A Good Rebuke from a Good Friend

(Ben´s response to what I wrote about bad Bible interpretation. It speaks very well for itself)

Since I’m supposedly a theologian extraordinaire and I’ve already talked with the author about most of this, I offer some counterpoint: One must remember and be aware of the fact the great strength and great weakness of our Anabaptist heritage is our literal interpretation of Scripture. This has led at times to prophetic portraits of Christian ethics and community, and has at other times created really bad stuff which borders on cultic esotericism. We can at least laud our charismatic young sister for believing in the authority of the Scripture, even if she doesn’t possess sufficient hermeneutic principles to avoid bordering on heresy. (Although, in saying that, I also have to laud the preacher at the cult who continually repeated that everything he said was based on Scripture.)

One must also remember that this charismatic young woman has a strange polarization of Christian witnesses influencing her hermeneutics: mainly a legalistic authoritarian tradition and a Pentecostal-esque fervor which is almost inevitable in South American evangelical Protestantism. Does that excuse bad teaching? Not exactly, but it’s important to remember that that neither she nor her mentors were in any moment knowingly leading others astray through faulty and wrong Bible teaching. They were doing the best they could with the best that they had, which is pretty valuable in the ethics of the Kingdom.

Allow me to clarify something more: the principles which this sister was using bad Biblical exposition to teach were very important points which the group needed to hear. She used a great deal of discretion to guide the group into greater intentionality in worship; most of things she purported make a lot of sense when compared, for example, with 1 Corinthians 14. Obviously proper ends require proper means, but I was greatly comforted by the fact that her message was pertinent and timely in addressing the situation of praise and worship team.What I would like to highlight is that “orthodoxy” (even just the word) rings pretty clangily without a thoroughly established context of love. Good doctrine is essential; but good doctrine is pointless without love. Of course I’m quick to admit that without a good doctrinal base, love becomes perverted and even impossible. But if the chief end of man to love God and enjoy him forever, orthodoxy can do no more than provide the necessary direction for that love.

Orthodoxy without love does not create orthopraxy. Quite contrarily, it creates the vilest of character qualities, the subtleties of which C.S. Lewis is so good at describing in many of his works. So I am willing to suggest that Jason’s equation may be a bit wrong. I’ve even seen that bad doctrine is often transformed by a genuine love for God into pretty good practice. I think the promise about the Holy Ghost teaching us what we need to know really holds true, and that through her deep devotion to the One and True God of Scriptures, our charismatic young worship leader is being led by the Counselor into the whole Truth. Of course, that Spirit-leading will almost necessarily involve me and other Biblicist brothers and sisters who are willing to humbly speak the truth in love. But thankfully, even if we’re too concerned for orthodoxy that we’re impeded in loving our sister, the Spirit is capable of innumerable other means, and will keep the Church, his body of believers, strangely saintly.

Pay a Visit

If you’re in Medina today, you might stop in and pay a visit to my mom. She’s in the hospital there, in room 308 bed 1, and should be at least through the late afternoon (of today, Friday, May 30). She might be a little grouchy with you, but don’t worry about it— you’d probably be grouchy, too, if you’d been through all she’s been through the past year and especially the past week. Even if you haven’t talked to her in a year, though, now would be a good time. Pay a visit, bring some flowers, show some love, pray with her. She needs good affection from folks. Give her a hug and a smile, and if she still isn’t happy, tell her I sent you and the hug is from me.

Lessons Learned from Bad Bible Interpretation

Sorry about this one. It was definately written without much love, and even without confronting the person who misused the Bible. I stand by what I said- bad Bible interpretation is bad Bible interpretation and heresy is heresy, but I apologize for the spirit in which I said it. Next time I´ll be more direct and deal with things more openly.

Very humbly with all apoplogies,
Jason

Snow, Soccer, and Hell

Ice skates. Sled. Skis. Snowboard. This past week I had the privilege of teaching some 25 Paraguayan third graders English words for snow sports. Why any English textbook would include such a flurry of arbitrary words I have not the slightest idea; but behold, such has been my struggle with destiny these past few days. The situation wasn’t helped, of course, by the fact that half the words about snowy things weren’t even mentioned in my Spanish-English dictionary. Trying to find the correct translation, therefore, took the form of me performing complex charades as to how these instruments of winter frivolity practically function along with a base commentary of broken, utterly confusing Spanish. I must have looked like I lost my mind pretending to snowboard and speaking in Spanish tongues to so many kids who have never even seen a snowflake.

Yes, there are certain cultural and linguistic boundaries that just cannot be crossed; gaps of understanding that utterly prohibit the communication of ideas. And it’s not just a problem with Paraguayans, either. Coming from a part of the world where soccer gets the media’s attention only every four years with the World Cup, I haven’t the slightest clue about futbol culture or how so many people can waste so much time being so wrapped up in it. When my students ask me which soccer team I prefer (in Paraguay, Cerro o Olympia? In Argentina, Boca o River?), I respond with a shrug of the shoulders and say I don’t really care or know about it at all. Cultural boundaries there certainly are. Entirely different worldviews persist. A hopeless lack of communication remains.

It all reminds me of the difference in thinking between Christians, those who are being transformed by lives of faith in God through Jesus Christ, and mundanos, those who are staying in the world for the sake of living for the pleasures of the world. The scriptures in so many places describe how there is a complete chasm between the thinking of a Christian guided by the Holy Spirit and the thinking of a non-Christian guided by the flesh. “What partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness? What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what portion does a believer share with an unbeliever?” “For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.” The difference, really, is light and dark, day and night, Heaven and Hell. One cannot even be touched by the other; there is not even the slightest point of connection. Just as my students haven’t the smallest idea about snow and how snow-things work and I haven’t the slightest idea or desire to know about the many complexities of soccer, as believers we too must strive to maintain a purity of light in our relationship with God so that we may not know or even want to know about the darkness that can swallow us up.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he wasn’t worth a thing. A thirty year-old drug addict and dealer living five houses down, he only left home at night to do his dirty business and to play his dirty games. During the day he had little touch with the outside world; so little that, after hearing of his death, his own nephew went to school and played the afternoon as if nothing had happened. No, no one was surprised it happened.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he smoked pot, inhaled cocaine, and even burnt crack. After a while, his drug addiction took the best years of his life and all of his money, leading him to petty thievery of cell phones, fancy shoes, and of more serious breaking into homes for blenders, televisions, and jewelry. I heard it said that he once even stole a camera from a pastor to pay for his ravenous addictions. Stealing from a pastor? No, he definitely wasn’t worth a thing.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he left behind a ten-year old son, although no one knew about the boy or his mother. His own sister said she had no idea where the pair lived, but she did know for sure that her family hadn’t contacted either of them about his death. Not that they would have cared about it anyways; after all, the two never received a penny of support from his deadbeat days. Now that he’s gone, nothing will really change for them.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he was murdered in a nearby city around three a.m in the morning: shot five times, three in the head and two in the chest. It was a quick, easy, and efficient job right next to a popular soccer field, in a narrow passageway where there wasn’t much room to argue. People whispered that it was done to finish off a business transaction turned bad, a sort of life payment in the place of some missing cash. They put a doily over his forehead to cover the wound and cotton balls in his nose so the fluids wouldn’t leak out. It was all a very practical matter.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he went to the morgue early in the morning and finally came home in a hearse at three o’clock in the afternoon. His messed-up friends came by to visit him later on in the evening for one last time, not even knowing if this house was the right one. He’s the brown one, they said. Is that his funeral there? Yeah, I’m pretty certain that’s him inside.

But oh, how she cried.

They said that when she heard the news she went crazy, startling the neighborhood out of its siesta with her screaming and wailing. Five hours later she was the chief mourner and most pitiable of all seated around the coffin. Although considerably comforted by so many little pink pills, she still cried out at regular intervals, “Oh, my only son, my only son. My beloved son. God, why have you abandoned me?”

