Why are we here? Ten Canadian youth and their leaders ride a dilapidated van to rural Mexico after buying into the Sunday morning mission trip infomercials. Difference making? Grand healings? Supernatural experiences? No. Well into our week, walks to the convenience store and the refreshing lift of Manzana apple soda delight our senses more than any spiritual outing. Rehab clinic soccer matches, fireside worship and morning devotions satisfy. But we itch to transcend the ordinary and mundane. “Your transportation awaits, evangelists,” our leader calls. The plan to knock on strangers’ doors, read scripture on the street via megaphone, and conjure up Spanish-English translated conversations about Jesus screams awkward. Our faces blanche, the fear palpable. To the advertiser’s credit, hope clings. Will God heal a sick man? Will demons flee tortured souls? Maybe grace will transform… Results underwhelm. Instead of Holy Spirit breakthroughs, we stand outside locked gates and push a binary heaven versus destruction word as Catholic women pray one more time for salvation. Best to be sure. Best to confirm their final resting place. Or at the very least, rid their doorstep of ten youthful preachers. Yes, I will pray. Now leave me in peace. Shalom. Back at camp satisfied smiles rejoice. “Four saved today.” Waves of nausea hit hard. Are these the miracles missionaries celebrate? If so, they fall way short of expectations. My naïve heart aches for better tomorrow. A sea of children swarms our vehicle at a Mexican work camp the following day. We zigzag in games of tag, juggle hackie sacks, and snuggle in tight with them, the missionary drill habitual and common here. We don’t care though. Their ease with new faces excites us. Love. It’s always good. The onlooking parents disagree. One father and spokesman for the rest approaches, “No respect. Not good. Children need respect adults.” I listen, smarted. Who is right, him or us? Were we undermining their values? A sigh escapes. Why are we here? Tomorrow our itinerary schedules an authentic home-cooked meal for an impoverished remote village. Please let this be helpful. We prepare rice, stew, and vegetable medleys with the local pastor’s wife. Mexican spices tickle our noses and well insulated dishes warm our laps as we jostle down potholed roads towards a scene of cardboard and garbage bag shanties. Yesterday’s tension releases. Delicious food for the hungry, what can go wrong? If only we knew... “Is that who I think it is?” I ask baffled. “It’s not possible!” Sure enough, it’s true. A Canadian church we know well beats us to our isolated desert mission site, two countries removed. Clad in fluorescent green tees, they stop mid-crayon pass, halfway through singing “Nothing but the Blood” and its accompanied skit to watch us pull in. This unlikely collision of paths frustrates more than awes. How do we serve when more Canadians than Mexicans litter the space around a tiny cluster of ramshackle homes? We wait. Pause. Observe the team finish their routine and then sheepishly slide in with a buffet dinner. The line-up diminishes and empty plates fill so I sit on a stump and absorb the shocking twist. The constant trickle of Canadian and American missionaries arriving, preaching, feeding, and leaving must bother some, if not all. Our churchy-clumsiness becomes today’s embarrassing story. Are we hurting more than helping? Retreat. That’s what I want to do. The Mexican woman on the adjacent stump seems to agree. She finishes her meal, lifts her robin-blue skirt, and whoosh disappears into her cardboard shelter. Great cue to leave. I will my team back to the van but no one responds to the telepathic nudges. For this oversight, I am thankful. I misread the woman’s exit. She returns and heaves a giant watermelon onto the remnant tree, transforming her dining chair into a cutting board. With gentle affection, she calls everyone near—Mexican families and Canadian youth alike. Jesus multiplies grace in every gifted piece of fruit and humility blankets each receiver. Smiles sink deep and hands touch mid-exchange. Shalom. A lavish offering shatters pride and reminds us whose ground nourishes us all--His. In that instant I see. This woman is not a number to be won but a beautiful, created soul. My heart weeps joy. This is why we’re here. To connect with real people who may be poor but have something to teach us about love. I didn’t need to drive 3000km to eat melon. Not one person repeats the sinner’s prayer or falls to their knees converted. This real-time ten minutes passes and yet it continues to shape me anew and to challenge my view of missions. Are we brave enough to admit that we may be rich but we’re broken? We follow Jesus but the surrendering frightens us too. New friends teach us about contentment. How to be generous when life is hard--when the only thing between you and the wind is cardboard and ripped plastic. May we give but also receive. Jesus’s message asks us to let go of our agendas and choose to live in His. Receive His. Go. Be a voice to thirsty nations but be present at home too. Enter your own cracked story, see His gift in your hands, and accept His from those around you. Sometimes it will look extraordinary and other times it will be as simple as a slice of watermelon. Copyright Chavon Barry 2019
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Chavon BarryChavon is a new writer from Victoria, British Columbia. She wrestles with simple answers and is learning to listen, to be still with God. Archives
April 2022
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