A Little Piece of Heaven

We visited the evening service of Manchay, Iglesia Bautista El Manantial. We took the beaten bus up the pot hole filled road, bouncing alongside other tired and dusty travelers. Normally there are a few bags of potatoes or other assorted vegetables lining the walkway or perched on a lap, but today was an exception, possibly because it was Sunday. The windows remained closed in effort to keep out the lung filling smog and dust, and to keep the wet chill from permeating every part of one's body. The cobrador shouted to would be passengers on the bustling, dusty streets, and then turned his attention to us. Making sure no one received a free ride, he demanded the toll and gave a ticket in return - as if he couldn't remember the only three white ones.
As our destination drew near, we edged our way to the door. "Baja, Baja, Baja!" shouted the cobrador, attempting to save precious time and money by pushing us out the door. We stepped out into the open street, before the stares of hundreds of people milling around either because they had nowhere to go, or they were capitalizing on those who had nowhere to go. We felt about as welcome as a cowboy at an English tea party. Finding our sidewalk, we quickly worked our way up the dimly lit, debris filled street. Behind us we could hear a mixture of bus horns, blasting music and shuffling pedestrians. Before us lay a dusty street, angry dogs, and a small but well lit little church. As if we were lost seamen followed the light to the little meeting place squeezed between two shabby brick buildings. We entered through the rough doors to find a group of believers gathered to worship and awaiting others as well. Although the sign above the building specified the starting time, no one really looked at the clock. Here, it is not the task at hand that holds the importance, it is the people. A quiet, elderly man who has seen more toil and pain in his lifetime than I ever wish to see, stands behind a small pulpit and leads us in songs of God's holiness and goodness. The solo guitar accompanies the slowly growing congregation as one by on they enter. Children who have found a place to be safe, mothers who need a friend, men who had found nothing of value in this harsh world, but all who had sought, and were found by the Father. The sermon tonight is focused on the miracles of Christ. Each mind races to the idea that maybe Christ will step in and take care of our most pressing health need, but as the Scriptures are unfolded, we see the greatest miracle of all is that of a holy God, dying for sinful man, and forgiving a lost soul.
The words, at times, were hard to follow. It should come as no surprise, for one cannot find a quite sanctuary here. Honking cars, barking dogs, and yelling men have replaced the quite hum of fans, distant traffic and occasional cell phones. There are babies crying, bustling traffic and shuffling pedestrians. There are loud bands, off tune karaoke, and men on microphones. There are sniffling children, street salesmen, and crinkling papers. A wheelbarrow rolls by and a car door slams. There is so much to distract, but also so much to hold the attention. The service ends with another song, but the people are asked to remain. There is no need to ask again, for very few rush out. Most love to mingle and find rest with brothers and sisters of like faith. The pastor explains the reason for baptism and church membership, and then invites three to share their testimonies for membership. First a man, then his wife, and then a teen girl. All testimonies of God's saving grace and unfathomable love, but one catches my attention. I smile in response to the testimony of the man and the young girl, but am caught off guard by a phrase in the testimony of the wife. "I would love to be part of this little piece of heaven on earth..." Here? Here? My eyes scan the bare walls and cement floors, looking, searching. Here? Boasting, not a sparkling chandelier, or ornate decorations, but rather a tin roof supported by a few skinny poles. Here? Two small bouquets of flowers adorn the front. Here? Yes, here. For "this little piece of heaven" is not found in beautiful buildings or plush surroundings. No matter how great the building, or how scarce the furnishings, it is not man made. "This little piece of heaven" is not the meeting place, it is the communion of brothers and sisters in Christ, filled with the Holy Spirit.