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| Performing "Created", at our Baptist Church in El Salvador |
Our performances at the little Baptist Church in Apopa, El Salvador,
went off without the slightest glitch – except for the aforementioned issues
with our triumphant handstand-walking, throat-of-Christ-clutching, break in the
breakdancing routine, demon – Sezni.
Our street theatre production, “Created”, was well received by the El
Salvadorian Church folk and their invited guests, and although I wasn’t able to
finish my alter call on account of too much raucous applause and hoo-haa, the
wet eyes told the story of hearts having been touched.
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| Performing "Created", God & Jesus Look with a Heart of Love upon Humanity |
Our Nicaraguan youths were a little perplexed. They understood the theme
of the production, but have practiced and practiced this thing to death, and
have never visually seen their efforts. I don’t think they understood just how
powerful our dramatisation of the Gospel message was to the viewer. But once
they saw the people’s faces, and with the extreme gratitude that was displayed
after the performance, the dots became connected and they were deeply impacted,
gaining a deeper respect for the effects of their production on lives needing
hope.
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| Pastor Mario with Some of our Troupe |
Of course, at the very end of, and straight after the service, once eyes
were almost dry, the competition for who could eat the most pupusas began to be
organised. The pastor hadn’t even finished praying when a row of tables were swiftly
set up on the new, make-shift stage.
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| Pupusas Eating Competition - the stars of the Show, Ericson & Jonny |
I chuckled quietly. The “Amen” for the prayer was pronounced, and eyes
sprung open and the congregated people leaned forward, ready for action. The
fever built, though it was hushed chatter that circulated throughout the
building. It felt like we were on the set of an El Salvadorian Gladiators Competition
Television Shoot!
| Pupusa Eating Competition - Saying "GRACE" before Commencement |
“This would NEVER be done in a Nicaraguan church” I contemplated,
without a drop of judgment this way or that. I’ve really learnt, in my time
abroad, that I used to make too many judgments on what was Christian, or unchristian
when examining individuals in other countries.
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| Mmmmm, Jonny, moments before he ended up with Head in Toilet Bowl... |
Specifically I used to think Nicaraguans were always late, Americans were
self-important, the Brits complained too much and Aussies were crass as (don’t
say that too fast). I now know quite differently and a lot of what is
perceived, just isn’t there – it comes down to national identity and what is
truly valued.
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| Eating Pupusas in El Salvadorian Church Competition |
If I hear the phrase “Kingdom Culture” one more time, in context of what
another nationality should, or should not be doing as Christian people, I’ll
knock somebodies block off (which is quite acceptable behaviour in Australian
Christian Churches – so don’t judge me! Ha ha).
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| Tiny Ericson, the CHAMPION! 15 Pupusas in 15 Minutes! |
After the service on Saturday, I raced to the Church’s one computer and
kicked off Jonny, our Nica-youth, on account of my needing to orchestrate highly executive work, far too difficult
for his uneducated brain to understand. Once facebook was loaded I whirled into
action, posting this photo and that. The notifications
icon lit up like a roo’s eyes caught in the glare of a car’s headlights.
Within an hour I had a hundred people commenting on our photos, and liking everything I’d posted. I noticed
one comment from Camila, our good friend whose step-father is a Guatemalan
evangelist based in El Salvador (who prophesied that a family from a distant land would come to our barrio - and HERE WE ARE), and whose mother is Nicaraguan – from just
down our street. TOP people…
It was strange that Camila hadn’t been to our Saturday evening service. I’d
embarrassed myself, once I had been introduced to the gathering in our small
Baptist church and had the mike,
because I’d asked if Camila was in-the-house
by name. Not only did I ask for her, I didn’t accept the Pastor’s head shaking
and “no” mouthing motions, I think because I truly believed that she’d want to
see our creation and must have slipped into the building unnoticed... “Noooo?
Not theeeeeere?” Pregnant awkward pause and then “No, not there. Let’s begin…”
Camila is the niece of Yader, our gardener. Yader welcomed God into his life,
whilst living as a gang member in El Salvador and experimenting with drugs and
alcohol.
Camila had introduced me to Pastor Mario via good ol’ facebook. I
flicked her a quick message. She sent one back. The Church we were staying with
wasn’t the Church she regularly attended. She merely knew Pastor Mario from
Church functions around San Salvador.
