The appointment to my new parish was confirmed with a confident handshake and the statement “and of course, you’ll be going with us to Nicaragua in January.”

“Of course,” I said, hoping no one would notice the sweat starting to form on the top of my lip. The contents of my gastro-intestinal tract were quickly becoming a swelling, stewing, stoking sign of fear.

Other than heights and eating bugs, not many things scare me. But the thought of going to a Central American country on a mission trip was starting to take hold of my deepest fears. After all, who hadn’t heard of Iran-Contra, Daniel Ortega, and the Communist influence in Central American civil wars?

My goodness, 24-hour news channels over the years had painted a picture in my mind of Nicaragua as an Iron Curtain, goose stepping kind of place, filled with mindless soldiers wielding Kalashnikovs, where everyone thumbed their nose at the Imperialist United States.

I was scared.

And I was wrong.

I’m learning that people are people all around the world. People get up before dawn, make breakfast, get their children off to school. People work hard, multiple jobs, six or seven days a week, just trying to feed their family and put cloths on their backs. People look up to the stars and ask, “Is this all there is? or is there more?”

Babies are born out of pain, tragedy strikes like lightening, the elderly quietly suffer in loneliness. Drops of Holy Water are splayed in the sign of the cross by those who enter sacred spaces. Children jump rope, squeal with delight over a wand from a jar of bubbles, and squeeze themselves in line to take a turn at wacking a pinata with a stick. Coffee brews, carts of shaved ice circle the village park, and older men tip back in their chairs while talking quietly and watching before them a game of pick up foot ball in the street.

International Christian ministries are about people, not politics.

The fear that gripped me began to fade away as I look out the window of the Delta flight and saw the poverty that surrounded the single landing strip airfield. Some old 50’s era military helicopters off to the side looked sad, tired, and rusted; like they hadn’t flown in years. Cooking fire smoke drifted up from Managua homes into the sky like there was some connection to heaven.  Even the gruff looking customs inspector at the airport looked like he was compensating for something. He couldn’t fool me.

I could feel the grace of God seeping into my consciousness like water drawn to a sponge. Smiles and waves and warm Hola’s were signs that people just want to be friends.

Being scared is natural, yet it also reveals within me a lack of confidence in my own faith. I know that God is in control. This is God’s world. There is no reason to fear. I’m human; which means, like you, I am a work in progress, flawed, bent, and brittle. Yet, despite it all, making new friends is God’s way of overcoming my fears and drawing me towards Christian perfection.

Scared? Not enough to keep me from going back.

How about you?

But I’ll call him Dino.

The 13 year old who stood before me begging for my watch had quite a reputation.

Other short-term missionaries who had been to our rural Nicaraguan village numerous times in the past had seen Dino grow up from a small child. They reported:

Dad; not in the picture.

Mom; did unspeakable things to earn or steal money, and who place her concerns before either of her two children.

Little sister; hanging on for dear life. Dino watched out for her and shared his spoils.

Dino, begged, borrowed, or stole everything. He popped up anywhere, everywhere, and at any time throughout the village, often when least expected. He knew all the secrets of every family in town. His classroom disruptions were legendary. One of our team told me “he’s got a little devil in him.” He was tolerated by all, but dismissed like a three minute tropical rain storm, without a second thought.

Dino was sensitive. His feelings were easily hurt, and from his body language, he was carrying a life time of disappointments on his under nourished shoulders.

Dino came to vacation Bible school, the week-long effort our team hosted at the local elementary school. In a crowd of 300 children, Dino hung out amongst the fringes. Older kids picked on him. Younger kids kept their distance. Yet, as regular as a jeweler’s personal time piece, Dino would show up every day for opening exercises and class.

Dino showed up in my class of senior high youth. He was breaking new ground. Yet, he yearned for acceptance so bad it was painful. He was playing the part of the village idiot as if he had a life time of rehearsing for the part. My English was translated to localized Spanish and I could see his brows furrow and tears well up in his eyes when I said, “Dino, either you’re going to work in our class, or you can sit quietly on the side.”

Dino chose neither.

He breathed hard, got up, and stormed out.

That noon at lunch, the chit-chat over the events of the morning turned to Dino. “Yes,” I said. “True to form, he got angry and blew out of my classroom.” Everyone shook their head as if we all understood. Turns out none, but one, did.

