Guate

It's a nickname for Guatemala City.

What else?

Well, it's clean. It's certainly cleaner than other capitol cities I've been in, though that isn't saying much. There were people everywhere sweeping and picking up trash. I love that! It's apparently been a conscious effort of the mayor (who was once upon a time governor and then mayor before that). The mayor has also made a conscious effort to make riding the bus safer. The "chicken buses" you've read about before tend to be subject to extortion by the gangs. That was true, too, in El Salvador. I was there when the gang members burned one bus to prove a point. The buses shut down for four days after that. The issue, at least as the mayor of Guate saw it, was that money was available. A person gets on the bus and pays the fare to the driver, so money is always on the bus. Gang members jump on and demand their cut, and for "safety" sake, the drivers give them the money. The new system in Guate eliminates all that. The fare is paid into an armed-guard-guarded machine before the person ever gets on the bus, so the driver never has money. The buses are new and green and have something resembling an accordian in the middle. They seem more comfortable than the revamped school buses, but they also get every bit as jammed full of people.

Also, there are still few places safe enough to visit, so there was little reason to take the bus. I took one with a few other people from the hostel. We went to the one square where there is anything to see. It has the cathedral, the national palace, and a park. Not far from there is the market. I'm not crazy about markets and wouldn't have visited this one otherwise. I would have preferred some time in the square and would have gone back there on my own if not for the frequent warnings about safety and the too-frequent admonitions to put my camera away. There were parts of the walk where I was all but forbidden to take out my camera. There was a nice walkway that the city is redoing that may grow up to be a safe place. We'll see.

People I've spoken with recently are astonished that I was in the city for a week. Most people tend to avoid it, other than the airport. I can see why. I wrote a review of Guatemala City for one of the websites thru which I booked a hostel, and I titled it "Not sure why you'd go there." I stand by that.

While my first night and day in the city were really quite positive, they had very little to do with the city. It had much more to do with the people.

One of those people walked with me one day and we dared to venture a little further from the hostel than maybe would have been recommended. We walked down Reforma Avenue, which on Sundays is closed off to traffic so people can walk, run, ride bike, skate, etc. in relative safety. Again, armed forces are everywhere. Reforma Avenue has a few things worth noting. One is the statue that looks like a replica of the Eifel Tower. I have pictures of that, I promise. It's very cool. It was built, as far as I understand, as a monument to the revolution that precipitated Guate's glory days.

There is also a military base on Reforma. The base had once been an ROTC training center (or something like that). It looks kind of like a castle from the outside and is one city block square. I have no photos of it ... inside or out. I didn't take one of the outside becasue I couldn't get a good angle. I didn't take one of the inside because the nice man in the military uniform told me I couldn't, and while he had given us permission to walk around inside the gate, he watched very carefully to make sure we went no further than granted and that we took no pictures. I get it, it being a military base and all, but a girl has to ask.

Which brings us to the American Embassy, which is also on Reforma. I wish I had taken a picture of it as we walked by it the first time, because on the way back, we noticed a sign that said that pictures were forbidden. Fair enough. No pictures of the embassy. There was an alley with a mural, though, and I wanted a picture of that, but as I lifted my camera, an armed guard told me "no." I asked for permission, specific permission, to take a picture of a certain portion of the mural. The man I spoke to spoke with another man and he another and he another, who asked me if I was an American and then went inside. When that last man came out, I was given permission to take one photo of specifically what I had indicated I'd wanted.

I was reminded of my picture of the American Embassy in Managua. I had taken a picture of it from the bus I was on, and my travelling companion pointed out that the guard was watching me all the while.

Also in this alley way were a couple frames with pictures of people who have sold documents, and people were encouraged to report them should they approach anyone.

I visited an Episcopal Church in Guate. I learned that there are two congregations, one comprised mostly of folks from America and England, and one comprised of people native to Guatemala. English is spoken at the first and Spanish at the second. They are served by different priests, and they never have combined services. I was invited to preach at the English service, and while I had asked about the Spanish one, I was relieved to know that the Bishop hadn't been informed, and it therefore did not happen.

