Abide in me...

Abide in me, and I in you.  As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me. 

Dear Ones,

                I heard a great sermon by Margaret Suchocki at the General Assembly of the Disciples in Orlando.  It is the kind of sermon that forever enriches your appreciation of God.  One of the things that she said in the sermon is that while God is always, everywhere, and to an infinite degree present feelingly to all, we are usually only dimly, if at all, aware of that presence.  In a way, this “darkened glass” to God’s presence is a blessing, because the presence could be so overwhelming that we would never get anything done.  Still, a large part of our spiritual pilgrimage is to wipe the darkened glass such that we can experience more of the presence.

                This is what I think the spiritual disciplines are about.  I had occasion to practice a (for me) completely new spiritual discipline this past week.  Unfortunately (for you, not for me), I forgot to take along my camera, so you have no material evidence of my introduction to street preaching.  The “predica” is an integral part of the Chilean Pentecostal experience.  The idea is that on the way to church, small groups of Pentecostals, guitars and mandolins in hand of the musicians, Bibles and hymnbooks in the hands of singers, gather on important street corners.  After the people sing out a couple of hymns, the designated street preacher holds forth on a brief exposition of the Gospel to the (mostly oblivious) passers-by.  

                I was sitting at the table in the Bishop’s house when Jenny, one of the household, came in and greeted us on her way out to the “predica”.  I was looking for a gracious way of escaping the enourmous mug of tea sitting in front of me (I had to preach in the big church in an hour and didn’t want all that liquid sitting in my bladder), and so I asked if I could tag along.  We joined the band of Pentecostals by the railroad tracks—during the hymn the cheerful horn of the train joined our lone sax to drown out the mandolins and guitars.  Hernán, the assistant guide (sort of an associate pastor) of the “local” (mission church of the Curicó big church) told me, “Let me show you how it’s done” and loudly held forth to the blank facades of a row of houses.  A couple of neighbors did peek out during his “sermon” and studiously ignored us, even as Hernán preached as though a whole crowd were listening intently.  He drew to a close and the woman who led our band came up to me and said, “your turn”.    So I quickly held forth on Deuteronomy 6:5, the first Scripture verse that came into my mind.  Afterwards Hernán proudly told me that he will forever remind me that he was the one who taught me to preach on the street.

                Why do it?  Well, for one it feels surprisingly good.  Here it is done so much and so often by so many different denominations, that it is an acceptable part of the landscape—much like Christian Christmas music at restaurants and grocery stores.  No one pays any particular attention, but no one is offended either—a painless way to fulfill one’s duty to “recognize Jesus before men (and women, and stray dogs, too)”.  But there is another reason, too.  There is the hope that someone may indeed listen and come a little closer to God.  This church has a profound conviction that a relationship with the Lord Jesus makes a positive difference in a person’s life.  This conviction  is not consciously rooted in  evangelical orthodoxy, but in a very commonsense, practical reasoning:  people have many difficulties in life, God in Jesus is potentially present in power to all, it is our job to make people aware that they can open the door to God in Jesus such that they will sense God with them in every situation.  In the US, we Christians believe that people essentially find religion offensive, so it is very difficult for us to share faith openly.  We have a kind of ingrained sense that most people don’t need or want Jesus.   It felt very good to put off that sense and to feel what my Pentecostal sisters and brothers feel, that it is a good thing to offer someone else a relationship with Jesus.

                Such preaching demands a parade.  Once my little message was through, punctuated by the final Amens of my Pentecostal rooting section on the otherwise empty street, the guitars and mandolins started up again and we slowly yet cheerfully processed through the cold streets on our way to the main church.  We caught glimpses of other groups like ours wending their way toward us on the side streets of Curico from multiple street preaching points where Pentecostals have proclaimed the gospel for generations to whomever would and wouldn’t hear.  Like airplanes circling and waiting for the air traffic controller to give them the signal to land, the different groups came to the entrance of the sanctuary and waited for the head deacon to have each group process down the aisle to the altar where we finished our song with hands held high and a triple “Gloria a Dios” before we each found our places in the pews.  And God was present.  And God enjoyed every bit of it.

                                In Christ,

               

David J. Huegel