Church, Chorizo, and a Good Cry

Church
Yesterday, our fourth Sunday in Spain, we attended La Elipa Church, named for the neighborhood in which it is located. What a wonderful experience. We arrived at 10:30am for Sunday School, basically a bible study in the main room. The topic was evangelism, particularly an examination of what is a personal testimony. Lots of interaction between the leader and the listeners, even a question from a young girl who was visiting with a friend. There is a lot to be said about the Spanish quality of speaking your mind. There is little walking on eggshells here.

The service began at 11:30am with a few songs. Unfortunately, they didn't have overheads for all of them, so Ben and I had to clap and look a bit stupid as everyone else sang. Then, there was a time to share a reading if the Spirit led, or to pray out loud. Several songs were requested during this time, which the band played. The sermon followed, on Matthew 14: Jesus walking on the water. I understood about 90% of the sermon. It was really wonderful. The speaker hypothesized that the reason Peter starts to sink in the water is not because he doubts that Jesus is God, all powerful, and certainly greater than the storm. Of course Peter knew that Jesus was greater. Rather, Peter doubted because he perhaps started to feel that he was unworthy to be walking out to Jesus on the water. He started realizing his own overwhelming sin, his insignificance compared to Jesus. In that moment, Peter's eyes left Jesus: that is why he started sinking.

That was quite profound for me. I've been recently thinking, God, why me? Don't you know that moving overseas will probably be harder for me than for a lot of people? Don't you know that I will really miss my family, that I want a "normal" life, etc. And of course, God knows all of that. None of those things are surprises to him. That is both comforting and freeing. I don't have to try to squelch those parts of me. God knows those parts of me; he made me to love my family and cherish home.

And yet he still chose me to do this. I don't know why, and I don't have to know why. Or perhaps it is more so that he has called all of us to go. Could it be that most of us wait for a call to go, don't hear it, and thus stay? But, the Great Commission is clear, calling us all. Could it be that we should be waiting for a call to stay? Should "Go!" be the default? For anyone considering mission, Western Europe is a dark place, needing the light of Christ. Come with us! (Enough preaching for now.)

Back to church. After the sermon, the floor was again opened for people to share thoughts, request songs, lead prayers, etc. We then took communion. It was perfectly silent and the bread and wine (interestingly white) were passed. Each ate or drank as the bread or cup came, and I missed the communal aspect at Bethany (our church in Littleton).

However, as a whole, I had never experienced such a community-oriented service ever before. I felt like I was seeing the body in worship together. It was a really special time.

Chorizo (by Ben)
Last night provided a neat moment around 11:20pm. I stepped onto our back patio to hear the whole country of Spain celebrating the victory over Italy in the Euro Cup. What a noise!

The experience was oddly sweetened by the fact that I was feeling okay. About nine hours earlier, I made the dubious decision to go for the chorizo sandwich at lunch. Mr. Sausage left me the direction he came around the 78th minute of the soccer match, and if you're like me, you can identify with the fact that I felt much better after vomiting. (In honor of all our art museum trips, we'll give this picture a name - "Sweet Recovery.") He still did a minor number on my sleeping - my normal resting postures brought on waves of mini-nausea, so I had to sleep on my back (fitfully) until around 5:45am, and my lower back is rather sore this morning.

And that, my dear friends, is a faithful rendering of all my dealings with Sr. Chorizo. For its veracity you can appeal to my lovely wife, who babied me tremendously well in my time of need.

A Good Cry (back to Meggan)
After church, we attended a meeting for La Elipa's camp to be held at a facility called Aguas Vivas (living waters). Unfortunately, the three hour meeting was far from pleasant for me, though of course the people are all lovely and the camp will be great for the 23 children currently registered. The group of people going up have been friends for some time and have worked many camps before. In addition, all had many ideas and thoughts to share. All that adds up to many jokes, fast talking, and many talking at once. Sadly, I only understood about 25% of the meeting, despite all my straining. It was very frustrating and discouraging, and I left with not a small headache. For the first time, I thought, "I can't do this."

After getting home, I cried a little, but was encouraged by Héctor, the director of the arts camp, who assured me that Spaniards speak very quickly, even for him, a native South American Spanish-speaker. His words were kind, but I know that the week at Aguas Vivas will be very challenging for me.

Please continue to keep language acquisition in your prayers for both of us.