The Word Became Flesh (Jason)

“The Word became flesh and [pitched his tent] among us” (John 1:14). Ten different Bibles will yield ten different translations for this Greek word skenoo. The above translation is my favorite. The NIV says “made his dwelling” while some other translations even say he “tabernacled” among us. My Greek dictionary translates the word skenoo “to encamp, to reside or to dwell (as did God in the Old Testament tabernacle.” All the translations get at one basic idea, the God who was there came here. God stepped into our world in a human form; he “pitched his tent” among us. This is what we celebrate at Christmas.

Kristin and I are homesick right now. We want the comfort and familiarity of being with our families. We want grandparents to enjoy Jacob. We want cold weather, mashed potatoes, and 24 hours of “It’s a Wonderful Christmas”. Instead we get Brazil. Tonight we have been invited to spend Christmas with Carol’s family (Jeremy’s girlfriend). Their tradition is interesting. Carol’s father, who is the president of a seminary, opens the school and his family on Christmas Eve. Anyone is welcome to come and celebrate. The usual attendees are some staff and students who do not have family. The occasional homeless person, drug addict or foreigner might also be in attendance, a true black tie event. The point is that Carol’s family is very intentional about “pitching their tent” among the world. Christ’s sacrifice for humankind is embodied in their service to Rio’s disenfranchised.

It is our hope that you have a wonderful Christmas and that you, in your own way, share Christ’s love with others.

Merry Christmas.

Diverging Paths (Kristin)

1 Corinthians 3:7 "So neither he who plants, nor he who waters is anything,
but only God, who makes things grow."

As both cousins and friends, these girls have grown up together in the slum where we work. We've known them for a while now, and it's interesting to see the different paths that they are choosing. Larissa (on the left) is choosing a path that is leading her further away from God and the church. She is surrounding herself with people who choose "I am" instead of the "I AM".

Bianca, on the other hand, couldn't be more involved with church. She's there almost every day. In fact, I worry that she's too involved to the point in which her relationships with her unbelieving family may be eroding. You see, she goes to church, at least in part, to avoid her "annoying" mother and sister. But hiding in the church won't solve her problems at home and in her heart. If she doesn't learn to extend God's grace to her own family, she will one day regret missing out on these relationships.

These girls are going in different directions, but they seem to get hung up on the same issue... God's grace. One won't accept it, the other doesn't want to share it.

Please join us in praying for these girls. Pray for Larissa, that God would change the condition of her heart to enable a love for Him to grow. Pray for Bianca, that God would bring her to a maturity in her faith and make her an instrument that He uses to lead her family to Jesus.

Heroes (Jeremy)

Probably one of the most gruesome bathrooms that I have ever used was also the setting for one of the most compelling stories of heroism that I have ever experienced. It was Aprilish 2004, and I was working a shift at REAME. This meant that I was responsible for the monstrous staff keychain – one central ring filled to capacity with all of these other smaller rings spawning off of it. Needless to say, it didn’t fit in my pocket, so I just carried it around all day in my hands. That wasn’t a problem, except for when, out of dire necessity, I had to use the bathroom. I use the words “out of dire necessity” very deliberately, for the outdoor REAME bathroom was not for the faint of heart. It was a 4’ by 6’ window-less heat-box with a toilet that did not flush. There was a bucket on the floor that was supposed to be filled with water and then emptied into the toilet to flush down any contributions. It was a noble thought, but that bucket never got used. Instead, kids used the toilet until it reached its capacity, and then they started using the floor. There was a ten foot radius of stink that encapsulated that tiny bathroom, warning those that approached of the terror that lurked within. I had to come up with a strategy anytime my bladder felt as if it would give way. First, I would start holding my breath about fifteen feet away. Upon entering, I would secure the staff keychain with my teeth. I would then navigate my way through the mess on the floor by lunging from one clean spot to the next until I reached the toilet. I would urinate (for anything beyond that could wait) and then hightail it out of there, waiting until I was once again outside of the radius of stink to begin inhaling. On this particular day, however, my strategy failed me. I made it successfully through the first few steps. But, when I was standing over the toilet with the keys clasped between my teeth, I ran out of air. I miscalculated the amount that I would need, and I had to inhale. However, I could not bring myself to inhale through the nose. So, I opened my mouth to draw a breath, and with that, the staff keys fell into the murky swamp before me with an eerie silence. I made it back to the group and explained what had happened. The other staff stared at me with a look of horror, knowing the fate that awaited me. I had to go back for those keys. So, I went to my car, fuming with anger and frustration, in frantic search of every plastic bag I could find to aid in this mission. I concocted a plan that involved a wire used to fish the keys out. The other staff gathered around me in effort to console. I was just about to head back in when out of the bathroom came Anderson, one of the kids, with his bare hand held high, clutching the mass of dripping keys. We ran to him - cheering. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I, who had dropped those keys into the toilet, felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the one who had fished them out in my place. For the five minutes that it took him to recount that story and the few days that followed, Anderson was my hero.

