AsiaStories

“Come on,” calls the young man, carrying a guitar. He’s leading a parade of teenagers to a squatter village to teach the Bible.

As they pass an open field where several children are kicking a partially deflated soccer ball, he shouts, again, “Come on.”

The children stop and smile when they see who is calling them. Abandoning the ball, they follow, bare feet splashing mud. As the group crosses a concrete bridge spanning a drainage ditch filled with gray water and trash, the children chatter with their teachers.

Romy Albinius, their pastor, and IMB worker Dwight Fern follow the group. As they reach the village, a few women, some young mothers carrying infants, drag benches under a tree and settle down on the creaky seats. The young people unfurl their song sheets, Christian lyrics carefully printed on the back of old alcohol advertising posters.

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This is one of thousands of squatter communities in metro Manila. The people living here are part of Manila’s urban poor. Most moved from rural provinces to the city in search of a better life. Instead of the prosperity they dreamed of, they found themselves part of a mass of urban poor, building shelters from whatever they can find.

Housing meant to be temporary has been standing here for more than 20 years. Work intended to be a steppingstone toward better employment has become a career. Hope for a better future has faded, and survival has become the daily goal.

Despite the bleak outlook they face, hope has not abandoned the urban poor. “God wants 104 million Filipinos in his kingdom,” Fern says to a group of pastors he’s teaching.

Pastors nod thoughtfully as Fern speaks. For the past 10 years, Fern has been training pastors among the urban poor to start small house groups focused on fellowship and Bible study in their communities. Now, more than 300 pastors attend the training sessions he conducts every month.

“Filipinos love to study the Bible,” says Fern. “It’s the idea of church that scares people away.”

Life in the Philippines is steeped in religious traditions. People attend mass at local Catholic churches. Nuns serve as teachers in most schools. Religious training is nothing new to Filipinos, but providing poor pastors value, worth and ownership is nothing short of revolutionary.

As pastors study with Fern – many coming from homes in squatter communities – they carry back with them the hope they are finding in Christ.

“There is a hope of tomorrow being better,” Fern says. “The poor respond to Christ as they look to the promise of heaven … this life is hard, but heaven will be better.”

Cultural norms and lack of material possessions and social status, often discourage the urban poor from seeking a better life. Simple jobs require a college education, which many cannot afford; they are too busy forging a living. However, as they latch onto the training their pastors provide, they begin to understand the Gospel and share the hope they receive. As they begin forming house groups, they develop a new sense of purpose.

Albinias, who has been part of Fern’s training for three years, has taken the training to heart and begun to train the young people of his church to lead house groups in his area.

“They are the future,” he says.

Every week, half a dozen young people parade into nearby squatter communities, leading house groups in studying the Bible and fellowshipping together in Christian community. Dividing up, they lead smaller groups of adults and children in fellowship.

As other villagers swig cheap alcohol and gamble a few pisos at a card game, they watch their neighbors join the Bible study and listen with mild interest to the discussion. It is a small village, after all. Everyone knows everything that happens there.

Abinius and Fern watch the squatter children’s faces, wreathed in smiles, as they sing songs about the love of Jesus. They wear faded, dirty clothes; their hair is streaked from malnutrition and teeth are black with rot.

“Nobody wants them or cares about them. Thing is, they’re just as special as anyone else.” Fern muses.

When the study ends, the children follow the teenagers down the narrow, polluted street. “Bye bye,” they shout repeatedly, waving until they cannot see their leaders anymore.

Albinius’s young people don’t just teach children. Their next stop is a small house where nearly a dozen adults stuff in. They spill over into the alleyway, pressing close to hear.

Rachelle Albinias, one of the young people, tells the adults how they can share the truth they have found. Using a bookmark tool created for witnessing, she reviews the plan of salvation and how they can share their faith with others. On the back are 10 blank spaces.

“This week, who will you share the love of Christ with?” she asks.

Her words hang in the air as each person considers the question. They carefully print 10 names on the back of the business-card-sized bookmark. The next week, when they meet again, they will review the names they have written and say how they told those people about Christ.

Fern estimates that through these small house groups, more than a million of Manila’s squatters have heard of Christ. Each month, when the pastors share ministry reports, countless people have heard of Christ, joined the church or been baptized.

“The day of a man just sitting in his chair in church is over,” Fern says. “We’re out to make disciples.”