Missionary Gas

I knew I shouldn't have written that last email saying that life couldn't be more pleasant. The following morning was rough with a group of difficult students struggling to get their minds round their dissertation. For them the problem seemed an obvious one: me, the lecturer. After a sleepless night, I pulled the plug on the lot of them. The Saturday afternoon sport I heard on the radio reminded me of what had happened. Both across the airwaves and through our open window you could hear the crowds chanting from the packed stadium, "Olé!! olé!" Rapturously the commentator cried, "This makes me proud to be a Colombian! The bull's dead, Don Cesar's cut off his ear, he leaves the arena carried high, showered in confetti!" It was the last big day of the bull fighting season. The sense of being unwittingly caught up in a bull ring is one most Latin American missionaries experience. This week will we be dead meat or over-rated matadors? Photo: Another kind

Classes have started: lecturers and students have that glow that comes from enthusiasm. At 7 a.m. I have 28 students on Johannine literature, at 10 a.m., 25 students on hermeneutics and at random times another 4 groups doing different dissertations. Life couldn't be pleasanter. Cynicism, short-cuts and short-tempers haven't yet surfaced. Most classes have their heretic, funny man and dolly bird. For days we've been debating the inspiration of the Bible. Today I was asked to state my position. The problem with doing that is, this being Latin America, 95% of the students will be frightened to question it lest I fail them on principle. Society and church life often operate on the recognition of the caudillo: the boss man you cross swords with only at your peril. So I said my position was identical to that of the Seminary's, which caused some hilarity. Why, I don´t know. Latin America still has a New World sense about it. Daily you feel it's adopted Spanish culture, und

Latinos like to express themselves individually and physically. It looks fantastic on the dance floor but during prayer it makes me cringe. As is typical, on Sunday the pastor asked everyone to extend their arm while he prayed for someone standing at the front. During the service others put out their hands as if about to be given a big present or wave them in the air like a wannabee tree. Less frequently, but what I find even more scary, is the idea that prayer has to be connected with a particular location. This leads to a marking the turf out kind of activity involving walking around buildings and praying. I even heard of someone who hired a helicopter to circle the city for prayer. He apparently imagined himself like Joshua and Jericho, but thankfully we've no city walls otherwise there could have been some nasty accidents. Last Friday the students organised a prayer morning in the chapel. Olwen went, but I worked away quietly in my office. Half way through the morning I heard a

Riding in a taxi across New York at one in the morning was a disappointment. There were no car chases, no sign of NYPD Blue just a 24hour Whopper Burger Drive-In to catch my attention. The journey was necessary because, along with 100 kilos of sewing materials and odd things, Virgin had flown us to Newark, New Jersey instead of JFK, New York. We spent the next day in the Big Apple, almost missed our early morning fight to Colombia but I had a long chat with an airport security guard. He was from Guyana and had been in New York for 3 years and 5 months. When he arrived, his family told him he'd never get a job in the airport because of his religion. "Even when they see your name" they told him. He showed me his ID pass, it read "Mohammed ..." And so the five day journey from Glasgow to the Seminary felt a tad Pauline because of its unpredictability. But that's the kind of life that's guided us, frightened me and kept us believing. Classes start next Tuesd