Afterwards, some folks fired up a propane stove in the mission’s courtyard and began making fresh tortillas. In the evening light, the neighborhood around us was alive—and no longer seemed threatening like the night before. Kids played on the streets and adults joked together. We sat down to eat the best tamales I’ve ever had and tried to converse in broken Spanish with our immensely gracious hosts, who always called me hermano—their brother in Christ.

Then I struck up a conversation with a remarkably bright eleven-year-old girl named Karina. I realized—as she patiently endured my awkward verb conjugations—that Karina wasn’t all that different from me, and the whole environment began to seem less strange.

Later that night, I reflected that perhaps the greatest need of this community was not a dishwasher or better plumbing; internet access or public works. The Believers we were rubbing shoulders with had something that was lacking in rich mega churches everywhere: joy.

With all the advantages that being American could bring, I’d still battled serious depression the previous winter. If it wasn’t for the hope of Christ, I might have leaped from a bridge. Why did I think kitchen appliances were somehow what this community needed? Perhaps they already had more true wealth than I did.

Of course, Christians can and should fight poverty in the name of Christ. But in a week’s time, it was impossible for me to have Whirlpool refrigerators delivered to Monterrey. I could, however, bring a few people the hope I’d discovered on those black nights of depression that threatened to overwhelm my soul.

Drawing a crowd

I spent my “free” time for the next few days feverishly translating the story I’m written for our children’s outreaches. Back home, I’d naively composed a tale in English, assuming our translator could turn it into compelling Spanish on the fly. But the first semi-disastrous church service made it clear that our approach didn’t work. Now I scribbled furiously in another language, hoping my word choices made sense.

On Wednesday, we traveled to a tiny village that was reachable only by a bumpy dirt road through scrubby desert land. It was a hamlet of tiny mud-brick dwellings without plumbing; a place where twice-weekly bus service was the only link to civilization. We drew a crowd of children and their mothers simply because we were outsiders—and even more remarkably, a strange species called Americanos.

As we set up our program of storytelling and craft-making, I practiced my story with its hard-to-pronounce words. Then walked over to Beto, who only spoke Spanish (he was sort of an apprentice to our missionary contact). I knew he would give a short sermon after we stumbled through our agenda, and one question suddenly seemed very urgent to me.

“Vas a presentar el evangelio?” I asked. Are you going to present the Gospel?

He gave a rapid-fire Spanish reply; I had trouble following everything. Bottom line: he probably wasn’t going to say too much about Jesus. He didn’t think these families would be open to the Gospel.

“Por que no?” I asked. Why not?

Beto shrugged, and decided to humor the visiting Americans. After I finished the story (with a sigh of relief), he told the ageless story of grace.

Four people raised their hands to accept Christ.

From our store

Ministering Cross Culturally: The training articles in this download will give you a starting point for ministry in a new culture. Here you can read about cross-cultural ministry as we see it in the Bible; you can gain skills to help you with cultural immersion (and to avoid culture shock); and you can re-approach ministry in our ever-changing, globalized world. This is an ideal resource for a short-term missions team to discuss before they travel.

Learn More