Kites Over Itaquera IX

Mother church. I can’t get used to the name since it sounds like it was planted by aliens. But it truly is a mother church reaching out to build other mission churches throughout Sao Paulo.

Our mission trip is devoted entirely to church building, in this case one of Pastor Ruben’s mission churches. After eight years as a missionary on the Amazon River, Pastor Ruben is called to preach. His car is a converted ambulance, only he leaves the ambulance insignias on the car and below it the name of the church, a nice touch.

I can tell by watching him he is a good steward, making do and very thankful with what he has. The ambulance is probably over 20 years old but it never bothers him. The rear windows are painted over and the inside rearview mirror is gone. The only way he can see behind him is the small driver door-mounted mirror. As long as it goes forward, we are fine, and it barely goes forward.

John Johnson preaches at the mission church and Jean and I join him. We are to give a short blurb about our trip and our testimony. Jean goes first and she is direct. I can tell she has done this before. It is my turn and I don’t know where to start. I remember a joke I thought a couple of days before and try it. I will not repeat the joke–ever–because it bombed, badly bombed.

All comedians tell stories about bombing and now I can relate. Then I can tell them about the pained–diarrhea pained–blank stares in the pews and it would trump any of their stories. Worse, I had to wait for John to translate it and I could hear a few grunts.

I can’t regain my composure, instead stammering endlessly about something I cannot recall. I even ask John “help me out,” hoping the audience can’t understand me. Maybe John has a gun.

After listening to John’s message, I find the tricks to Portuguese are the nasal sounds applied and the intonation. He speaks slower than the average Brazilian but he nails the accent. While I am noting this, he suddenly turns to Jean and myself and asks us a question in English, taking me by surprise. My brain is still switched over to Portuguese and I ask him to repeat the question. I’m doing a good job of humiliating myself and I hate to say I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The first day in Brazil I asked John Weaver if I could pick up a game of soccer. He does one better: we all go as a group to one of the local fields after church. There are three small cement fields, one with a roof overhead. It also has basketball hoops but the rims are gone. With the uneven surfaces and exposed metal, it is a personaly injury lawyer’s dream.

None of the fields are open when we arrive. Thankfully, John Weaver brings his American football. It only takes a couple of throws to attract the attention of the Brazilian kids. They also want to catch it. Very quickly, we find they can neither catch or throw well. They catch like they are using trash can lids. Touching a soccer ball with their hands is prohibited so they never even bother.

Every kid in America learns how to perform the basic tricks with a football: throwing the ball behind the back, letting it roll from the finger tips while throwing and having it fall into the other hand behind the back, and the hidden ball trick under the shirt for the little kids. Here, it is magic. I give them the ball and they try the same tricks with no success. I get brave and toss it to some of the grumpy-looking adults that walk by and they, too, smile broadly, thankful I did. No better ice breacker, I realize, and I try to take it with me the rest of the week.

A court opens and we eventually get started. Some from Pastor Ruben’s church join us and we draft some of the locals. The better Brazilians play like they drive: they seem careless with the ball but they are fully in control, keeping the ball on a very long string. Not only are the ball control skills remarkable, but so is the passwork. One player toys with me and passes it every time just out of my reach, frustrating. Not everybody is world-class there. I manage to get a goal and an assist.

On the next court I see Tren throwing long passes to some of the kids with the football. That he can throw that far excites them. Catching it is another matter. I think they leave having the most fun with me a close second.

After the game, the kids gravitate to me for reasons explained later and I like the stage. It is not hard to become engrossed with my legions of newfound fans. However, my own glory almost wins out–I almost forget the reason I am here. Just before leaving, that inaudible voice reminds me.

I start to tell them about somebody more important than myself, that being Jesus Christ. I also invite them to church that night. Many smile and tell me something in Portuguese that I cannot understand, except for one word: Jay-soos.

When I spoke, I paid close attention to the words coming out of my mouth as I say them and they sound strange to me. I realize for the first time I am confessing with my mouth that Jesus Christ is Lord. The moment is cathartic to me but I strain not to show it. If anything, it feels as though my life went from a feeling of chaos to order, the results of which would show later that night.

Lanche awaits us at the mission church when we wrap up: mostaciolli, beans and rice, and all sorts of fruit. They put rice on the beans in Brazil but I am a rebel and do things backwards. Brazil is fast becoming the breadbasket to the world as a major importer of beef and fruits and vegetables. For the first time ever, I have fresh mango and papaya. I don’t know if the pasta is a friendly gesture or widely eaten here.

Coke and Pepsi are bottled here but with a different formula, not nearly as sweet. They have another soft drink, Guarana, which is preferred, a Ginger Ale-type soda. In little time I prefer it, also.

Before evening services, we clean up at Pastor Ruben’s house. I have a blue, short-sleeved, oxford shirt I wear with khaki pants. I was lucky even to bring these in my haste to pack. I hear the two John’s talking about preaching. I know I am not preaching material since I am far too deliberate. If I start now, my sermon on Jesus’ return in 2009 wouldn’t be finished until 2020.

Mother church looks just like many country churches in America. Capacity seems to be around 150. Large wooden, ornate doors open fully flanked by stained glass windows but without design. Pale green curtains run from ceiling to floor. Behind the ordinary podium are four chairs and audio equipment and above that a baptismal pool. The only difference is the tile floor–piso–not the carpeting I would have expected in America.

John Weaver demonstrates clearly why he is called Grasshopper, even when he preaches. He moves around on the platform, both in person and in volume. His inflection isn’t as pronounced as John Johnson’s probably because John Johnson has been in Brazil for several more years. But he is still very good, at least it is to me. His jokes are funny, I can tell from the crowd, something I can’t say.

John’s sermon is on fish stories and Dalete interprets for Jean and myself. I wonder if we are imposing on the rest of us. I marvel at Dalete’s translation skills. It is almost word in–word out. Her brain must go a thousand times faster than mine. Most do.

I can’t help but being impressed with Dalete. She is cordial and funny with everybody as well as being transparently genuine. I long for it again. We seem lost in our world of entitlement, what is ours and what should be ours and we forget who we are.

During the sermon, my mind drifts back (don’t tell John Weaver) to the soccer game earlier that day. I can’t help but think they thought an American came to visit them, to minister, but I realize it is the other way around. I remember the Chinese expression, the teacher learns more than the student and I will leave a far richer man than when I arrived.

Sleep is a rare commodity that night. Since four share a room, it is hard to sleep. Some of the conversation is priceless, uninhibited in an innocent manner. The day is special, the events uncontrived.