Missionary Gas

The South American Games which are held every 4 years, have always been won by Argentina or Brazil, but this year Colombia triumphed. As events were held within walking distance of where we live, were free to see and well policed, I decided to go along. There were no tickets: you either queued for hours to get to see something popular or chose something boring. So I saw the ladies kick-boxing, in which Colombia excels, but with the female audience becoming more and more animated, I didn’t stay too long. Then there was what seemed like a never ending game of basketball between Argentina and Chile. And finally, on a warm evening, I witnessed the swimming finals held by floodlight in an open-air pool, with the Andes silhouetted in the distance. Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I saw a baby red squirrel. And today I was chased down a hill by a horse. Lord, I know heaven will be wonderful, but there’s so many interesting things going on here.

I’ve just arrived back from the costliest aspect of missionary work. It’s not the earthquakes, nor eating ants, but saying goodbye to the family. Rebecca, Steve and the girls have returned to Scotland. It’s been a doubly emotional time as recently Liz’s Julia was hospitalised. You can Skype them and email them but that’s little compared to seeing them. I’m not sure why the separation is so painful: distance? sentimentality? frail humanity? Thankfully it’s something our national colleagues can empathize with: because, in their culture, what’s more important than family? Unfortunately sometimes sending churches struggle to appreciate what all this fuss is about. A colleague, in another mission, was prevented from attending his mother’s funeral: it wasn’t budgeted for. The only reason why missionaries endure the pain is because of Christ’s calling. Missionary work itself is dead easy and so is eating ants (with your eyes shut): any Christian ca

Last Sunday saw the election of candidates to Colombia’s House of Representatives and Senate. 150,000 troops were on patrol: thankfully it was the least violent election in 25 years. The Presidential ones are on 31 May. We’d gone to the neighbouring city of Santa Fe for the weekend where the nosiest thing was the school brass band. It’s been two years since we were there and on that occasion Olwen had given a cleaning lady a Bible leaflet. She happened to see the lady again who told her how she’d kept the leaflet, and wondered if there was any more. A few days earlier a taxi driver had explained how his faith in Christ began through a leaflet given to him by a Seminary teacher. Foolishly at times I think like a UK secularists and forget the power of Christ the Word, the one who conquers lives. Rebecca and Steve travel back on Tuesday, the South American games start in Medellín on Friday and a Christmas card from Sutherland arrived yesterday. Photo: Pavement clean

Every couple of months I publish an article on Biblia.com. It’s a Spanish website that aims to explain the Bible and allows readers to comment. Of those published, the one that has been stolen the most is: “The pastor and the prayers of Jesus”. It explains how our Lord prayed and what this means for the pastor. It’s now reappeared on 6 other web pages. The article that has caused most comment is, “The strangest piece of information in the Gospels”. This is about 12 year old Jesus in the temple and 117 people have posted their responses. But the one which has generated the most heated debate is, “When the pastor’s judgment fails”. It deals with the injustice Jesus suffered before the Jewish Sanhedrin and the danger too, of pastors’ not acting fairly. Hurt church members and the issue of ministerial training have dominated discussions. Helping to prepare pastors would be an impossible job, if it weren’t for the intervention of the chief pastor of the church.

At 3 am last night our bed started to shake. I suspected the love-of-my-life was having a good scratch. But no, it went on too long, and when the shoogling stopped, I thanked God: it had been an earth tremor. Andean nations from Colombia to Chile are connected by a common language, culture, and fear – the earthquake. Our block of flats has 3 warning notices: What to do in the case of a fire, an explosion, and an earthquake. However when an ‘quake strikes there’s no getting off that earth-shaking trampoline to read an advice sheet. Following the Chilean disaster, English colleagues in the Seminary received enquiries about their safety. I’m glad to say that no Scot (nor, surprisingly, North American) made a similar request: a bit like asking Glaswegians if they’re okay after an earthquake in Turkey. But, in fairness to the English, Colombia is affected. Two of our students work in Chile and their properties were damaged; trade, phone connections, the