My Pentecostal kin

Cielos Abiertos Huerta de Adonai, Aguas Cristalinas, Ríos de Salvación, Estrella de Amor, Centro de Fuego Santo, Casa de Avivamiento. Churches are popping up like mushrooms in the dirt-poor neighborhoods where my Argentine in-laws live. They are Pentecostal, a group absent—whether by choice or by lack of invitation—from almost every ecumenical group in which I have participated. There was a Pentecostal church next door to the Lutheran church I served in the Bronx, but I never managed much of a relationship with my neighbor. One reason was scheduling. The pastor worked a secular job during the day in order to support the ministry he did at night and on Sundays. When was there time to grab a café con leche with a colleague?

Not all of our differences were calendar related. I reached out to him about joining in local organizing efforts. He declined, explaining that the world belonged to the devil and there was not much point in trying to fix anything. His focus was on setting people up for the life to come. I judged this to be defective theology. He likely thought the same of mine.

But after a major snowstorm—when I’d struggled through the snow on my way to church, worrying about how I would even get inside—my neighbor was there with his snowblower, clearing the sidewalk for me. The world may belong to the devil, but the sidewalks bore a fine dusting of love.