The following morning, Pastor Mario organized for pancakes to be delivered
to me in the Church building. The offer of breakfast after a hard night’s sleep was enticing, and
there was also a note – “meet me outside.” I went and ate pancakes for
breakfast with Pastor Mario. We sat fairly seriously, but with good humour – if
that makes sense. I asked him if he minded us slightly changing our plans so
that we could incorporate a trip to Camila’s Church also. He was clearly
delighted by the proposal.
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| Posing with the Cook and her Grandson, just outside of our Baptist Church in El Salvador |
I was just shoveling the last morsel of floury delight into my mouth,
when Sez came walking up to me. This was not to be a pleasant exchange. Sezni
had a look of frustration across his face. “Where’s my pancakes?” He asked.
“Hoooh dear…” I thought to myself. “This is going to be a tough gig.” I looked
at Sezni square in the face.
There aren’t any. You’re having Gallo Pinto (pancakes) for breakfast. Of
course, I began to smile as I said the words, cause I knew that this would be a
funny story one day, but certainly not on this day. “I ordered pancakes” he
complained. This just made me laugh. Sezni, due to his Asperger’s Syndrome, is
a routine boy, and quite often doesn’t realise his change of environment, if
all other things are equal.
“Oh, you ordered pancakes did you?” He nodded his head, starting to see
why I might find this a tad bit comical. “And just who is your waiter?” I
inquired. He stomped his foot and tried not to laugh. I couldn’t help it, nor
could the pastor and finally Sez couldn’t contain it either. We laughed and
laughed and laughed ‘til we cried.
But time was ticking by and our day had blown-out into a scheduling
nightmare. I grabbed Francesca and told everything we were going to shower (I
had to take Francesca with me, as every male eye was on my little princess). I
was told I couldn’t walk down the street. “Are you serious?” I implored. “The
streets are just too dangerous.”
We jumped in a car which refused to start. Finally vroom, vroom, went
the engine, with a billow of smoke losing itself out the rear. We chucked a “U-ey”
and then turned the corner. “We’re here” hollered Pastor Mario. I looked at him
in COMPLETE disbelief. We’d driven no more than 50 metres.
I jumped out of the car and straight into the shower. Rub-a-dub-dub and
a bit of a shave – “all done!” I exclaimed jubilantly. I grabbed Fran by the
arm and headed for the door. The beautiful little house owner called out to me “someone
will be back to collect you shortly. Wait here!” I smugly replied in Spanish “don’t
worry about it, we won’t tire on our trip back…” And with that we slid through
the gate, shutting it briskly behind us.
We turned the corner and to our horror there were 5 army dudes, fully decked
out, and holding massive guns in their hands. They prodded 5 young El
Salvadorians with the ends of the guns, and pushed them up against a wall. The
youths had their hands on their heads. I wondered what was the story. I asked
in the Church and they said, “Oh, that’s normal here. Happens every day.”
I ran to grab my camera but the people asked me not to leave the
building again. “What in the World could that be?” I wondered to myself.
Apparently, gang activity in El Salvador has hit crises point and the
government has issued special task forces to tackle the problem.
The people live in fear, on a daily basis, for their lives and their
possessions. The gangs are mostly filled with young men and women who have been
deported from the USA for criminal activity.
It seems to be a hopeless situation. At night, in Apopa, there is not a soul on the
street. I became nervous. Since I arrived, I had not once felt completely safe.
Now I knew why…
Pastor Rodriguez and Camila arrived on time and with Yader’s sister too
(Camila’s mother). It was like a family reunion. More hugs and kisses, more
blushing Nica-youths, more chats about a whole lot of nothing – my best talent.
I was, after all, a travel agent for many years. We were driven in yet another
pick-up truck (dudes in the back otra vez) to Pastor Rodriguez and Camila’s
beautiful, outdoor marquee Church.
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| Our Nicavangelists and Yader's Sister and Niece (with POWER voice) |
Wow, their Church was televised. We had a tour of the facility and then
there was the opportunity for me to sing with Camila. I snatched it up. We sung
“How He Loves Us” and “Mighty to Save.” Camila’s voice is rich and full, and she’s
such a tiny-weeney young lady!
