Adventures in Orthodoxy

Why I'm Catholic Now

2009-03-21T04:25:00.000-07:00

Dear friends and family,

Here is a short synopsis of how I came to be Roman Catholic. It is an abbreviated version of the story of my conversion, and by no means represents all the myriad ways that God has worked in my heart and the countless doctrines with which I have wrestled, but it does offer a starting point for conversation. As many of you may know, I am more than happy to talk about it and to share about God's calling on my life. Just let me know, and we can get coffee or a meal for the longer story. Thanks, and God bless,

Jason

I am originally from Westfield Center, where I was blessed to have been raised in a Christian home. Growing up with both parents and five younger siblings in an evangelical church, I heard the Gospel of Jesus Christ preached often and learned of my need for a personal relationship with God. When I was in sixth grade, I realized my sin separated me from God; wanting to avoid the consequences of sin and be forgiven, I asked Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior. I trust that was when I first converted and began to live a life of faith.

At the age of 13, I took another step of faith and asked for baptism. At my evangelical church, this sacrament was only considered an outward sign and symbol of salvation's work already finished in my heart. It was tied to church membership and a public confession of faith, much like Confirmation in churches that baptize infants. I saw God's blessing for following His leading to baptism, though, even though not many people in my church were baptized as young as I was. The testimony I gave before my church in a public proclamation of faith gave me a dear community of encouragement and accountability throughout high school. God used my evangelical church to grow me spiritually in countless good ways.

College found me at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, a Jesuit school where I was committed to studying political science in preparation for law school and a life of public service. Before leaving home, though, I was genuinely worried that my faith would not be able to stand up to the pressures and temptations of college life. Georgetown is technically a Roman Catholic university, but very few students actually take their faith seriously. Shortly after arriving, however, I joined several interdenominational Christian fellowship groups for community and accountability. God worked through Bible studies, service opportunities, and fellowship with other Christian believers to protect me from losing faith and my Christian witness. My faith truly became my own at Georgetown, and, praise God, grace carried me through all four years.

It was at Georgetown that I first met Catholics who were serious about serving Jesus. Growing up, I had several Catholic friends who only attended Mass on Christmas and Easter. Their lack of understanding and living out of faith seemed to confirm the negative stereotypes that I had been taught at my Protestant church about Catholics. Thankfully, however, through interdenominational ministries at Georgetown, I came into contact with Catholic believers, and had the chance to see their faith manifested in lives of Christian witness before I even knew they were Roman Catholic. I was completely taken aback, for example, when I learned that a prayer partner in my freshman dorm, who shared my evangelistic concern for our lost friends, was a devout Catholic. I thank God, though, that the anti-Catholic stereotypes with which I had been raised melted away in the first few months at university.

My sophomore year I added a theology major focusing on biblical literature to my course of studies. The classes, taught from a secular and academic perspective, de-constructed as social and cultural commentary all the scriptures that I considered sacred and revealed by God. Faced with new (and unchristian) opinions of my Christian faith, I started to question what was essential to belief. Was a literal understanding of the Bible necessary? Could I ever really find the truth in a specific church, creed, or interpretation of the Bible? I was still actively involved in an interdenominational campus fellowship, so I was being exposed to the whole spectrum of Christian belief and practice. God was calling me to find Christian Truth; a Truth that I knew should not result in the plurality of sects and multiple interpretations of scripture. My Protestant convictions, however, told me that I was the abiter of my own truth and reality: that I could choose my denomination, my specific beliefs, and the way I wanted to follow God.

Junior year I had the chance to visit Israel for a semester of study abroad in the Holy Land. There, God worked in my heart in many ways. First, I was exposed to the beauty of liturgy and the importance of the Christian liturgical year. Concerning the liturgy of the Mass, I realized for the first time in Israel that I felt more comfortable and at peace in a Roman Catholic Mass than I did in an evangelical Baptist service. Living as a foreigner in a dangerous country far away from home, the words of scripture and ancient truth in the liturgy gave me the comfort and peace for which my soul hungered. Secondly, I had the first chance of my lifetime to really live out the liturgical year. Raised in an evangelical faith, we understood Lent as a papist practice, and were lucky if we got hear about the Resurrection on Easter morning. Being in Jerusalem, however, I took full advantage of the opportunities to celebrate Ash Wednesday, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday, with the liturgical Protestant and Catholic communities in Jerusalem. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday from a Catholic Bishop in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I fasted from meat during Lent for 40 days near the desert where Christ himself was tempted in the wilderness, I joined in with the throngs waving palm branches to welcome our Lord and King on his triumphal entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, I kept vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane on Maundy Thursday, I was kneeling at the sight of the true cross when the church bells rang out at 3:00 pm to remember Jesus' death on Good Friday, and I got up before dawn to remember our Savior's resurrection for a sunrise service at the Mount of Olives on Easter Sunday. I found that the experiences of Christian holy days strengthened immeasurably my faith in Christian Truth and my relationship with God.

It was also in Israel that I got to see and interact with churches of Orthodox and Catholic origins. These churches, many of them being in the Holy Land since the time of Christ and the apostles, claimed an authority of faith through apostolic succession from Jesus himself. Seeing the land of the scriptures, that I had studied eagerly as a Protestant, so closely tied to these apostolic churches and traditions, spoke volumes to me. I realized that in the land where Christ lived, the truth about Christ continued to be made manifest in these churches.

Returning to Georgetown for my senior year, I still was not convinced to become Roman Catholic. Although I wanted to believe in a sacramental understanding of reality (as a Protestant I believed only in symbols and faith), I still did not believe in the Real Presence in the Eucharist or the literal washing away of sins by baptism. My soul longed to trust Catholic doctrine and to believe God's use of physical objects as the means of grace for me, so I began to pray for faith to accept the Catholic understanding of the sacraments. A dear Catholic friend and mentor of mine was patient every step of the way to answer questions, and explain the significance of Catholic teaching. He encouraged me to go to a Catholic chapel on campus and spend time praying to the Blessed Sacrament, asking, "Jesus, is that you there?"

