Death threats against 17 kidnapped missionaries in Haiti stir up memories of our similar experience in Colombia

No doubt you’ve been following the story of 17 kidnapped missionaries in Haiti. First, their captors demanded $17 million ransom, and now they’re threatening to kill the missionaries.

 

WOW.

That stirs up horrific memories for us

and for our colleagues and friends—

all the people we worked with in Colombia:

memories of the kidnapping and murder 

of Chet Bitterman.

 

I wrote about it in my memoir, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: A Foot-Dragger’s Memoir.

  

Glenny Gardner was the first friend my son made when we arrived at our remote outpost in central Colombia, and he remained a constant friend and playmate. I wrote this early in my memoir:

 

“Marxist guerrillas kidnapped Glenny’s brother-in-law, Chet Bitterman, and murdered him. His story spread throughout the Western world.. . . . (From Chapter 6, Please, God, Don’t Make Me Go: AFoot-Dragger’s Memoir)

 

And Chet would not be our only friend guerrillas murdered.

 

For our family for three years, for our colleagues who worked there more than thirty years, for missionaries with other organizations—anti-American guerrillas were always lurking, sometimes face-to-face with us, sometimes in the shadows, but always stalking.

 

Let me tell you more about Chet.

 

One day during our third year there in Lomalinda, I heard someone call “knock-knock” at our back door. There stood a grinning Chet Bitterman.

 

He had arrived only recently, bringing with him Brenda, Glenny Gardner’s sister. By then she was all grown up, wife to Chet, mother to Anna, and trained in Bible translation.

 

Little did I know that one of God’s most set-apart servants had stepped into my porch that day.

 

Never could I, or anyone, have imagined that, in a few short months, God would use Chet’s kidnapping and murder to advance Bible translation and heal the long-standing strained relationship between the Colombian government and our organization.

 

Here’s how the story unfolded:

 

On January 19, 1981, seven masked, armed M-19 guerrillas kidnapped 28-year-old Chet Bitterman and threatened to kill him unless SIL left the country by February 19.

 

But our fellow missionaries had passed legislation stating they would not pay ransom or give in to blackmail or extortion. Our entire mission agency had the same policy, as did the Colombian government and other mission agencies because paying a ransom would encourage more kidnappings around the world.

 

Chet understood the need for the policy.

 

A year or two before his kidnapping,

he told his wife, Brenda, something

that would help her through that unspeakably painful time.

He had said, speaking of that legislation,

“You hate to hurt people,

but it'd be better to sacrifice a few lives if necessary

than give in to these jokers and encourage them to do it again.”

But, of course, Chet’s family and our administration wanted to save Chet’s life, so our director, Will Kindberg, contacted the U.S. Embassy saying that although SIL wouldn’t pay ransom or give in to demands to leave the country, he might consider negotiation.

 

The official arranged for an experienced negotiator to work with him but, on March 7, 1981, following seven weeks of intense talks, the M-19 shot Chet through the chest and left his body in a bus.

 

Will called Chet’s father in Pennsylvania who, despite his grief, said, “We are sure you did everything you could do. Do not feel you have failed. We know this is what God had planned for Chet.”

 

Before Chet and Brenda started their assignment in Colombia, Will had met with them in Dallas and Chet said something Will never forgot. “We are ready to do anything for God. Anything the Colombia Branch asks us to do. We are willing to go to the hardest place. If there is something no one else wants to do, we will take that assignment.”

 

After Chet died, Will wrote, “That statement was to come back to me with tremendous impact. And because I knew he meant it, I was better able to handle probably the most difficult situation I have ever had to face in my entire life.

 

“I still cry when I think of that conversation,” Will said. Recalling Chet’s willingness to take on a task no one else wanted to do, he said, “He and Brenda did just that, and were an example to all on how to do it.”

 

In an interview on Colombian radio,

Chet’s father said, “I don’t know what God plans to do

with the death of my son.

I guess we’ll just have to wait and find out.”

 

Though perhaps no one heard God speak at that moment,

it was as if He reiterated what He had told Habakkuk:

 

“Look . . . and watch—and be utterly amazed.

For I am going to do something . . .

that you would not believe, even if you were told.”

(Habakkuk 1:5)

 

Chet’s father continued, “Chet had a great love for the Colombian people; he wanted to tell the [indigenous] about God.

 

“Now I’m hoping someone else will go in his place.”

 

And someone did.

 

Wanting to fill the gap Chet’s death created,

twice as many people applied to Wycliffe U.S.

compared to previous years, and the trend continued.

 

Chet’s friends and family buried him in Lomalinda’s cemetery. Tom Branks spoke of him in ways few could have—Tom has a gifted way with words. You can read his message in Called to Die: The Story of American Linguist Chet Bitterman Slain by Terrorists, by Steve Estes.

 

A Lomalinda kid, Jonathan Smoak, remembers:

 

[My brother] Thomas Smoak III, Ron Ravensbergen, and I dug his grave. I remember my mind wandering everywhere about death and sacrifice as we shoveled away in the hot afternoon sun.

 

But what I most remember is the sound of the first shovelfuls of dirt hitting the casket after his body was laid to rest. The deep thud of dirt on the simple casket seemed so loud and hollow. I got sick to my stomach when I heard it. It was the sound of finality.

 

Chet was a good friend, especially during afternoon soccer games, always smiling, always joking around, and then he was gone from this earth forever. That was the first time I had ever contemplated what I wanted to do with my life.

 

A year later, to demonstrate their forgiveness,

Chet’s parents flew to Meta,

the departamento (state) in which Lomalinda is located,

to deliver a gift, an ambulance to help locals,

especially the poor.

