Adventures in Evangelism

I always know I’ve gotten myself into some sort of a pickle when I begin thinking “I’ve got to write about this!” Today (Sunday) was one of those days. I’ve got a bit to write about my little vacation with Caleb and friends, but I haven’t gotten around to typing it out yet. In the meantime, I think I’ll share this story…

In order to set things up, we must turn back the clock, to last Thursday. During the truck transport to Xejuyup from the clinic, I found myself standing next to a very friendly, chatty woman. She clambered into the back of the pickup wearing a cute little skirt-suit and sparkly, albeit dirty, sandals. It was early afternoon heat we caught each others’ eyes while swiping giant beads of sweat from our respective brows. Before long, my new buddy Ruth was telling me all about herself. She lives in Santo Tomas, commuting to work as a nurse in both the national hospital in Mazatenango and in Xejuyup. In Mazatenango, Ruth works with “ancianos” (literally, “ancients”). Then, every fourth day, she comes up to Xejuyup and attends to the needs on the other side of life: she’s an on-call OB nurse. There’s a small public health clinic in Xejuyup, funded by the European MedicosMundi program, which lies only a few blocks away from the school. They don’t work with our clinic at all, so I haven’t had an opportunity to actually check it out since I’ve been here. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten it existed.

By the time we were in Pochol, about half of the way through our trip, she was offering to call me to come help with any births happening while she’s on call, and inviting me to Sunday dinner with her family. Delighted to be making a new friend and thrilled at the prospect of attending births, we exchanged phone numbers and planned on a Sunday lunch.

I was beginning to think that Ruth had forgotten about our plans by Sunday morning when she still hadn’t called to give me direction to her house as planned. Finally, a bit before noon, my phone began ribbiting insistently. (Yes, ribbiting. Exactly the same as the phone I had in Chile, my ringtone is a bullfrog.) It was Ruth, calling to confirm our plans and giving me instructions on how to find her house.

I walked across town, a bit apprehensive about what I may find. Strictly theoretically speaking, I’d imagine that polite social circumstances are probably about the same across all cultures. Notwithstanding, accepting an invitation to family dinner has the potential to be uniquely awkward, should there be specific expectations about, for example, saying grace, or eating with tortillas en lieu of utensils. Here, those are both definite valid concerns.

Luckily, Ruth’s chatty personality (and, in all reality, probably mine, too) alleviated any potential discomfort. Her family was very nice, and I ended up staying for over two hours yakking away and making new friends.

The only snag popped up as I was preparing to leave, when the family patriarch extended a most hearty invitation to attend his church service that evening. “It’s just two hours long! Really short!”

While that may not sound like a particularly complicated situation, the fact that I’m here working as a Catholic missionary creates a bit of a conundrum. Although I feel perfectly comfortable attending non-Catholic services, it’s important that I don’t send mixed messages as a representative of the Mission. Not to mention the fact that I’d just burned two hours with these folks; weren’t they sick of me yet?

I ended up giving a trademark noncommittal response, something to the effect of “I’ve got a lot of things to get done this afternoon, but if I finish in time I’ll show up” and headed home.

Further reflection on the situation led me to the decision to show up. I really enjoy Ruth, and her family was incredibly hospitable, and I’d like to forge a friendship. She’s very willing to let me her accompany her at the clinic, which would be way cool. Moreover, she’s got major aspirations to study a nursing specialty in the US, and is eager to learn English and have good American contacts. Basically, not only do we get along well, but we’ve both got something to offer one another. I finished a few projects at the Mission and headed downtown to find their church.

After a few wrong turns and a bit of confused wandering, I finally located a sign proclaiming the “Iglesia Rios de Aguas Vivas” to be “a 80 metros!” I walked down the alley, encouraged by the presence of several children running around outside a small doorway from which animated ecclesiastical shouting overflowed.

I ducked into the tiny basement enclave, where about fifteen people sat sweating and “Amening!” with enthusiasm. It only took a few seconds to survey the faces of the crowd, and realize that not one of them was familiar. Strange, considering that Ruth’s father was supposedly the preacher. The chubby middle-aged man shouting into a microphone at the front of the room looked nothing like the distinguished, kind older gentleman with whom I’d eaten lunch earlier today. Perhaps I’d arrived at the wrong church? But I’d followed Ruth’s instructions exactly, and followed the sign with the name of their church outside, which pointed down this alley. However, there are literally hundreds of little evangelical churches all throughout the area, so it wouldn’t be impossible that there were several in the vicinity, and I’d somehow detoured.

Unfortunately, the preacher made a big point of welcoming me into their service, and continued to point out “the new American sister” who was gracing their “humble little church, and Guatemala” with her “love of God and her kind heart.” It’s kinda tough to get up and walk out of a group of less than two dozen people once things like that have been said about you.