After much time spent praying in the Catholic chapel, I began to feel a peace and presence that I did not find in Protestant worship spaces. I began to spend more and more time there, going to prayer several times a week, and began genuflecting and crossing myself when I entered the chapel, out of respect for the Catholic tradition. Somewhere along the way, another friend shared with me the scriptural grounds for belief in the Real Presence and, thank God, by the end of my senior year I was a believer.

My senior year, I also took a course taught by an excellent professor and dedicated Jesuit priest on the teaching of Saints Augustine, Bonaventure, Anselm, and Aquinas . Explaining Catholic doctrine through the lens of these fathers and doctors of the Catholic Church, Fr. Fields showed me more and more the great continuity and treasure of faith passed on through the Roman Catholic Church. I realized that if these teachers were alive today, they would probably be Roman Catholic, and, as a Protestant, I would probably be at odds with them. I felt a growing longing to be united with the doctors and traditions of the Catholic faith, while the division caused by the Protestant Reformer seemed to make less and less sense to me. I remember one day trying to justify myself as a Protestant and to tell myself at what one point the Catholic Church "went wrong," so as to require the Reformation. I realized that I probably ought to become Catholic when I could not think of anything.

After Georgetown, I decided to spend some time doing missionary work as an English teacher in Paraguay. I went to serve with the evangelical denomination in which I was raised, believing that if my interest in Catholic faith continued throughout the year, it really was something from God and not something I was doing on my own. While at Georgetown, I was worried my conversion to Catholicism might be the result of peer pressure or my own pride, so I decided to give the choice a time of discernment in South America. There, I reckoned I would see (and indeed did) the worst stereotypes of Catholicism-- that is, Catholic faith polluted by folk traditions in a society where very few actually faithfully practiced their religion. The evangelical church where I served was full of ex-Catholics, all very eager to share their negative opinions of the Catholic Church. I wanted to make sure I got every perspective before I became Catholic.

I realized in Paraguay more than ever, though, that God was calling me to become Roman Catholic. Although much of what I saw in South American Catholicism was not good, I realized that the heart of the faith and the teaching of the Church was good and true. Although many Paraguayans are not faithful to the Church and the society in many ways has fallen fall short of God's ideal, the Church remains the Church and holds the fullest revelation of Jesus Christ for salvation in the world.

Upon return, I knew for certain that I had to join the Catholic Church. I began attending St. Francis Xavier, contacted Jenny Bonarrigo, and, after a few meetings with her and First Reconciliation with Fr. Hollis, was received into full communion with the Catholic Church on February 15. I praise God for the way He has worked in my heart along the way, and it gives me such great joy to consider how He's finally led me here. For years I have thought about becoming Catholic and imagined the joy of being able to share in the Holy Eucharist, and now it feels as if all the gifts of Heaven are mine through Jesus Christ and His Church.

I Thank God

2008-12-12T10:50:00.000-08:00

Thank God, the travel is all over. It's a privilege to be back home with family and friends; to realize there is a country, a state, and even a family where I belong. There are people who dress just like me, speak just like me, and eat just like me. I hear familiar music play on the radio, and I watch familiar programs on tv. It's good to be home.

Thank God, my flights from South America went well. Not a single piece of luggage lost or damaged, not a single flight delayed or connection missed. I arrived in Miami for a splendid visit with Mrs. Moxley, then continued on to Nashville to meet up with Luke. After a short visit to Music City, we flew northward to meet up with our family for Thanksgiving Day.

Thank God, everyone was able to be together the Friday after Thanksgiving for my Grandpa's funeral. All my mom's family, much of my dad's, and a whole host of old friends from church came to offer sympathy and pay their respects. I officiated my first funeral service, and I trust that God used it as a tribute to both my Grandpa's life and His faithfulness revealed in it. It was a cold, cold, day, but one filled with many warm memories and the sweet consolation of grace.

Thank God, following a very short weekend search, an affordable and well-working car was provided for my use. It's a black 97 Toyota Corrolla with only 98 K miles, and a splendid first car for a very-recently-returned missionary. It runs smooth, and, when the day comes to sell, ought to fetch a good price as a used vehicle, too.

Thank God, after a busy weekend, I was able to travel on a university-touring expedition with my new car. With gas prices so low, it cost next-to-nothing to visit Notre Dame with Dad on Tuesday, and Boston College and Yale on Thursday. Along the way, I had the chance to visit with a dear friend from high school in Boston and a dear friend from Georgetown in New Jersey.

Thank God, last weekend I spent a wonderful time in Washington, DC, where I got to meet up with every one of my good friends from university. Most have stayed in the greater DC area, and the weekend was filled with sweet reunion after sweet reunion. Old friends hosted me at their houses, and several fed me as well. Highlights from the weekend included an early morning hike with old roommates and a midday lunch at the Jesuit residence at Georgetown with a dear priest, mentor, and professor friend.

Thank God, Sunday was spent congregating with Georgetown Baptist Church. I was invited to sing in the choir once again, and was overjoyed to find Pastor Carl in good health and cheerful spirits. Truly, God was faithful and good to this congregation, and faithful in answering so many petitions prayed on their behalf.

Thank God, this week has been much more laid back. The family is passing through a rough time, but I've been able to spend time with each one sharing and listening. A job search continues, with a possible opening and interview set for Monday morning. God-willing I'll be able to work next week and settle into a good healthy routine.

Thank God, because it's good to be home.

