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...

I was supposed to have cancelled my classes for the last couple of days, but didn’t bother because I didn’t think it would happen - but it did. These days have been absorbed in working out how to train 35 pastors and 400 leaders of a church that started in Honduras and is now in Latin America’s main cities. There are 12 of us on the committee including a Costa Rican, Brazilian, Argentinean, Honduran, Peruvian, North American and Colombians. The denomination is administered from Miami. Jenny Boyd from Falkirk also arrived last week, but she’s not on it. There’s plenty of other things for her to do. Typically in South America, churches expand, even into thousands of members. And pastors, with no theological training, work using their wits, basic education, scripture memorization – and strong faith. As I explain this, it makes you wonder how much we can help, but we’ll try our best. Photo: Jenny starts to learn Spanish

As I said it can only be downhill for the new President, Manuel Santos. On Monday his vice-President had emergency heart surgery, on Wednesday FARC detonated a car bomb in Bogotá and on Saturday morning …. I forced myself to get out for some exercise. It was 6.30 and I’d just left the Seminary gates when two youngsters on a motorbike drew up. They pointed down at something: did I have odd socks on? No, I was being robbed of my wedding ring. Funny how under pressure you do the wrong thing. I said, “Nope”. The assailant told his pillion passenger to get out something. As he started to unzip his fake-leather bum bag I suspected it was a revolver. Fortunately he hadn’t shared my miss-spent youth watching Lone Ranger films with its fast-shooting. By the time the bum bag was unzipped I’d got behind the Seminary gates. City life has become notably more dangerous for everyone, we’ve even had to change our route to the supermarket. I confess I don’t always do...

It was strangely quiet on Saturday. The newspaper boy complained that after 4 hours he still had 35 tabloids and 3 Colombianos to go. I’d bought my Colombiano , but didn’t feel sufficiently charitable to buy his 35 tabloids. It was the 191st anniversary of the Colombian army and also the annual classic car parade. But there was another event. Hospitals were on alert, gas deliveries were banned, so were motorbike pillion passengers and the carrying of guns. A new President was being installed. Manuel Santos kept foreign Presidents waiting in the rain by arriving 30 minutes late for his inauguration. It was attending Mass just beforehand that caused the delay. Probably he’d to do extra penance because of his participation in a pagan blessing by tribal groups in the Northern Andes. Outgoing President Uribe built up a 70% approval rating. Santos starts on that, so it can only be downhill from now on. He should have got the Pentecostals in, that pagan...

This is Medellín’s festival week: horse shows, flower parades, and even a black gospel choir from the States. I went to hear the choir perform in a large shopping mall in the north of the city: enthusiastic, talented and with hardly a word of Spanish. “Oh happy day, when Jesus washed my sins away” reverberated down the mall, and around my head for the rest of the night. Travelling home on the Metro train the man beside wore a red, throw-away sombrero, on it was the slogan “Everything deserves a Pilsen”. Pilsen is a popular beer. Declining his advice, I walked the 20 minutes from the Metro station to our Exito supermarket. And there a live Caribbean band played us down the aisles and got our feet tapping in the check out queues. I felt I was living in a Simpson’s cartoon. Arriving home I scanned the news headlines: Pakistan floods kill 800; Germany mourns dead; and Bogotá denies war plan. Reality is a sobering experience even without a Pilsen. Olwen ar...