Still doubting my choice of locations, but now unable to quietly duck out, I was forced to stick around for the whole show. Our petite tin shack functioned as a wonderful oven, amplifying the heat of both our preacher’s passion and of the tropical air, ripening my freshly showered body to a disgusting state of sticky stink. I perspired in my pew, amused by the cries of excitement coming from our bite-sized congregation. My mind periodically wandered, pondering where I could possibly be, considering if Ruth was asking herself the same question. However, I was frequently brought back to focus on the sermon’s message of a unified body of Christ on earth (wasn’t that the whole idea of Catholicism to start with? Why’d ya go start your own church, evangelical preacher man, when someone else already thought of this idea, about 1,975 years ago?) by references to myself in the oration.

Finally, after a solid hour’s worth of “Hallelujahs,” “Amens” and rounds of applause in the name’o’the’Lord, our thoroughly sweat-drenched microphone wielding leader began showing signs of wearing down. He invited his wife to the front of the room, signifying family unity, and then insisted that I join them, as a symbol of international unity. I hesitantly stepped forward, and was glad to hear him soon encourage everyone to come forward together. We were instructed to join hands, close our eyes, and pray together.

That’s not too weird, I can do that.

Or so I thought.

Apparently the highly emotional nature of the homily extended far and wide into group prayer time. What began as insistence to pray aloud together, pledging to look favorably upon our fellow man, soon turned into passionate admonitions to never again speak negatively about our own family. As the people around me began to swear aloud along with their leader, vowing to never again speak against their family, I felt a bit confused. Sure, that’s a worthwhile oath to take, but to be honest I didn’t exactly find it necessary. Who are these people running around all day talking trash about their kids and parents? The preacher’s passion for the cause made it seem like a much more pressing issue than I hope it is. Really, I kept thinking to myself, I can’t remember the last time I said something bad about my family. How strange.

Regardless of my inability to connect to the cause, everyone else seemed thoroughly concerned with the current state of their familial relationships. It didn’t take long before our hand-holding circle was a full-on emotion-fest. As the sounds around me began increasing, I peeked a look around the circle. Everyone but me was loudly and fervently crying out, moaning, swaying and sobbing. Tears ran down the faces of men and women alike, left untouched to stream down their cheeks, pool at their jaw lines and drip onto clothes and sweat glistening collarbones. The woman beside me was shaking, weeping with a gusto which bordered on hysteria. Throughout it all, our tubby leader paced within the circle, shouting into the unnecessary microphone and crying unashamedly, apparently repentant of the innumerable times he’d recently called his kids little shits. That’s my best guess, anyways; in spite of all the very zealous encouragement to join in on the expressive jamboree, the details of our goal remained conspicuously nonexistent. I feel pretty confident that the idea was simply to get all worked up, in order to prove you were a’feelin’ the Holy Spirit.

I stifled laughter, and watched the clock.

Everyone else’s eyes were closed and streaming tears, so I don’t think they noticed my amusement.

Finally, after a good fifteen minutes of group emotion time, things wrapped up. This was after receiving a rather unfortunate embrace of welcome from the drippy, sticky minister, who eagerly invited me to come back. He also did something which surprised me, actually. He thanked me for being here, in Guatemala, and for leaving my family and home to serve others. It was strange, because even though I don’t necessarily feel like I deserve any thanks at all (am I really even doing anything constructive here? I honestly doubt that I am), it was nice to hear that.

The best part of all came at the very end, when a guy a few years older than me, who’d been sitting behind me the whole time, said “You’re here looking for Ruth, aren’t you?”

Thank God! Maybe I hadn’t been wrong after all! Perhaps something had come up, and she’d left early! But this was the right place!

I confirmed his suspicions, only to be informed that I had in fact showed up at the wrong church. We walked outside and turned the corner at the end of the alley where our basement was located. Lo and behold, had I walked another 10 feet to the end of the alley I’d have seen yet another hidden house of worship, clearly marked “Rios de Aguas Vivas.” I’d sat through that whole awkward, exaggerated service for nothing.

Already having come this far, I decided I may as well prove to Ruth that I had in fact shown up. The guy who’d approached me, apparently a friend of hers, walked me down the street, probably to ensure I didn’t screw up again. Ruth had said that their service would be from 4 to 6, and since it was not just a few minutes after 6, I assumed things would be wrapping up and I’d be able to say hi. She welcomed me into the Sunday school class she was leading, and invited me to stick around until the service was over.

That ended up being past 7 pm, instead of 6. Jesus. Really. I was about God’ed out by the end of it all, and finally explained that I was expected for dinner (a sort-of truth) and needed to get going.

After that silly Sunday ordeal, I think I’ve just got more encouragement to stick with my predictable ol’ faithful Catholic Mass, thank you very much.