Missionary Gas

Saturday was the Zero Stress outing. The ladies went to a farm about an hour from the city and had a barbeque and games. And the biggest encouragement was: so much God-talk. For many of them God's love is like a distant planet which has to be entreated by personal sacrifice: lent, fasting, confession, multiple masses. And not a personal Father and saviour, nor someone you’d relate to and talk about. At today’s opening of the Art Seminar an ex-student described the photographic exhibition she’d been allowed to show at the local University. It was on the Song of Songs and demonstrated the privacy of female beauty within the marriage bond. And also testified of an alternative ethic to the ordinary. On Sunday, when walking to church, out of the corner of my eye I watched a tramp with his begging cup and dirty shawl. Fearing he might home in on us, I quickened my pace. But no, he shuffled towards the door of an evangelical church, waited and soon a well

Husbands will appreciate the crisis I found myself in: I was 15 minutes late meeting Olwen, and so was dashing along a busy shopping mall. In my hurry I caught a yellow “Piso Humido” (Wet floor) sign and knocked it over. Colombians are scrupulously clean and forever mopping down pavements and putting these things up. I apologized profusely to the two elderly ladies nearby and replaced the sign. I dashed on and almost immediately knocked over another “Piso Humido” sign. They are quite solid things and cause such a clatter. Unfortunately, Colombians also have loads of rules and an armed security guard approached me. But now he apologised to me for the placing of the “Piso Humido” signs, putting them to one side. 80% of missionary work is learning to respond appropriately to life situations in a new world. Next week I’m to take a 4 day Seminar on using art in the service of the gospel. I thought it would be easy as students will be working on producing something

You have to understand that the Seminary lies on one side of a road, and accommodation blocks lie on the other. The street in-between is a narrow one, but can be fairly busy. Last Friday a lady was waiting for a bus opposite the Seminary gates when armed motorcyclists robbed her of her rings and bus fare. The teenage criminals roared off to the bottom of the street, where they were both shot: one of them was killed. Each barrio of our city is controlled by a local mafia. They extract protection money (called a vaccination), organize drugs and prostitution. They also shoot police informers, suspicious incomers and visiting criminals. These street robbers were not from our area and a local had told me they’d be shot. At the weekend we went to a tourist town an hour away. I sat under the palm trees by the pool, and gloried in the opportunity to get away from the violence. It was then that a heavy coconut-type fruit fell, just missing my head. Olwen reckoned