A year before graduating from Oberlin, I tried to decide whether I had completed my PhD for the life of religious studies and education, or seminary and ministry. That year I joined my father in Venezuela, where he was pastor of the United Church of Christ in Caracas. The church had three satellite congregations scattered across eastern oil fields, each tied to standard oil from Mobile, Texaco and New Jersey, one of the major oil companies of the time. I replaced the year between them and acted as a kind of circuit riding assistant pastor.
A five-hour drive from these oil camps back to Caracas drove through the desolate country. There was a dry cra brand, dessert brushes and a long stretch that didn’t show up. The road was “paved” so the asphalt was poured directly onto the dirt, but only stretched. It was able to withstand the dry season, but this was not the dry season. The rain softened the ground below, and the thin surface smoothed out in the spot. Driving was not impossible. It is slow and uncertain, especially on hills and curves.
Along the way, there were military checkpoints every 20 miles, each staffed by teenage conscriptions in sun-bleached uniforms, clutching rifles that I hadn’t recognized at the time. Later I learned what they were – fn fals and old kalashnikovs. These were not for the show. The failed attempts at a coup have recently shaken the capital, with the government cracking down on what it deems destructive: pamplets, banned books, underground newspapers, and all sorts of foreign materials. The young boy was drafted for remote areas. The roadside prisons attached to these front posts were becoming increasingly infamous. Exposed concrete cells, cages, in fact, are places where cruelty is routine and less accountable.
Still, I’ve taken the route many times before and had no issues. I wasn’t expecting it now.
Until I stopped again, this time, not boring waves through or cursory gaze, but as if I had already decided how this would end by seven or eight scooter boys who raised their rifles and stepped onto the road quietly and silently. One opened the car door and the other opened the trunk. I was ordered, tapped, and when I searched everything I was told to stand aside.
One of them found a book box. He frowned and hugged him. “Sacred Est?”
“It’s a novel,” I said in Spanish. “A novel in English.”
He read the title slowly and aloud: Overseas boat. “Translate it,” he demanded. “Please explain what that means.”
i couldn’t. I hadn’t read it yet. “Is that about rabbits? F-talk, maybe?” I stumbled. They weren’t convinced.
The tone has shifted. One of them twitched his chin towards the roadside prison. Burn a rusty wire enclosure in the sun. I began to calculate whether everyone needed to realize they hadn’t arrived. The silence in the place was suddenly felt loudly.
Then another boy opened the second box.
“How is this?”
Inside there were dozens of Spanish and English Bibles. A thin leather-bound copy that I brought to camp.
He opened one. Others gathered.
One of them smirked and lifted the copy. “¿Inglés Yespañol?”
“Yes,” I said. “You can have them. Everyone.”
They looked at each other. The rifle has dropped. The doubt gave way to something like excitement. One of them laughed and said “Este libro te ha dado libertad” almost in the chorus with the others. This book has given you freedom.
The boys suddenly looked like boys, and were both troubled and happy.
I went back to the car, waved my hand, and moved my heart.
I have never fully understood what happened. Maybe it was luck. Probably that was the timing. Maybe it was just an opportunity to learn English or read the Bible. But I never forgot about my feelings. A sudden turn of events, a breathtaking change from fear to grace. It proved nothing. But it reminded me that even on the lonely path, things stopped making no sense, and that something invisible might still be at work when the ground seemed to give way.
Call it God. Call it mercy. Call it the unexpected kindness of a stranger.
Whatever you called it, the day was enough.
Tip #218 – Block by Block, City by City
Tip #217 – Can we still talk for ourselves?
Approx. 2 + 2 = 5
Source: 2 + 2 = 5 – williamgreen.substack.com