I had a wonderful conversation about the diaconate and it's non-existence in Central America. The Bishop of Guatemala is also the Presiding Bishop of that province, and we talked about my understanding of the permanent deacon and the importance of that office in places like Central America, in which justice issues prevail.

I have little sense of how the church is engaged in justice issues or even what their mission work looks like. I did hear a too-familiar conversation about repairing the roof. I would have liked to talk to the priest of the Spanish congregation in Guatemala City, anywhere really, about what service ministry looks like in Guatemala. I had no opportunity to do that. I was thinking about going to the churches in the northeast, but Hurricane Mathew was there as was a recent outbreak of dengue fever, which I've come to understand is kind of like malaria on crack, and I opted against going.

There are adventures to be had in that area. Apparently El Rio Dulce is not to be missed. However, I'm not feeling very adventurous of late. Oh, sure, yesterday I jumped off a bridge and climbed higher and steeper than I ever had in my whole life (or ever will again, probably!) to see the most beautiful natural wonder I've ever seen (Semuc Champey -- google that) and then swam in the pools of that wonder. And yeah, it was cool swimming in a cave by candlelight.

However, after weeks of words of caution (Put your camera away. Don't wear a backpack. Only ride the bus if you absolutely have to. Don't go far by yourself? Did you hear the gunshot last night? No, that wasn't a car backfiring.) and prohibited activity due to dangerousness, my sense of adventure has waned some. As I was making plans for this trip, Edie (a wonderful mix of friend and mom) said to me, "My fear is that you have no fear." She saw fearlessness, I think, in my sense of adventure. These days, I'm wary ... and weary. I hadn't come to Central America to be a tourist. I had wanted to engage with people on the street, and that has not been a prudent idea solo, and no one I've connected with has been willing or able to venture with me. The words of caution have seeped into my being, it seems, and I've developed a sense of fear that I don't believe I had before I left.

And I can't help but wonder what living in that kind of fear does to a person -- to a people -- year after year after year. It's paralyzing and hopelessness-inducing. It's noted in the conditions that don't seem to change. It's noted in gangs ... and not the government ... having control of things. It's noted in folks saying "There's nothing we can do."

I don't like what it's doing to my spirit. I'm losing my sense of humor, and I'm finding it difficult to be gracious. And it's only been nine weeks. I kind of want to come home before I'm confronted with more of the darker side of my personality. I don't believe conditions here have created what I'm discovering I don't like about myself. I believe its stripping away the layers that make me suitable for civilized company and exposing a base core that is at once authentically and uncomfortably human.

I'm off tomorrow to Flores to see the ruins of Tikal. They are, reportedly, THE ruins to see. That will be my final adventure in Guatemala. I had also wanted to see the villages from which people in my parish have come. For a variety of reasons, that didn't happen either. I would venture back here with those folks, and if other friends or family express an interest to visit, I would come back then, too. I may also come back to talk more about developing the permanent diaconate.

Oh, who am I kidding? I know better than to make grand statements about what I will and won't do. God tends to mock me when I do that.

A Transition made easy by ...

Transitions from one country to another have not been easy for me. I find myself a bit reluctant to step away from what is familiar and step toward, yet again, the unfamiliar. I had the same thought this time, with one added "bonus." Something I ate or drank on my last day in El Salvador didn't settle well. Actually, every couple weeks, my stomach seems to register an objection about something. Never beer, thank goodness. Curiously enough -- and sadly -- I think a couple times it may actually have been a bag of water.

Anyhoo, I only mention feeling less than stellar because I don't like travelling when diarrea and / or vomitting are distinct options, and I was going to be travelling to Guatemala the next day. I went to dinner with my host family, Reverenda Irma, and her husband Padre David, and tried to tell them "Thank you." I told them that travelling alone is not an easy thing, and it becomes a very important thing for a solo traveller to have a safe place to be, and before the lump in my throat robbed me of my ability to speak, I opened my hands and said in a whisper, "Muchas gracias." Irma reminded me that I always have a home in El Salvador whenever I return, and David reminded me that El Salvador needed a deacon. We walked after dinner and talked about the cost of living, square meters of homes, and the need to live behind bars. I noted that it was my first nighttime walk in a long while and how it was yet another sign of their hospitality and one more reason for my gratitude.

