I suppose my Voices readers think of me as a writer or a semi-retired seminary professor. I think of myself as a retired (emeritus) missionary. After all, Barbara and I served with the FMB/IMB for twenty-five years in Southeast Asia. The Foreign Mission Board (now International Mission Board) appointed us in April 1975, and we went to Missionary Orientation in the fall. We arrived in Davao City, Philippines, in April 1976. Today, Davao is a large, bustling city, the largest city on the island of Mindanao in the southern Philippines, but in those days, it was a sleepy, provincial town. A current missionary or resident might say that things are different now, and I’m sure that’s true. The following, though, are my memories from 49 years ago.
I recall our first Easter in the Philippines. A church in the barrio (village) invited me to preach on Palm Sunday. When we arrived in the village, we saw Catholics walking to their chapel, carrying palm branches. When I asked about that, the pastor told me that the priest would bless the palm fronds. After the service, the parishioners would tack one leaf to their doorposts to ward off bad luck and evil spirits through the coming year. Our Baptist churches did not do this, but I found it interesting.
Holy Week (Easter Week) in the Philippines was a big deal. You could not do business or get anything from a government office from Wednesday until Monday after Easter. In those days, my grandson calls them “the olden days.” 90 percent of the people were Catholic. For them, Good Friday was the big day, and Easter Sunday was like an afterthought. They certainly believed in the resurrection, but they emphasized the suffering of Christ. Our Baptist churches all held Good Friday services, and most featured devotions on the Seven Last Words of Christ from the cross. Our pastor assigned me a word to speak on, so on Good Friday, we drove into Davao City for the service. To reach the town, we had to drive down the main north/south highway on the island of Mindanao. It was always busy, crowded with cars, trucks, jeepneys, buses, and pedicabs (motorcycle taxis). To our amazement, when we turned onto the highway, it was deserted. My vehicle was the only one on the road. It was spooky! When we arrived at the church, I asked our pastor about the empty streets. He answered, “Oh, the Catholics are afraid to travel on Good Friday. They believe the Lord is dead on this day and unable to protect them.”
Several years later, we decided to spend a week of vacation at the Wycliffe Bible Translators compound, near Malaybalay, Bukidnon, also on the island of Mindanao. There were several guest cottages on the compound, and we rented one for the week. Because our trip coincided with Easter, we decided to take Easter eggs and let our children (aged five and two) experience an Easter egg hunt. I sneaked away and hid the eggs in the garden around the cottage. We were just about ready to take the kids outside when someone tapped on our door. When I opened the door, the security guard stood there with a bag in his hand. He smiled and said, “Sir, I found all the eggs that you lost.” I thanked him and took the bag. When I was sure that he was gone, I re-hid the eggs, and our children enjoyed finding them.
At that time, the Wycliffe Center served a number of Bible translators. Typically, they spent six weeks out in the village with their tribe, and they would return to the center for two weeks to rest, refresh, and consult with a translation consultant. Their travel to and from the villages was provided by the missionary pilots of the Jungle Aviation and Radio Service (JAARS). They had to use small planes, like a Piper Cub, that could land and take off on short jungle landing strips. Someone told us there would be an Easter Sunrise Service at the compound airport, and we were glad to attend. After the service, one of the missionary pilots graciously showed his plane to my children. He let them climb into the plane and patiently answered their questions. I said to him, “You must have had some exciting experiences flying over the jungle in this little plane.” He laughed and replied, “Yes, but my most frightening flight was my flight across the Pacific.” I gasped and said, “You flew this little plane across the Pacific Ocean?” He answered, “Yes, I did, and that does wonders for your prayer life.” He went on to explain that they stripped everything possible from the plane to lighten it, and they added extra fuel tanks. To make the journey from the United States to the Philippines, he flew from island to island, refueling as he went. I had always respected the missionary pilots, but after hearing that, my respect soared. I wondered if I could have mustered enough faith to fly across the vast ocean in a single-engine plane.
When we visited the Philippines in 2007, we got to visit a church we helped to plant. While we were there, a Filipino man approached me and said, “Twenty years ago, a big Americano came to my home and told me about Jesus. You were that missionary. Thank you for telling me about Jesus.” I was able to do that because Southern Baptists sent us and supported us.
I realize, and freely admit, that the SBC has lots of problems now. Still, the SBC was established to support missions. Let’s keep our eyes on our fundamental purpose.
