Solo los Bautizados!

I remember it like it was yesterday: "Good Friday" from eleven years ago. I was in what would prove to be my final year of work in Ecuador (that's another story), and what I called the "Annual time of drudgery" was coming up. When I first got to Ecuador in 1991, the churches had been saddled with an annual obligation called "Good Friday" services. I had several problems with this, not the least of which is that I don't believe Christ was crucified on a Friday (but that's another story, too). I was disturbed that there was more observation of "crucifixion day" than there was of "Resurrection day."



One of the Friday traditions was called the "Seven Last Words," which had been started, probably, by the first missionary where I was assigned. We even had a book we were supposed to use. I could make this a long story, but to shorten it somewhat, I ended up doing "28 last words" that first Friday, as the churches all scheduled me for some time during the day to take them through the seven "last words" of Christ. After all, I was a "bishop": fully ordained and commissioned, with a seminary education. In a city where unordained pastors were not allowed to baptize or administer the Lord's Supper, they were also glad to have someone qualified to observe this "third" ordinance. I would also find that I would be needed for baby dedications, as the original church there did not want their own pastor praying for new babies because he was not ordained. I guess that was the fourth ordinance, though you can probably see that these things had actually become sacraments. Oh, and why was this man, called to pastor this church, not ordained? Because he "wasn't ready." First, he wasn't married. Second, he had not finished seminary. The members of the church told me other reasons, too, but I think those give you the general idea.



My first few years of missions were taken up by moving from church to church each Sunday, administering the "sacraments," and hearing the requests of the parishioners, who asked me for everything from mission money for building, to help in getting rid of a pastor. Oh, and there were also the weddings. In Ecuador, a church wedding has absolutely no binding power. All marriages there are civil, and the couple must first be married there. Then, later, they are "wed" in a church. It was an evil abomination for a couple, legally married in the local civil court, to set up housekeeping before they had their church ceremony. And only an "ordained" man could perform that ceremony, which excluded about 90% of our pastors, and left the missionary calendars full.



Now let's fast forward nine years to "Holy Week" of 2000. The town where I worked had four established Baptist churches. There was, of course, the obligatory "First" Baptist, and then there was the second church, called "God is Love," that had formed when First split over a disagreement with the founding fathers and mothers. Then there was another church that had split from First, and gotten missionary money to buy an old building. Finally, there was a church with real hope of progress at the entry way of the city, but without a pastor because there were no ordained men left, and no way to get anyone to seminary.



In my arrival in this city, working with the new believers we encountered, most of whom were not welcome at "First," we established four new churches in the first few months of work. These churches, in turn, started cell groups in some outlying cities, and I had my hands full just training new pastors who came to me for advise and counsel. When I got the call from our local association that we would be having "Last Words," they were arguing about where to have the service this year, since "First" and "God is Love" always competed for the service or had it separately. One of our new church planters had a job as a guard for an old gym in the barrio where he lived, and he offered this gym, with seating for 500 or more. We settled on the gym.



Our Association president, a devout lady who really was "pastor" of "God is Love," though not really, you understand, let me know that we would have "communion" during the service, and wanted to make sure that I was ready with the "seven words." I told her I would not be giving them, nor would the other two missionaries. "But there are not any pastors," she said. I explained we had seven men lined up, all church planters whom we had been training for a year. She looked at me skeptically. Then she reminded me about the "communion": "Solo los bautizados!" I said I understood. She had no idea. Our church planters had baptized about fifty people during the past year, in rivers, in cisterns -- anywhere there was water.



The service was scheduled for 10:00 AM Friday. At 9:30 our church planters and the members of our new churches were there, but none of the established churches. You see, that was another "custom" we had learned in "missionary school." It's okay to be late. After all, Ecuador is a "laid back" country, and "It's just the way we are," they would say. We waited until 10:30, and we started our service. After all, there were about 100 people sitting in the stands. The entourage from the established churches arrived at 11:15, after our music, and well into the third "word." They looked shocked that we had started so early.



While the preaching continued, they dutifully set up the apparatus for the Communion service, pouring the grape juice into the crystal cups which were seated in a silver-plated tray, all imported from America, with love, by a missionary of the past generation. They were generous, too. They poured fifty cups of juice.



