Hot coco . . . yum, yum

Living in Brasil and trying to learn the language often put me in interesting scenarios. Once, in a restaurant and needing a napkin, I asked the waiter for a napkin . . . or so I thought. He brought me an umbrella! Another time, thinking I was paying a compliment to a banker about his intelligent and well-behaved daughter, I ended up calling his daughter a prostitute and being thrown out of his house!

An American visitor to our home in Brasil brought what she thought would be a treat for my kids. One evening she called the kids in for a mug of hot coco. My kids looked at her like she was out of her mind, looked at me as to what they were supposed to do and my oldest (6 years old at the time) asked me 1) was it really hot coco and 2) did they really have to drink it? In Portuguese, “coco” is the big “number 2,” you know, poo-poo.

I overheard someone explaining Christianity to a non-church goer the other day. Big words like “sanctification,” “propitiation,” and “justification” were being used. Common words like “testimony,” “witness.” and “born again” were utilized in ways that were absolutely incomprehensible to the non-church goer.

That got me to thinking.

Why do we do that?

Why can’t we simply explain our faith in a straight forward manner, without resorting to “religious” words? Why do we need to use a secret language that only the initiated can understand? Do we really think we are helping our intended audience?

I see this daily in my office. I could use all the big words, the special words, to describe a person’s condition, what it means and what they should do. They may be impressed with my vocabulary and knowledge, but what has it done to help them. Many physicians are accused of arrogance and aloofness because of the vocabulary they use to distance themselves from their patients. Why? Wouldn’t it be easier to simply tell someone what is going on in plain English? I know that compliance with instructions would be greater and the patient would feel more confident.

I have people, patients, swearing that I hung the moon. Why? Because I talk to them where they are and in words they can understand.

Why can’t we talk about our faith in the same way? We’re told to always be ready to explain our faith to a non-believer and to speak simply (“let your ‘yes’ be yes”). You turn on the tv and see the weird “Christians” putting on a freak show; you hear preachers adding extra vowels to the end of words (“in the name-ah of Jesus-ah be healed-uh”) and talking like they’re mad at you; you find that your friend the Christian is incapable of telling you why they follow this Jesus fellow without using words that don’t make sense. Is this stupid, or what?!

Guess what would happen if we Jesus followers decided to simply tell others who ask what really happened to us . . . or could it be that many of us have never really had anything to happen to us? Could it be that we need to re-examine what we call our faith? The stakes might be higher than you think!

A cup of hot coco, anyone?

“Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!”

“Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!” 

Huh? 

I was minding my own business, walking down a crowded, noisy street in downtown Fortaleza, a bustling city of almost 2 million in northeastern Brazil. It was late 1983 and I had been living in the city for the past year. Very few people knew my name, much less who I was. I was a virtual whitecap in an ocean of waves. 

That’s when he called me. “Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!”  When I turned to look at who was calling me, I saw a little kid in the dirtiest pair of shorts and t-shirt I’d ever seen. His flip flops were held together with twine, his hair looked like it was angry at itself and was upset at having to stay on his head.  But it was his eyes that held me spellbound. Blue as the winter sky. Intense. Full of a life lived longer than his apparent 10 years, yet with a glimmer of hope. Confused. That’s what I was. “Who is this?” I thought. “Do I know him?” “How does he know my name?” Seeing my confusion, he responded, “Com’ on, Uncle Joe, please gimme a dime!” With a look that could break the heart of Scrooge he added, “it’s not for me, if’s for some food for my sister.” What I didn’t know was that everybody was “Uncle Joe.” Or Aunt Mary, if a female. The equivalent of “buddy,” or “mister.”  He didn’t know me from Adam’s housecat – I was simply a mark for the little vagabond. But, thinking he knew me, I gave him a buck.

If I could’ve captured that look on his face at that moment, I’d have given $100! Surprise, shock, incredulity. Then he ran, ran hard. Probably thought I’d made a mistake and would try to get it back from him. So he ran.  Twenty-three years later, his face haunts me. He’d asked for a dime. I’d upped the ante and given a buck. A tenfold increase. Not a bad exchange. Until . . . The likelihood of Chico being alive today is somewhere between slim and none. It’s not uncommon for street children to be killed like stray dogs in the big cities of Brazil; to be turned into sex slaves whose little lives are snuffed out from disease, abuse and drugs long before they reach the end of their teen years; to simply disappear from the face of the earth – they have no advocate.  We blithely build our million dollar temples, spend our money on ourselves while making a pretense that it is for the “work of the Lord,” congratulate ourselves on our faithfulness.

But Chico dies. Slowly, sadly unfairly. 

“Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!” 

Chico, if I could do it all over again, this ”mark” would offer you more than a buck. Maybe you’ll be the catalyst that will offer a future to other “Chicos.” 

Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed.
Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.
  –Isaiah 1:17

My wife cried yesterday . . .

My wife cried yesterday . . . 

Odd way to began a post, don’t you think? I do.  

You see, my wife rarely cries, unless she is in pain. The pain can be physical or it can be emotional. But, it has to be significant. “Sentimental” female she’s not (now, just so there’s no misunderstanding, my wife is full of emotions and expresses them all; she just isn’t a “cryer”) .

The reason she cried makes me proud. The reason she cried gives me strength. Her tears moved others as well. 

Why the emotional response? Because people are living and dying without knowing the true Lord of the Universe. That’s it. Period. 

She said it was my fault. That my constant frustration over the lack of commitment, lack of desire, lack of understanding of what is being offered to them that so many Christians show; that my continual looking at people and trying to figure out how to befriend them, help them, serve them; that my vision of millions of lost in the interior of Brasil being able to have hope, of having unimaginable blessings waiting for them after a life of misery . . . that I have “infected” her with a compassionate heart for those whom God loves. 

Kinda made me feel proud. Pleased that it shows and proud that she cares so much.  It’s also humbling and scary to know that people are watching you that closely.

We were talking about people in the interior of Brasil and there not being anyone available to come along side them to show them the unimaginable life. Knowing that hundreds, or thousands, would die before we could help . . . she cried. 

I did, too.

Introducing G(i)FB(o)

Sounds like I’ve been leaning too heavily on the eggnog bowel, huh?

G(i)FB(o) is how we pronouce “GFB .” So, why would we even want to try to pronouce “GFB?”

Glad you asked!

GFB is “Gospel for Brazil,” a non-profit organization that we’ve established to advance the work of the church in northerneastern Brasil, particularly in the state of Ceará. If you’d like more info, you can check out our web page.

But G(i)FB(o) is a blog that I’ve set up to describe, in my own “unique” way, what is going on with the work in Brasil. Not only will I discuss the actual work, but Brasilian politics that are impacting us, financial fluctuations, and, of course, my own biased take on it all. Interesting it might be, different it will definitely be.

Since my readership is now up to three [hi mom and dad!], I thought I’d strike while the iron is hot and the blog stats are slightly off the bottom line and introduce all three of you to what this crazy guy doing in his spare time!

Tchau!
(no, I didn’t just sneeze! That’s pronounced “chow” in Portuguese and it means “bye,” later,” “see ya.” I don’t understand why when I say that around here everybody starts looking for food?)