… except for one teacher, who had younger elementary children in her class. She understood. “Did you know,” she began slowly, “that midway through my class this morning, Dino popped in, and asked me if there was any way he could help?” For the rest of the class (and for the rest of the week), Dino assisted in the classroom by being a very successful teacher’s aide, teaching vacation Bible school.

Later in the week, in the evening, prior to retiring for the night, I sat on a chair watching the neighborhood kids swarming us in the street, playing some pick up street football, and just hanging with us odd North American visitors.  Dino came up to me smiling. We didn’t share the same language.

“You become a Padre some day?” I asked, holding my index finger like a clerical collar. After a few attempts at translation, I could see understanding descend upon him like a veil. Dino laughed, and giggled, shook his head and pointed at me, then turned and disappeared into the dusk.

Twice in one day I wondered about this question. Physically exhausted carrying building supplies and making home visits to local families in the high altitudes of Mayan lands, the first request came from a Hands of Jesus team member who heard a 4 year old girl was very ill and the family requested we come and pray for her. I brought up the tail as the group descended down a mountainous trail into a maze of homes and alleyways. I fell behind and found myself alone on the trail. I looked down and wondered if I could go on. The eyes of numerous children were upon this heavily breathing Gringo.

No. This isn’t a reflection on the video game I so enjoyed years ago. This is a second take on serving God’s kingdom in the high altitudes of Mayan Guatemala.

A retired colleague of mine, who has been coming to Guatemala for decades, replied that when ever he was here and experienced an earthquake that it stirred imagery of creation.

I was marked. Seeing the mark on my hand made me think of the marks Jesus obtained by his crucifixion.

My mark came from the ink identifying wheelchair size. 18 stands for eighteen inches in width. While working with others to obtain a good fit for one of fifty people from Guatemala City in need of a wheelchair, my grasp transferred the ink to my palm.

Guatemala, I am told, is a geologically active region that rings the Pacific. Volcanoes are everywhere. Earthquakes are frequent. Apparently we’d been experiencing earthquakes nearly every day on our mission trip this past August. I hadn’t felt one of them.

I’ve always wanted to, but I did not want to experience an earthquake so large that people or property would be hurt. So I am picky about geological events, as if I had one ounce of control.

On one of the last days in Guatemala, I felt my first earthquake. Sitting in a third story dinning room, it gently rolled the floor and rocked the pictures hanging on the walls. How cool!

“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?” – Isaiah 58:6

The complaint is valid.

We Christians like to quarrel and fight and to strike with wicked fists (Isaiah 58:4). Be it theology, dogma, social action, civil rights, just war, or whether or not we designate one parking space in the church parking lot “Handicapped” … we love ourselves a good church debate.

The Lord knows of what He speaks.

All the while we are engaged in church meeting food fights, right outside our door is a world of refugees fleeing war, widows and children dying of malnutrition, ethnic injustice, people without benefit of intellectual or physical abilities left to beg (and die) on the street, individuals being crushed by the yoke of oppression.

If this is our fast, it sounds like the Lord doesn’t want any part of it.

I’m no expert. I’ve made a couple of short term mission trips to Central America, read a few books, conversed with a lot of sages, wise men and women, mentors, fellow missionaries, and friends. I have dreamed deeply about the question, “who is my neighbor?” It is more important to me to watch and listen with curiosity than it is dive into debate or body surf through a sea of cultural muck and angry goo.

Quick answers, in my experience, are often poor answers, many times leading to unanticipated consequences. Speaking only for myself, I need time to process, pray, and listen for the whisper of the Spirit. It is important to reflect upon what I’ve experienced and to wait for the nudge of Divine creativity to lead me to break a few yokes of oppression that would make Jesus proud.

As a pastor, a preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, I’ve been called to crush oppressive yokes that enslave people. I’ve been called to channel the spiritual journey to the next destination beyond individual forgiveness and salvation, beyond the self to the whole, towards healing that embraces all of God’s good creation.

If I spend too much time on my intellectual high-horse, please, someone knock me down and swarm me with tickling children. Humility is a great thing. God knows, I need more of it.

This blog will use story telling to focus on Christian international outreach and ministries. I have a lot of stories to tell, and I’m always listening for more. My hope and prayer is that these reflections will serve as an invitation to you, the reader, to watch, listen, pray, reflect, discuss, plan, and to get up and get out into the world to break a few yokes.

Destroy the yoke of oppression where ever you find it. Set people free. Be the balm of Gilead that brings God’s healing to the world.