“At the end of a road like this there can only be isolation and rejection.”
These words flashed into my mind as I surveyed the long, bumpy track along which our jeepney bounced. Over to our right, the almost dry Tarlac River separated us from the outskirts of Tarlac City itself. It would have been much easier if we’d been able to cross the river, but our vehicle would have ended up bogged to its axles in the moist sand.
Over to our left, dry paddy fields, lined by scruffy trees, stretched into the distance. Flooded, and with green rice shooting up, the landscape would have looked lush – the picture book Orient. But now, long after the monsoon season, it was dry and lifeless.
The track itself ran along the top of a levee, built to prevent flood damage during the wet season, when the river raged.
Our party of seven was being driven to the village of San Jose, and to me, hanging on as the jeepney bounced and lurched, it seemed as though we never going to get there.
San Jose. The words of the popular song came to my mind: “Do you know the way to San Jose?” The town the song referred to was in the USA, a far cry from the little-known village we were heading for. Not many people would know the way to this San Jose, I told myself.
Finally, we turned off the ‘main track’ and descended from the levee, and the scene changed suddenly. Tall coconut trees were plentiful, and shaded the small, thatched huts that bordered the track. Clouds of dust followed the jeepney, and there was not a blade of grass to be seen – the village chickens had pecked the dirt to death.
The small, concrete-block church building came as no surprise. Nor did the simple wooden seats inside. But the faces of the people who sat waiting, although typically friendly, looked weary and joyless.
Earlier, the Lord had put into my heart the line: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” It wasn’t Nazareth that the Holy Spirit was referring to, though: it was San Jose.
Following the usual songs and greetings, I was invited to speak. Looking in through a side doorway were about six small children, mostly boys, in clothes made dirty by the ever-present dust. Their skin showed the kind of sores that I had seen in many remote villages. The children also looked a little afraid, and the thought struck me that not many Western people had visited this isolated village.
I told the Christians of San Jose that they had much in common with the people of Nazareth – a poor self-image.
“What Nathaniel said about Nazareth, the people of Nazareth said about themselves, for when Jesus returned to his home village, his former friends and neighbours rejected him,” I told them. “They couldn’t accept that one of their own could succeed; that Jesus, ‘the carpenter’s son’ was the long-promised Messiah – the worker of so many reported miracles. So they refused to come to him for healing – except for a few sickly people who were suffering from minor ailments.”
It had not escaped my notice that their pastor’s name was Jose, so I built the message around “Jose from San Jose” – something they quickly caught, for Filipinos are a naturally humorous people.
“When you believe in Pastor Jose, you will believe in San Jose; when you believe in San Jose, you will hold your heads up high when you are asked ‘Where do you come from?’ by the people of Tarlac City,” I stated, and watched the faces in the church change from despair and gloom to laughter and happiness.
My interpreter, a church leader from Tarlac, then invited them to come forward for prayer. There had been no emotional appeal, so what followed took us all by surprise. Those who had responded – most of those present – suddenly began to cry, loudly. Sobs wracked their small bodies, and team members – moved to tears themselves – embraced them.
There had been isolation and rejection in San Jose – almost more than the people could bear. In fact, they had been desolate – deprived of the love and acceptance that comes from close proximity to other people. The road to San Jose had, indeed, been a long one, and at the end of it was an attitude of such hopelessness and despair, of low self-esteem and self-respect, that we – just by our willingness to come to their village and love them – had unknowingly opened the floodgates; thus the tears.
We left, shortly after, and once again travelled along the levee track, humbled by what we had just seen. The way from San Jose was as long and as bumpy as it had been, en route. But behind us, San Jose was at least a little different than it had been before we came.
The way to San Jose is rough, but to those who have travelled it – and those who travel the many like it – it is a way of love. It is a way that ends in acceptance, joy, and self-respect.
It’s a good way to go, the way to San Jose.