Bitter Sweet Homecoming

2008-11-24T06:56:00.000-08:00

As many of you may have heard, my Grandpa Donahey passed away yesterday (Sunday) at 5:00pm. He was as prepared, both spiritually and physically, as he possibly could have been to go Home. As a family, we count many fond memories with Grandpa over the past few years, and have been blessed with plenty of time to prepare for his departure. Thankfully, I got to talk to him on Friday and say goodbye and tell him I love him.

As many of you may not know, for the past half year I´ve also been intending to fly home early and surprise my family for Thanksgiving. So, surprise! God-willing I´ll see you on Thursday for Thanksgiving, or on Friday at 10:00 am for my grandpa´s funeral. Viewing hours start at 10:00 am with the actual funeral service at 11:00 am at Waite and Sons in Medina. I hope to see you there!

Argentina!

2008-11-22T07:00:00.000-08:00

Argentina, when compared with Paraguay, is a really big country to get to know. For that reason, along with my limited time and pocketbook, I chose to visit only three major cities in the middle part of the country.

The first leg of my trip was to Buenos Aires, the most European major city in South America. After an 18 hour through-the-night bus ride from Asunción, I arrived to the most Western civilization I’d seen in more than a year. Since Buenos Aires was settled and populated by Spaniards and Italians, the architecture, parks, and beauty of the city reflect Western and especially Western European styles and ways of living. There were beautiful old buildings and imposing ornate churches, flowing gothic fountains and clean Victorian parks.

I also arrived to the most materialism I’ve seen in a year. The first day I spent wandering around wide-eyed and open-mouthed in the shopping district, visiting store after store and mall after mall. I saw brands of clothing and food and entertainment that I had almost forgotten about in my year away from American culture. The best surprise was a man dressed up as a sandwich who led me to Subway.

Sunday in Buenos Aires I went to San Telmo, a neighborhood world-famous for its antiques shops and street fair. I bought a small $10 religious painting a couple centuries old that had been ripped out of a church in Peru.

Monday saw me visiting Palermo, the ritzy part of town, and buying a ham and cheese sandwich for $10. In my defense, I was really hungry after walking around and visiting the Recoleta, a little city-cemetery where all of Argentina’s famous folks are buried (including Evita).

Tuesday I went back to Palermo and Argentina’s National Fine Arts Gallery, where I saw paintings by as many modern artists as you can name. Picasso, Monet, Manet, Rivera, Van Gogh, Degas--- everyone was there, and all their paintings saw me trying to be an artsy fartsy arts aficionado. I figured just standing and staring long enough would make me look like I appreciated art, and I think it worked.

Wednesday morning I arrived in Mendoza, a mountain city on the other side of Argentina and in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. It reminded me much of Boulder, Colorado. The city has a complex system of canals which channels melting snow from the mountains to water its thousands of beautiful sycamore trees. The city would be a desert without this genius system, which also provides the necessary irrigation water for surrounding vineyards and orchards.

My first full day in Mendoza, I took a trip high into the Andes Mountains to the border with Chili and an altitude of about 11,000 feet. I saw snow there, and took my picture with Mount Aconcagua, the highest mountain outside of the Himalayas. I met on the tour two American men who were both former contract security officers with American military forces overseas. We had a hearty lunch, since it got really cold so high up in the mountains.

Day two in Mendoza saw me on a bicycling vineyard tour of the surrounding countryside. I don’t know who ever thought mixing bicycles with wine tastings and crazy Argentinian traffic was a good idea, but thankfully I survived the afternoon along with my two new friends from Tufts University that I met along the way. Perhaps it was God’s will to protect us on the roads and to keep me from getting into trouble, but we started off late and were only able to see two vineyards and one specialty liqueur shop. Around a dozen vineyards were originally on the tour schedule. I ended the day dehydrated and with a literally blistered behind.

The last day in Mendoza I went to visit La Difunta Correa Shrine, the center of a folk cult to a woman who, a century and a half ago, was found dead in the desert with her live baby still sucking at her breast. Although the cult is condemned by the Catholic Church, many Argentineans believe La Difunta Correa, or the Dead Lady Correa, can perform miracles for people who ask. Thus, at her shrine, people bring models of their houses to ask for La Difunta’s blessing, leave parts of their cars for safety in travel, and climb the stairs to an altar with a statue of her dead body and suckling baby to ask for good health and prosperity. The idolatry and paganism of it all, along with a bad raw ham sandwich I ate for lunch, made me soul- and stomach-sick the rest of my trip.

Monday I arrived in Córdoba, a beautiful colonial city in central Argentina nearly as old as colonialism itself. With several beautiful churches downtown, I was impressed that native Cordobans nearly filled each one to capacity for mass on a weekday morning.

Besides seeing a few churches a few blocks away from my hostel, I was too sick to do anything else in Córdoba, and ended up passing two days indoors close to the toilet and sink. Fed up with being far away from home and with no one to take care of me, I arranged to leave my hostel early and zoomed on a bus back to Asunción.

Experiencing Argentina, although much bigger and perhaps with many more exciting things to do than Paraguay, was nothing like experiencing home again in Lambaré. I went away to foreign lands only to come back appreciating even more the community of dear friends and Christian brothers and sisters that I have here in Asunción. I missed them all so much while I was gone, and I’m even thankful now that my sickness in Mendoza and Córdoba gave me good reason to return home early to spend more time with them these last few weeks in Paraguay.

Nightmares

2008-11-20T06:06:00.000-08:00

I have never been one to think too much of my dreams. In our over-analyzed post-Freudian world, what ought to be taken as innocent dreams are often twisted around and interpreted to tell us that we have very dark desires and are actually very bad people. As for me, I don’t think that what I dream is necessarily always what I want to do, and I know that if I dream about trees and buildings and people and normal things that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m 100% repressed.

