Church elder resisted teaching in his language

ALMOLONGA — Just as Isaías began to address the group in their mother tongue, a church elder rose and interrupted him.

The elder’s anger was evident.

“Brother, we don’t want to go backward,” the elder said. “We just want you to teach us this course in Spanish. We want to prosper. That’s why we invited you here.”

Isaías, a trilingual Kiché Mayan, founder of the “Ezra the Reformer Bible Institute,” in Cantel, Guatemala was taken aback. But he had encountered this attitude before among other Mayans in Guatemala.

“Brother, thank you for your observation,” Isaías said. “I teach the Word in Kiché because I want you to understand what the Word says in your language.

“Fine, if this is how the rest of the group feels — no problem. I’ll step aside and gladly let a Ladino (non-Mayan Guatemalan) brother come who speaks Spanish as his mother tongue.”

The pastor and others, however, insisted that Isaías remain and teach the class on church leadership. So he stayed and continued to teach in Kiché, coming back for each lesson.

Three months later, the same elder stood — angry once again. This time, however, he expressed his frustration toward the pastor.

“Brother, pastor,” the man said, “I’m upset with you because you made me an elder. But now, according to what I’ve learned in our own language, now I understand what the requirements of an elder are. Now, I realize I don’t qualify to be an elder according to what brother Isaías taught us.”

The pastor listened and responded by apologizing.

“Brother, I also didn’t know the requirements of an elder either, according to the Word of the Lord,” the pastor answered. “Now that brother Isaías has come and given us this course in our own language I understand the requirements. I’m very sorry that I made you an elder.”

“They said this is the first time that what we’ve discovered what God wants as his elders,” Isaías said.

Unfortunately, this isn’t an isolated example, according to Isaías.

“It’s a constant battle,” he said.

Although Spanish is Guatemala’s national language, roughly half the country speak a Mayan language as their mother tongue. As they witness the prosperity of others, many believe they will prosper by abandoning their language.

“I believe with modern technology, people in our culture believe our language will disappear, but I personally don’t believe it,” Isaías said. “Some 500 years ago, when first Spanish conquerors came, they told us our language wasn’t a language. It was just sounds, but it’s not true. We’re still using it. If it hasn’t disappeared in these last in the last 500 years, it’s not going to disappear.”

His Bible institute near Quetzaltenango, Guatemala’s second-largest city, sits amidst a multilingual environment.

By a slight majority, Isaías estimates that most Kiché Mayans near Quetzaltenengo request teaching in Spanish.

“But those who oppose (mother-tongue Bible teaching) as the brother in Almolonga, are realizing that it’s valuable to study the Bible in Kiché,” Isaías said. “Later they’re convinced; they want us to teach them in Kiché. But we have to work. We have to help them understand.

“All of our education system here in Guatemala says to the indigenous people, ‘We want to triumph. We want to do something great. We have to learn to speak the Spanish language’,” Isaías said. “Unfortunately, many indigenous people want to speak in Spanish and they sacrifice their mother tongue. But the problem is they don’t speak Spanish well and they don’t speak their own language well either.”

Today, Isaías says he has seen a new interest in learning and using Mayan tongues, including some Kiché and Kaqchiquel students who are reclaiming their language.

“I see a resurgence in the appreciation in the Mayan culture, which includes the mother tongue,” he said.

***

I met Isaías a couple of weeks ago. He’s a great guy, doing great work. His story illustrates one of the challenges facing pastors, church leaders and missionaries who attempt to bring the hope of life in Christ to Guatemala’s multilingual milieu. Most Mayans understand their mother tongue best, but sometimes they are prejudiced against using it. Many believe, often with good reason, they will get better jobs if they switch to Spanish. This attitude can carry over to spiritual and religious teaching — nevermind that they might not actually understand the truth delivered in a second language. — John

Happy Easter outside my window

He is risen! He is risen indeed. ... This week as I was laying low, the hymn came to mind, "Low in the grave he lay."