But oh, how she cried. My, how his momma cried.

Mother´s Day

This Wednesday Paraguay will recognize Mother’s Day. Why this country doesn’t celebrate on Sunday when everyone has a day off like in the United States I cannot imagine, but the fact remains that moms all across the country here will be honored on Wednesday and not on Sunday. This didn’t stop the church, though, from celebrating Mother’s Day yesterday when every healthy and sane mother and mother-county remembered the holiday. Pastor Pedro preached a sermon on the importance and celebration of mothers, but on families more generally because so many youth from the neighborhood and school have mothers who have left the home or are away in other countries. Generally speaking, the Paraguayan family is a disaster these days with one or both parents deserting or working in other cities and the children left to fend for themselves. Thus, like some cruel politically-correct joke, the church and school both celebrate “family day” out of recognition that our families come in all sorts, shapes, and sizes because of human sin and relational brokenness.

The reality of their political correctness, though, hits close to home for many and for that reason their celebration of “family day” instead of Mother’s Day really is a mercy for the church and neighborhood rather than a concession to progressive culture. On both Saturday night and Sunday morning, the pastors brought to light that many Paraguayans, even some from the church, are left without any parents or relatives at all. For that reason, on both days they preached the necessity and importance of being a part of the Family of God, that kinfolk of faith united in one Father through Jesus Christ. .Thus, they said, when we become believers we have brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, and all manner of other relationships within the church. For a couple youth in the church who really have no one looking after them except the church, the message rang especially true. Deserted or abused by their parents, they know and depend full-well on the spiritual family of God for so much of their physical, emotional, spiritual, and even financial needs.

To celebrate Mother’s Day, my own Paraguayan spiritual son/brother Christian and I went to go visit his biological family on the other side of Asuncion. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good part of town. I was a very terrified white and overdressed American with bulging khaki pockets as we walked through the back alley ways to the place where his grandmother had raised a dozen children. When we finally arrived the house, I was pleasantly reminded me of the shack where the Beverly Hilbillilies lived before they found black gold, although this house was in the middle of a semi-urban poor quarter and not the beautiful hills of West Virginia. We carefully entered, and for the first time ever in my life I saw first-hand how a family could maltreat an unwanted child. Only his grandmother smiled to see him, his own mother only recognizing him with a nod. His aunts and uncles, some only a couple years older than him, didn’t even greet Christian. It was sad—really sad—to see how no one cared that he was there and, although I was his official caretaker and the first person ever from his church family to visit his former home, only an uncle who married into the family asked how Christian was doing in his studies and life in general (and that was only out of polite conversation with me). Although they invited us to eat well, it was an awkward afternoon for both Christian and I. After seeing Christian’s family, the irreligious way they live, and the scummy way they treated him, I can say with a thankful breath of relief that it’s a very good thing he left home.

After the visit, we continued our cheery trip in Christian’s old neighborhood with a tour of Ycua, the place where five years ago burned to the ground a mega grocery-store. .The tragedy of the story is that store management, when faced with the prospect of thieves stealing in the chaos of a fire, ordered guards to lock all the entryways and exits, prohibiting anyone from leaving and securing the death of several hundred trapped inside. Whole families perished in what at the time was internationally reported as the worst super-market disaster ever. Five years later, the story haunts all of Paraguay as a cautionary tale against the worst of human greed and selfishness in the face of danger and disaster.

Today, only the outer walls of the supermarket still stand. Beneath and along the side the building , though, are hundreds of hallowed memorials recognizing those who perished in the fire along with long histories hung up recounting the survivors’ search for justice in the aftermath of the catastrophe. There was a place underneath too, in what used to be the parking garage, that held articles showing the force of the fire along with personal items of those who lost their lives. It all was a very moving memorial, where the ghosts of those who mercilessly died in the flames still haunted every small space. We were able to enter the shell-of-a-building in the late afternoon, when the now-twisted iron supports that once held up the roof looked in the fading sunlight like tortured rusty skeletons of ancient sea-snakes. We passed through what used to be customer bathrooms, and I could still see and touch with my fingers the soot on the tile walls from smoke that killed hundreds of innocent people. Feeling like the place merited some sign of recognition on part and not knowing what else to do, I drew a cross in the soot and said a prayer.

And now, some photos

And now, to move on from a post that for many of you may have been very awkward (but for me was very cathartic), some photos!



http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2114388&l=9d496&id=1407506

Dear Mom,

I’d like to take the time to publicly send you all my love today and to wish you all my best this Mother’s Day. I’m pretty sure everyone who reads this or knows anything about our family at all knows that we’ve passed through an unimaginably rough year in our now-very-public private lives. Most all of our family’s dirty laundry has been hung out on the line for all the neighbors and all the family and all the church to see, and it isn’t pretty. What made the humiliating spectacle even worse, though, is that at times I was the one spreading the dirt. I cursed you to your face, I screamed obscenities at home, and I spoke terrible things behind your back. I said that our relationship would never be the same, and I even imagined it would have been better if you had died. I did my best to heap up even more abuses and shame upon what was already a very publicly shameful situation. When all the other hypocrites were throwing rocks at you, I myself picked up the biggest stones and hurled them in self-righteous anger.

Throughout all my rage and betrayal, though, you constantly stayed my mom. When I wished you to leave home and drop off the planet, you said you still loved me. When I pleaded to God and you for a different and normal family, you said you’d always be there for me no matter how unnormal either of us ever got. When I rebelled, you showed me patience; when I threw a tantrum at things I couldn’t control, you again proved yourself the parent. With the very love of God you said to me and us all, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Through everything you were steadfastly my mom, steadfastly looked out for me, and steadfastly welcomed me back to be your son.

Please, mom, forgive me for the way I treated you. I love you, and I’m sorry to you and the world and to God for what happened. I miss you incredibly now that I’m a full hemisphere away, and I really dream about the day when I’ll see you again. I’ve cried many times thinking of you since I’ve been here, and I pray for you every day. Words can’t describe your faithful love and all the good service you’ve rendered to me. You’re my only mom: you always will be, too, no matter what, and your faithfulness to me this past year has proven that. For these reasons and so many more I publicly rise up and bless you today and give you thanks for all your love and forgiveness. I value our friendship more than you’ll ever know.

Sincerely,

Jason

Random Thoughts

Some random thoughts, not big enough to warrant a complete blog entry:

I was rudely woken up last night at hourly intervals by loud packs of barking dogs, and this morning when I left behind the protective innocence of my apartment I realized why: a bitch in heat was roaming through the neighborhood with a good half dozen hounds following her scent, and all the poor un-neutured dogs that were cruelly penned up inside fences just couldn’t bear the thought of being alone so they sang together in a great united chorus of sexual angst. I’ll never take the work of the SPCA and dog warden for granted again.

There’s nothing more beautiful or tasty than a freshly picked mandarin from the mandarin tree in your back yard. I ate two this morning after my morning run. I think I shall move to Florida some day.

I discovered recently there’s huge cheap avocadoes in Paraguay. Many people let the precious fruit fall to the ground to rot away without thinking about how special it is that they have avocadoes at all. Those who do eat avocadoes here eat them sweet, all mashed up with sugar. I’m convinced that if I continue much longer to take advantage of the bargain-priced oil-based fruits, I’m going to die by avocado.

For the first six months I was here, I heard huge flocks of what sounded to be seagulls flying overhead. How strange, I thought, that there should be seagulls in a completely landlocked, river-bound country. When I started to pay better attention, though, I realized that the flocks weren’t seagulls, but instead massive groups of very awkward parrots flalloping together in the wind. I’m pretty sure I heard one of them calling me a silly gringo, and I realized I was still in a very special tropical place.