In my spiritual life, my dreams have never been a very big part of my relationship with God. Although I once met the pope in a very lively night of dreaming, I can’t recall meeting God or an angel by way of vision, and I’ve certainly never received any clear instructions for my life while asleep. Although I’ve dreamt of Christian reconciliation between people who have been separated for a long time and of the spiritual salvation I so greatly desire for many friends and loved ones, I claim no prophetic vision and write it off more as wishful thinking on my own part than the reality of God’s workings in the world. I’m generally very skeptical and uncharismatic when it comes to interpreting dreams as revelations from God.

All this goes to say that I’m really surprised at myself for being so impacted by what’s been going on in my dreams the last two nights. I’ve had terrible nightmares for two nights straight: nightmares where everything around me in my bedroom—my blankets, my clothes, the fan, and even my roommate, turn into menacing demons and grotesque diabolic forms. The room swirls with evil, an endless maze of altered reality and torment. I cannot explain it well, but it has terrified me at night and left me feeling completely helpless.

Last night, when the nightmare was at its worst two or three times, I had no recourses left but to cry out to God with the Lord’s Prayer. I didn’t speak with any authority as one rebuking demons, but instead, as a lost and terrified child crying out to his father, I prayed for salvation from what I dreamt was evil all around me. As I recited the “Our Father," the incubus world quickly receded and I was left quiet, alone, and trembling in my bed.

I’m really at a loss as to how to interpret what actually is happening. Perhaps I just am eating too much chipa, and my dreams the result of too much Paraguayan cheese in my system. Or, perhaps I have a lot of subconscioius transition stress and it’s working itself out in nightmares. I’m tempted to believe, though, that it really is some sort of spiritual warfare going on and a very real vision of the constant fight going on within my soul between good and evil and light and darkness. Whatever it is, though, it’s shaking me up, and I’m coming out of it able to testify to the power of God in the midst of demonic terror, and of the presence of divine peace in the struggle with very dark dreams.

Some pictures from Argentina...

2008-11-13T16:11:00.000-08:00

Some pictures from my journeys in Agentina.

All goes well.

A Lively Update

2008-11-03T11:18:00.001-08:00

You might say it’s been a while since I’ve updated, so here’s a smattering of information:

1. Jason Jacobs, the fellow to replace me, arrived from Richmond two weeks ago. He stayed with Oscar and Karen a week and then moved in to the house with me and Christian. So far, everything goes real well. Some of our discussions and adventures in the house might make for a good comedy—“Two Missionary Dads Raising a Christian,” or some bad use of words to that effect. You can check out Jason’s blog to get his perspective at jayzilla.com.

2. A week ago Saturday I took the GRE for my graduate school applications. The paper edition is offered once or twice a year in Paraguay at the CCPA, a sort of American-Paraguayan cultural and linguistic exchange center. I arrived around 8 in the morning to find a very large crowd of Peace Corp volunteers who were also taking the test. Most were from the Midwest and looked eerily like me—light hair, blue eyes, and slightly sunburned all around. I met one girl named Ellen who lives in the San Pedro province and who is keeping bees. Apparently Taiwan donated (thank you, obscure South American country, for your vote in the United Nations) a pile of bee-keeping equipment to Paraguay to inspire new forms of sustainable agriculture, but the only person who interested in the project is this fine volunteer from Wisconsin.

The test room was air conditioned like a refrigerator, but we still all protested that no water bottles were allowed anywhere near us during the nearly four-hour test. The room was also a sort of exhibition hall, and on that day were shown blown-up pictures of violence and war from conflicts of recent memory (read: Iraq, Vietnam, Bosnia, Africa). Needless to say, we were all inspired to do well by pictures of blood and gore and sadness and utter hopelessness. I chose to sit underneath a picture of what looked like grieving Bosnian women wailing around their now-dead son. I thought, perhaps, that they were Eastern Orthodox and might have some symbol of religion or hope in the form of a cross. I realized later they were probably Muslim and without any such comfort. One girl went to sit down in a chair and, when she looked up, was startled back out of her seat again. She had sat below the infamous picture showing a group of US soldiers in Vietnam with their backs turned to a presumably-innocent parade of Vietnamese, including one young female victim crying and without any clothes. Clearly frightened and bothered, the test-taker chose a more comfortable spot in front of some Guantanamo Bay detainees. If any of us do poorly on the test, I reckon that at least we’ll have a good excuse.

3. God-willing I’ll leave for Argentina this Friday. My route will go from Buenos Aires, the lively European-like capital on Argentina’s Eastern coast, to Mendoza, Argentina’s primer wine-making region among the Andes Mountains in the Western frontier, to Cordoba, the quiet, colonial, and intellectual town in the center of the country. I probably will be out of touch, but please say a prayer for my safety and well-being on the trip.

4. After my Argentinean excursion, I come back to Asuncion for a while before I finally fly to the States to be home on December 9. God-willing I’ll find work in Ohio, where I’ll be with my family for at least a half-year before I head on off to grad school at Notre Dame, Boston College, Yale, or Duke, or go back to DC to find a job in the nation’s capital.

Thanks for your prayers in everything. My family especially needs them right now. God bless!

Lord, Increase My Faith

2008-10-10T14:13:00.000-07:00

It was easy to come here: listless after university, seeking adventure, eager for foreign lands, Paraguay was a good and logical choice. Girls swooned, guys admired, people prayed.

Lord, increase my faith.

My family was a wreck, my college friends spread out across the globe, and the times were changing. I had no home. It was good for me to leave.

Lord, increase my faith.

It was cool to go abroad in an exercise of faith. God was calling me, I was listening and following. New difficulties came with new possibilities and new challenges with new graces. It was in style to be poor, a bohemian college graduate without anything and depending on the grace of God and others for everything. I was grown in faith to trust and to not value so much the things of this world.

Lord, increase my faith.