Irma drove me to the bus station very early the next morning, and I really wasn't feeling well at all. I slept fitfully on the five-hour busride, and in addition to feeling physically ill, I was feeling sorry for myself and travel-weary. I generally enjoy looking at the scenery and could barely muster the energy to do that. Occasionally I did look out the window, wondering mostly how close I was to the next bathroom. When I looked, the views, like everywhere else in Central America, were breathtaking. The Pan-American Highway really is an experience all its own. It's similar to a rollercoaster, I think. For much of it, it goes up and down and all around. There's barely room on either side. On the inside track is a mountain and on the outside track are kiosks (yep, just for fun, that's what I'm calling them) selling a variety of things, and just beyond these sticks-and-plastic bags structures are deep, wide, lush valleys speckled with people's homes. That contrast is really quite familiar to me now, and my thought was, "I'm not sure how much more of it I can take."

That thought was amplified on my taxi ride from the bus station to my hostel. I just could not take in one more thing.

I arrived at the hostel and was greeted by Marie, the owner's mother. She showed me to my room and offered me a glass of water. I settled in the living room to watch "Mama Mia!" with two other Americans, and Marie offered us tea and cookies. The other Americans are Andrea and Monica. Andrea is in Guatemala for a few months volunteering with an organization who provides micro-loans to indigenous people. Monica has spearheaded an organization that builds houses in Tijuana, Mexico. The three of us talked about our work and our travels, and it was lovely relaxing in English! Marie took us to a nearby French restaurant for dinner. I did not order the octopus but did enjoy a tuna salad and a tiny helping of real mashed potatoes.

We returned to the hostel to find Marco, the owner's brother, who works with an organization called Techo Para Mi Pais Guatemala. Please check out the website: http://www.untechoparamipais.org/ As I listened to Marco describe the program, I thought it sounded very familiar, and I found a card I'd received from some young people in Nicaragua who had been in the streets of Leon and in the mall in Managua collecting money. It was indeed the same program. I remember thinking, when I had read the card, that it was the only sign of servant leadership I had noted in Nicaragua. And here I was in a hostel with various signs of servant leadership dining and conversing with real live servant leaders.

As many of you know, I have made very few plans for this trip. I've been more of the mind of going where the Spirit leads me, which generally seems to include saying "yes" to invitations offered and staying still when there has been no invitation. It has served me well, I think. I awoke this morning having rested well, despite too-active dreams, and went to church at St. James Episcopal Church. I was warmly welcomed by the Anglo congregation and invited to lunch. I said yes. I spent a lovely few hours seeing their home, hearing their stories, learning a bit of local history, eating a wonderful meal, and seeing a few of the sights. I've returned to my hostel -- and everyone should come to Guatemala City and stay here: http://www.quetzalroo.com/ !, to really good coffee and good company. It seems this transition is complete, and I am at ease once again ... thanks to Servant Leaders and the Holy Spirit.

Musings of the Day

I visited La Puerta Libertad and the beaches there. Wow! The black sand is a wonder, and the waves are unbelievably strong! It´s an amazing feeling standing in that particular part of the ocean and hanging onto the arms of a new friend, Josue, as the waves washed over us. It´s even a more incredible sensation to be swept away by them ... and to know that they are almost as strong going out as they are coming in. The sun was strong, too, but there was a strong breeze. You know how when you´re in a swimming pool or a lake and there are spots of cold and spots of hot right next to each other? That´s what the air was like today.

I think my favorite part was as we were walking out of the ocean, and Josue asked me how I was, and when I said I was fantastic, he asked, ¨Sin miedo?" It means "Without fear?" He, like Carlos yesterday, took very seriously their tasks of showing me the sights, doing what they could for me to enjoy the day, and being sure, all the time, that I was safe. They held my arm as we crossed the street. They kept their eye on me on the bus. When I stopped to take a picture, they stopped, too. I had bristled at being told that places were too dangerous to visit on my own. It was an amazing gift, then, to have these young men spend the days with me so I could enjoy their country "sin miedo."