Life is short, and so are Paraguayan funerals. The father and step-mother of my fellow English teacher at Adonai passed away in a terrible car accident this past week, and both were buried within about 24 hours of their respective deaths (while she died on-the-scene, he died the day after from wounds in the hospital). I was talking to another teacher—a firefighter/EMT who has visited the public morgue plenty of times—who told me they don’t use body-refrigerators here. The sad part of it all is that, because the funeral preparations and actual service went by so quickly, none of the teachers that I know of had the chance to go to the funeral or even offer their condolences. Oscar and Karen tried to go the morning of the internment, but found they were already an hour late. You might say a prayer for Prof. Monica and her family.

I saw a beautiful nun my age on the bus the other day. Although she was completely covered in a modest habit and big flowing dress, she wore very flattering sandal-like shoes. Appreciating her beauty and virginal innocence, I wondered if I had ever appreciated or even could appreciate the natural beauty of chastity and sanctity of a girl completely set apart for God without thinking sexual and lusty thoughts. I wasn’t lusting after her—after all, she was a nun-- but I wasn’t sure and I’m unsure now if I can unselfishly appreciate a girl’s natural beauty.

There are little red ants here about the size of a small matchtip that, like a match, pack quite a burn. There’s a pile of rocks in my backyard that sometimes I like to go digging into, and I always forget until it’s too late that this pile of rocks also has a pile of these pesky little ants. Before I know what’s happening, my bare hand or bare foot or perhaps both my bare hands and both my bare feet are covered in swarms of little stinging ants that, once they bite into you, can only be removed by squishing their tiny heads off. The poison in their peckers, though, leaves itchy pus-filled pocks all over, like the strange bastard children of a pimple who has had a continuing affair with a mosquito bite. Like the consequences of extra-marital affairs, too, the pocks last for way too long, refilling themselves as they do after being popped and itching to eternity.

Teacher and May Day

This past week has been one of celebration and holiday for Paraguayans and me. Yesterday we had the day off from school to celebrate Teacher’s Day, a national holiday break from school and scholarly endeavor to thank those special teachers in charge of our educational present and to call to memory and venerate those special teachers who have touched our already-formed past. Festivities started a day early in school on Tuesday with a special program presented by the children from preschool to high school. Some sang songs in English, others recited poetry in Guarani, but all had only nice things to say about their maestros. It was a beautiful program that once again brought to my very-recently very-discouraged mind the importance of my work here, the impact of teachers, and the grand significance of educational formation.

After the recital-style assembly and presentation for all the teachers, the students left for their individual classrooms to celebrate with their own teachers. The kids and their parents brought in every sort of treat and decoration just like when we had Halloween or Christmas parties at Seville Elementary School, with everything from frosted cakes to fried empanadas to giant bottles of soda to share on the important day. As an itinerant English teacher, I had the chance to visit every classroom that I wanted, dabbling in a piece of cake here and sipping on some soda there. By the end of the morning session, I was sick to my stomach full of so many cookies and sugar drinks and sandwichitos.

At the end of the day, though, my stomach wasn’t the only thing that was full. My bookbag, too, was packed to the brim with regalitos—little gifts—from all my students as a sign of their appreciation for who I am and what I do as a teacher. Among other things, I got a pair of black socks that say “America”, a little pink alarm clock, a purple marker, a nice Parker pen, a bookmark, a calculator, a thermos, and a guampa to drink maté. The day, a super one full of celebration and congratulatory hugs, ended with a beautiful dinner paid for by the school at a churrasqueria- a huge Paraguayan buffet where men with little bowties push around carts that serve the most beautiful and delicious meat in the whole world. Really, the meal was a dream-come-true with all-I-could-eat sausages and stuffed chickens and fancy noodles and fresh salads and ice cream. I took good advantage, and ended up contentedly rolling myself home with several more kilos on my person than before.

Today we’re left with just one more day to celebrate. In Paraguay, Cuba, and all the former Soviet States, May 1 means international workers’ day. Here, celebrating labor means another day off of work in the middle of the week to give credit to workers where their credit is due. Today is a rainy and miserable day outside, though, preventing the soccer tournament and clothes sale that had been planned at the church. And so, instead I sit at home writing and reflecting and sharing a bit about work and school and life in Paraguay. The work I’m doing here, although sometimes I feel like it doesn’t mean a darn thing, is important and that fact that I have work to do, and important character-forming work as teacher(for both the students and me), is a huge blessing for which I am incredibly thankful. God is so good to give me and the whole world useful, creative, and good things to do every day in our work; just as His own work in the whole world, too, always is and in all ways is useful, creative, and Good.

Time Flies

For those of you who with puppy dog eyes look several times each day at the calendar on your desk counting down the days, hours, and even minutes until I come home, have no fear: we’ve reached the half-way mark of my sojourn of service in Paraguay. Seven months have already quickly passed since I left, and Lord-willing seven more will pass before I return home to my own and really-beloved United States. Although it’s too early for me to get sentimental about leaving Paraguay, the day of my homecoming approacheth and the time of my teaching here flyeth by.

Thankfully and with many of God’s graces, so far everything has gone well for me. I haven’t missed anything of great import at home, but have gotten to learn a brand new culture and way of life far away from home. Sometimes I really dream about going home and giving huge, long hugs to my family and friends, but other times I realize that I’m living a dream here in Paraguay, too. Be that as it may, I’m confident that God is calling me back to the U.S. this upcoming December. Depending on whether I can work in Ohio or not, I may be there with my family or in DC with my university friends. Lord-willing I’ll return to university to study for a masters degree in some manner of theology in August or September 2009. After that, who knows? Marriage? A job? A vocation? I’ve got a lot to discern. Every day I’m learning that I’ve got to trust in God for everything I am and everything I have; the day-to-day and long-term plans are all in His hands.

The Political Process and Election Day

The Political Process:

Although the political process has recently culminated with the national elections, I’ve been witness to the political process since the first day I arrived. At that time seven months ago, already there was plenty of infighting among the parties themselves to establish their candidates through the primary elections. Political posters lined the walls of unkempt buildings and hastily but well-hand-painted murals allured voters to support those candidates who could print and glue up the most paper or empty the most gallons of paint in the race. This tendency continued throughout the generals elections: as old posters got wet or torn down, new ones were pasted up, and when the rugrats representing one party graffitied the mural of another, it was fixed again and painted over many times. For months the city was awash in a sea of red, blue, and green, painted or plastered tit-for-tat political advertising and bickering.

The general population, too, represented well this sea of opinion and political fighting. I think many Paraguayans like the elections because it means they’ll get a crummy new t-shirt or cardboard hat free of cost. Nearly every street vendor or walking homeless person, and in fact many street vendors who are probably walking homeless people, too, wore new bright white t-shirts that supported the major candidates. They weren’t nice well-knit t-shirts, by any means, but instead the single-stringed white variety a normal person would wear as an undershirt. Although they were poor quality, however, their message was loud and clear for one party or for another and those who wore them seemed content enough to have some new strings.

As an American witnessing new democracy in action, the funniest aspect of the political campaign was seeing the party cars that drove down side the small side streets and through the large avenues that blared party music. Each candidate had a prerecorded message championing their candidacy along with a bite-sized jingle. Lugo, for example, had a song called “Lugo Tiene Corazon” or “Lugo Has Heart” that I can sing for you when I get back. These travelling propagandizers blared their songs and made their political promises seemingly at all hours of the day, hoping to win the votes of la gente with the big-old speakers and unforgettable speals.

Election Day

It’s already been almost an entire week since election day, and the shock of the elections still hasn’t worn off. Before I go into results, though, I’ll describe the day itself. The elections were held last Sunday, April 19th, all across Paraguay in a sort of quasi-national holiday. The Paraguayan government prohibits the sale of alcohol on election day along with the meetings of any social or religious groups, so the mundanos, or those from the world, couldn’t drink on the day and los cristianos couldn’t go to church. Our own meeting at the Apostolic Christian Church was, along with others across the country, was cancelled so that people could claim no excuse not to vote. Nationwide the method apparently worked, because nearly two-thirds of eligible voters turned out in the election.

