Prayer Pilgrimage

First Baptist Church, Matagalpa, Nicaragua

           We walked through the early dawn on a spiritual pilgrim to the small, out of the way Baptist church.  Hustling down the dirty sidewalks, alert for uncovered drainage holes, the walk itself becoming an act of prayer – we did not know what to expect in a 6 AM prayer meeting in Matagalpa, Nicaragua.  As the city of 150,000 awoke, we passed joggers and farmers, uniformed police officers and students preparing for their day ahead.

            We arrived at the church to find silence.  Lights on.  Doors opened.  Silence.  Scattered across the tiled floor sanctuary, individuals kneeled in prayer, their arms and heads pressed into the wooden benches.  No one greeted us.  No one looked up.  The four of us, pilgrims from the Western world, looked around at one another – quickly assessing and understanding the situation.  Each of us found our own wooden pew, knelt, and began to pray.

            Actually, while my body communicated prayer – kneeled body, folded hands, quiet spirit - my mind whirled, reeling in the silence, gasping for breath like a man tossed in a icy pond trying to gather his wits to survive.  My life in Cornelia – filled with carting children to and fro, responding to emails, visiting members, returning telephone calls, preparing sermons – had not prepared me for this cultural and spiritual chasm.  My life as a pastor involves prayer every day – controlled prayers said in public places for corporate events, in hospital rooms and homes and my office for individuals and family, and in the my own retreat times.  However, there was something risky, frightening, out of control and exhilarating about being in a sanctuary filled with people praying in silence in this Latin American mountain community. 

            I began praying for my family, my congregation, and my hurting members - filling the silence with words I could control.  The silence continued to grow.  Soon, my words fell off.  They felt too contrived for this moment.  Slowly, the silence descended deeper into my bones, becoming more intimate and familiar.  I turned off the spoken part of my brain and began to dwell – floating almost - in the silence filled with the presence of God, the pain in my knees and feet reminding me of my place in the world. 

            Then, the pastor stood, calling us to song.  Familiar hymns sung in Spanish.  I sang loud – singing out the words unaware of their translation – tossing them to God as praise for my morning.  Corporate prayers followed:  Prayers for Matagalpa, the church family, Cornelia, and for our church, First Baptist.

            The hour ended in a circle of praise – lifting up to God gratitude for the morning.  As we dropped our hands, I looked around at the children of God gathered in the room from around the world.  Prayer had become our common language, spoken to a God bigger than we ever had imagined.  Our missional pilgrimage to this place had become a holy experience in the presence of God.  Amen.