Religion de Monday Night

I'm trying to remember how I got into this... and wondering if I could get out if I wanted to! On Monday evenings a small, earnest group of women gathers at the next door neighbors' house (the people of the WALL) for a Christian evangelical prayer and study session... led by a man. It starts at 7:30. We gather and chat from 7:30 until 8:00 or 8:15, whenever the last stragglers get there. I gather that some of the women come in taxis, so their tardiness is an accepted fact of Panamanian life.

I was initially invited by Marcia because she thought it would help my Spanish, which it does. It turns out that she also hoped it would help my religiosity, but it doesn't.

"Our" men are conspicuously absent. I think all the women are married, but only the pastor's wife is here in the company of her husband. Marcia's husband has made it clear to us what he thinks of Marcia's "obsession" with religion. He is in his bedroom watching Monday night football. He once said to Rich that living with his wife's, his mother's, his mother-in-law's, and his daughters' religious propensities is like "living with the Taliban." Wow.

The formal program begins with a long, rambling prayer by Marcia, whom I think is being groomed for a higher position in their little church. We all stand. Marcia sways back and forth, eyes closed tightly, chanting syllables and phrases in a frenzy of devotion. I listen for words I can understand... "misericordia"... "Dios"... "Jesus"... She ends with an Amen, sinks into her chair, and looks up at the pastor expectantly.

The pastor is a vibrant little man who is more paternal than patriarchal. He announces the topic for the evening and begins talking about a passage from the Bible, citing historical and present-day analogies, and engaging each member of his audience with eye contact and enthusiastic gestures. Sometimes he draws pictures, like one of the temple in which David asked for bread after slaying Goliath, but was turned away because the only bread they had was sacred bread, meant for the priests, not for the people. (Do I have this remotely right?) The pastor is very interesting. He speaks much more clearly than any of the women, so I enjoy listening to the language and even get caught up in the story. Not having much of a church background, I suppose that is exactly what good preachers do. I am mildly curious about whether he also preaches in front of a large congregation, but after their enthusiastic commandeering of me into this little group, I am afraid to take the next step and find out.

He talks for a half hour, and then winds up his lesson with a prayer. This time we stay seated. We are sitting in the back room of Marcia's house, which is her home office for her customs business. The office has air conditioning, so we all cluster around the two desks, sitting on chairs and a sofa, enjoying the cool. (At least I am; several of the women seem to be uncomfortably cold.) When the pastor finishes, Marcia hops up and goes out to the kitchen to prepare little plates of ceviche and crackers, a breaking-bread ritual which may have symbolic meaning but all I can think of is how most of these women could do without an extra meal. Most are overweight, part of a growing trend in Panama.

Informal chat resumes. We talk about diets and cures for colds and about Diana's sister, who was cured of breast cancer by God. Diana then offers that she admires me (ME?) because I volunteer at a nursing home. At this, the pastor invites me to join a church group which visits a nursing home, which I am about to politely decline until he says the name of the institution, which makes me sit up and take notice. Asilo Bolivar - the public nursing home Angela has told me about. I will go.