Don Chombo Preaches the Word

We did not expect to see them here. When they had invited us to church the day before, I had tried to make it very clear that they did not need to wait for us, that we could find Don Chombo’s house without any trouble, and that I would have to talk to Kelly before deciding to go anyway. But here they were, tall, venerable Don Tulio; his son-in-law Juan, carrying a bare guitar on his shoulder; Juan’s eldest brother on horseback; and the pastor with his bicycle. Each of them was dressed well, and most carried Bibles in plastic bags. They are all members of the evangelical church in El Pital, where they have evening meetings three times a week. This Sunday morning meeting they have turned into a house fellowship, now almost always at Don Chombo’s house.

The walk to Don Chombo’s was mild except for a cabrada that required some athleticism to leap across. “It is dangerous,” they said, “slippery for your zapatos.” But Tulio and Juan teamed up to get Kelly and me to the other side safely. Juan, for his part, had no trouble leaping across holding his guitar in one hand. Once we passed Ramirez’ house, he came in front of us to lead us

The walk took us about 50 minutes in all, and Don Chombo was at his door with a broom, a dark man with a weathered polo shirt, brown pants, and flip-flops. It was a larger house than some, with two long rooms set side by side, mud stick walls, and a palm frond roof. It was set on a hillside, and looked as if it had been lived in for some time. We sat in the kitchen, where the women were making large tortillas, and greeted people as they arrived in their clean shirts, slacks, leather shoes, or dresses. One young man in a plaid flannel shirt had a terrific grano (sore) on his leg, for which a number of medicinal applications had apparently accomplished little. Another tall, thin, quiet man sat in the corner, tuning his guitar. He had a capo made from a pencil and some string on the third fret, and soon Juan came over with his guitar to prepare for the service. I sat closest to these two, and Kelly next to me, on a clay bench.

I could not figure out how they tuned up. Juan had his capo on the fifth fret, and the other man on the third fret, and then Juan played an A chord to match the other man’s C. I tried to tell them they needed to move the capos so they would match, but they did not listen, which is good because it came out just fine in the end. They sang several songs together, Juan always playing lead guitar and various others accompanying him. They sang about how good it is to meet together in the church, and why don’t you come on in? and others that I did not understand so well. They also asked the four of us to sing, and we sang the only Spanish song Kelly and I know ("Jehovah, Senor de los Cielos") as well as “He is Exalted.” The boys had good strong voices, and they all approved of our contributions.

Finally, about an hour after we arrived, enough people were milling around inside, Don Chombo and the other men had put on their church clothes, and the women were through with their tortillas – and the service began. The pastor gave an opening prayer and led the singing, which was a series of alabanzas that the guitarists followed perfectly. Everyone sang with great gusto, and the nortamericanos clapped along and looked around. The men’s voices dominated the singing – the first time I have heard that in Honduras – and there was this point when everyone with uplifted faces, lifted their hands toward heaven and closed their eyes, and the singing swelled into something like, “Oh Jesus, we are prepared for your coming.” It still gives me chills to remember it.

In between songs there was fervent prayer. Prayer here always seems to be an intensely participatory activity. There may be one leader, but everyone is pitching in with hmms and “Si, Senor” and “Gloria a Dios” and “Gracias Jesus” and “hallelujah” and raising their hands and shaking. I have been skeptical before, but I thought it was beautiful here. It can certainly make prayertime more exciting.

After some more songs, the pastor welcomed the North Americans specifically and asked me if I had anything to say to the group. Thinking that he was asking me to translate to Tony and Jesse, I agreed, until Kelly said, “I think he wants you to say something to the group.” So I moved to the front and said thank you for inviting us, we are brothers and sisters in Christ, to which they responded much more enthusiastically than my poor Spanish deserved. Then they asked us to sing a song, so we chose “Lord I lift your name on high” which we figured was popular in Spanish as well. And then they had some solos between Juan, his brother, and the man in the flannel shirt. And then the offering, which Tulio suggested we collect for the benefit of the man’s grano.

Finally, the pastor told us that Don Chombo was to give us the sermon. And he did. He put on his large gold glasses and his crisp, forceful preaching voice, and had readings from Jeremiah, Timothy, and Exodus. He talked about the contrast between idols that neither talk nor walk and our God who came and walked and talked among us. And everything was punctuated with a “Gloria a Dios!”

At the end, the pastor spent several minutes explaining that we were always invited to their meetings, “even though it is hard for you to understand.” “Except for one thing, pastor,” an older man named Angel interposed: “Lorenzo can come with them, and he can translate perfectly.” This idea was greated with a hearty approval by everyone. Then we prayed for Angel’s companera (companion), who was sick, and left gradually.

When we reached the bottom of the path, we offered them a ride in the pickup to El Pital, which they accepted gladly, said our farewells and “nos vemos”, and rode back to Las Mangas.

I think we will return the church where men outsing the women, and where the pastor walks up into the mountains.