Election day itself was, thankfully, quiet and peaceful. Vans, buses, and other vehicles that the political parties sponsored slowly and methodically canvassed neighborhoods to carry their own party faithful to the voting booths. Some parties even reimbursed cross-country bus tickets so that those who had moved far away from their registered voting locale could return home to support their party in the election (think of the Republican Party buying me a plane ticket from DC so that I could go home to vote for them in Ohio! What an idea…) Needless to say, many people from church took advantage of the free trip to go home to San Pedro on the other side of the country and vote.

When the final results were tallied up, the former bishop of San Pedro, Fernando :Lugo, was declared the winner of the presidential election with around 42 percent of the vote. Thankfully, the elections were quick, clean, clear, and cut sharply. Lugo’s win is historic, ending the longest-running national political machine in world history; after 61 years in power, a former man of the cloth has dethroned the ruling and firmly-established Colorado party from executive power. This win represents real change for Paraguay, and the upcoming months will see an unprecedented transition of democratically-elected power in this developing nation. Although many disagree with Lugo as a bishop running for office or think of him as a seedy tool of the left, there’s no doubt that he will breath a breath fresh air into the Paragauyan government when he takes office in August. I had the chance to visit downtown last Monday, the day after the elections, and it seemed as if the entire city had a new spirit about it. The corruption of the Colorado had finally been purged, and the city felt like it was breathing new life for the first time in decades.

For an interesting discussion of Lugo’s now in-limbo position of authority as a Catholic bishop, check out this Catholic canon lawyer´s commentary and insight ­­­­. The steps that the Roman Catholic Church now takes to deal with Lugo’s situation will reveal much about the Church itself, and will no doubt have a huge impact on Paraguay, whose current president-elect is a former/still sort of bishop.

The Issues

The Issues:

Now that I’ve covered the three major candidates, I’ll move on to talk a bit about the main issues in Paraguayan politics. In the social realm, debates over abortion and gay rights are uncontroversial because of Paraguay’s conservative culture just like questions of environmental stewardship and foreign warmongering are dead on the spot because of Paraguay’s poverty. Even without these core issues that consume American politics, however, Paraguayans still find plenty to argue about and plenty of things over which to form many unique party platforms.

Security and Order
As I’ve already mentioned, the drastic changes in national and local security resulting from the power vacuum after the fall of the dictatorship have had a huge impact on Paraguay. For a nation accustomed over several decades to exacting law enforcement and firm authority, the current lack of security appears to be a blatant lack of government intervention and help. On a national scale, the problems are immense. In the north of the country, multi-millionaire thugs hire private armies to protect their drug-growing and drug-exporting estates in blatant defiance of the government’s drug laws. In the east of the country, a thriving black market of drugs and arms and every other international vice thrives because of government ineffectiveness and corruption. On the local level, too, it’s every man for himself in Paraguay. If you’re walking around at night, you can expect to get mugged. If you leave your house open, you can expect to get robbed. For that reason, no one is out on the streets after seven or eight at night and everyone keeps everything locked up all the time. Under the dictatorship, if your neighbor’s chicken laid an egg on your doorstep you returned the egg politely. Today, however, you can’t let your chickens loose without being afraid someone will steal them. People want their chickens to go free, though, and from the opinions I’ve gathered from many folks I’ve talked to, would pay the price of keeping quiet under another dictatorship to see it happen.

Itapu
Some thirty years ago under the order of the Stroessner dictatorship, Paraguay partnered with Brazil to build the Itapu Dam, until very recently the largest power-generating dam in the world. Because the project was funded by Brazil, Brazil called and continues to call all the shots in the management of the Paraguayan dam project. Paraguay, in turn, has continually gotten screwed by the deal; first because of al the Paraguayan land taken away by the flooding of the dam, and now by Brazil’s continued exploitation of the dam’s energy (all of Paraguay’s energy needs can be covered by only one and a half of the nearly dozen and a half power-producing turbines, so the rest of the energy goes at bare-minimum cost to Brazil).

Throughout the years since the completion of the dam, the Paraguayan government has come up with all sorts of failed plans to gain more control over the dam, making all sorts of unfulfilled half-promises along the way that have only managed to demonstrate more and more through the years the government’s complete ineffectiveness. What makes matters worse is that, while the dam could cover electricity nearly free of cost for all of Paraguay, the cost of electricity for normal Paraguayans is still very high. Thus, the ineffectiveness of the government in dealing with the Itapu project and the still-high cost of energy give many Paraguayans good reason to believe that the government is very corrupt with much of the money generated from the dam going into the private bank accounts of high-ranking officials. The project stinks with corruption, and the Paraguayan people are tiring of the decades-old smell.

Health Care
If I were Paraguayan, I certainly would never complain about the costs of health care in Paraguay. A visit to the doctor only costs about five dollars, and two cavities can be filled in by a dentist for about forty dollars. Worries about the rising costs of health care and sky-rocketing health insurance bills seem to me a world away in a place where monthly coverage costs about ten dollars. Still, though, I’m only an American who’s living in Paraguay; for the average Paraguayan health care is an important and costly necessity of life, sinking budgets and worrying families to no end. Thus, one of the political issues in Paraguay is health care. Paraguay’s next-door neighbor, Argentina, offers universal health care for all her citizens. I’m not sure how effective Argentina’s system is, but Paraguayans seem to idolize it as a utopian system where everyone’s health needs are taken care of by the government. This ideal, when coupled with the ineptitude of the Paraguayan government to provide the goods for really any one, makes health care an important and pertinent political issue.

Jobs and the Economy
Paraguay is a nation of immense possibility. The facts that the land is rich, the climate is useful for productivity, and the geographic location is next to Argentina and Brazil, the two largest consumer markets in South America, offer countless occasions for economic growth and achievement. One only needs to look at the model of success in Mennonite cooperatives and farms to realize to the immense economic possibilities in Paraguay. The reality, however, is that for many Paraguayans work is no sure thing. Living day to day means scraping by without any faithful work or means of providing for basic necessities. In our congregation of under one hundred members, for example, there are now at least a dozen able men (some with large families) who don’t have steady incomes. Even for those in good health and good mind, it is often difficult to find reliable work. Pay is low, the minimum wage laws are unenforced, and those that can find work are easily taken advantage of. The lack of jobs and stagnant Paraguayan economy is, to say the least, one of the greatest needs in this country and one of the political issues that touches many Paraguayan very closely.

Corruption
Corruption, finally and unequivocally, is the most serious issue facing the Paraguayan political system. The establishment has been established so long that its structures and systems have nearly rotted completely through, with nearly every Colorado statesman or stateswoman accused of everything from bribery to stealing government monies to drug trafficking. What makes things even worse is that the very system allows such crimes and abuses to go on abated, since it’s illegal in Paraguay to convict any member of the national Congress of a crime while in office. Thus, while the poorest of the poor go on struggling to make ends meet, the richest of the rich and those with connections in political power continue on without end stealing government money and taking part in underhanded government deals and even drug trafficking. For these reasons and so many more, the Paraguayan political system is in need of a lot of redemption.

Politickin´in Paraguay

As a former government major and current political junky, I’d be completely amiss to pass an entire year in Paraguay— a year, coincidentally, that will see the first national presidential elections in five years—without ever talking once about the current political situation. And so, in honor of the national political elections that will take place tomorrow, I’ll go through a summary of the current Paraguayan political situation, the major candidates in the election tomorrow, what are the major concerns and voter issues (hint: abortion is not one of them. In a nearly all-Catholic country, el aborto remains, blessedly and wonderfully, a non-issue in the hearts and minds of the people), and what democracy looks like in a developing country. I’m doing my best to surmise and summarize everything I’ve seen, heard, and learned from the papers, people, and culture, so I cannot pretend to be authoritative in fact or unbiased in opinion. It’s long and might bore you if you don’t like politics, political philosophy, theology, or other cultures.