It's remarkable that the Son of God humbled himself to such an extent: to die at the hands of sinners, on behalf of sinners, to bring sinners to life, to bring sinners to know the living God by being buried in a grave here on earth. Death, sin, hell and Satan were conquered by His obedience to the Father's will. Aleluya!

Here are a couple of photos of the Easter lilies outside my window. A fresh reminder of God's glory and grace. Happy Easter!

*****

Guatemalans, especially the Catholics, are among Latin America's most enthusiastic celebrants of Christ's "Passion Week." They parade through town, leading to the Catholic church, which is almost always centrally located. As they go, they carry images of Jesus as he carried his cross or as he lay dead. They also carry images of the Virgin Mary and other followers.

In Jesus day, his followers laid their coats and palm branches on the road as a royal pathway for him to walk to Jerusalem. Today, Guatemalans turn this pathway into a work of art, preparing brilliant, intricate pieces crafted of colored sawdust or even local fruits. The celebration is most elaborate in Antigua, the tourist-friendly former capital of Guatemala. Unfortunately, I still haven't made it there to see it for myself, but someone else has. If you're interested, take a peek at his photos. Maybe you'll decide you have to come see it for yourself.

An unfortunate lesson on clean water's value

I was watching when the pretty waitress carried my glass over to the faucet to fill it with water. She did it so natural and easy that I thought, “Hmmmm, maybe they always use tap water for the juice drinks they serve here.”

I had been eating my lunches at that little “comedor” for weeks now and trusted it. I was still thirsty from lunch and asked for a refill. They didn’t have any more “horchata,” (sweet rice water) so she was making me some more.

A couple weeks ago, when I had asked the owner whether they use bottled water for the drinks, she had assured me that they did. So this week, I thought, “Hmmmm. Maybe she was just telling me what I wanted to hear.”

Walking back to work, however, I thought, “Gee my stomach sure feels funny. Naw, couldn’t be. It must be mental.”

It took a while for the tap-water horchata to work its wonders, but by yesterday morning things were different. By the afternoon, I was beginning to contemplate fetching some drugs. I called a friend, and she suggested a pharmacy. (You can buy drugs directly here without a doctor’s prescription.)

As I stepped out the door, there was an old man, lying on the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell whether he was drunk or sick, but he had some vomit on his shirt. The street corner seems to be a favorite place for drunks to drop and rest up from their drinking bouts.

When I approached him, the old man raised his hand for help. “Good grief, man, I’m sick,” I thought. “I can’t help you.” But I grabbed his hand, which had a remarkably strong grip, and managed to get him mostly upright, leaning against the wall. We hobbled along to the street corner where he found a seat on a kind of a bench. I was glad he didn’t expect me to take him far.

Helping the old man actually made me realize I would have the strength to make it up the hill to the pharmacy. The young clerk there kind of had a grin on his face when I requested the pills. He probably sees lots of gringos asking for Pepto-Bismol. I’m probably demented, but I like the taste of the tablets. I also bought some antibiotics, which were more expensive than I figured, but fortunately I had just enough.

At home, I tried the Pepto, holding off on the antibiotics. This morning, I woke up feeling better and with a new perspective on the value of clean water.

Speaking metaphorically, Solomon advises his son, “Drink water from your own cistern, and running water from your own well,” Proverbs 5:15.

God tells Jeremiah, “My people have committed two evils: They have forsaken Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewn themselves cisterns — broken cisterns that can hold no water,” Jeremiah 2:13.

Jesus brings the metaphor home: “Whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of living water springing up into everlasting life,” John 4:14.

Next time I get a drink of clean water, I think I'll say a prayer of gratitude for Jesus' gift of himself — living water — and for fresh water. Perhaps we could say a prayer for those who don’t have cheap, clean water. If you’d like to help those without it, check out World Vision’s website, which has a brief video, “Water is life,” on the subject and an invitation to give. There's also a good video, Demekech's story, on how clean water helped an Ethiopian woman and her four daughters.