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| Sitting in the Church's Studio |
After the singing, the church treated us all to a mammoth sized lunch;
large amounts of chicken, pupusas for all, and the staple of Central America –
rice and beans. Yummo!
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| Singing with Camila, my Nica-El Salvadorian Friend, at the Televised Church |
The boys were overjoyed when individual bottles of fizzy drink arrived,
enough for one each. Fantastico! They looked like Kings (though Kings of old,
for they used their fingers to eat and slurped at their drinks – we’re
considering postponing lunch with HRH Queen Elizabeth the second, until after
completion of finishing school).
The Pastor treated the boys with such respect and from a heart of love.
I was inspired. He prayed blessings over them and challenged them to be the men
of God they needed to be. This was all to be a precursor for the evening
service at our little Baptist Church. Oh, the Baptists!!!
In the Baptist Church on Sunday evening I was given the opportunity of
speaking – something I struggle with, but do because it needs to be done! My
issue was, although I can find the words to use, we couldn’t on this occasion
find a translator.
Those of you who know me well, know that I can get by in Latin America
on personality, charades, a bit of bachata and the little Spanish that I have.
However, I most certainly cannot talk on a deeper, more spiritual level, in
Spanish.
Francesca, our regular translator, wasn’t feeling well at all. She had a
serious headache, probably as a result of the bus trip, sleeping on the floor,
dehydration, etc. Lorenzy, our second child, is rather timid and quite unable
to speak publicly. Her eyes widened with fear when I looked at her as a
possibility.
Sezni, our third child, has Asperger’s Syndrome, and the times I’ve used
him as a tool for translating, well it’s been comical to say the least (think
of Homer Simpson when he gets mad at Bart). Our fourth child, Rafael, could
have easily translated a very basic message, though had fallen asleep on
account of the 15 hour coach trip, the performances on Saturday, and the long
services already attended on Sunday.
I made the difficult decision of asking Lorenzy to translate. When I
asked the dear child to step up to the podium, her words started off as a
whisper and built steadily to regular speech volume, and the words went simply
like this “no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!” Poor poppit, she nearly threw up on
account of nerves.
I put a couple of chairs behind the pulpit so that nobody would be able
to see darling Renz, and had Yordy (one of our Nica-youths) hold her hand – he
has the best English comprehension but sadly, probably because he was nervous
too, couldn’t understand simple words in English like “no” and “pastor” and
“chocolate.”
Renz continued to protest and consequently there were a few “do it or
die” looks from me. We also shared a couple of sharp verbal exchanges with
hands over microphones whilst faking smiles and laughing all the way. But
by-and-large, besides 5 interruptions from Pastor Mario who begged me to let
another person from the congregation translate, Lorenzy performed an INCREDIBLE
JOB. She seriously overcame some fear of
man stuff, which kept me bound-up and useless, until I was 35 years old. I was as proud-as-punch. I JUST LOVE
THAT GIRL, Renzy-roohs!
After my message on the fruit of love (don’t judge me!) and the Great
Commission, there was a short intermission and then another lonoooog service. I
struggle at times with some of the religiosity in Latin America, but kept my
attitude in-check at all times.
The pastor organised for me to continue sitting up the front, yet had
each of the boys sit by the aisle, one at the end of each row of chairs. I
found this to be odd, as it looked to me like he was separating our Nica-youths
(and my own children too) in some attempt at discipline - to stop them from
talking? HA!
In a Latin American Church, not having people in the congregation chat is
like asking the Pope not to visit Church, or the Queen not to wear her crown,
or the waves not to keep rolling in, or Elizabeth not to eat chocolate – do you
get it? It’s just not possible!
But still, it was a Baptist Church, and I am not overly familiar with
the inner workings of the Baptists, so I didn’t question Pastor Mario on his strange,
strange course of actions, especially as the boys, and my children (except for
Rafael - he was still at the front of the Church snoring his head off), seemed
to be rather au fait and happy with the arrangement.
The Pastor reiterated a lot of what I had just said in my message,
making sure to honour me at every point (?). And then he did something that was
rather breathtaking and quite unexpected. I’m sure this has been done in other
Churches, and I can imagine it being done in nearly every Pentecostal church
during wild 70s services - after preaching from John 13, he had his pastors and
elders wash our Nicavangelist’s feet. A lump formed in my throat.
