We flew over the typhoon plaguing the Philippines and landed safely with no more than a few jostles to our plane. The final leg of more than 24 hours of travel time consisted of landing at a tiny airport on the island, where the locals gathered to watch the excitement of white people landing on their turf. We piled onto a vehicle and set off for a long drive through the jungle.
So this is the Philippines. Thick vegetation runs the show, cut into by a civilization that places bamboo huts along the roadside, and every now and then a few sprawling homes of sterner stuff. Everywhere we see people working in the rice fields or lingering inside of stores that look at first glance to be abandoned and run-down holes in the wall. Advertisements for Coke and Sun Silk hang flapping over the buildings above concrete floors. And then the houses get fewer and fewer and we've moved beyond one town into the next. Nothing seems to demarcate one from the other. I spent our drive watching silently, enamoured of finally being in a real jungle. We entered the barrio, where one lane serves for vehicles, mainly motorbikes, headed in both directions. The 'streets' are rough, rambling paths without names, cut deeply by wind and rain, crowded in on both sides by reaching trees, palms, frawns and a plethera of plants I don't recognize. I don't see signs, adresses, house numbers. Just houses built from whatever was at hand, set into their particular piece of land, beat into whatever shape it took to push back the jungle. Clotheslines, children, goats, cows, chickens, garden plots, jutting hills, babies, schoolkids, old men and women stooped over walking sticks-- they are all frighteningly thin, and they all smile, wave and stare as we drive past.
Our base is set at the top of a hill overlooking the island. I can see the sprawling jungle canopy stretching all the way to the sea, with a solitary river carved through the middle. It's hard to imagine so many lives are lived out under what looks like empty, untamed jungle.
Our work here is consuming. We spend most of our weekdays at different schools, playing as hard as we can with the kids for a few hours before sitting them down and performing a show that tells about Jesus. Our job is to introduce them to Him, and we do whatever it takes. We ask them to raise their hands if they want to know Jesus, and I hear the teachers reminding them to raise their right hand.
This is a Catholic nation by name, but the rules of man have taken over the focus on Jesus. We deal with kids who are under grave threats, rendered by their own parents, parents clinging to a version of religion that requires them to pass through a room of glass and fire (literally) in order to have their sins forgiven. The priest has the power, the rules are the saviors. Jesus, it seems, is a symbol, not someone to know. From the kids themselves we hear stories. They are afraid that someone will know they accepted Jesus. Their parents will 'punish' them. We see bruises or burns on some. We hear stories of rape.
So we create a safe environment for the kids, where they can play, go crazy, be a kid, have fun and meet Jesus. And hopefully they keep looking for Him, despite the disconnect between what we say about a relationship with Him and what others say about the requirements of religion.
So this is the Philippines. Thick vegetation runs the show, cut into by a civilization that places bamboo huts along the roadside, and every now and then a few sprawling homes of sterner stuff. Everywhere we see people working in the rice fields or lingering inside of stores that look at first glance to be abandoned and run-down holes in the wall. Advertisements for Coke and Sun Silk hang flapping over the buildings above concrete floors. And then the houses get fewer and fewer and we've moved beyond one town into the next. Nothing seems to demarcate one from the other. I spent our drive watching silently, enamoured of finally being in a real jungle. We entered the barrio, where one lane serves for vehicles, mainly motorbikes, headed in both directions. The 'streets' are rough, rambling paths without names, cut deeply by wind and rain, crowded in on both sides by reaching trees, palms, frawns and a plethera of plants I don't recognize. I don't see signs, adresses, house numbers. Just houses built from whatever was at hand, set into their particular piece of land, beat into whatever shape it took to push back the jungle. Clotheslines, children, goats, cows, chickens, garden plots, jutting hills, babies, schoolkids, old men and women stooped over walking sticks-- they are all frighteningly thin, and they all smile, wave and stare as we drive past.
Our base is set at the top of a hill overlooking the island. I can see the sprawling jungle canopy stretching all the way to the sea, with a solitary river carved through the middle. It's hard to imagine so many lives are lived out under what looks like empty, untamed jungle.
Our work here is consuming. We spend most of our weekdays at different schools, playing as hard as we can with the kids for a few hours before sitting them down and performing a show that tells about Jesus. Our job is to introduce them to Him, and we do whatever it takes. We ask them to raise their hands if they want to know Jesus, and I hear the teachers reminding them to raise their right hand.
This is a Catholic nation by name, but the rules of man have taken over the focus on Jesus. We deal with kids who are under grave threats, rendered by their own parents, parents clinging to a version of religion that requires them to pass through a room of glass and fire (literally) in order to have their sins forgiven. The priest has the power, the rules are the saviors. Jesus, it seems, is a symbol, not someone to know. From the kids themselves we hear stories. They are afraid that someone will know they accepted Jesus. Their parents will 'punish' them. We see bruises or burns on some. We hear stories of rape.
So we create a safe environment for the kids, where they can play, go crazy, be a kid, have fun and meet Jesus. And hopefully they keep looking for Him, despite the disconnect between what we say about a relationship with Him and what others say about the requirements of religion.
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