Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

202 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Jeremy B. Jones
They even critique other evangelical churches and speak about the
opportunity to create a better church. A better denomination. A
righteous church. This is an intensely American idea—the search for
the new, pure church. America has more denominations than it can
count, and they’re almost all sending missionaries to Latin America.
As a Protestant Christian, I am a little offended by many of
these forming churches, by their aggression toward Catholicism.
This isn’t my country, but often it is my countrymen bringing such
a message/tactic. Usually American missionaries bring the word.
They start the churches—usually in someone’s house, and when more
money is raised they seek a building. Then more money for guitars
and amps and speakers. There are two wealthy churches in town, and
they are loud. They are so loud that the people within a block are
able to experience the service without even going. There is a young
American missionary named Marshall living in a small community
higher in the mountains. He comes into town every week or so to
check his email. He’s growing a beard, I’ve noticed. Last week he
had a conversation about salvation with the twenty-something-yearold
guys that run the internet café. They seemed mostly interested,
considering Marshall’s Spanish is elementary at best. He tended to
say the same things over and over, and eventually the internet guys
asked if he thought the world would end soon. He did.
I’ve never had a conversation with Marshall. I don’t know
why. Partly I am resistant to him as another American in town. It’s
irrational, but I feel like he is infringing on my campo. Once we were
both in the post office, and he, in Spanish, told me to have a good day.
I could never pass for Latino, and he knows that I am American. Why
didn’t he just address me in English? Maybe he thinks he’ll pass for
Honduran. It’s clear that this isn’t his country (or his language), but I
am curious about his motivations. Part of me wants to sit down with
Marshall. I studied theology in college, and I am interested in his
story.
At the same time, I am offended by the manner in which he has
come to Honduras. He has come to change it. He has come to meddle
in what isn’t his. Of course, I have too. I am here to teach students; I am
trying to spread education; I think I have something of use to give. It’s
all so bothersome on a psychological level. In some way, it seems that
any form of help is condescension—a reaching down. I have been very
conscious of this since I came. I try to lend a hand rather than giving
one. I have tried to be a part rather than an international influence. I