Sunday at the lake

This morning I awoke to my last day where there are tourists before I head on to the highlands. It is Sunday, but because I am in a lake town that is not particularly devout (based on appearances) I didn't plan to go to church. Instead, lying in bed I read a few entries from Devotional Classics, namely John Calvin, Blaise Pascal, and Thomas a Kempis. Lightweights, I know.

Eventually I wandered down to the lake for a stroll, and in doing so I passed a group of people under a tree, singing. I kept walking, and when I got to the end of the easily walkable shoreline I turned back and when I came upon this group again they were all standing up and reading Scripture in unison. I went ahead and stuck around for the sermon on the beginning of Jesus' ministry from the book of Mark, which in Spanish is of course San Marcos, which happens to be the name of the place I'm headed tomorrow. I followed along in my ESV pocket Bible as the pastor spoke from his Spanish version. Maybe it just struck me this way as a naive, enamored outsider, but it seems to me that despite all the theological training and meeting facilities and conferences and books and padded seats at 72 degrees that we tend to enjoy as normal parts of our church experiences, the congregation of the Pentecostal Church of God in Panajachel had a lot less cultural baggage to sort through today to get to the heart of the gospel than would have a church I consider normal back home. He spoke of Jesus, the son of a carpenter whose name wouldn't have meant anything to anyone in the city, who is therefore introduced by Mark as the Son of God. He spoke of Jesus being tempted in the wilderness and when the pastor pointed up at the steep hillsides surrounding the lake to make his point, I think the people got it in a way that might normally escape us. And I skimmed ahead to the passage they'll cover next week: Jesus making 'fishers of men'. Wow.

This afternoon I spoke on the phone with my contact in Sipacapa, who didn't immediately seem to understand who I was, but after repeating my name a few times, saying I am the son of Pablo and Susana, he got it. But it had me worried for a moment, since a lot is riding on this guy. As it turns out, he will be driving to San Marcos first thing Tuesday morning and will give me a ride to Sipacapa in his car, thus relieving me of the stress of wondering if there is any sort of mass transit system in those parts.

So that's it from here. Tomorrow at 7am I catch a ride to Quetzaltenango, where I hope to then find a bus out to San Marcos wherein my stuff will not be stolen and I will not have to deal with the smell of chickens. But if chicken buses are the only option, then by golly, chicken bus it will be.