I wrote my name in the sand. I´d never done that in black sand. I had to write it twice in order to take a picture of it. I mused on the joy and futility of writing one´s name in the sand and believe that everyone should do it every chance they get!

More musings ...
A smile exchanged can mean "I see you."
We never know what beauty or ugliness is behind beautiful and ugly doors.
What will be mine to confess when I return home?
If you´re going to spend $5 on a margarita, you ought to really, really, really enjoy it.
A bus driver really should not have a sticker of Guadelupe and a sticker of a swastika on the same bus.
"Perrito caliente" doesn´t sound as edible as "hotdog."
The effort to speak English with me, given embarrassment at one´s pronunciation, means much more than someone being fluent.
People here have hearing like bats!
Every place I´ve visited so far has had hints of it´s glory days, and I wonder at the era and what it takes to restore it.

It really has been a wonderful day. It will end with the family and I going out for pizza in a frightfully inadequate attempt for me to say "Muchas Gracias!"

Un Dia Fantástico!

I spent the day sightseeing with a wonderful guide, Carlos. He was supposed to practice his English, but instead, he put me through my paces in Spanish. I´m expressing myself better but still not comprehending much of what comes when I don´t know the context. I have five more weeks. Here´s hoping!

Carlos and I visited Santa Ana. My travel book recommended it and so did Peg Woodburn, who lived here for a time. The place did not disappoint. We visited El Teatro (The Theater). It was absolutely beautiful! It was Carlos´ first visit to it, too, and we were able to tour it without a guide and take pictures. We saw a few churches, too. Roman Catholic, mostly, with statues and such that emphasize the violence with which Jesus died. Carlos and I agreed that the images don´t offer a lot of hope, and we´re both grateful to be Episcopalian.

We did some walking, which I always enjoy. It really is the best way to see a city. We rode a lot of busses, too, only this time the destinations were well worth the bus rides (unlike the place that shall not be named). El Lago de Coatepeque (Ko-ah-tay-pay-kay) and El Volcan Ilamatepec (Ee-la-ma-tay-payk) (a lake and a volcano) were beyond description, and my photos will not do them justice. It was the most beautiful place in all of El Salvador. That´s not just my opinion. I asked Carlos, a native, if there were more beautiful places in El Salvador, and he said there were not. I´ve decided to retire there. We sat for a time; Carlos had a soda, and I had a beer. It was raining and breezy ("fresca" is the word here) and very relaxing.

We left there (me reluctantly!) to go to Las Ruinas de San Andres (Mayan ruins). It, too, was beautiful. Tranquil. It was another place that Carlos had not visited, and I was pleased to share that with him.

Much occurred to me throughout the day. I saw a Church that was called "Iglesia Cristo es la Respuesta" (Christ is the Answer Church) and thought, "Okay. Christ is the answer. What´s the question?" I thought a lot about tables (not sure why), the various ones at which I have found myself on this journey, how unifying and equalizing they are, what the Lord´s Table really means for us, and what a privilege it is to prepare it for the Eucharist. I thought about the theology that says that the most important thing is to believe that Jesus Christ is Lord and Savior and that failure to believe that results in eternal separation from God. I thought about the millions of people in the countries I´ve visited who do in fact believe that, and I´ve wondered what benefit it has had for them ... and what harm. I thought about my nephew, CJ, who is as old as Carlos, and the opportunities he has that Carlos simply does not. I thought about the money I spent on brunch for me and Carlos and the people begging in the streets just outside. I thought about the bags of water for sale for 15 cents that, when empty, will be thrown onto the ground and find their way to the water sources that makes bags of sanitized water necessary.

Much tends to occur to me these days, hence the blogging, huh?

Anyway, I returned to the house really quite relaxed and in time to watch Scrubs.