A year later, I’m packing up and getting ready to follow God again. This time, though, it’s to much more familiar lands, and this time it’s not so glorious. “Yeah, I come from Ohio,” I tell everyone here. “The most normal state in the United States.” People won’t be so impressed when I tell them I’m getting an office job. I’ll probably get crossed off several prayer lists a few weeks after my return.

Lord, increase my faith. .

My family is still a wreck, and after a year away there’s nowhere now where I can run away from the reality. “The divorce is December 9.” My friends are still all over the country, but now they have really cool jobs in elections and government agencies and national banks. They’ve found success, and I’ve found a pauper self to be self-conscious about.

Lord, increase my faith.

I’m going back to Ohio without a car, without a cellphone, without health insurance, and without a job. At one time I spurned these “things of the world,” but now they´re all looking pretty attractive as I start dealing with American reality. At one time I thought settling down in a place with friends and family was pretty boring, but now I envy those who have never moved out and have it mostly all figured out.

Lord, increase my faith.

A lot has changed the past year, and a lot will change this next year, too.

Lord, increase my faith.

A Prayer for Sion

2008-10-10T14:11:00.001-07:00

“Teacher, are you married?” one of my adoring second grade students asked me. “No,” I responded. “Why?” “Well” she continued, “I was hoping to have a little brother. If you were married, I was thinking you could have a son. Then he could be my brother if you adopted me. I would like you for a dad.”

Although I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time when I heard it, these words were nothing of a joke for Zion. Her mother abandoned her several years ago for work in Uruguay, she doesn’t know her real father, and, although has a baby brother come along the way since her mother left, she’s never met the child. She lives with her grandmother, who I suspect of many eccentricities and perhaps a touch of senility, and only hears from her mom by way of telephone a couple times a year. The child is starved for attention, doing whatever she can to spend time with me and other teachers and to be heard. Although she is very smart and has a great sense of humor, Zion hardly does her work in class and spends her time in school ambling about the classroom and whispering things in the teacher’s ear.

Zion once asked me in whole and simple faith to pray for her family—her mom and her baby brother in Uruguay, and her grandmother-who-turns-sixty-five-today in Paraguay. Athough nearly abandoned, she loves them terribly and hurts because they’re not all together. I told her I that would, and I really do. She is a beautiful child, but one with so many needs and so much brokenness that only a heavenly father can heal. Her and her family are in much need of grace, so if you think of it please say a prayer today on their behalf. She’s the reason that the ministry at Adonai exists and the reason why I’ve come to Paraguay—to bless and reach out to students with the love and hope of Christ, doing whatever we can, no matter how small it might seem, to offer the good news of redemption and restoration through the Gospel of Peace.

You Can Thank Me Later, Jason Jacobs

2008-10-07T08:57:00.000-07:00

The Spanish word for bribery is “coima.” If I were anywhere else in the world at any other time in my life, I’d probably be disgusted by acts of bribery. When I was in Egypt and got snuck in the back way to see the pyramids, for example, our guides paid the guards coima (in Egypt, backsheesh) for us to get through. Although they saw it as a way of polishing the dancefloor of bureaucracy to make it easier for us and them to dance, I saw it as corruption and dishonesty, and I was angry.

Here in Paraguay, though, memories of Egypt and the United States and being upset at corruption are half a world away. Here in Paraguay, I’ve adapted too much to the culture and today have even become guilty of paying “coima” myself. You see, my last dances with the Paraguayan bureaucracy are now being held in the grand Asuncion ballroom, partnered as I am with the need to renew my visa for an extra two months of residency. Today found me making an elegant foot-move at the police station, where I had to get an official paper saying that I do indeed live where I do in Lambaré.

At the end of today’s shuffle of feet, the police chief gave me a sly look and asked me if I just wouldn’t like to give a little money to help make any future dances go a little smoother. It was a complex question, like the innocent-yet-guilty glance of an inviting tango partner from across the room. “How much would leave,” I asked him, “and for what purposes?” “Oh, to cover the cost of paper and so on,” he responded. “You can give whatever you want.”

Knowing that he knew me and the school that I represented (and would in fact come into direct contact with other missionaries like me in the future) and could make their experiences at the police station good ones or bad ones, I was left with little choice. I consciously and intentionally secured the crooked arrangement, offering him 10 mil guaranies, or about $2.50, in thank-you bribe money. The sad part is, it didn’t even cross my mind to decline his invitation. He smiled, perhaps pleased that he could buy a few more empanadas this morning or a week’s worth of yerba for his family, and I knew better than to ask for a receipt. This was bribe money.

I left, feeling a little dirty and a little compromised. I definitely gave money to a dirty police man as a little floor polish to clean up the dances that future missionaries will have with the police, and I definitely didn’t think twice about it. That’s the way things go here: obey blindly, give money to the authorities, don’t ask for receipts, and they won’t hurt you. They may even be your friends if you give enough.

I think I’ve too-quickly adjusted to the bad parts of South American culture, and not quickly-enough to the good parts. South America reinforces some of my sinful tendencies. Thankfully, though, I think I hear North America and a little sanity calling.

Tropical Bonfire

2008-10-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

This past weekend the church youth group went to camp, where I got to sit by the best campfire of my life. It was huge and full of very hotly-burning hardwood, probably taken from the ancient reserves of Paraguay’s tropical and sub-tropical rainforests. In the United States, people might be sad that these natural rainforests are being cut down and burned by those in the South. For those people actually in the South, however, there’s no fire quite like a wood-from-the-rain-forest fire. It was hot and brilliant and beautiful; in the light and warmth of the fire we could have cared less about the World Wildlife Fund or Green Peace or the environment. Destruction of species? Don’t care. Less oxygen for the world? So what? It really was the nicest bonfire I’ve ever seen.

