FEBRUARY 2017 - It is 7 a.m. The sun is up in Ichmul, Mexico, and the only sound is the occasional rooster or the wild birds that hide in the trees.
Neither of us had planned it, but Brandon Fowler and I both decided to spend the morning’s designated quiet time walking along the street where Mission House is located. We don’t talk much. Brandon and I both are preparing for the day ahead, and we are unlikely compatriots. Brandon is younger than my youngest child. The quiet is comforting and helps us focus.
Along this rural road, which is curiously interrupted by speed bumps every 500 to 1,000 feet, we see a sign in Spanish and attempt to determine its meaning: “Disminuya su velocidad.” “Diminish your speed.” “Slow down.”
It was good first-day advice for this trip. Mission work doesn’t happen in a hurry. The time speeds by way too fast. You take time to listen, wait, learn, let paint dry, take a siesta, quench your thirst, pray and hear the Still, Small Voice. The last thing you want to do is rush through it.
The road we walk is lined with tiny concrete structures, no larger than 200 square feet or so. Most of them have a companion palapa, a stick house covered with a palm-thatch roof that serves as a kitchen, gathering space, extra bedrooms and more. Along the way we see skinny dogs, chickens and the occasional scrawny pig tethered to a tree. We were warned not to pet the dogs, but there’s no danger of that. We were not tempted love on them. These canines don’t look like pooches you’d want to pet. Their close-set eyes and bony bodies tell us to slowly cross to the other side of the road.
I make this walk a ritual over the next few days. Bible in hand, I pray, read and meditate on Isaiah 43 and the verses that came to Mexico with me:
“Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. The wild beasts will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches, for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise.”
Initially I was not sure whether this promise to Israel was meant for me or for the people of Ichmul, San Francisco and Chan Calotmul. I came to understand that it was for all of us.
At the center of the town of Ichmul is a plaza dominated by the ruins of an ancient Catholic church, built in 1588. The rock and carved stone Santuario Santo Cristo de las Ampollas—the Sanctuary of the Holy Christ of the Blisters, is stunning. Beside it is a white-washed stucco chapel, built in the 1760s, that is home to a much-revered icon, the Black Jesus. It is a crucifix rumored to have survived a fire that destroyed the church. The only thing not destroyed was the blackened crucifix. Fire has long played a role in the spiritual experiences of the Mayan people. They believe God and the Mayan gods speak by fire, but that story will have to wait for another day.
Unless churches like ours travel to this remote area, this crucifix is and will remain the only hope the people of Ichmul have—a reminder of a miracle that happened more than 250 years ago. The people of these jungle villages have a confused faith pulled from the teachings of itinerant priests, shamans and Western missionaries who come through. To further this tragedy, the holy icon they cherish isn't even the real one. It's a copy. The original Black Jesus crucifix was moved years ago to Merida, a modern, thriving city a few hours away. Their one symbol of hope is a fake.
There’s a scene in the Chronicles of Narnia where the faun, Mr. Tumnus, describes Narnia as a place where it is always winter, but never Christmas. There is a prophecy of a promised Lion King, but hope is fading fast. Ichmul is close enough to the equator that it is never winter, and, with no relief from the baking sun, it is also never Christmas. We were there two days after Christmas, and there was virtually no evidence of the holiday. Most of the families I met do not celebrate Christ’s birth. They are certainly too poor to exchange gifts, but there is also no tree, no decorations, not even a nativity. Hope is fading fast. The daily monotony is filled with making corn tortillas, taking care of the sick without a clinic to go to and making hammocks or charcoal. On top of that there is rampant alcoholism and a two-year drought that has made already meager rations of food and money even more sparse. The children only go to school until about the sixth grade. Most don’t have transportation to the closest high school, so they just don't go. Some of those who do profess a faith, have a mixed up, made up religion that confuses Mayan gods with Mary, Jesus and Jehovah. Some homes have a shrine to Mary alongside an offering to the Mayan corn gods, where they scatter their prayers like grass seed, broadcasting their words and offerings to a host of dieties, but never sure the seed is taking root. Hope is fading fast.
That is why Mission House exists, and that is why my church and four others have made these rain-forest pueblos our focus. That is why we paint schools and landscape school yards. That is why we teach English as a second language, perform simplistic Bible stories in halting Spanish and plant churches in tiny communities. Hope is rising. We bring hope, real, life-changing hope.
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