I really cannot express just how emotional I was at this point. Here
were Churched people, the most respected in this community, washing the feet of
my boys and girls. The lads in our program are unchurched, former child
prostitutes, orphans, thieves, street-youths, the lowest class citizens in all
of Nicaragua – in our attempt to integrate into Church circles here in
Nicaragua, whether Gringo or Nica, we’ve experienced the turning up of several
noses.
The boys’ reactions varied. Some refused at first to put their feet in
the water. Others didn’t want to make a spectacle and verily plonked their feet
in too heavily, causing miniature tidal waves and sending splashes to the 4
corners of the building. Some stared at me questioningly, their eyes concerned
like they were thinking “are they going to ask me to take my clothes off and
get in this small bucket?” And then there was Yader. He balled his eyes out like
a wee-little tot.
Yader has a second grade intellect, but his spirit understood exactly
what was happening. Yader’s father has several wives, and has never lived in
Yader’s house. Yader is despised by his community for his sticky fingers and
naughty behavior. Yet, God has sent Yader into the World, to proclaim the good
news that Christ has come for all – the despised, rejected, broken hearted,
etc.
Yader, a nothing, was being loved and served by a pastor, a “somebody.”
Yader could not hold back the sobbing and I could still hear him much later
that evening, as we lay in our separate “beds”, MANY LONG HOURS LATER, waiting
to fall asleep – it was a tantalising God spectacle and I savoured every moment.
Yader was given a Bible, the first he’s ever owned (the boys have always
had access to Bibles at our center, but ours are communal – for everyone to
use). Inside the Bible the Pastor who had washed Yader’s feet wrote: “To Yader!
Thank you for being a Missionary. Thank you for sharing the life of Christ with
our World.”
Yader looked into my eyes, his own eyes extremely bloodshot from all the
tears, and said “I’m a missionary?” I started to cry too. “Yes you are, Yader.
You are going to other countries sharing with people who don’t know about the supreme
love and hope of eternal salvation through Jesus.” He cried some more – every
time I hugged him he broke down. I hugged him continuously, for the rest of the
day…
Later that night, Pastor Mario requested that we go to the beach for the
night. I was exhausted and not overly impressed with the idea, but Liz’s words
lingered in my ears, “let them do something fun, Jed.” We went to the beach at
11pm. Invited guests included nearly half of the Church. We squeezed into a
mini-van, a pick-up truck (ute) and on a motorbike. I trusted that Pastor Mario
would organise the details and he did a great job.
All of our Nica-youths ended up in the water, but I lay there,
deliriously exhausted, following my children with my gaze. Finally, Sez came up
to me and asked. “Dad, tonight are we sleeping in a bus, or on someone’s floor,
or on the sand at the beach?” I laughed uncontrollably. This is NOT the life
for a kid with Asperger’s Syndrome. I looked at Sezni whose brow was furrowed
and asked “Where would you like to sleep, Sezni?” He took a moment to respond. “Wherever
you sleep, Dad.”
And so it was. Our very first tour abroad. What an encouragement to me
and my troupe. We were originally sent by our Church in Australia
(CapitalEdge.org.au) to Latin America to participate in ministry with children.
I could never have imagined that someday I would preach. It’s just not me, I’m
the joker.
But God has led us gently, to the point where we are working with youth
(Every Church I’ve ever been in has asked me to be a leader in youth group –
I’ve always declined. I have always loathed, ENRITELY, youth… I think I’m
funny, but God has the supreme sense of humour hey?), taking Jesus to our World
– is there any higher calling?
The Church would truly
explode, I believe, if we would just follow Jesus’ example of making disciples.
But we don’t. We want BIG. Big Churches, big services, big programs, big, big,
big. We need to give away our desire for wealth and fame, that wasn’t the
message of Christ. He loved us so much that he came and gave us his life. In
the same way, we need to reach those we touch, every day, acknowledging the
Lord and loving those he sends our way. It’s our calling – there’s no greater
thing!
The cost of
our evangelistic outreach tour to El Salvador was $2,000. If you would like to
contribute to our outreach costs, and hence help us to secure our next
evangelism tour, please visit our support page and make a contribution (CLICKhere) – you will be investing directly into the Christian crusade for saving
souls…