On the Ground: The Paraguayan Political Situation

First, a quick political primer on Paraguayan politics: The nation was governed up until 1989 by the second-longest running dictatorship in world history under a certain General Alfredo Stroessner. His was the brand of authoritarianism that people didn’t mess around with: you vote for the other guy, you go to jail; you protest, you end up missing; you do something wrong, there’s a swift and terrible recompense. After the dictatorship fell, the leftovers of the general’s Colorado political party remained in national and presidential power without any of the difficulties or obligations of formal tyranny. So-called free democracy took the place of the well-committed despotism, and Paraguayan society “opened up” to all the bad elements of a society completely bereft of traditional authority. Because criminals no longer get shot for stealing the first time, there is a lot more stealing today and everyone has built high fences around their homes. Because prostitutes are no longer hidden away in the dungeon for selling themselves, you can buy one openly on the street for the price of a good cup of coffee.

Although the strict rule of law and conservative society under the dictatorship has come to an abrupt end, the basically one-party self-feeding rule of the Colorado Party and blatant simony of the connections-based political system has continued without flinching. Your position in the government is not based on your skill or talent, but rather on the person you know and how you know them. To the victor belong the fiscal and political spoils in every election and level of government, and on the national level nearly every executive victor is Colorado. There’s a lot of support, too, for this deeply established “democratic” system. Those in all varieties of public jobs depend on the Colorado party for their positions, so public school teachers, police officers, and nearly every other government official is eager to and must, if they like their work, vote Colorado. It was no surprise for me to see one of the sisters in our church with a relatively good job as a school principal campaigning openly in the street for the Colorado party. Her job and livelihood depend in large measure on who wins the election and how good a supporter of the party she is in the process.

The Candidates:

Blanca, Te Quiero!!
The Colorado Party’s main candidate for this round of national elections is Blanca Ovelar, a former minister of Education and well-grounded party insider. Having coming through the fire of an intense and bitter inner-Colorado primary, she is the establishment’s own and current president’s hand-picked successor to lead the nation. Although a novelty for Paraguay as the nation’s first female candidate for president, Ovelar represents the “man” of the powers that be in one-party Colorado rule.

Lugo: the Bishop with Many Demons
The main opposition to Ovelar and the Colorados comes from the PLRA, a mixed bag of politico nuts that have come together to fight the Colorado candidates. At the PLRA’s head and the liberal party’s national candidate for president is Fernando Lugo, the former Catholic Bishop of San Pedro. So far, I’ve had a very difficult time of discerning the facts from the fictions about Lugo. Since so many members of our evangelical church in Asuncion originally come from San Pedro, they claim to be very well-informed about the bishop, and, because of their insider information, have very definite negative opinions of him. I’ve heard from them among other things that Lugo is an international drug trafficker (we can show you where is his marijuana-growing church compound and estate), is personally responsible for the deaths of many connected to his cruel drug ring (we saw the trail of blood that led straight to the bishop’s mansion after a former chauffer who accidentally found a suitcase of the bishop’s crack cocaine was murdered and his body dragged away), maintains a harem of mistresses (we know one of the poor girls who escaped from his evil grasp), and even made a pact with the devil and other international leaders on a trip he made to Voo-dooville in Brazil (well, we weren’t actually there, but we heard about it, at least).

In real life, though, Lugo’s dual position as a former bishop and current presidential candidate, when taken together with the way he has been speaking and politicking in his campaign, represent something very, very, dangerous for Paraguay and for Paraguayan Christians both evangelical and Catholic. First, Lugo’s thinking and actions in regards to the Faith can only be seen as a perversion of true Christianity. As a bishop and theologian, he has embodied in the past and even now especially stands for a very precariously-founded and historically unchristian form of liberation theology that seeks to realize the Kingdom of God through political processes in the kingdom of man. This is the sort of theology, born in South America and other developing regions as a reaction from brutal colonial oppression traditionally and shamefully partnered with the established church authorities, that calls for social revolution and political change in the name of opposing radical Christian faith. Liberation theologians say that Jesus was a man of political change whose goal was to bring about justice for the poor and to bring power to the weak on earth, that God’s general goal in the world is to establish a nearly-Marxist equality of persons under just political authority, and that as followers of God through Jesus Christ we must do all we can to bring about that reality. Thus, in a Paraguayan context, liberation theology would say that good Christian voters and revolutionaries must upset and bring to an end the abuses and injustices of the all-powerful Colorado party, establishing through whatever means necessary more just and more equalizing social and socialistic political structures. And so, through his own presidential campaign, Lugo hopes to bring about this real justice and real dramatic change to the corrupted Paraguayan government.

On the surface, Lugo’s dream doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea. After all, the current political establishment here in Paraguay is unjustly corrupted by the rich who take advantage of the poor and, as Christians, we serve a God of justice Who has an incredibly large heart for the needs of the poor. Why shouldn’t we support and take part in social change that promises justice and equality? The problem, though, is that the social changes that Lugo and liberation theology champion to solve humanity’s political problems are only surface-deep. They only touch the things that can be seen in outward politics, government structures, and the tangible state of affairs. The real problem with humanity and all political structures and institutions is not, however in the structures and authorities as Lugo would say. Instead, these troubles are the direct and universal result of our first parents’ original sin, and the real problem of corruption and injustice lies within the sinful heart of every human being. Hence, the real answer to the quandary of sin is not in political campaigns or revolutions or changes of governments, but rather in God’s saving graces through Jesus Christ alone. Only the work of the Holy Spirit can change hearts of government officials from greediness and abuse to service and care, and only the work of an almighty God in an individual life can bring about the call to true justice and divine standard of conduct with others. Worldly and broken political processes and institutions will always be just that: worldly and broken. Only the pure good news of Christian faith and hope in the Gospel of Jesus Christ can give heavenly purposes and heal the tendencies toward injustice in all human hearts.

Lugo, however, doesn’t represent this Gospel of Jesus Christ. He has turned to man’s gospel, trading the good news of spiritual liberation in Christ though the Church for a perverted faith in human politicking and the always-fallible realm of political institutions. What is worse and even more condemnable is that Lugo has used his position of spiritual authority as a former bishop in the Catholic Church for his own purposes in search of political authority and power. He has twisted his God-given Christian ordination into something very ugly to garner the temporal support of the easily-influenced masses. He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, preaching a false gospel of political change devoid of hope apart from the true Gospel of repentance from sin in Jesus Christ. Thankfully and rightfully, the Catholic Church has recognized this and has suspended Lugo’s rights and responsibilities as bishop and priest. The Vatican has installed a new bishop in Lugo’s place in San Pedro, distancing itself from Lugo and from his blighted forms of thinking. In the process, the Catholic Church preserves the Gospel of Faith in Jesus Christ from being polluted by the all too-temporal and all too-human political social movements that Lugo represents. In the end Lugo and all revolutionary social movements will come to an end, but the news of salvation through Christ will remain forever.

Apart from his dangerous and heretical theology that twists beautiful and simple Christian faith into a human system of social change and politics, Lugo’s blasting rhetoric and appeal to far-left populism also show him to be a very dangerous presidential candidate for Paraguay. He has aligned himself with the likes of Hugo Chavez, the off-the-edge Venezuelan loudmouthed president and ally of Cuba and Iran, by promising a fiercely patriotic and self-focused Paraguayan government to the exclusion of friendly relationship with the United States, the gentle giant of a country to the north. No, Lugo is definitely no friend of America as he spouts off fierce but tired jingoistic rhetoric. If elected, Lugo would put himself and all of Paraguay in political and cultural peril outside the good graces and influences of North American values and helps.