A costly, purifying trial for one not so joyful

NEBAJ — Where were those Bible verses when I needed them? Not in my head, nor my heart, unfortunately.

“My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing,” James 1:2-4.

“You ... joyfully accepted the plundering of your goods, knowing that you have a better and an enduring possession for yourselves in heaven,” Hebrews 10:34.

Where was patience 10 days ago? Grace? Love?

Not at hand, I’m sorry to say. Justice was more on my mind at the time.

It’s a wonder, this Easter season, to consider God’s love for the world, how Christ died for sinners — people in active, perverse rebellion against Him —, how Jesus humbly accepted His Father’s will and obeyed, suffering crucifixion and death at the hands of worthless people ... on their behalf! On my behalf! To bring them and me to God.

Where was love or joy that Saturday morning? It remains on display on the cross in the flesh of the Savior, where my eyes should have been (Heb. 12:1-11).

It was the same day I decided to extend my three-day stay in Nebaj — I was enjoying it there, and saw more opportunities for work — that I wandered into the town market ... only to be dispossessed of my wallet and debit card.

When this happened five years ago, I remember thinking, “Where was God?” The answer troubled me: He was watching it all.

And yet, in the midst of this world’s (and my) perversity and rebellion, God broke through to show everyone the grandeur of His grace and mercy.

“ ‘Comfort, yes, comfort my people!’ says your God. ‘Speak comfort to Jerusalem and cry out to her, that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned; for she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins’.” Isaiah 40:1,2.

Double. Wow. Double payment. That’s a hefty price. It leaves no doubt.

Wouldn’t you know, it was my passion for mangos that got me into trouble. You'll find mangos in the town's market.

Guatemala’s markets, with all their color and life, are nearly irresistible. Farmers bring their produce and live poultry for sale. Others sell pirated CDs, pots and pans, clothing, shoes, snacks, stereos, farming tools, hardware, and more. At one point, I saw girl carrying a small, squealing, struggling pig to market — a rope tied around it in case it jumped from her arms.

Near one end of the market (which completely fills city streets), I spotted a nice basket of delicious-looking mangos. I bought three for about 65 cents.

As I left and began to walk back to where Viña’s sound technicians were recording the New Testament in the Ixil language, I realized I hadn’t bought enough for them. So I went back.

Just as I finished buying more mangos, the crowd got very dense. People were pushing and shoving, and I was being driven back almost falling on the mangos. For a split second, I thought about turning and trying to jump over the mangos. I was surprised at how much people were shoving, and looked to one side. I glanced a smiling, teen-aged boy leaning and pushing people toward me. That should have been my first clue. I raised my hands and pushed against the gal next to me to keep from falling on the mangos.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, the crowd dissipated. I reached for my wallet. It was gone. Not again! I’m three for three here: three visits; three picked pockets (one I got back with the crowd’s help). I turned around and saw the mango merchant almost rolling in laughter. I grabbed his arm. “Who was it?” I asked. “Oh,” he said. “There are a lot of people. I couldn’t see anything.”

Right. Muchas gracias.

Some people seemed indicate the thief fled in one particular direction, but I couldn’t see anything but crowds of people. There was no point in running after all of them, when no one stood out as I do here (height differential: often one to two feet).

I walked away. Almost on cue, an old Ixil woman appeared. The day before she had led me on a fruitless trip to buy Mayan textiles. “Come, come,” she said. “Today, you can buy local textiles.” In very plain Spanish, I told her I had been robbed and did not have money to buy anything.

As I turned onto a side street, the thin, plastic bag holding my mangos ripped. The mangos went rolling everywhere. I didn’t care for mangos right then and I let them roll. Judas threw away his 30 pieces of silver. Had I betrayed my Lord?