It was even nicer, though, because Oscar knew how to use it as a form of entertainment. He had a pile of nearly-dried sugar cane stalks, each one about 10 to 12 feet long, and every once in a while threw a few on the hot fire. The cane, which grows in segments like bamboo, would burn evenly and rapidly on the outside, causing the gases inside to quickly build up with immense pressure. Then, when the fibrous cane casing could no longer stand the force of the steam from within, the canes exploded with the sound of a gunshot and sent an explosion of burning coals into the night air. Each explosion came as a complete surprise disrupting the calm and cool countryside, startling us to a very giddy laughter and the most fun I’ve ever had around a fire. Many of us couldn’t stop laughing at the joke of exploding coals and loud firecracker sounds, especially at those who had to jump out of the way of the shooting bursts of pressurized fire. The unpredictability and randomness of the trick made the night, and made for the best campfire I’ll never forget.

Impertinent Youthful Ratiocinations on the Falling American Economy

2008-09-30T15:13:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest pleasures of being young is impertinence. As youths we can throw around opinions without experience, talk about things we really don’t know about, and live in an imaginary world where everything conforms to the way we understand it to be. Some might call it idealism, others smug self-assurance, but it’s a state of being in which I find myself particularly caught up recently. Being in a rather isolated Paraguayan evangelical community where my closest friend is nearly identical to me in many aspects of worldview and identity, the temptation to understand things from a very limited perspective is even stronger.

Today I saw that the stock market crashed. The US economy is in terrible shape, and my mind immediately goes to several impertinent thoughts:

1. The US is reaping what it’s sown.
2. I’m glad I don’t have any stocks or a 401K plan to worry about.
3. I’m kind of thankful I don’t have any money at all.
4. My family knows how to grow and can tomatoes. If there’s another Great Depression, we’ll at least survive on stewed tomatoes all year long.
5. I know how to work, and I also know that no work is below me. I’m ready to wash dishes or do yard work if the economy fails and there are no jobs for me when I return
6. Manual work is a large part of spiritual formation and practice in many Christian communities, from Catholic Trappist monks working on egg farms in Tennessee to Anabaptist Mennonite believers toiling away in dairy production on the Paraguayan frontier. These say that calluses are good for Christians and moral development, and I kind of agree with them.
7. Another Depression could serve the US well. We have, after all, become proud consumerist fat cats. My family has four televisions and only three people are living at home. I have an entire household of appliances in storage waiting for me when I come home, and I’m only 23. Where does all this wealth come from? Most Paraguayans live on a couple dollars a day.
8. I have some friends who lived in Argentina when their economy crashed a few years ago. Without any money, they grew and ate fried manioc (a big tuber) all year long. I kind of envy their frugality, and think fried manioc with stewed tomatoes alongside it would be a good combination.
9. A crashed American economy would show American Christians that the blessings of the Gospel are spiritual, not material. We need to hear and know that. “every spiritual blessing in Christ” does not mean a chicken in every Christian pot or a Mercedes in every Christian driveway.
10. I think I may invest in Paraguayan cattle. Cows can have babies every year, reproducing the investment annually, and I have contacts that, for the price of milk they sell, would manage and breed my herd well.

Yes, I am an impertinent youth. I have a particularly Christian view on everything, too, which makes my impertinence even more dangerous and self-justifying. I have a wild and rebellious streak in my ratiocinations on the economy, a strange mixture of workers rights, just desserts, and flippant disregard for the mammon of this world that I’ve inherited from both Joe Steidl and Jesus Christ and the gist of which goes against established financial wisdom, the power of the wealthy, and most of the economic policies of the Republican Party. I really don’t know what’s going on in the financial markets, but I do like to imagine that I could survive well in mind, spirit, and body with calluses on my hands and stewed tomatoes in my belly. I am, after all, an impertinent youth.

Stay on the Sunny Side

2008-09-29T12:29:00.001-07:00

It’s amazing how much a difference of perspective can make. As people, I’m convinced we have an amazing capacity to adapt to whatever situation or way of life where we find ourselves; as Christians, I trust we can stay steady and unshaken in soul and spirit like the Apostle Paul who, despite all the tough confusing times of his life, was able to be content in all things. Often times the thing that matters is the attitude we take and the choices we make when confronting life situations.

I take as two examples circumstances from my life here in Paraguay. Last October, when I was only here a month, a vertical blue line appeared on my laptop screen. I did some research and found the line was a factory defect that came along with my computer when I bought it, replaceable with an extended warranty that ended last March. Since the first line appeared, several dozen more have appeared, making my computer screen into a rainbow of Easter-egg colors with new shades added every week. Thankfully, I can still write and do what I need to do, but the messed-up screen is still a pain.

For me, I have a choice to make about how I think of the lines on my computer. I can complain about how technology is worthless and Dell is a terrible brand and woe is me because I’m a poor missionary with a decomposing computer. Or, I can look at the lines and remember and be thankful. I can look at the lines and see one blue one that appeared right after I was robbed at gunpoint and thank God I still have my life. Or, I can look at a red one that popped up during my cousin’s visit, and thank God I had family and visitors with me for a Christmas away from home. Or I can glance at a green one that showed itself in the days after the first grading period ended, and remember too God’s faithfulness to me as a teacher. The choice, really, is up to me as to how I look at my now-defuncting computer screen. I can complain or use it as reminder of God’s faithfulness to me.

A second illustration comes from my experience in the AC church here. Whenever one lives in community, small things start to bother and quirky eccentricities to chafe. Living in a community with a culture far different than one’s own makes the temptation to complain and be grumpy about the way things are done even much more strong. Customs, even church customs, appear sometimes strange, unbiblical, and perhaps even unchristian. For me and the AC church here, this difference in spiritual practice and opinion has made itself clear many times, but perhaps one of the clearest is in the giving of the tithe.

