to mill around Shopping Del Sol, the nicest mall in Paraguay but comparable in the States with old Rolling Acres in Akron. There I hit up the bookstore where I pretended to be interested in reading books, but, after finding that they were all in Spanish, left in a huffy for an antiquities dealership where I had a great conversation about antique dealing with an Argentinian woman whose ex-husband lives in the U.S. After I told her that I had spent time in the Middle East and had taken a course on archaeology, she thought I was an expert archaeologist and asked me my opinion of a hand-cut rock she had. She thought it was from the era of the cavemen, but I didn’t want to tell her it looked like a common broken barn stone. “One has to be careful of you buy from these days. There’s a lot of counterfits,” she said. “Yes, you have to be very careful,” I replied with my best put-on expert voice.

After doing some window shopping of stores and styles that I’m pretty sure were dumped on Paraguay as the unsold leftovers from other shops in countries up North, I went to the movie theater where a selection of movies that opened up in the States two or three months ago were playing as new releases. The only movie that wasn’t dubbed over in Spanish (I was, after all, spending an American day, so I could hardly tolerate an American movie not in American-speak) was the one with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman about two fellows—one a rich but sad white white-collar executive and the other a poor but content black blue-collar mechanic—who find themselves spending their last few months of life adventuring together after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. I won’t give away the ending, but the movie was too long and pretty predictable. I will say, though, that while I’ve only been away from the States for eight months, Jack Nicholson looks like death in the movie and seems to have aged a few decades since I’ve come here.

After slipping out of the mediocre movie I headed down the street for McDonalds, where I ate my first Big Mac in years. Even when I’m at home I usually get something more healthy from McDonalds, but this was a special occasion: a celebration of my American heritage and the Big Sandwich that is undoubtedly a bigmac part of that legacy. The fries I got on the side tasted just like those in the States. I wonder if they ship Idaho potatoes and McDonalds ketchup all the way to Paraguay.

After all was said and done, I left the mall, the movie theater, and MceeDees very satisfied and content with myself as an American. Although many might see the elements of American culture that I experienced as ugly things—that is, the materialism represented by the mall, the ever-new need for entertainment and pleasure represented by the movie theater, and the corporatism and gluttony represented by McDonalds—the day was just what I needed to remind me of my country, bring a smile to my face, and help me appreciate the things that America does and that America is. Even if it’s only for sending name brand clothes all around the world, making bad predictable movies, and being responsible for the manufacture of big cholesterol-filled BigMacs in South America, I will always love and appreciate my country, her culture, and her people wherever I may find myself.