Later, I was talking with a local pastor. He said petty theft is not uncommon. Two years ago in the market, they stole his wallet, which had nearly $100 in it.

Grabbing the mango merchant’s arm probably wasn’t the most gracious thing to do. Neither did my next action qualify as gracious, but at the time, asking the police come with me and question the mango merchant seemed like the right thing to do.

“Let your gentleness be known to all men. The Lord is at hand,” Philippians 4:5. “Repay no one evil for evil. ... Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath for it is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord. ‘Therefore, if your enemy hungers, feed him; if he thirsts, give him a drink.’ ... Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good,” Romans 12:17,19-21.

Consider it all joy, brothers and sisters, when you encounter various trials. God is at work. Jesus Christ will be exalted.

I'd appreciate your prayers for grace to see people here as God sees them, not to walk in fear. Jesus had compassion on the crowds despite their demands and their disbelief, knowing they would kill Him. May He be glorified in Guatemala. May His peace be on this land. May he forgive the thieves and have mercy on them and the mango merchant ... as Jesus has shown mercy to me. May His body — the church — grow in grace and good works.

*****

I heard a talk today that I found helpful, encouraging me not to fuss over myself in introspection but to look outward in love toward others. It was given at the 2007 Sovereign Grace Ministries conference. Perhaps you would find it helpful as well. You can download it for free.

The road back from Nebaj

SOLOLÁ — Exactly how many people do you suppose fit inside a minibus? (Hint: The minibuses here are about 3/4 the size of a 14-passenger van.)

Turns out the answer is 21, not counting three small children. It's four people or more crammed glass to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to shoulder to glass per row. The "helper," who collects fares, often has to crouch in the sliding door well, wedged in amongst bodies.

Such was the privilege I had this afternoon of traveling out of the lovely mountain town of Nebaj amidst a crammed little congregation.

Whew. It's lots of stopping and starting, dropping off passengers alongside the road, no apparent destination in sight (read: lots more walking for them), and picking up new passengers.

My trip to the Ixil Triangle was fabulous and interesting, and I'd love to go back. I'll have to save more for later, but for now I'm just happy to be home and looking forward to sleeping in my "own" bed. Funny how lodging in a $3.90/night hotel in Nebaj run by a family with lots of small children can have its advantages (cost) and disadvantages (varied and colorful).

They own a rooster. Roosters crow at special times, in addition to sunrise. There's no door bell or buzzer so late arrivals had to bang insistently on the wooden door below my room to be let in. Child discipline is occasionally meted out with lengthy spankings and hair-raising cries and screams. Traveling groups of 11 might show up at 11:30 p.m., noisily entering the concrete, echo-prone premises, taking 30 minutes to bring their voices down.

Ahhhhhhh, it's great to be in Guatemala. This place is so full of life!

I was happily surprised to reach home in just over 3 1/2 hours this time. The 65-mile trip north took nearly 5 1/2 hours to get there. I'll see if any of my photos out the window will help you picture it, but imagine backpacking trails with lots of switchbacks. Maybe roads in the Alps are this way. I don't know.

Midway through our journey, a young Quiché Mayan lady with a noisy, lively bag and her husband boarded. Inside the gunnysack, numerous turkey chicks protested their indignity, and the mother hen occasionally chimed in, its head protruding out the bag. The young lady squeezed by me — barely, and with much effort and protest — to reach the back seat, where two other people were already seated. Her husband climbed in the back hatch and squeezed in beside her. I never thought the cheep-cheep-cheeping of little chicks could be so deafening or tiring. Try it for a couple of hours. You'll see what I mean. ... I find it amazing and charming that none of the passengers grumbled, complained or said anything about the racket. It's just taken as so many other things here — part of life, part of trying to get by.

Fortunately, I was able to board a real "chicken bus" in El Quiché for the second half of my journey. Viola! Legroom (sideways) ... and no chickens or turkeys! The bus' booming Mexican-style ranchera music sounded so happy to my ears.