Anderson now finds himself in a different place. Three years ago, he left REAME and started down the wrong path. This path involved drugs, living in abandoned houses and other questionable activities. When we met up last Friday for the first time since he left, I hardly recognized him. He was filthy and emaciated. Those years of hard living had taken their toll. Now, we find him broken and feeling as if he has nowhere else to turn. Now, he’s the one in need of a hero. Fortunately for him, we know and intend to introduce him to the Hero that he is seeking. Today, we got Anderson into a rehab center that will take six months to complete. We will continue to walk beside him with the hope that when these six months end, he will be able to join us in our house. Please pray for his first 30 days, as we are not permitted to visit him during this time.

God of the Marvelous City (Brianna Morgan)

(taken from the top of Morro dos Macacos)

The two weeks I spent with Sombra Road in Rio de Janeiro were so impactful to me. I can’t say that I have ever had a heart for Brasil until recently. However, after spending some time there, my heart beats to a new drum – one that leaves me aching and praying for the beautiful people of Brasil. I was able to catch a glimpse of what it would be like to live in Rio, hang out with kids in the favela, go on some beautiful hikes, spend time with the kids at Reame, try exotic fruits, and stay with a Brazilian family for a few nights.

Of all the amazing experiences I had, the last day I spent in the favela (Morro dos Macacos) left the biggest impression upon me. Six teenage boys in Jason and Jeremy’s afternoon class took us to the top of the favela. It was quite a trek to the top, and the song "The God of This City" played in my head the entire climb. It felt like we were climbing stairs for years, weaving in and out of little alleys between the homes. The further up we walked, the poorer the homes were. Some were just cardboard and trash nailed together to form walls. The people who live at the top have to walk those stairs anytime they need anything (there are no roads for cars at the top). Some even have to carry water up because they do not have access to such.

When we got to the top of the hill, there was a little pasture with a large cross off to one side. The pasture overlooked the enormous city of Rio de Janeiro. As we made our way towards the cross, there were about 10 young men with guns overlooking the other side of the hill, to make sure that drug dealers from the rival gang were not trying to invade. They didn’t really seem to care that we were up there so we just kept walking.

When we got to the cross there was a man, about the age of twenty, sitting by it, gun in hand. He was very friendly and started talking to us. He ended up telling us that he had been shot five times in his life and pointed to each scar. At that point, Jason said something along the lines of, “God has spared your life for a reason.” After that we ended up praying with him. We stood in a circle, holding hands on the top of that favela, praying to the God of the universe. And the lyrics of that song played in my head, “Greater things have yet to come, and greater things are still to be done in this city.”


God is the God of the people of Morro dos Macacos, whether they know it or not. He created each of them, fashioned their hearts individually (Psalm 33:15), and longs to give them the full life that He died to give. The drug dealers, the prostitutes, the kids who are stuck growing up there. It's encouraging to remember that God isn't finished yet - greater things are left to be done in that city. There is a Hope for the seemingly hopeless.

Acts 17:26- 28 “And He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on all the face of the earth and has determined their preappointed times and the boundaries of their dwellings, so that they should seek the Lord, in the hope that they might grope for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us; for in Him with live and move and have our being…”

A Contagious Fear (Jeremy)

(Marcos Paulo, Ronnie and Jefferson)

Whenever the United States loses to Brazil in anything, my Brazilian friends make sure that I know all about it. So, when Rio was granted the 2016 Olympics over Chicago and other contenders, I expected the typical harassment. But, it never came. Instead, concerns about the city’s violence seemed to eclipse any type of celebration – especially in the wake of the events of October 17th. On this day, rival gangs went to war with one another for control of the favela in which we work (Morro dos Macacos). The situation escalated when a police helicopter was shot down, resulting in two police casualties. For the rest of the day, the people of Rio were glued to their televisions, watching in dismay as gang members commandeered eight public buses and set fire to them. By day’s end, the death toll was at 22.

Jefferson, one of our students from the favela, spent most of that morning locked in his house with his mom and two sisters. I use the term house very loosely in his case. It is actually more of a basement – the basement of his grandmother’s three room, bare cinder block house. His mom moved into it following her divorce from Jefferson’s father. She is a remarkable lady marked by a sincere love for both the Lord and her kids. Jefferson bears a lot of resemblance to her in this – at least the love for the Lord part. He became a Christian a few years ago through the work of a local Christian leader in the community. At 14, Jason comments that he is surprisingly mature, characterized by a unique awareness of sin and a proper remorse for it. In our Friday afternoon soccer classes, he has emerged as a key leader – stoic yet influential.