Lino: Crotchety but Firm
The third major candidate is Lino Olviedo, a former military general who managed to get himself into a pile of trouble in the aftermath of the Stroessner dictatorship. Throughout much of the 90s and early 2000s he was confined to prison for being accused of plotting a military junta against the established democratic government, but recently he was released to plot and carry out his own and now legal political junta in the elections. Although popular among the people and especially the military for his role in the 1989 ouster of Stroessner, Olviedo represents an old-era style of Paraguayan leadership that promises to bring back authority and the order of law to the now-disordered democratic nation. The youth especially despise him because they think he will bring back nine-o’clock curfews to clear the late-night streets of vagabond kids. Last week I saw a group of folks campaigning for Olviedo and not one was under the age of sixty. Thus, I’m pretty sure Olviedo is like your crotchety old neighbor who waved his cane and yelled at you for walking on his grass when you were little: although loud and annoying and demanding you respect him, he isn’t going anywhere and can’t really do anything.

Playing Dad

I only recently turned 23, but in a couple weeks my son will already be 16 years old. You might wonder at such a strange curiosity— a father, that is, who is only seven years older than his very own child! I’m sure you’re wondering even now what accident of nature or miracle of science or manner of perversion could have been the cause of such an extraordinary family circumstance. In reality, though, my fatherhood was thrust upon me quite recently, quite dramatically, and quite unexpectedly here in Paraguay. In contrast to what you may be thinking, though, I certainly did not have a South American love affair with an Asuncion bell some fifteen years ago, and my long-lost and long-illegitimate Mestizo child born from a childhood tryst definitely has not recently surfaced to claim me as his own Gringo papa.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I don’t share even a drop of the same blood with my son, as he doesn’t look a spot like me. He doesn’t carry a hint of the icy sky-grey color in my eyes, the sensitive and easily-irritated pink color on my skin, the pointed slenderness of my nose, or even the trademark spare tire that I and many other Steidls I know grudgingly wear on our midsections. No, he looks much different than a Steidl. His eyes are as black as the pure coffee I used to drink in the mornings, his skin is as brown and smooth as a polished coconut, his nose is short, stout, and looks slightly squashed on its end, and, if these signs aren’t good enough to prove he isn’t my biological son, the definition of his stomach muscles prove that his ancestors’ people lived very different lifestyles from my own (with far less strudel to eat, perhaps).

No, he definitely isn’t my biological son. The real story is this: Christian left his terribly abusive home several years ago in search of a better life on the street. Here in Paraguay, that means his life at home was unbearably rotten to make him search for better by begging and scrounging on the street. When we were telling ghost stories around a bonfire a couple months ago, all the guys asked Christian to add to the repertoire by recounting the things he’s seen and lived through. Thankfully and miraculously, though, Christian’s real-life scary story came to an end a few years ago. After some time on the street he got connected with a Presbyterian church, got saved, and eventually wound up with good stable work in the auto upholstery shop of a lady who attended the Apostolic Church. Through her and another friend’s influence, he got connected to the AC church, became a member last year, and since that time has received a scholarship to attend Colegio Privado Adonai and finish up his four last years of high school.

The entire church has adopted Christian as its own, too, providing for his physical, emotional, and spiritual needs in many varied ways through many different families. Some give him lunch every day, others help him with homework, and still others pay for the little things that other children’s parents would normally cover. Every parent corrects him when he needs it, and every one watches to make sure he makes it church for every meeting. Right now, he’s living with me in the missionary house to keep me company and give him a sure place to stay, so I’m the closest thing he has and perhaps ever has had to a dad. I feed him breakfast and dinner everyday, keep the roof over his head, make him wash the dishes and clean the bathroom sometimes, and even give him a good lecture when he needs it. Although he’s incredibly mature for his age because of his tough life experiences, he’s still a young guy at heart and in need of a lot of guidance and mentorship.

If you think of it, you might pray for Christian and me. I have no idea what he needs by way of love or authority or friendship or security or whatever else. I still feel like an adolescent myself, and I’m basically in charge of one who comes from a totally different culture and with a totally troubled past. I’d trust him with my life and we are very open as we share together, but I’m totally clueless as an adopted dad. We’re both in need of a lot of grace together as we learn how to get along as a very dysfunctional and untraditional family. Please pray also for Christian’s future and his time in the church after I leave at the end of this year. There’s a lot of other amazing people who take good care of him, so he definitely won’t be alone or out on the street as long as there’s a church, but he also definitely needs stability and someone to invest in him long-term.

Another American Part of Me Dies

I said I’d never do it. I’m an American, doggonit-- I’d never even go near that green maté tea stuff that all the Paraguayans drink in the morning. I may do everything else strange and uncomfortable to fit into Paraguayan culture and be a good missionary, but I need coffee when I wake up: coffee that’s rugged and bold and full of life-giving caffeine, the sort of drink that puts hair on chests and makes mighty nations tremble before its awesome power. As an apt student well-trained in American history, I know that both George Washington and George Bush drink coffee every morning, and everyone knows that they are tall and handsome and intelligent and, although I can’t confirm it, I can imagine they have hairy chests, too, because of their black American coffee. I think I even heard once that coffee is the reason why the Americans won the Revolutionary War. While the Brittons were sipping on their dainty tea and nibbling on their sissy crumpets, the manly rebels were able to sneak in and beat them to the ground because they had guzzled down several tankards of coffee along with their hearty morning meals of bacon, egg, and cheese McMuffins.


All of my American cultural knowledge about coffee, though, is now weighing heavily on me as I’ve decided to start drinking Paraguayan maté in the mornings. Although I feel like a rebel against my own upbringing and culture and everything good that I have as an American man, I also feel like I can’t stop or even slow down this conversion to drinking maté. The weather, you see, has finally changed to falltime, so there’s now a distinct South American chill in the early-morning air. It’s this new Paraguayan chill, a chill that makes my feet go cold and my nose go runny and the air on my bare skin feel like a thousand sharp needles, that’s calling me to a distinctly Paraguayan remedy of hot maté. This maté is potent and long-lasting in its ritualistic fight against the chill, offering my hands hours of precious heat-giving movement as I pour the hot water from the thermos into steamy draws of only a couple sips each.


And so, after today, you’ll be able to see me carrying around a thermos full of hot water for maté in the mornings, instead of the coffee you might assume an American man should have. I’ll no longer have an industrial-black glazed porcelain mug in hand, either, but instead an organic wooden guampa, the short and stout gourd-looking cup that holds the yerba (the Paraguayan tea-like leaves) from which is sipped through a metal straw the delicious and comforting maté. I may be taking another step away from my own American culture and good upbringing, but it’s a step that brings me a little closer to the Paraguayan way-of life and a step that carries me to a warmer, happier, and more content place in the cold morning.


In all of this talk about identity and national pride and contentment, though, there is one thing I must confess. Even if I weren’t in Paraguay, I probably would have given up on coffee in favor of maté anyways. I’ve been drinking the hearty American black stuff for ten years now, and the chest hair is still yet to come. It’s definitely time to try a new strategy.

Encarnacion Exploration, Part 2

Shortly after arriving, I got a hotel close to the bus terminal and splurged an extra five dollars for a room with air conditioning and cable (the first of both luxuries, I can proudly say, I had had in six months). I wasn’t disappointed by the extra commodities, either, as the air conditioning ran at a constant and frigid rate throughout the night and the cable had CNN in Spanish along with some of my favorite American cartoons translated.

In the morning I boarded a bus which, on its way to another big city, would pass directly by the ruins. My ride, as one of those extra passengers without a seat that I disliked so much from the day before, was a quick forty five minutes before I got off at a deserted stop with signs pointing to the ruins of two different Jesuit missions at Jesus and Trinidad. Although at first glance the stop looked empty, a second bus waited beyond one corner to take me the extra ten miles to the town of Jesus. This bus line, leaving when it was full, passed its entire trip on an unpaved road a maximum of once every two hours. After passing through the quiet but dusty Paraguayan village called Jesus’ town, the conductor let me off at the end of its route where a fence for the Jesuit ruins marked the boundary of the historical site. I walked an extra two blocks to the entrance, where for a dollar fee I was granted admission and, upon request for a tour brochure explaining the site, was given a pamphlet on the broader industry of Paraguayan tourism.

