Kites Over Itaquera VI

Sao Paulo is a city of 19 million people, counting the metropolitan area. Only 6% are evangelical Christians. Brazilians are an open people–open also to everything spiritual. Spiritism is growing among the middle and upper classes. For the 938 favelas among Sao Paulo, many put their faith in the instant including drugs, alcohol, and crime–not unlike many American cities, only much more of it.

Our mission is evangelismo por amizade–friendship evangelism–for Pastor Ruben’s church. After dropping our things off at his house, we get started. I travel with John Johnson and a Brazilian girl named Valeria. She is a black girl with a powerful sprinter’s form. Blacks, I find, are more assimilated into the culture than in America. I witness no outward signs of racism but they assure me it is here.

However, Valeria speaks no English and I speak no Portuguese so I cannot find anything about her. Later I find she is 32 years old but looks ten years younger. Many, I also find, think there is no reason to speak English since they will never visit the English world or consign themselves to working class jobs. The English world, however, comes to visit them and to most it is a delight.

They scarcely come more Aryan than myself. I have blond hair with a hint of red, blue eyes and stand around 6′2″, far above most everybody else if I don’t slouch. As we get started, I sense everybody senses I am American. Some call me Alemao–German.

John Johnson’s Portuguese is very good, almost native. He can mimic the intonation perfectly, which is very difficult. He has been in Brazil for eight years, five in the Amazon. To me, that means he is entitled to demigod status. He fills me in on the status of the area we visit. It is the poorest area we visit the entire time. He warns me not to touch the wire baskets in front of the houses–that is for trash. Worse, the plumbing cannot handle toilet paper and it is thrown out with the trash. It is my first real culture shock and it nearly makes me ill.

Nobody has a doorbell in this neighborhood–this is for affluence. Instead, we clap our hands at the gate and shout “oh, da casa!” or “to the house.” The second culture shock was finding out what constitutes a house. I see inside some of them and it seems little better than the dirt-floored shacks of the deep South, only stacked one on top of the other and squeezed tightly.

I know why I am here, or at least what I told myself, and I tell nobody. In America, I do not do well approaching strangers. However, I seem to be a magnet for total strangers, including every Amway salesman in St. Louis. I know I have to jump this hurdle of fear if I am going to be an effective witness and what better way to learn than practice 6000 miles from home.

Nothing could prepare me for our first stop. I’m kind of hoping nobody is home but a woman answers the door. My heart starts to pound out of my shirt as she lets us inside her home. She offers us to her couch which I am happy to sit on. Her couch, though, is a thinly padded rock, I find after sitting too fast, jarring every bone. She tells us her son is in the music business. I get the feeling he is wayward from how she talks. I also feel now, and many more times later, that parents in Brazil expect intense loyalty to themselves and let the kids go about their own devices.

I have no idea what will come out of my mouth until I start talking. I don’t use the tracts supplied because I am not happy with some of the English words used, the writer in me. I still can’t remember what I said to her, though. I can’t remember what I say to anybody the first day, only it never comes out the same way twice. Thankfully, they are all receptive, they listen, and then turn me down–or God.

I know good salesmen when I see them. I see them work first-hand as part of my job as a trainer and I was in sales for many years. I also see the reasons why salesmen fail, three of them. Either they:

1) don’t ask for the sale
2) cannot perform a cohesive, quality sales presentation
3) are out of their element when working one-on-one with a customer

I also have seen salesmen slaughter a presentation but still ask for the sale–and get it–probably because nobody else has. I don’t understand my customer in Brazil, at least not yet, but I still ask for the sale. No responses, but I still ask.

We are almost done for the day when we decide to make one last stop. An elderly man lets us in. He is receptive to the Gospel and we lead him to Christ–more like John does. I let him take over because I think tranlsating would take too much time and distraction; surely we would lose him–I still think we are in America. In sales, never give your customer the chance to say no.

It is a split deal in the car business. I closed and John did all the paperwork. He opens his Portuguese Blble to what looks like Romans and then flips through as he talks. Maybe he takes the Roman Road but I never ask because I never learned it, although I can recognize the verses. I am embarrassed sitting next to John as he talks. I am more embarrassed when I realize I don’t know how to use the Bible to lead somebody to the Lord. I fly 6000 miles to overcome a fear when the problem turns out to be a lack of a quality presentation.

A good presentation to selling a car starts at the front. For those of you who have a good salesman, please follow along. It continues to the passenger side, the rear and then the driver’s side. A salesman must highlight five points on each side and adapt for each customer. Afterwards, the salesman seamlessly opens the door for a test drive–halfway home to making a sale. Since faith comes by hearing, the salesman must ask for the sale but has to earn the right to ask it. The customer has to make a decision then on eternal life.

At least we had some success the first day, but the day is not done yet. We go to a mission church for services and are greeted warmly. It is a small, narrow building with no glass in the windows. We are privy to everything happening outside although we can’t understand. Natan translates for Brad.

While everybody leaves after services, we hang out as a group by the front window. Power lines are easily within arm’s reach. One wrong move and my marshmellows are toasted. Either they are haphazard with electricity or they greatly respect it.

Wrapped around the power lines are strings, countless strings as I scan the neighborhood. Sometimes the string has a stretch of gray garland. The lines are the final resting spot for the kites until rescued by an enterprising child. I start to see Itaquera in a different light.
We go to Pastor Ruben’s house for the night and not a moment too soon. I am exhausted but I still need to get my work done on the web. His computer is dreadfully slow, making dial-up seem instantaneous. It is normal, he says, for Brazil. However, the site comes up as unavailable.

I need to access the site by Monday and there is nobody to call. Though I am dog-tired, it worries me the rest of the night and I don’t understand what just happened today.