Postscript: The Cabecar New Testament Dedication

While I was at Timothy's place for the workshop, the Cabecar team began planning the logistics for the dedication of the revised New Testament they had been working on since shortly after they realized that the New Testament his father worked so many years to produce contained grievous errors, not the least of which was the use of a name for God that would imply to the uninitiated that God's character was unholy.

David kindly sent me photos of the event:

You have to choose the time of year for these events carefully: bridges aren't always where you'd expect them, and rivers can't always be crossed.

That grandmother has seen unimaginable change in her physical and cultural surroundings during her lifetime. Note the rubber boots that are standard footwear outside the cities in Costa Rica during the wet season.

Indian music ain't what it used to be, 'twould seem.

Why a dirt patch and not a grassy patch to meet in I don't know, but it may be less muddy this time of year.

Good crowd . . .

The Indians seem to have been in charge of the proceedings.

Timothy is the tall one in the blue shirt.

What's a festival without a feast?

Other literature for sale

The reason for the season . . .

Someday there may be a full Cabecar Bible and a Ngäbe New Testament dedicated in much the same way, in part because so many people sent me down to help with the process. Thanks and blessings to my Costa Rica team!

Cartago, the Crater, and the Church

In our last episode, I was ready to bid adios to Timothy and his family and begin the trek home.

Loosely translated: Cave Farm, the Jones Sánchez (Keiry’s family name) family’s homestead

Timothy took me to Josiah’s house, 45 minutes or so down out of the mountains, and after breakfast we were off to Josiah’s in-laws’ place in Cartago, the capital of the province that he and Timothy work in, where Josiah’s wife Cynthia’s father is the pastor of the Foursquare Gospel Church. While Cynthia spent the afternoon translating for the gringo speakers at the women’s conference there, Josiah, his sons Joel and Ian, and I went up to Irazú Volcano National Park. At just shy of 12,000 feet, this is the highest I have ever been on foot.

Josiah and friend at his place

The facilities of the church pastored by Don Rafael and Doña Teresita

Ian, Joel, and someone who lacks the sense to unroll his jeans

We’re not sure of the extent of the restoration, but at some point this must have been cheap advertising

No picture I took did the crater any more justice than this.

Twelve thousand feet and still ticking. To hear Joel tell the story, and we did many times, Josiah hit the spot and then some giving this Timex watch as a present.

The conference was still going when we got back down to Cartago, so we took a nap and then returned to pick up Cynthia. “I’m leaving now” in Tico culture is said a good 45 minutes or so before one walks out the door, even of mass meetings, and Cynthia hadn’t said she was leaving yet when we arrived, so we had an hour to chat with some of the gringos after we arrived. Their entire ministry is to get missionaries together for the encouragement that comes from meeting other missionaries outside the plenary sessions. Often people working in difficult or hostile countries feel like they’re all alone because they don’t know anyone going through the unique struggles they are, and simply finding another kindred spirit within reach can make the difference between keeping on keeping on and quitting from discouragement.

After dinner Josiah and I had a long chat about church growth, evangelism, and church planting. He had asked me earlier if I had read Pagan Christianity? by George Barna, which I hadn’t, but an excellent video (by a self-confessed fat white guy from North America—start at 13 minutes) recommended by a particularly pertinent issue of an e-newsletter mentioned it—I was watching the video because I had long since lost the train of discussion Josiah, Cynthia, and her parents were having)—so after the parents went to bed we talked well into the night. While we wonder if the strengths that built “the institutional church” may have become weaknesses that are crippling it, both of us have been loved and nourished by it and see our futures as working within it to some degree.

Don Rafael’s carport, spacious because there is no room to park on the street, and if there were, good cars would be in danger from thieves and vandals.

This morning it was off to church. It was different from my normal routine for sure: dancing in the aisles, clapping, shouting, hands raised—where could that have come from? One reminder of my first days at Lansdale Presbyterian Church was the picture of the trees planted by the river at the front. A smaller version of the same idea was the subject of a conversation that ended up drawing Ginny and me into the Indian immigrant community in our area many years ago.