I was raised, as any good North American ACer, in a church with the donation box at the back of the sanctuary. There was never any passing of the plate or possibility for public demonstration of tithing. We discreetly put our money in the back box at the beginning or end of the service, almost embarrassed by the fact that anyone might see us doing so. Scripturally, Christ’s call to not let our right hand know what our left hand was giving made itself manifest in stealthy donations by way of quick, James Bond style handmaneuvers.

The church here, however, makes the tithe giving a big show. There’s a special worship song when it’s announced that everyone can offer their gift, and then everyone goes up front in a big processional line to deposit their money in an open white box. There is a big and public to-do about giving, undoubtedly cultural but entirely foreign to me.

For me, the temptation is to judge. I can look around at everyone who has their money in hand and think that they must be so prideful to make such a public display of their gift-giving. I want to tell the pastors that the way they donate tithe money is wrong and against what Jesus taught, making people more concerned with what other people think as they go up to the offering box and less concerned with what God thinks as they pridefully do so or stay seated in their shame.

Thankfully, though, there’s a way out for me of this temptation to judge. While Christ speaks of giving alms in secret, the scriptures also speak of celebrations after harvest time and during festivals when the people of God joyfully presented their offerings and sacrifices to God, the first fruits of everything with which He had blessed them. Seen is this light, the communal tithe giving becomes a festive occasion to remember God’s many mercies in providing for basic necessities, a sort of public demonstration and testimony of God’s faithfulness in providing for finances. With this view of things, the people lose their pride and the offering becomes an act of worship towards a good God. The pastors are no longer manipulative and wanting to shame people into giving, but leaders themselves of a congregation joyfully giving back to God what is already His.

I pray that everyday we might look for the best in life: to count the little inconveniences as little blessings and the little differences in the practices and opinions of other people, especially among other Christians, as little manifestations of God’s goodness to all differently displayed. Then, as Christians, we may truly be content in all things and live out the love of God that “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

A prayer

2008-09-15T12:35:00.000-07:00

A beautiful prayer by Thomas Merton, and one I can really call my own:

My Lord God,
I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Nor do I really know myself,
and the fact that I think that I am following

your will does not mean that I am

actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you

does in fact please you.

And I hope to have that desire

in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart
from that desire.
And I know that if I do this,
you will lead me by the right road though I

may know nothing about it.

Therefore will I trust you always though I

may seem lost and in the shadow

of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,
and you will never leave me to face my

perils alone.

Angry Papa Bear

2008-09-11T15:01:00.000-07:00

Don´t mess with my kid

(Warning- Contains a new bad word I learned in Spanish)

I had a “papa bear” moment with Christian the other day. He came home from school very upset, and when I asked him what it was about, he didn’t really want to talk. Upon further investigation, though, he opened up and told me what had happened. In school that day the art teacher wrote him up for calling a girl “pelotuda,” even the he had no idea what “pelotuda” meant.

From what I gathered, the story was this: Christian’s schoolmate, who talks too much and rarely leaves him alone, called him “pelotudo,” so logically Christian returned the remark in reply, even though he had no idea what it meant. The girl got offended in her uncomprehensible-little-high-school-girl-gets-offended-sort-of-way and went and told the art teacher, who is a very cold and unfeeling person that never greets me or any of the other teachers anyways. The art teacher asked Christian if the accusation was true, and he truthfully responded that it was, even though the girl had called him the name first and he didn’t know what it meant.

Long story shirt, Christian got written up and a point or two added to his record towards a one-day suspension (the only kind of punishment the Paraguayan school system knows how to hand out) because an annoying classmate spit out a tattle tale and the conniving art teacher licked it up. The girl walked away scott-free. I was disgusted and upset at the girl for her hypocrisy and the teacher for her man-hating tendencies and unintelligible punishment towards high schoolers who, after all, can do much worse things than call names.

About a week later, Christian and I both found out that “pelotudo” literally means big-balled, and is a some-what crude word used to insult people. When I got his weekly bulletin, which complained that he used the word in art class, I wrote a curt little response that went something like this: “Neither Christian nor I knew what “pelotudo” meant until his classmate called him the name first. Since neither Christian or his classmate are “pelotudos,” however, there really is nothing for us to be worried about. ---Prof. Jason” Christian was a little embarrassed by the note, as I would have been by my mom or dad sticking up for me like that in high school, but he accepted it and took it to school anyways, facing up to the reality of the situation in a pretty good realistic way.

On a Chest of Gold Bars at the Bottom of the Sea

2008-09-09T08:47:00.000-07:00

The sneaking premonition that nothing in this world lasts forever came up and nipped me quite unexpectedly when I was just four years old. I remember the day clearly, and the thought that came upon me without any warning at all: a chest full of gold if thrown to the bottom of the sea will eventually be dissolved by the water. Even the biggest and best bars, with enough time, disappear with the current as if they had never existed.

Startled by the prospect that even the best things might not last forever, I asked my mom if the dissolving of so much gold at the bottom of the sea could really be so. Perhaps she wasn’t listening to my childish question or really was and instead wanted to instill in me the values of security and eternity, but she answered me wrongly in saying that even if the gold was worn away bit by bit it would last forever. Either way, I was too smart for her answer and reasoned my philosophy through to its logical conclusion that everything on Earth has its time and then dissolves away.

They say that when one reaches about my age they start to realize the reality of worldly impermanence and physical death. Parents start getting sick and the cycle of birth and death can be seen as clear as an unmuddied stream as we start to have kids of our own. I don’t know how I’d come to grips with it all if I didn’t have the assurance of faith that there is a place where gold, even streets made entirely of gold, is never dissolved away and where water represents not the wear and tear of time but instead an eternal life-giving fount of beauty and love.