It was a really great day!

Gracias a Dios!

The Church in Costa Rica

I´m two countries and one month out of Costa Rica (CR) and haven´t written about my experiences there. I´ve been wanting to do the Church justice, and I´m a trifle concerned I´ll fall short. So, Marta and Bishop Hector, if you´re reading this and I have something wrong or I´ve left something out, please post a comment or e-mail me, and I´ll take care of that.

Here goes ...

I arrived in San Jose, CR, having received a warm invitation from Bishop Hector Monterroso (who has been bishop for seven years) and everything else being coordinated by Marta Davis, the Companion Diocese Officer. I was given a safe place to sleep and delicious meals shared with wonderful people. I had looked at a hostal and decided to accept the Bishop´s offer to stay at the Diocesan House for the duration and was very touched by the look of relief on his face when he learned that I was staying at the house rather than elsewhere in the city. It was hospitality at it´s best ... and it gave me comfort to know how well strangers are welcomed, whether we be angels or not.

The Bishop and Marta took me to Hogar Escuela, which translates to Home School and means, more accurately, School Home. It´s a program that seems to be part daycare, part pre-school, part after-school, and part day-treatment, with it being fully staffed with educational, nutritial, and medical professionals. The entry about the garden was inspired by my visit there. The school and the Church attached to it have received loving care and attention from the diocese and from relationships it has built with dioceses in the U. S. The Bishop and Marta talked often of the international relationships that have been eseential to the nurturing of the Diocese of Costa Rica. I experienced a bit of those relationships, as two groups from the U. S. came while I was there, one from North Carolina, with whom CR has the longest standing relationship, and one from Wisconin, the Diocese of Fond du lac. Angie Smith, from Wisconsin, was part of the initial "wouldn´t it be great if" stage of the new school being built in Heredia and the Church that has recently been planted there.

A new church being planted is no small thing anywhere, and in CR, it´s really quite a statement, reflecitive of the priorities set by the Bishop: Expansion of the Church, Theological Education and Formation, and Christian Testimony to Service. The sites of the Episcopal Church in CR follow the once-upon-a-time railroad from Limón to San Jose. The oldest Episcopal Church in Central AMerica is El Buen Pastor (The Good Shepherd) in San Jose. There´s an Episcopal presence at all in Costa Rica because the laborers from the West Indies brought with them their Anglican tradition. The shift from the Anglican Church to the Episcopal Church is a story I don´t have.

The Bishop arranged for me to visit two other areas, Limón and Siquirres, and the churches there. I celebrated Mother´s Day at St. Mary´s in Siquirres, a day that this year coincided with the Feast of Mary (Aug 15th). The Bishop confirmed a number of young people, too. I was invited to read the Gospel in English while a priest read it in Spanish, and apparently our picture was sent to a newspaper, La Extra. I didn´t see it. That afternoon, I went to Limón and was hosted by Marcia Scott, a retired school teacher who prayed and sang with me. She showed me her church of St. Francis, and we prayed Morning Prayer one morning at St. Marks. She introduced me to some food I may actually try to cook back home and walked with me every morning. She accompanied me to the beach and to my canopy tour, though she declined to zip, and has said she´d welcome anyone who wanted to visit Costa Rica and needed a place to stay. I would gladly recommend her. Again, hospitality in top form.

My favorite experience in Limón was my time with The Mother´s Guild, the oldest organization in the Episcopal Church in CR. A group of about 8 women, one of whom was a deacon, visited two elderly women (one of whom was also a deacon!). These visits included singing, scripture reading, reflections, a bit of a sermon by the deacon we visited, and prayer. I was moved by the invitation at both homes to offer the closing prayer. These women´s first language is English, and it was spoken with a beautiful lilt reminiscent of their West Indian heritage, and I imagine their gracious spirits and love of God are part of that heritage as well, and I was blessed to share that fellowship.