If I understood Josiah correctly, every Foursquare Gospel church has 1 Tim 1:17, Heb 13:8, and 1 Pet 1:25 as murals in the front of the church. The service itself was full—this was the postlude.

After church Don Rafael and Doña Teresita treated us to lunch at a local Chinese restaurant. The main course was the usual tasty mix of meat, MSG, and corn starch, but the appetizer was pulpo con jalapeños (octopus soup spiced with jalapeño peppers) that was so good I might even order it voluntarily sometime.

I needed a walk after lunch, so Josiah gave me specific instructions for getting to Cartago’s main tourist attraction, the ruins of an old basilica with an adjoining square, and from there home.

Sir Walter Raleigh, to say nothing of the Pilgrims, were Johnny-come-lately when they got to North America.

Karaoke in the square using traditional Indian instruments.

Until a couple of years ago the streets in Cartago and probably other towns were unnamed. This is the intersection of Zero Street and Fourth Avenue, but locals know it as a couple of blocks south of the ruins. The orange triangle points north for days the volcano, the usual directional landmark can't be seen.

The next noteworthy event should be my getting on the plane tomorrow afternoon, so this is hasta la vista to you Pennsylvanians and adios to the rest. God has been very gracious to me on this trip, and may he bless you richly for your interest and concern.

Days Four and Five

The sleigh had been getting harder to push since Tuesday, but shortly after lunch the snow and the oomph ran out. It was time for high fives all around and a celebration with carrot cake and hearty local ice cream for a job well done.

Joel and Rebecca, Stefan, and Josiah and Cynthia had slogged through grammar problems usually given to people taking linguistics for hours most days for six months. Not that they’ve become experts, but they could get most of the way through at some level, and then look at the answer keys and understand the jargon. Moreover, they enjoyed the process and felt they had some idea of how to use linguistic tools to approach problems in Cabecar or other languages they might approach. (They also knew that if they were to do serious linguistic work they would need intense formal training, but now they can approach such training without the anticipation they would have had for eating roasted spiders or boiled grubs.)

At sunset (hence no pix) Timothy and I took a walk down to Grano de Oro. I saw the building his family lived in when they first moved into the area and the building that housed the church his father started, and he described how the culture there had changed in the last century from Indians living alone attired in bark to the arrival of “Spanish” (often born on this side of the ocean) outsiders to the two cultures living together like oil and water to assimilation. Within a day’s walk of where he lives the Indians seem to be assimilating to some degree. Further out they are not, and those are the people he is translating for.

In a few minutes he will be taking me to Josiah’s. Josiah and Cynthia will drop me at Cynthia’s parents’ house while they go to translate at a bilingual women’s conference. Cynthia’s parents don’t speak English, so we’ll see how long the conversation lasts. Joshua says the dad is quite a joker. If he speaks slowly enough, I might even catch some of the humor. The plan is for me to go to church tomorrow (Foursquare Gospel, probably all in Spanish, both new experiences for me), then Monday morning J & C have to go to immigration for one of their sons’ passports, so I guess they’ll drop me where I can take a bus to the airport. Traffic in San Jose is gridlock about 18/7, so I may spend more time on wheels than on wings.

See you later!

Days Two and Three

I am living proof that, whether or not it is a mortal sin, flatulence at the whiteboard is not a crime punishable by summary execution.

Besides that, getting everything wrong in the problems I was preparing first thing yesterday morning, and then missing the breakfast call—which meant we started an hour late—everything has been fine. We’ve stopped going through the PDFs of the textbooks I brought and are now looking at problems to give them practice in grammatical analysis in different languages. I’m not sure they’ll be able to keep the oomph up for two more days of endless grammar problems—I’m reminded of the Far Side cartoon about the library in hell consisting of nothing but volumes of math story problems—but I think they’re satisfied that they got what they came for already, will change the routine as it suits them, and go home happy when they think the time is right.

One participant, Josiah, has already agreed to put me up (with his family) at his father-in-law's place in Cartago and then get me to San José, so I’ll have no excuse for missing the plane home on Monday.