Much like most residents of Morro do Macaco, Jefferson has experienced fallout from October 17th. Days after the incident, police invaded his home looking for gang members. They questioned him about his family, asked him if he was hiding anyone and interrogated him about his personal life. He claims that if his neighbor and cousin had not been there, the police would have hit him in an effort to scare information out of him. The sad thing about this episode is the fear that it engenders. Right now, it seems contagious in the Morro, and those that are not involved seem most impacted by it. We ask for your prayers for Jefferson, our other kids and the Morro. We are hopeful in One whose perfect love drives out such fears.

Picked Last (Jason)

In third grade, Nick was always the one to pick teams for kickball. He was the best. No one ever got him out. He had the ability to turn himself into a “U” to avoid a screaming, red, rubber ball as he rounded first headed for home. Had Nick not been captain, he would have been picked first. I, a very late bloomer, was always picked last. I hated the process for picking teams for kickball. Not being a good student either, it was just another arena in which to suffer. Many years later, after high school, I came into my own athletically. I excelled at certain sports and this slowly became my identity. In my mind, I was Jason, the athlete. So, when a group of kids threatened this image I became terribly insecure.

Tuesday afternoon soccer class had low attendance. So, with only a few kids, I played (which I do not usually do) so that we could have sufficient numbers. We divided teams. After teams are divided comes the process of picking a goalie. As is customary, we number ourselves and have someone neutral pick a number at random. There is no one neutral besides Jeremy. So, we number ourselves (Jason-1, Elbom-2, Cascao-3, Andre-4). Jeremy picks …3. Phew! I dodged that bullet, I think. I don’t have to be goalie. However, before I can even relish in the though of not having to play the whole game in the goal, the other three guys on my team point to me and yell “three”.

It was not that I did not want to be goalie so much as the way that the boys went about “telling” me they wanted me to be goalie. My feelings were really hurt. My ego was threatened. I wanted to lash out. I wanted to punch Cascao, number 3. I wanted to quite working with undeserving wretches and pack up to come home.

I recognize that this is all incredibly juvenile. I should inform the reader that I am not going to quit. I no longer want to hit Cascao. In fact I believe that I have grown in several ways through this experience. First, I hope that God will heal me from my ego. Also, I realize that my savior was mistreated in ways that Mel Gibson and I will never understand. Had he not suffered I would have given up a long time ago. His suffering gives me endurance. Finally, I know that God loves these kids more than I do and it is my hope that God will love these kids through me. Please pray with us that God would use us to be a conduit of God’s love and grace to these kids.

Ailton's Story (Jeremy)

Sometimes I think about the movie Teen Wolf. I think about Scott - his affable nature and aptitude to lead and how all of this goes unrecognized by his peers, except, of course, for Boof. Then, everything changes when he transforms into a werewolf that plays basketball. Suddenly, he’s popular - setting dance trends and surfing on top of a van. I’d like to believe that’s real. I’d like to believe that a gymnasium full of high school students could first embrace a werewolf as one of their own and later celebrate him when he chooses to shed his fur in the championship game. I’d like to think that man possesses some innate goodness that we find in these films. But, stories like Ailton’s challenge any notion of that.

Ailton began doing Bible studies and soccer class with us at the beginning of the year. From the outset, we perceived that he is somewhat of a social pariah – even though I cannot tell you why. He’s a good-looking, 17 year-old guy with average intelligence and a genuine likeability. He’s not obnoxious or aggressive – just shy. And yet, everyone seems to revel in picking on him. Younger kids call him names; the older ones try to start fights with him. Jason and I discipline such behavior, but it seems to extend well beyond our class. I’ve tried to connect the dots with some character flaw or socially awkward trait. It’s just not there. The story takes an even sadder turn when you learn that his father was a security guard that was killed in Ailton’s infancy when he attempted to prevent a robbery. I’ve given up waiting for the formulaic 80’s movie clap from his peers that seems to right all wrongs.

Instead, I’m banking on God’s ability to reveal His goodness through broken people and committed discipleship. This is where Ailton’s story takes a turn for good. Jason has started meeting with Ailton individually. They discuss his life, his plans and his relationship with Jesus. Ailton is a believer and learning what it means to be one at the same time. We set up a work/study program in which he is apprenticing a local construction worker in the favella. This translates into a much needed sense of purpose and responsibility. Sure, this is no John Hughes picture. But, there is potential here for much more than that.