Although information on the Jesuit ruins was unimpressive, the architecture that remained of the mission town was anything but. The main attraction was the huge earthy basilica, three stories high and partially reconstructed from the deep-rust colored stones originally cut and carried from miles around, which stood firmly planted on a plateau like some medieval fortress. Outside the church walls, the stone architecture still bore Christian imagery carved by people converted from distinctly unchristian ways of life. Inside the church, the emerald-green grass spread like a fine carpet over the sanctuary, and the now-truncated pillars that originally supported the rafters seemed to be like so many well-ordered altars. At the head of the church stood the artificially-supported stone of the original altar, which undoubtedly witnessed so many thousands of masses and so many thousands more of natives coming to share at the table of Christian Truth and Faith.

I was able to pass all over the sight without any boundaries and without the company of any other tourists. The place was completely quiet and empty, as if the spirits of the Jesuits and natives long passed on still guarded and protected the town as a sacred and secret space. The only other people I saw, except for all those ghosts that I easily imagined were still worshipping, learning, selling, and socializing in the ruins of the church, school, marketplace, and plaza, were some living Paraguayans cutting the massive fields of grass with tiny gas lawnmowers. With their broad hats and Paraguayan style of clothing, though, it wasn’t too difficult for me to imagine them as some of the original inhabitants. I explored and imagined with great reverence and delight, even climbing the thirty-foot bell tower to see all the ruins together with the Paraguayan countryside spread out before me like so many panoramic photos in National Geographic. There, all I could hear was the wind, which seemed to whisper in my ear of forgotten times and histories and peoples and faiths.

After my two hours of imagination and exploration ended, I caught the bus’s next round out of the village and, after it let me off, walked a bit further to the other ruins at Trinidad. There, I spoke with the gal in charge of the site who I imagined was an idealistic and eccentric student of Paraguayan history, but who was in reality an unassuming college-age youth sipping terreré with her two friends on a hot country day. I asked her about the Jesuit missions, and what her opinion of them was. In Lamabaré, I had talked with many people—both Protestants and Catholics—who told me that the Jesuits organized the missions to exploit natives and steal gold to send to Rome. I wanted to know the truth, which I was willing to equate with her own opinion of the Jesuits, because I figured that the gatekeeper of the missions would be the best person to know.

I was surprised and pleased when the history she told me was much different than what I had heard. These huge and productive missions were no exploitative slave plantations as some imagine and slander, she recounted, but instead self-governing and self-supporting communities of natives under the guidance of only a couple Jesuits. These missions really did help the Indians and actually brought the indigenous peoples many good things. Although when I watched The Mission with some of my future-Jesuit friends at Georgetown I thought the Hollywood production idealized too much of the Jesuit-organized native communities, this gal told me that the movie was pretty accurate and that the towns really did work well for everyone’s benefit.

Many of these social goods that the villages provided, manifested in the architecture of a well-to-do culture and the adornments of a Christian lifestyle, could still clearly be seen in the ruins of both Jesuit towns. Although I thought the first ruins I saw were mighty impressive, the ruins in Trinidad were even more extensive and long-standing than those in Jesus. European-style sculptures in the church adorned everything from the statues and baptistery in back to the altar and preaching-stand up front. The bell tower, a complete structure separate from the church, still stood tall and proud watching over all the many Roman-style arches and porticoes of ruins surrounding it.

I left Trinidad in the middle of the afternoon as the sun began to burn through my two applications of sun screen and my lowly hat lost all its good function in the brightness of the blinding light. After buying a souvenir hand-cut stone representation of the Bell tower pencil-holder for only two dollars, I boarded a bus back to Ecarnación where I once again left for Asunción. After a long day of sight-seeing, learning, and imagining, I was tired to the bone and ready to rest. As the bus’s gentle swaying rocked me into a steady and sound sleep, though, I had one more opportunity to pass through the extraordinary Jesuit villages. This time in my dreams, however, I was actually able to see and hear and to touch and smell the bustling eighteenth-century society; to meet and converse with so many dedicated priests whose Holy-Spirit inspired work brought the teachings of the church to a new continent; and to marvel first-hand at the wonder of an entire native people group recently and miraculously converted to Christ.

Encarnacion Exploration, Part 1

Tuesday morning of Holy Week I left for Ecarnación, a cosmopolitan city by Paraguayan standards located a drive that ought to be only about five and half hours away from Asunción. The reason I say that the drive ought to be only five and a half hours, though, is because it took us nearly seven and a half hours to get there. Paraguayan bus companies refuse to leave the terminal until every vacant seat has been filled and then, after they leave for the destination city, they pick up every other person along the way who wants to travel. These unfortunate passengers have the bad luck of standing the entire trip, but I’m certain it’s a well-deserved form of karma punishing them for lost time on the trip.

Be that as it may, the bus to Ecarnación at one point had nearly two and a half dozen extra people crammed into the isle. One family, a group of ten indigenous tribesfolk who boarded the bus without seats, stood out particularly to me. Their skin was a dark but brilliant bronze, their cheek bones stuck out like knucklebones, and their hair was equally black and bowl-cut (except for the oldest son, who had a mullet). Paraguayans generally make fun of these sorts of people by saying that they appear so indigenous that they’re only missing the traditional feathers of native tribespeople to complete the look. The grandma among the bunch, though, really was so indigenous that she even carried around the feathers, for luck.

I normally wouldn’t notice the family, but the grandma, who wore a colorful patterned skirt along with a holey t-shirt through which you could see her bare chest indistinguishable from her bare belly, didn’t have a seat. She made it all the way to the back of the bus where I was, too, without anyone offering her their seat as is the respectful Paraguayan custom. Being the culturally-savvy and Christian traveler that I am, though, I offered this dear old Indian woman my seat and stood up with her many children and grandchildren. After a long while some seats cleared and I was able to sit next to my Indian grandma. She tried speaking to me in Guaraní, the national native Paraguayan tongue, but I had no idea what she was saying. Still, she seemed content to talk to me as long as I shook my head and feigned understanding. At one point, a Coke vendor boarded the bus selling drinks to the thirsty travelers. The native grandma tried to give him her lucky feathers in exchange for a cold Coke, but he laughed and refused.

The bus continued on its interminable ride all day long through the unending Paraguayan countryside, full of ranches and estates and tens of thousands of cows grazing on the grassy plains. The land reminded me of old westerns I’ve seen, and at one point I thought I even recognized the ranch from the show Ponderosa. It was beautiful and open and free, though, and real farm country, too, like there is in western Ohio with big tractors and impressive combines and every other sort of farm implement. I saw real cowboys rounding up a herd of cows, along with every other imaginable form of frontier living.

Around five-thirty in the afternoon we finally arrived to Ecarnación. My purpose for the trip wasn’t to meet an indigenous grandma or see the Paraguayan prairie, though, but instead to visit the Jesuit ruins, about the only must-see thing in Paraguayan guidebooks and an officially-declared United Nations World Heritage Site. Located thirty kilometers outside of Ecarnación, the ruins are the remnants of a great missionized society that the Jesuits organized in the 17th and 18th centuries. Here, the Pope’s priests brought together tens of thousands of native Americans into quasi-European social structures and ways of life. The towns were hugely productive and hugely beneficial to the tribespeople, giving them Western society and Christian values and a share in productive work. A 1986 movie starring Robert Dinero­­, The Mission, offers a unique perspective into the stories of these missions and their ways of life. As the movie also shows, however, the Jesuit project was eventually shut down because the great power held by the Jesuits became a threat to the established imperial governments and the latter’s wanton appetites for colonial exploitation of the native populations.

A ¨Mary¨Time

Monday I continued my grand tour of Paraguay and visited Caácupe, the center of Paraguayan Catholicism and the place where stand both the country’s most famous basilica and the most-venerated statue of Mary, the Virgin of Caácupe. Every year on December 8^th, the Catholic feast celebrating the Immaculate Conception (Mary’s, that is) brings several tens of thousands of the devoted to Caácupe on a pilgrimage by foot. They end up in droves at the basilica, where they ask Mary for all sorts of things and petition her for all varieties of favors to be granted. The town is an important place to understand Paraguayan Catholicism, and, in effect, to understand most of Paragauyan culture, too.