Josiah (another displaced Northwesterner, except he doesn't miss it) and Cynthia

At sunrise I took a hike up the road to the high point of the Jones property to grok the landscape (and returned before the breakfast call, mind you).

At the top of the property

From there you get a view of the main house and the (yellow) building we’re meeting in.

This should give you some idea of the context. I’m looking northeastish.

Down there in the distance you can see Ihu Grano de Oro, the main town in the valley.

Let me introduce you to the other workshop participants.

Joel (from Switzerland) and Rebecca (Timothy Jones' daughter), newlyweds

Stefan, who met the Lord in prison

Timothy's son John, who's getting an early start!

I suppose if a 1960s vintage electric guitar can run an amp this size a cell phone can, but it just doesn’t seem right. One more bit of evidence that this world is not my home, I’m just passin’ through.

Thanks to so many of you for making this part of the passage so enjoyable!

Workshop Day 1

It was with a certain amount of fear and trepidation that I finished breakfast today and headed for the building where the workshop was to take place. Four teams and an observer (or three teams and two observers, depending on how you count them—seven in all), all but one observer having come a considerable distance, were depending on me to make this week worth their time. Also, having become accustomed to being somewhat of a theological minority, I figured I needed to watch my step if we ever wandered into certain areas.

Did you know that the sweat you sweat when you’re nervous is different from the sweat you sweat when you exercise? I read that a few months back, and I would believe it after today – even after a shower I could hardly stand to be near me.

Anyway, imagine my surprise then when Timothy Jones opened the workshop by reading Micah 4:1–7:

In the last days the mountain of the LORD's temple will be established as chief among the mountains; it will be raised above the hills, and peoples will stream to it. Many nations will come and say, "Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD, to the house of the God of Jacob. He will teach us his ways, so that we may walk in his paths."

The law will go out from Zion, the word of the LORD from Jerusalem. He will judge between many peoples and will settle disputes for strong nations far and wide. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. Every man will sit under his own vine and under his own fig tree, and no one will make them afraid, for the LORD Almighty has spoken. All the nations may walk in the name of their gods; we will walk in the name of the LORD our God for ever and ever.

"In that day," declares the LORD, "I will gather the lame; I will assemble the exiles and those I have brought to grief. I will make the lame a remnant, those driven away a strong nation. The LORD will rule over them in Mount Zion from that day and forever.”

After I told Timothy that this vision had inspired me for decades—and was the reason I’ve been to Costa Rica twice—but because of various discouragements I’d all but forgotten it, he prayed for me, I prayed for our Nigerian brethren who are being so terribly persecuted by Boko Haram jihadists, and we were off.

Genuine action shot (Photo credit: Ruth Jones)

The PowerPoint I was afraid I’d be through in fifteen minutes and teach them nothing new took three hours because of all the questions. Then we devoted the rest of the day to phonetics, and I can definitely say that the first 20% of the workshop has been a great success.

After the afternoon session I took a walk up the hill. The first person I met was a man even older than I am, who greeted me first in Cabecar, then in Spanish, and finally got through to me in English. We parted with smiles, but I thought he was shaking his head as he left. (Timothy tells me that so many of his visitors are involved with the Cabecars that the locals expect every gringo to speak Cabecar.)

Then I met a mother and her two children, who greeted me in Cabecar, which went nowhere, so we limped along in Spanish, since they don’t speak English. After a few minutes I promised I’d be back up again tomorrow and speak Cabecar (“How are you?” “Well.”), so they’ll probably do everything they can to finish their work early and be home by then.

Dinner was catch-as-catch can, with more lively conversation. I’ve really enjoyed hearing the others’ stories of how they have become who they are today. One man found Christ in a Marine Corps brig, others here grew up as missionary kids. I didn’t realize until today that Timothy (who has lived in Indian territory in Costa Rica practically all his life) didn’t learn Spanish until he had married his Costa Rican wife, who learned English as an exchange student in Parkersburg, West Virginia! Ya never know.

Timothy and Keiry (pronounced like Katie) Jones

God has been so gracious to me on this trip. I hope my absence from there has blessed you as much as my presence here has blessed me!