So yesterday we went to Indonesian church for the first time. It was one of those things we looked forward to as much as slicing our kids' fingers to test them for malaria. But we figured as good missionaries, we should not spend our Sundays at the international church. We had heard of a friendly church a mile or so away, so piled our gang in the car and took off. We pulled up... the only car in the grassy field by the church... not a person to be seen anywhere, but the church doors were open, so we headed inside. Picture a big cement building, rows of wooden pews and 200 dark skinned bodies in brightly colored clothes.... and complete silence as the white people try to slip in unnoticed. Of course the service stops, the pastor at the front beckons for us to come and sit IN THE FRONT ROW and everyone chuckles silently as we push people over in the back row and Brant choses to sit on the women's side of the sanctuary so he can help me with the boys. The service lasts TWO MINUTES more and then everyone is dismissed... we got there just in time to hear the benediction.
Turns out the early youth service ran late and we had to wait around another hour until the regular service started. We tried to make small talk... tried being the operative word. We're not much for small talk in English, let alone Indonesian. Finally we filed back inside, again Brant sat on the wrong side of the church... am very thankful he didn't abandon me with the boys as all the other dads obviously did with their wives and kids...
The pastor asked the visiting pastor (Brant!) to open the service in prayer. I spent the whole prayer praying for Brant that he would get all his grammar right and not offend anyone in the first 5 minutes we were there.
People were very friendly. 50 women walked by and shook my hand. The first lady had several fingers missing and I thought poor woman is handicapped... turns out the church is a gathering of tribal people from the mountains and in this particular tribe (as in many here) the women cut off their fingers one digit at a time in order to signify grief over the death of a loved one. Most of the older women only had 3 fingers on each hand.
The lady in front of me picked lice out of her hair throughout the service. Amazing what you can still accomplish with only 3 fingers. Many of the older men had holes through their noses where pieces of bone or wood used to be. I guess they had picked up on the "It's not spiritual for Christian guys to have piercings" from American culture. Half of the service was in a tribal language - so much for a year and a half of Indonesian language lessons.
I was overwhelmed again with our own weaknesses and dependency on the Lord to accomplish anything worthwhile through us. How could I reach these people when they look outside at our car in the yard and think we're from another planet? Caleb ran around in the back with the tribal kids - he wore tennis shoes that, though $5 from the clearance rack at Target, cost more than half the people in that building make in a week. How were we to befriend these people, win their respect and be able to speak into their lives that are so starkly in contrast to ours?
The service lasted over 2 hours. It ended with several guys yelling at each other in their tribal language and then people walking up and handing them money. Still not sure what that was about.
We came home exhausted, dirty, sweaty and a bit frustrated at our own inadequacies. When I first started this whole missions thing, I thought it would be fun and exciting. I always questioned those people who said "We could never do this without the Lord" Of course I could live overseas and eat funny food without the Lord's help; countless diplomats and tourists do it everyday. But now I realize anything we accomplish while we are here will only be God's doing. We are, after all, the stupid white people who don't know which side of the church to sit on.
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