The Monday that I visited, Caácupe was a quiet and simple town in the hilly countryside. The sun shone brightly and the sky was crystal blue, but plenty of green trees provided shade as the bus passed through the hills. The ride took about two hours, but I enjoyed getting out of the city a little bit and seeing the campo. The basilica and surrounding town itself is located on a large hill, so the church’s huge globe-of-a-dome can be seen from miles around. I disembarked right in front of the basilica, and proceeded to scope out the area.

The first thing I noticed surrounding the plaza of the church were the dozens and dozens of santerias, stores selling images and statues of the saints along with all varieties of rosaries, holy bracelets, and Virgin of Caácupe souvenirs. There were even blue plastic water bottles, Aunt Jemina-style, in the form of the Virgin for about $8 a pop. It all reminded me of the scene in the movie Luther, where the famed reformer is sickened by the outrageous sales of religious articles and the vendors who take advantage of unprudent religious fervor. My reaction wasn’t so strong as Martin Luther’s, but I could see that the shopkeepers definitely made a good business off of the pilgrims who come to see the famed statue of Mary.

One thing I did find revolting in Caácupe, however, was the sale of pornography in booths right next to the santerias. In a town where every penny is made by remembering a holy virgin and her purity of life, there was filth and pornographic trash sold side by side with images of Jesus, Mary, and the saints. It made me sick to see how great a fall from its original Christian ideals Paraguay has taken, and how hollow indeed a society’s faith can be to allow such promiscuity to exist right next to and even intermingled with things considered so holy.

I realized too, though, that I’d be a huge hypocrite to say that Paraguayans are the only ones with this problem. After seeing the way good and evil coexisted so easily and so blatantly side by side in the shops of Caácupe, I was convicted that I, too, so often tolerate inner and disgusting sin in my life alongside all the good and outward Christian things. The Apostle James’s poignant question was pointed at me and Paraguay both—“Does a spring pour forth from the same opening both fresh and salt water? Can a fig tree, my brothers, bear olives, or a grapevine produce figs?” The answer, of course, is that “Neither can a salt pond yield fresh water.” Good doesn’t come from evil, and evil doesn’t come from good, and they should not and cannot exist together in either Caácupe or my own life.

After walking around town and thinking about these things for a while, I finally entered the bright white basilica, which looks like an extraterrestrial colony set among the natural green and red hues of the city streets and parks. Inside, the walls were painted with an equally intense shade of white, but brilliant colors poured through the beautifully-stained glass windows. I was taken back by the simplicity of the basilica: I had expected to find a complex and gothic church with images of saints and the smells of incense and burning novenas everywhere, but I found a puritanical whitewashed sanctuary with strict benches and signs that prohibited lighting candles. At first, the only thing that told me for sure I was in a Catholic basilica was the papal banner hanging on one side of the altar up front.

Proceeding forward, I gingerly stepped through the church not wanting to disrupt anyone’s prayer or to look too much like a tourist with my camera in hand. As my eyes focused on the area beyond the altar, though, I could plainly see the famous Virgin of Caácupe. She stood on top of a little globe and wore a fancy crown and blue-spangled gown, representing her place in Catholic belief as the queen of saints in heaven and of the living church on Earth. Her hair was light auburn and curly, and her skin a very pale white. Set as the object of veneration among a nearly homogenous Paraguayan people with black hair and darker skin, she seemed very out of place and looked like a cheap European imported representation of the Mother of God. I was disappointed to see that the idea of beauty for Paraguayans, as represented by the Virgin of Caácupe, consisted in what seemed to me to be artificially light skin and European features.

A final thing I noted, then, about the highly-esteemed Virgin of Caácupe was that in real life the statue only stands about three feet tall. I had seen short imitation models of the statue around Asuncion, and I had always thought they were shorter just because they were copies of the real thing. Come to find out, though, up close even the real thing still just looks like a very big doll (sort of like the giant Barbie princesses I used to see in toy stores). Although so short and perhaps childish-looking in physical stature, however, the Virgin of Caácupe looms as a much taller and influential figure in the hearts and minds of Paraguayan Catholics as a guide, help, and succor for them and the nation.

Birthday Bash

It’s Holy Week here and around the world, and in Paraguay that means a week of vacations in remembrance of Jesucristo’s death and resurrection. Nearly everyone from the church is taking advantage of the time to visit relatives, so I, too, have decided to use this holy week for a vacation to see and hear the sights and sounds of the country I normally don’t have the time for. The things I’ve done the past few days will take up a few pages to explain, but I think they’ll give you and me a better understanding of Paraguay and her culture.

The first big day was last Saturday, the 15^th, and coincidentally my birthday, too. Paraguayans make a big deal out of birthdays, and the custom is to greet the birthday boy or girl with kisses and blessings and all sorts of show. Everyone asks for weeks ahead of time what your birthday plans are, and then for days after the fact they ask how it all went down. As for me, I hoped for a quiet birthday without much show, so I decided to visit Pilar, my Georgetown friend serving with a Catholic organization about an hour and a half bus ride away in Itagua.

I got off the bus around eleven in the morning along the main route, where Pilar was excited to greet me and show me around town. Itagua is known as a center for fancy Paraguayan needle and stitchwork, so nearly every local shop has windows full of beautifully colored and elaborately patterned fabrics. The town is far more colonial, and beautiful, too, than most of the neighborhoods I’ve seen in Asuncion. The central church and plaza are still the central parts of town where everyone comes to relax and do business, and the lazy streets are all lined with beautiful columned porticoes and Spanish-looking architecture. While Lambare, the neighborhood where I’m living, feels like New Jersey with its strip malls and endless, poorly-organized neighborhoods, Itagua seems like a beautiful, purposefully-designed New England village with life centered around the church.

Pilar then showed the ministry where she works, a serious neighborhood helps organization run by three serious nuns called the Good Shepherd. The ministry has several arms, each reaching out to embrace and serve the lives of many poor people in Itagua. One seeks to improve the livelihood of exploited women in the needlecraft industry, providing a co-op and network of help through which they can sell their crafts and earn fair wages. Another branch, the one Pilar is involved with, is a sort of microfinance enterprise that loans families money to raise animals and sell at profit, all the while offering the encouragement and training to continue growing a business responsibly. A third ministry, finally, matches poor Paraguayan children with donors from North America to provide the little ones with health care, educational materials, and decent daily meals in the context of a Christian community. I was very pleased to see all the ways these three Catholic sisters, and their three American volunteers, are so wrapped up and tied into serving the community as a witness for Christ. Their work, like the school project in Lambare, is having real good effects on the entire neighborhood around them.

After being showed around the ministry center and nunnery and actually being invited to a second lunch with the Paraguayan nuns, we went to visit a family being helped by the loan/education program Pilar helps coordinate. We went with the purpose of seeing the family’s first pig, Bonita, before they butchered her and sent her carcass off to market. When we arrived, though, we were already too late. The butchering had taken place at 6 in the morning, not at 6 at night as Pilar had thought, so instead of getting to see a real live breathing pig, we were invited to have a bite to eat. The family had kept and cooked Bonita’s fatty skin with some corn flower, making it into a delicious treat along with some boiled mandioca and red wine. Pilar and I were disappointed not to see the pig alive, but not too disappointed, because we left mighty happily with our stomachs full of rich fresh pork.

After our visit with the family who butchered their pig, I returned home to Lambare once again and went to Saturday night church, where everyone greeted me with great emotion and smiles upon my completion of 22 full years. Afterwards, I spent my evening just as I would have liked to: quietly, with a few friends, and with plenty memories of a birthday well-spent in Paraguay.