I returned to Siquirres for the follwoing Sunday and was asked "to give the word, " which was an invitation to preach. I accepted the invitation, grateful that it was an English-speaking congregation. I was hosted by the priest of St. Mary´s Sonia Richards, and her husband. I was well-fed and well-informed. I practice the tiniest bit of Spanish, but as we all spoke English, we often resorted to that.

When I returned to San Jose and the Diocesan House, the group from Wisconsin was there, and I was among friends again. They graciously invited me to go with them to work on the new school being built. I spent the day digging trenches and remembering why I´m so very gratefl for the education that allows me not to have to work so hard. The construction crew members are from Nicaragua, hard-working, focused young men who make next to no money and stay at the site, sleeping in a makeshift lean-to that can´t possibly protect them from all the rain. The Wisconsin Group also invited me to dinner with Padre Jorge and his family. Padre Jorge is the priest at the church growing in Heredia. He and his wife provided a wonderful meal of new foods I actually tried and enjoyed, and wine, which is always good. I practiced a bit more Spanish, and conversations flowed as they tend to when one is among family and friends.

The Church in Costa Rica has committed itself to working with women and children. This commitment has received national attention, and while the only recognized church in Costa Rica is the Roman Catholic Church (others are considered "asssociations"), the government has financially invested in the programs initiated by the Episcopal Church. It´s one more relationship cultivated by the Bishop and reflective of the priorities he set forth for the diocese.

I wrote in an entry about Managua all the things I hated about the place. Many of those things were true in Costa Rica as well, although the level of desperation is significantly greater in Managua than in any other place I´ve visited. (Note: The unemployment rate in Nicaragua is about 70%, compared to the 10 to 20 percent in other countries I´ve visited so far.) While the conditions were similiar -- and photos would help to illustrate that -- the difference for me was the presence and activity of the Church. The Costa Rican Church is ENGAGED! And engagement means change and hope for more.

I´m grateful to Bishop Hector, Marta, the Wisconsin Group, and to the priests I met for bringing into sharp focus the absolutely essential responsibility the Church has to God´s people. I´m grateful my Costa Rican experience stands in sharp contrast to my experience in Managua, but beyond that, I´m grateful that there are loving, committed, hope-filled people working with and for these of God´s people who need the salvation that comes with the justice that is the Good News of Jesus Christ.

I´m grateful, too, for the example of the Church in Costa Rica. I hope I follow it a fraction as well.

Things that make me smile ...

The little girl who smiled at me as she drank the bag of water she was able to have because I gave her a penny.
New friends waiting patiently while I put together a sentence in Spanish.
Men in cowboy hats carrying machetes.
My hostess making a special meal for me because beans were otherwise on the menu.
Little boys and homemade kites.
Sleeping with the windows open when it´s raining outside.
The Merlot Hotel -- Peg, that´s for you!
A sign that said "Donde sus amigos." (For those of you who don´t know Spanish, that reads "Where your friends.")
That I get Spanish jokes ... every now and then.
Margaritas on the beach.
Yogurt containers being used as coffee cups at coffee hour.
Invitations.
My Jose Cuervo flipflops, which I received from a woman sweeping the floor and not wanting me to have to walk barefoot ... as she then had to.
Living the truth of "Mi casa es su casa."
Mid-day siestas.
Churches you can´t get to from here... and the people who attend (and attend to) them.
Pretty much any vista of the countryside.
De Colores!
Local beers.
Turtles eating tortillas.
Toddlers being the same in every country.
Rows of brightly colored gingerbread-type houses.
"Coffee black" meaning "coffee with sugar."
Bathrooms with toilet paper.
Books of Common Prayer.
Pepsi in glass bottles.
Grandsons with their arms around their grandmothers.
Parades of pararguas (umbrellas) of every imaginable color.
Couples riding bicyles built for one.
Cattle grazing on the side of the road.
And hammocks!

I hated Managua! And the Church was no better!

I know. Hate is a strong word, and if my nieces and nephews are reading this, they´re probably saying, "Aunt Janet, we don´t say that word." And I don´t ... typically. It´s a word, though, and a feeling that came up entirely too often in Manuaga. I´ve hesitated writing about it because I didn´t like the thoughts I was having or what of me they reflected. However, the experience stands in dark contrast to other experiences here, and I need to share it.