The Lord provides!

A sunny Saturday by the lake

PANAJACHEL — There was Maria down by the lake, selling her mouth-watering specialty: Salvadorean pupusas.

Wow. It sure was great to be back in “Pana,” as the locals call it. This tourist town alongside the northeastern edge of Lake Atitlán is a warm, colorful place to visit. Five years ago, when I first came to work at Viña, I used to have to take the winding 20-minute bus ride down the hill to Panajachel to check and send email.

That’s how I got to know Maria.

Take a seat under a patio umbrella overlooking the lake, the sunshine and the lanchas transporting tourists hither and yon, and you’ll forget any troubles of the last week.

My morning got busy early as I had to meet Viña’s administrator at the office to collect some more Scripture players called “Proclaimers,” described in my Feb. 24 entry. My Canadian friend, Greg, had contracted with a lancha operator in Santiago, across Lake Atitlán, to take his team of about 10 people on a tour around the lake, stopping in at the little villages, including Pana. We coordinated our travels by phone and managed to meet by the lakeshore for the transfer. I brought him three more players, and he was happy to distribute them. More about that soon.

Panajachel’s long main street to the lake, Calle Santander, is lined with diversions: restaurants, banks, bars, long-haired, dred-locked hippies young and old, taco carts, colorful hand-made textiles and short, beautiful Mayan women displaying their brilliantly colored huipils (blouses), eagerly trying to make a sale. It’s easy to understand how gringos get attached to this place. Panajachel is about 2,000 feet lower elevation than where I live — still nearly a mile high, however — and quite a few degrees warmer.

Ana, a friend from the capital (three hours bus-ride away) was coming out to meet me and spend the day in Pana. Osbaldo, the teen-aged son of my good friends, Leo and Irma, joined me and rode down the hill on the chicken bus with me.

First, Osbaldo and I stopped in at Crossroads Cafe to visit smiling Mike, who knows more about coffee than Buck Star. Thank goodness, he knows which beans to buy down here and how to roast them because his coffee is fantastic! His wife, a South Africa native, had baked some delicious cookie bars with chocolate chips, coconut and walnuts. Wow, what a treat! I hadn’t had anything like that in months it seemed.

After meeting Greg and watching with amusement as aggressive textile sellers flocked to a large group of elderly tourists, disembarking from a large boat, we walked up to Maria’s pupusa stand. I wasn’t sure when Ana would arrive from Guatemala City, and she didn’t answer her phone. “What to do?” I said, looking at my watch. It was past 12:30. Well, of course, there was only one to do: eat pupusas!

Maria was her cheerful, smiling self, although she says business has been slow. Customers have been scarcer than mangos on beanstalks. She remembered me, and apparently had been asking Leo and Irma about me for a while after my last visit. She has known Osbaldo’s parents for many years.

As her own children were growing up, Maria began selling snacks out of her home to help make ends meet. Pupusas quickly became the favorite, and eventually she bought a small, secure shack. Her Kaqchiquel husband, Jacinto, is a masseuse and works at a large hotel in Pana. Apparently, he is quite talented. For many years, he flew to Italy to give massages to vacationers along the beaches there. I haven’t asked Maria how long she’s sold pupusas, but I’ve heard it’s nearly 20 years.

If you haven’t eaten a pupusa, they’re basically made of the same cornmeal — called “masa” in Spanish — as are corn tortillas and tamales. The Salvadorean twist requires the maker to fill it with meat, chicharrón (pig skin — a favorite!), cheese or refried beans — or some combination of these — and then pat it flat like a tortilla and fry it in a small amount of oil.

Pupusas are served with a tomato sauce poured over them and jalapeño peppers on the side to your liking, along with “repollo,” something a bit like German sauerkraut — a vinagery cabbage and carrot salad.

Ana didn’t make it in time for pupusas. Her loss.

(Note: Some of the names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent.)