I am not who I seem to be. I haven’t been for more than twenty years. It started to happen, as near as I can tell the day I met Jesse in the city center of Tegucigalpa, Honduras. We talked for less than one hour, but the encounter revolutionized my identity.
Central America in the 1980’s was a hotbed of social conflict. Civil War brutalized Nicaragua and El Salvador. Corruption crippled Guatemala. Between the chaos sat Honduras, a tentative partner of the United States in its battles against Latin American communism. Jesse had questions. His English was better than my Spanish; we used English. He pressed me about the labor practices of American multi-national corporations. He claimed to know of secret U.S. military camps on the border between Honduras and Nicaragua.
Suddenly, I read something between the lines. On a hunch (I imagine it was the Voice of the Spirit) I said, “You’re a communist, aren’t you.”
He swallowed hard, glanced around then set his jet black eyes on mine. “Yes” he said.
It was a bold admission. To be communist in Honduras in 1986 could get a 19-year old lined up against a wall and shot. But having the secret out, a deluge followed. He told me that each morning he rose and renewed his vow to fight injustice. He worked as a bicycle delivery boy just to make contacts across the city. At night the comrades met to plot revolution. The cause consumed every waking moment.
I answered him confession for confession. My words surprised me. I told Jesse that I too was a revolutionary for a regime in exile. I talked about Jesus and his mission of liberation. “Jesus,” I said, “changes more than economics; he transforms human motives. His war is radical.”
Jesse listened. I pushed further. “The real tyranny is inside you,” I told him. “You can’t conquer that with a gun.” I invited him to join me, to reject his materialism and accept Jesus. Jesse’s eyes swelled with tears. I paused to let him respond. He did, with stumbling English. “I wish I could believe you,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.
Words create. God formed the world with words and I am made in His Image. My words create as well. I cannot know if what I said that evening endured long in Jesse’s heart. I do know that what I said transformed me. At some moment in that conversation I started to believe – really believe – my own confession. Something broke open in my imagination and I understood – I am an ambassador of Jesus Christ. I’m in, a true believer, an agent! The conviction gripped me. My own words had become a vow binding me and subverting my choices with an undertone that still dominates my thinking and conforms my identity.
Now most every morning I wake and repeat words of the Paul the Apostle: “Therefore we are ambassadors for Jesus Christ.” And I believe it, sometimes. True enough, I dress like any typical middle-aged American. I fight to hold my weight down. I drive a Honda Civic. I provide for my wife and children. I pay my taxes. I seem all too ordinary. But this is cover. In reality I am an agent of the Kingdom of God plotting regime change on this planet. I play this covet role and the game is role play fantasy.
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