I hated it! I hated the noise and the pressure and the ugliness. I hated the 15 passenger vans crammed with 23 passengers and that little bastard who "helped" me off the van. I wasn´t moving fast enough, I guess, and time is money! I remember jerking my arm out of his hand and knowing that if he touched me again, I was going to hit him! I hated the taxi drivers hovering / lurking, all of them asking if I want a taxi-- like I can´t see them sitting there and could ask for a cab if I needed one! I hated the creepy little man who spoke to mek in English, warning me about where it was safe to walk and touting himself as someone I could trust. I hated the beeping that meant any number of things -- You´re in my way. I´m on your left. Do you need a cab? Get out of my way. What the hell´s the hold up? You s.o.b. I hated the jingling bells of the ice cream carts that sold stale, already-melting ice cream sundae cones. I hated the internet / phone center -- the only available option -- that had no concept of customer service. I hated the greed, desperation, and entitlment that robbed me of my chance ... and willingness ... to be generous. I hated feeling all the time like a mark, like someone -- some thing -- to be used as a means to an end. I hated the streets with no names or numbers and their being too dangerous to walk ... even in the daylight. I hated nothing being tourist-friendly and whatever it was that prevented people from seeing just how badly tourism is needed. I hated the dilapitated buildings and neglected parks. I hated the pretty monuments that honored a revolution that has had no visible lasting benefit to the people. I hated the contaminated water and the unbelievably excessive littering that contributed to it. I hated the sparkling metro centro (i.e. mall) steeming with all kinds of life ... in too close proximity to the shantytown suffocating from all manners of death.

And I hated the Church for it´s inactivity and excuses. By "the Church," I mean the Episcopal Church. I´ve met with people from each diocese I´ve visited so far. In Panamá, Costa Rica, and El Salvador, I was well-received and well-informed. Folks were eager to share all that was going on in their country (each country is a diocese) ... mostly because things were happening. I´ll tell you more about some of that in another entry or two. The Church in Managua was different. (Disclaimer -- I understand that George Porter, the dean of the cathedral in Bluefields, and the churches there are active and thriving, and I want not to generalize my thoughts / feelings about the Church in Managua to the Church in all of Nicaragua.) I didn´t have much exposure to the Church in Managua, and that was the beginning of my opinion. I had no contact with the bishop, aside from the exchange of peace at the Mass. One young man I met offered to show me another church, and I enjoyed the celebration there. The priest, however, didn´t talk with me about his work or the work of the church. He engaged in a kind of healing service that was too charismatic for my taste ... and a little too much about his reputation. My chaperone was suspicious of the practice, too. My chaperone was a young man (17 yrs old) who wants to be a priest ... and the Church will be blessed to have him. (I plan to return to Nicaragua for his ordination to the priesthood ... and again to his consecration as bishop!) He´s frustrated with the inactivity of the church as well and has much to say about the practices and policies of the bishop, too. I also spoke with a deacon. I´ve been very curious about the role of the deacon in the churches in Central America. There are deacons in Costa Rica and Nicaragua, and all of them are transitional. They serve as priests-in-training. The deacon I spoke with confirmed that. I asked the questions I usually ask about location and membership, justice issues, and the Church´s relationship with the communities in which they´re found and with the government. I learned that the priests are too busy to do much about justice issues. I´m not willing to accept that. I understand there are elderly and sick to visit ... and if that´s all that get´s done, then the church is dying and priests serve as little more than keepers of the crypt. I learned that the church passes resolutions about justice issues, much like we do in the U.S., but this deacon was unable to tell me what gets done with those resolutions after convention. I told her about the Episcopal Public Policy Network and how the role of the deacon, at least as I understand it, is as a bridge between the church and the world and a symbol and model of service ... and how all of that mandates communication with the government and the support and work of the priest and the congregation to carry out the resolutions passed. The deacon told me that there´s no point in talking to the government because the only recognized church is the Roman Catholic Church, and the government is corrupt anyway. My unspoken thought was ... Great! It takes the Church back to the first days when the church was illegal ... and engaged, vibrant, radical ... and changing the world! And there was nothing to lose! Why not be the force to be reckoned with?! The never-to-be-silenced voice speaking for the voiceless?! The deacon added that the people are too much pacifists to engage in the work I was talking about anyway.