Ready for the Revolution

2008-09-01T17:12:00.000-07:00

A man in the supermarket parking lot this evening told me there was a military coup beginning and that every person should quickly go to his own home because tanks were rolling in from the Chaco to take over. Given the current and tumultuous political environment in Paraguay, his claim was not unbelievable to a generally disconnected and ignorant North American. And so, in good preparation for the revolution, I impetuously purchased

1. 5 pounds of bread

2. 2 pounds of sugar

3. 2 pounds of flour

4. Crackers

5. Toilet Paper

6. Suave hair conditioner

7. 3 cucumbers

8. 4 onions

9. Bananas

10. 4 and a half pounds of rice

11. 2 packages of noodles

12. 2 pounds of yerba for terreré and maté

13. A gallon of milk, in boxes

14. A lot of ricotta cheese

When the revolution gets here, you can bet I’ll be ready. After the prices of commodities fly through the roof because of the political instability, people will want to pay me in gold for my food, but I’ll give it to them for free because I’m nice like that.

Ready for the revolution

Visit to Bañado

2008-09-01T17:11:00.001-07:00

On Saturday I took up the invitation offered me many, many months ago to spend a day in Bañado, home to the smaller and poorer sister congregation of the Lambaré church and perhaps the poorest neighborhood in Asunción. The pseudo-municipality of about 52,000 inhabitants stretches along the uneven coast of the Rio Paraguayo outside all the comfortable edges of mainstream society. Although so many people call Bañado home, it is formally unrecognized by the government and municipal maps (although they also receive formally unrecognized government water and electricity free of charge). The land here, frequently flooded by rains and soggy through and through, is free and up for the grabs. 70 percent of its inhabitants work as trash collectors, rummishing through wealthier neighborhoods searching for anything that can be recycled for money: plastic bags, pop bottles, newspapers, metal scraps. A mere glance at the neighborhood betrays the profession. Trash carts take the place of family automobiles in front of homes while piles of recyclables take the place of swingsets and sandboxes out back.

I was invited by Alberto, a young man my age, Bañado native, and extraordinary servant of Christ with the Apostolic Christian Church in the neighborhood. Although gifted with so many spiritual and intellectual talents, Alberto has been without steady work for nearly a year now. He started university a while back, but left to pursue a work opportunity and lost out on all his credits. Recognized as an honest and trustworthy leader among neighborhood youth, he helped found and organize several community programs with a former American Peace Corp member. Now that she has left and abandoned the work, however, Alberto remains fully invested in the work of the Bañado church.

The congregation is very poor, and most everything they have has been donated by North American brothers and sisters in Christ. The Canadian AC churches sent work teams and money to build the church building, and my family’s own Vesper Lake Bible Fellowship recently donated the fans, lights, and curtains that the building still lacked several years after its construction.

Although the community is very poor, however, it is a community that is committed to and dependent on living a life of faith. Several members meet every evening of the week to spend time in prayer, and several members rely on this prayer for their basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter. Somehow and with much sharing and charity, the people survive. When someone lacks food, a collection is taken up and God provides. When someone lacks a place to stay, someone opens up their house and God provides. Theirs is a life completely dependent on trust in divine providence.

The congregation also ministers to the neighborhood, sending out groups every Sunday to meet, greet, and pray with new families in the area. There is a weekly Sunday school along with a women’s ministry, and a youth group that often plays sports together on Saturday. Church life isn’t always rosy, but each one I spoke to had a great love for the Lord and a deep commitment to service and evangelism. In Bañado, there are only three evangelical churches and a couple more Catholic churches. The spiritual need, like the economic need, is great.

For all the poverty among the people of Bañado, however, there are signs of hope in community organization and international aid efforts. Alberto showed me a cooperative of women bakers, most deserted by their husbands, who have banded together for the work and profit of making bread. We also passed by the Catholic Church, where a donation from the government of Spain has permitted the building of a vibrant community center where reading and writing classes and public health campaigns are offered free of charge. There was also a community grocery store where the church offers food at bargain prices, a neighborhood pharmacy where the poor can buy medicine at discounted rates, and a library where the luxuries of books and internet are offered to those who would never have the access to knowledge elsewhere. There was even a small radio station, giving public service announcements and keeping the community informed of important news and events. I also got to meet a Catholic missionary from Chicago, an older gentleman with big spectacles and an even bigger heart, fighting drug addiction with the hope of the Gospel. He is a dear friend of Alberto’s, whose oldest sister is a drug addict and who often receives much help by way of the Catholic lay minister.

It was an amazing privilege to see the work of development going on in Bañado, first in the church and then in the community. Often times I wonder if North American aid and volunteer associations actually do their jobs and really accomplish anything at all, but after visiting Bañado I have no doubts. Community development in the poorest places is working. The American Peace Corp is good and effective, as are the donations of churches, civic groups, and governments. A most practical example of this was a school where boxes of school supplies, bought by North America families for those in poorer places, are distributed through an organization called Kids for Kids.

Overall, the day was a refreshing visit to a poor place where the work of God often partners with the development of man in bettering the lives of so many poor. I got to see so many organizations at work, so many projects put to good use, and churches using spiritual and economic resources for the good of their fellow man and the greater glory of their transcendent God. Although Bañado is a place of extreme poverty, it is also a place of extreme grace where the work of spiritual and economic redemption is plainly in sight.

Goin´ on a Jetplane

2008-08-25T11:08:00.000-07:00

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

Update

2008-08-16T12:00:00.001-07:00

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

Ascenion and Assumption in Asuncion

2008-08-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Terrible Tropical Voodoo Rash

2008-08-10T12:16:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glorious.

The closeup.

Argentina AC

2008-08-01T09:19:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much More than a Potato

2008-07-30T14:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Big Anniversary

2008-07-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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