“I’m sorry sir, but without the correct paperwork you have to leave the bags here.”
The sweat began trickling down my temple as the Jamaican sun burst from around a cloud and both my temperature and my anger rose. I had just landed in the Montego Bay airport with four bags of medications destined for the rural parish of St.Mary, and it wasn’t going like I had planned. I was bolstered by a team of docs, nurses, and normal folks from my church who had committed to a week in rural Jamaica delivering basic medical care to the poorest of the poor. Prior to departure we had painstakingly assembled reams of paper work and government forms to assure a smooth transition through customs, but fate sometimes slaps you up side the head with a wet squirrel and I found myself negotiating with a polite but insistent clerk at the customs desk. Apparently the threat of a hurricane had freed the government to take a three day holiday and the persons responsible for stamping the forms for our passage had opted for a long weekend of Red Stripe beer and jerk chicken instead of clearing our medicines. With all the charm of a rabid badger I tried to convince the Jamaican official that I was not a drug lord recently released from lockup but a simple gynecologist from a sleepy southern town. I suspect she was convinced that impounding a vertically challenged southern doctor’s medicines would earn her brownie points with the local bureaucracy, so she persisted in her confiscatory activities and forcefully informed me that I best move on unless I wanted to spend a night in the local jail explaining my dilemma to Rasta Joe. Not wanting to test the hospitality of Jamaican jails, I relented and reluctantly completed the process to get my personal bags through the gate. The bus ride to our hotel revealed a contrast of cultures. Decrepit hovels were interspersed with five star luxury resorts. The irrepressible beauty of the countryside was pockmarked with unfinished cinder block construction, and goats and dogs roamed freely as if they belonged on the roads and the vehicles were the intruders. Two hours after leaving Sanger International Airport we arrived at the Galina Breeze, our home for the next week. This oasis in the midst of hopelessness serves as the home base for the American Caribbean Experience, or ACE to those in the know. ACE is an amazing ministry run by the Energizer Bunny incarnate Marla Fitzwater, who for more than twenty years has been serving the people of St.Mary’s Parish, the most impoverished area of the island. Through a number of enterprises, ACE integrates into the community and puts hands and feet to the Gospel message of “Just as you have done for the least of these, you have done for me.” ACE sponsors medical clinics (which is why I was there at this particular time), micro-businesses, schools, and even a soccer team in its ongoing mission to minister to the body, mind, and souls of the Jamaican people. And what an amazing people these are; the town folk of Port Maria. In spite of devastating poverty, many of these precious souls have a joy for living and a desire to seek God in all they do. Theirs is a constant struggle against disease, violence, drugs, and poverty; yet they are some of the most appreciative, kind, and friendly people on earth.
The spiritual guide for our trip was Rev.Scott, a veteran of numerous mission trips and the proud owner of the best beard of the whole group. Rev. Scott is the kind of guy that can be comfortable in any situation. Whether it’s building a cinder block wall or preaching a sermon, he has a quiet presence that both soothes and inspires. He’s just a doggone nice guy to be around, and let’s face it, you can’t say that about all preachers. I have met some ministers who could brighten up a room by just leaving it! Rev. Scott not only challenged you in your spiritual walk but also helped you find the path. ACE is a Christian based ministry and our medical team was firmly entrenched in Christian outreach so it followed that any spiritual needs of either the team or the patients would be channeled to Scott. I seriously considered sending him an acutely menopausal woman claiming she was possessed by a hot flash demon, but thought better of it as I suspect Peter or Paul would have had trouble with this woman. As it turned out she needed estrogen not an exorcism. It must get trying for a minister to always be the one everyone looks towards when a group asks for blessings or prayers. I suspect just one time Scott would love to blurt out,”Doesn’t anyone remember Now I lay me down to sleep. Just say that for goodness sake!!” But Scott is much to gracious for such outbursts and his calming presence reminded me of the eye of a storm. He took a diverse group of folks and effectively related spiritual truths that applied to us all and left us with a sense of purpose anew. I did sit near him in the singing church though, and let me say clapping to the beat is not his spiritual gift. In spite of his lack of rhythm, Rev.Scott not only gave us spiritual comfort, but he showed us by his actions what a man devoted to the church should be.
Speaking of the singing church, on Sunday before the first clinic day we loaded up the bus and rode 30 minutes to Ocho Rios, the closest “big town” to where we were. Many of you Bermuda shorts wearing, flower shirted, black socks with sandals crowd will recognize Ocho Rios as a frequent stop on various cruise lines. It is like a flea market on steroids. If you need a giant wooden phallic symbol, pirated Frank Sinatra albums, counterfeit Blue Mountain coffee, or dread locks wigs...this is your place. A carnival atmosphere is punctuated with smells of jerk chicken and Red Stripe beer, sidewalk speakers blaring kettle drum Jamaican Reggae, and hawkers eager to show you the closest ATM. We were able to bypass this circus (at least for the moment) and walk upstairs to a nondescript building in the downtown. The minute we began to ascend the stairs we heard chest pounding bass backbeats emanating from the second floor. Welcome to The Church of the Rock. Reverend Roland was presiding and the faint of heart best stay outside. A 5 member band and three back up singers were praising God and a tower of speakers assured you that no one needed a hearing aid. All this was in a space about the size of a large elementary school classroom. The sermon series was on marriage, and up front was a visual aid that said it all. A man mannequin and a woman mannequin were dressed in their wedding best, smiling under a traditional Jamaican marriage arch, complete with flowers and petals at their feet. Seeing that it was a man and a woman, I correctly surmised that this was not going to be a sermon about tolerance and Billy’s two dads. Indeed, when the praising stopped and the preaching began, Reverend Roland delivered one of the most eloquent, humorous, and theologically challenging orations I have ever heard. At the completion of the service, after a bit more praising and a bit more worshiping, we all came out of the Church of the Rock knowing that it was truly built on a firm foundation. This church was an oasis in a spiritual desert. Although Jamaica is a predominately Christian enclave, the area we were in was strongly influenced by Rastafarianism and Islam. The Church on the Rock preached Biblical truths and practical applications that obviously spoke to the local folks...and us. There could have been no better way to initiate us to these remarkable people and our reason for being there.
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