It was with that sentiment that I realized all I was getting was excuses, and it was with that sentiment that I added my anger at the church to the anger -- hatred! -- of the city in which it stood. There are so many issues the church could be doing something -- anything! -- about and just isn´t. And "The Church" has no business touting itself as "The Body of Christ" if it´s not going to at least attempt to care for its members.

The whole thing grieves me in my spirit, and I share the experience in the hopes of moving through it. It has, however, served one good purpose. It is informing my view of the Gospel, the work of the Church, and the role of the deacon ... indeed of all servants of God.

And I´m so very pleased that my experiences with the other Churches in Central America are informing my views as well and that those experiences stand in sharp sharp sharp contrast to the Church in Managua. I look forward to sharing that with you, too.

Listening

It´s a primary task of a servant leader, of a Christian wanting to live and work as Jesus did, and of a good friend. It´s part of my job back in Wisconsin, and it´s certainly what I want to do here in Central America. I mentioned in another entry, I think, that people speak English in many places I´ve visited so far, and it´s been easy to listen in those places. I understand what I´m hearing, and just by virtue of sharing the same language, I seem to have permission to ask questions.

It´s different when the language isn´t shared. I may very well be able to form the initial question in Spanish, and I may even understand the general message of the response. My fear is that I wouldn´t understand enough of the message to respond well ... with an appropriate emotional response or a follow up question that would indicate that the other person has been heard and understood. This matters when the topics are casual things such as the weather, holidays, or the movies. It matters with less casual topics, such as family, the work of the Church, and government policies and practices. It matters most -- and I feel the weight of it greatest -- when the conversation is about fears and failures, hopes and asperations, and visions of God´s reign in the world.

I carry in my heart the weight of my inability to listen particularly to the victims of nemagon poisoning. I wanted very much to spend time with the people who live in the shantytown I mentioned in my first entry about Managua. They´ve been living there for five years, a protest for the use of the pesticide that has left hundreds of people dying, without compensation, recourse, or hope. There´s no missing this shanty town. You can´t get the mall without passing it ... and right across the street is a project constructing houses that will be used by government officials. The injustice is blatant! The disregard for human dignity and life is palpable! And the United States´role in it is ... well, I don´t know a word strong enough to finish that sentence.

I wanted to hear the stories of these men, women and children who live under shelter no more sturdy or permanent than too-worn tarp or old black plastic garbage bags. I wanted to hear the stories I can´t read on the internet (even if I could find a recent update!). I wanted to hear them, and I wanted them to know they´ve been heard.

What I hear well is Scripture. It speaks to me clearly. Sometimes it speaks the words I need to hear for myself -- words of hope, mercy, and direction. Sometimes the words are those my soul can´t summon to my brain, words that would express my thoughts and feelings in a way that I could share them with others. And sometimes, the words are those I can imagine others saying ... praying. Psalm 44: 23-26 is a resounding example of the latter, as I hear the protesters lament:

Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?
We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
redeem us because of your unfailing love.

My only consolation is that God hears, listens, and responds infinitely greater than I ... and without fail. What I´m left to do is learn the language that closes the communication gap. I pray that my mind and heart are open enough so all that´s left to be opened are my ears.

Please God, let it be so.

Just an Update

Greetings, Followers and Others --

I´ve had a rather emotional time here in Nicaragua. There´s certainly more to write about my experiences here, and in addition to those experiences and reactions to that, a friend died, another -- my oldest friend! -- is moving to the east coast, and I recalled the last weeks of my mom´s life. I´ve internalized more than ever the importance of friends and family, and I´m grateful to you all.

I leave for El Salvador in the morning and will update again when I have a chance.

Paz!