If A Person Were to Ask

The Uber took several turns in the wrong direction through Santiago, Chile. I don’t blame the driver—we’ll call him “Marcelo.” Rather, I remember the story and describe it to encourage you. Be willing to share the hope you have if a person were to ask.

In hindsight, I may have looked like a terrified housecat dumped in a rushing river. As a newcomer to both Chile and Ubers, I let the missionaries I traveled with handle logistics. All I had to do was strap on a seatbelt, or—in the case of Ubers without seatbelts—grip the handle above the car window.

Marcelo had fit four of us in his small Chevy. We sped past commuter buses and narrow commerce districts en route to San Cristobal Hill. We were to meet the rest of the missionaries to ride a gondola and view the city from above.

As the missionaries conversed, the driver, Marcelo, engaged in light chatter, mostly in Spanish. “Where are you from? How long are you staying?”

“We’re visiting Santiago for church meetings,” one of the missionaries replied, and the conversation skipped to other topics.

I noticed the missionaries were reserved, never describing themselves as missionaries.

Later, I learned there’s a growing movement in Chile and Latin America. Communities are pulled into disorder and poverty as many churches demand allegiance while concealing the good news of the cross. God’s favor appears out of reach. They have yet to meet Jesus, whose grace and love draw a different allegiance. Jesus reveals our need for repentance and faith, and it’s Jesus who restores us to community with God.

As Marcelo and the missionaries discussed the weather and traffic, I partially listened while looking out the window at apartments arrayed with large windows and balconies framed by flowering trees. Flocks of pigeons dotted sidewalks busy with foot traffic. Graffiti in colorful letters lined walls and bridges. The terrain resembled Los Angeles, a place I knew well from growing up in Southern California, yet Santiago embodied distinctly Chilean aspects. The architecture and monuments revealed a mix of colonial and indigenous heritage, set in an arid valley, and edged by the snowcapped Andes Mountains.

When the missionaries asked Marcelo about himself, we learned he was a musician and YouTuber. At a stoplight he showed us his Instagram account. “That’s a lot of followers,” one of us exclaimed. Marcelo sensed our interest and further described his creative projects.

As we drove through a tunnel, the sounds of the city were muted and there was a pause in the conversation. Then Marcelo asked in English, “How long—each of you—had life in Christ?”

I became aware that I’d been clutching the handle above the window. I loosened my grip, relaxed in my seat, and listened to the missionaries tell Marcelo of their life found in Christ.

When it was my turn to speak, I strung together sentences with limited Spanish vocabulary. Reorienting my thoughts on Jesus felt like swimming out from a tight spot underwater. If earlier I’d resembled a housecat dumped into a river, here was the moment I climbed onto shore.

At this point we’d traversed the city a few times because San Cristobal Hill has three entrances. It was unclear which location we needed to find our group. Marcelo checked Google maps as the missionaries texted team members. He drove us again through the tunnel toward the other side of the hill, and the conversation went on.

One of us asked Marcelo, “Who is Jesus to you?”

His replies were straightforward. He knew Jesus as God’s Son who took on flesh and came to save us from our sin. “I’m not a big sinner though,” he said.

The missionaries dialogued further—about how only one sin separates us from a holy God who created us and offers to restore us.

It’s not like Marcelo didn’t know about the cross. Most people do. He wondered if the cross was relevant to him, to the people he knew in Chile—people who worked hard and seemed good-natured; people who had welcomed him.

He told us how he’d arrived in Santiago after leaving Venezuela. After a few years, he’d married a Chilean and together they had a son. He said his wife wants nothing to do with God because her relatives have experienced disorder, or rather, chaos, from a church that preaches works, not grace.

We asked him his wife’s name. We said we’d pray for her and his family. When the car stopped at the curb, finally at San Cristobal Hill’s entrance, the missionaries said, “Marcelo, we’ll pray right now.”

In a small Chevy with hazard lights flashing, cars honking and curving around us, we prayed for Marcelo and his family to know God through the Son, Jesus, who makes relevant the cross to all who would be restored.  

Then we wiped our eyes, said goodbye, and climbed San Cristobal to look over the city we’d circled. We felt endeared to the place where we’d only just arrived. Endeared also to God, who surprises us with small things like an Uber conversation we remember large as a mountain. A conversation that enriched me and the missionaries, and perhaps Marcelo, as he pondered what we told him of Jesus Christ.

Enjoy reading this story? Subscribe for free to receive future monthly posts to your inbox.

(Photo on Unsplash by Polina Sushko)