At the end of the preaching, she, of course, wanted me, an ordained man, to administer the elements. But first, there was a speech to be made. It ended with "Only baptized church members may participate!" As the music played, and the people lined up, I cannot actually recall what happened during the Ritz cracker stage. What I do remember was the panic as the lines formed for the Cup. There were obviously going to be more than fifty. She stood again, "Solo los bautizados!" she pleaded. Now understand, she was, and is, a very dedicated and beloved Christian lady, deserving of the regard and respect that a woman of God should have. I respected her highly, and miss seeing her. Now, I had to help her out. "Hermana," I said gently, "we have baptized many people in this past year. "These are all baptized members of our churches." At that point, she was looking through a small wallet. I gave her some of my money, and she sent someone across the street to a small store to buy more juice.

It was a unique communion service. Henry Ford would have been proud of the assembly line. As someone finished a cup, he handed it to a sister, who put it on a table, where someone wiped it clean with a towel. Then, it was re-filled and returned to the plate.

I would say that we had maybe 150 people receive the Lord's Supper that day. Were they all baptized people? I'm not sure, because I was not eye witness to most of their baptisms. That was the ministry of the churches performing them, and they did not need a bishop there, watching to make sure they did it correctly. I would have loved to have seen what developed next. By the next year, all three missionary families would be gone from the province, by the mysterious ways of God, and my next "Good Friday" would be spent at home in America, the only thing extraordinary would be my kids all home from school for a holiday.

My First Week There

People often talk about the "culture shock" that missionaries have when leaving the States and going to a foreign country. My worst culture shock of all came when I had to leave a foreign country. Our mission contracted with a language institute in San José, Costa Rica, so when we went to Spanish-speaking countries, we always had a year in Costa Rica before we reached our final destination.



San José is a beautiful city. The whole country is the most developed in Central America, it is a center of tourism, and a wonderful place to settle down. The food there was great, and the prices are low. The people, for the most part, are like us. While some might think the standard of living is lower than here in the US, it is higher there than in most of the countries of the world.



I fell in love with the food, the climate, and the ease in transportation (I went a year without driving a car), and the relative peacefulness of a small republic that has no standing army. So when I got to Ecuador, I expected more of the same. I was happy with my Spanish; the Costa Ricans spoke something musical and rhythmic, close to the "queen's Spanish," I would say.



In Ecuador, the Spanish of the coast where I lived was choppy and staccatto, with the omission of (I thought) crucial consonants. The poor, the lame, the deprived, are in public for everyone to see. The foods are different from San José, and the people are a little more desperate for help.



The first week I was there, I accompanied a fellow missionary to a "wake" of a church member who had died in childbirth. Ecuadorians don't embalm, and the body lies in state for only a very short time. Cotton balls in nostrils and mouth are common sights. The facial expression does not change from the moment of death. I was shocked to see the woman in her state, and looked away to what I thought would be a table with flowers. Only too late did I realize it was the infant, in the same condition.

That first few weeks in Ecuador was a series of shock waves. Water was scarce, gasoline was sporadic, stores had nothing I was familiar with, and people just basically did things differently. Mayonnaise is yellow in Ecuador, but cheese is white. I realized that there was nothing really bad about the culture; it was all just different.

One of my own achievements that I am most delighted in is that I was able to weather those changes and live. We stayed nearly ten years in that country, and I left with tears. I would not take anything for that decade of my life. Some of the posts that follow will explain why. The story of life in Ecuador was a story of learning that there are things to do everywhere we might go, and that it is possible to bloom wherever we are planted. Those years formed much of who I am, and the same can be said for the lives of my wife and children. We lived, we learned, we loved, and then, ultimately, we left, and I have learned from all these things.

A Journal from my Memories

In November of 2000, my family and I boarded a plane in Quito, Ecuador, and returned to life in the United States. It was a time of mixed emotions for me. I had spent a decade of my life in Central and South America. When left for the field, we took three tiny boys with us; when we returned, we had three young men and a daughter.

Every day I ask myself if I did the right thing by returning. Every day I hurt a little when I think of those brethren that I left behind, and may not see again until we all see our Lord together. I will reflect on those things in some of these blogs.

These posts are meant to be taken simply: as stories of everyday life as a missionary in the late 20th century. Some things have changed, and of course, my family's situation was unique in some ways. I do not pretend to be an expert in church planting nor missiology, and I defer to those dedicated people who are still on the field.

If you know me, please let me assure you that there has never been one day that I have felt resentment or dislike of the work that our family was sent to do. We felt a mysterious call to return to life in the states, and I have asked God several times since then, "Have I done everything you sent me back to do? May I return now?"

Feel free to comment on any items here. I have tried to be accurate, and I want to tell what was going on inside me as I experienced these events. I hope you enjoy reading these posts.