The Bittermans also assured the country’s people

that because of God’s help,

they felt no hatred toward them.

 

Those words impressed top-level government officials, as did the Bittermans’ generous gift, so much so that the event was a turning point. After meeting with Chet’s parents, Colombia’s President Turbay voiced his support of our work.

 

And, in a radical change after years of animosity, the nation’s press published positive stories on Chet’s parents, the ambulance, and our work.

 

“The guerrillas had intended to oust the [Bible] translators; instead they entrenched them. Almost a decade of negative press gave way to supportive editorials,” wrote Steve Estes in Called to Die.

 

After Chet’s death, Estes said, our personnel “basked in the effusive support that followed from President Turbay.”

 

In that way, God used Chet’s murder

to open the way for Bible translators

to continue their jobs throughout the nation.

 

What a shocking, wonderful turnaround for our work in Colombia!

 

Indeed, God did something we would not have believed,

even if we had been told ahead of time!

(Habakkuk 1:5)

 

But despite new support from the press and the government, our mission organization remained the target of guerrillas. During Chet’s captivity, a pipe bomb exploded at the home of one of the Bogotá-based families, and ongoing terrorist efforts hindered the work of translators in tribal areas.

 

And in 1994, guerrillas abducted our friend and colleague Ray Rising, and, as in Chet’s case, international news agencies covered Ray’s story, too. Unlike Chet’s case, Ray’s captors released him after 810 days. Denise Marie Siino penned his grueling experience in Guerrilla Hostage.

 

Nevertheless, those intrepid missionaries continued their work.

 

In 2004, former M-19 guerrilla Lucy Argüello Campo traveled to the U.S. to ask Chet’s family and missionary colleagues to forgive the M-19 for murdering Chet.

 

Although she joined the group after he died, she felt compelled to attempt reconciliation after becoming a Christian and reading Called to Die, and she did so in a tearful, moving series of meetings in the States. Chet’s friends and family assured Lucy of their forgiveness, and some even helped finance her trip.

 

At such desperate, heartbreaking times—kidnapping, murder of innocent people—we cry out to God, questioning His goodness and His care. We might even shake a fist at Him.

 

“How can You let this happen, God?”

 

But we must recognize that the way we view situations

might not be the same way God views them.

He can see the big picture, but we see only snippets.

 

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are My ways higher than your ways

and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

(Isaiah 55:8-9)

 

All we can do is put our trust in God,

the Ruler of all,

the One who holds all things and all people

in His capable, loving hands.

 

We did so when Chet was kidnapped and murdered,

and now we do it again 

with those 17 missionaries in Haiti

facing a similar fate.

May God strengthen them for every moment

of every day and night, and may He

have mercy on them and their families.

We are trusting in You, our God,

with all our hearts,

and will lean not on our own understanding . . . .

Proverbs 3:5

 

A big, no-turning-back decision

 

Transitioning to life on the mission field can be a slow process—stumbling through unknowns, waiting for elusive answers, and figuring out new identities.

 

It’s an offbeat experience because people lose their bearings, they live in an in-between state—awkward, incomplete.

 

Transition is stretching, re-thinking, expanding. It’s a vulnerable time, a time of letting go of the old even before figuring out the new.

 

In Lomalinda, I had finally turned a corner, and with God’s help, I would have to let go of old dreams and instead, dream new dreams.

 

Letting go of old dreams and embracing new ones is uncomfortable. So uncertain.

 

But on the other hand, since my plans and dreams had been too small, too tame, what did God’s ongoing plans for me look like?

 

I needed to make a big, no-turning-back decision: Would I embrace God’s plans? Could I do that with joy?

 

After all I’d gone through, my answer had to be “Yes.”

 

That meant I had to figure out what to do with culture shock.

 

Culture shock had left me stymied and disoriented, baffled, bamboozled, and befuddled. It was mysterious, maddening, tear-inducing, annoying, humiliating, and terrifying. And sometimes amusing.

 

Transitioning through culture shock is a time of upheaval, of loneliness. It had been robbing me of my energy and shaking up my sanity. It inflicted chaos upon me—emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual.

 

It hurt.

 

Culture shock for me was an aversion to anything different from my home and people and food and geography, the prickly awareness that strangers surrounded me, and some spoke a foreign language and had different ways of doing things. But if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

Strange odors made me long for familiar smells—the perfume of fir trees in the rain, the aromas of Puget Sound and seaweed drying on the beach. I compared Lomalinda to everything back home—red-orange soil instead of my dark foresty earth in Seattle. But if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

Heavy, humid air and triple-digit temperatures pressed down on us instead of cool, fresh Pacific Northwest air. While our temps soared, I missed the anticipation of autumn’s chilly, crisp days back in Seattle. Folks back home would soon pull out wool sweaters and scarves and socks but, in Lomalinda, we were shedding shoes and as many clothes as was decent. So if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

I wished for a North American grocery store, well-known flavors, paved roads, and a warm shower. But if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

At six in the evening, blazing sunsets filled the enormous sky, silhouetting the Macarenas, a low mountain range in the distance. I recall catching my breath at the splendor of the scene—but then a steely grip hardened my heart, and I said to myself, “But they are not my mountains.” The Macarenas looked wimpy compared to the jagged, snowcapped mountains in my Seattle backyard. I grew up between two mountain ranges—the Cascades to the east and the Olympics to the west—and they offered dazzling sunrise and sunset views. They were my mountains and my sunsets. But if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

I would have to reorient my thinking about what a home was or where home was. I would have to leave behind the feeling that we were not at home and instead, transition into feeling we were at home. That was a big deal because I was (and still am) fiercely attached to everything that “home” means. I had strong opinions about where “home” was, and which people lived near that home. If I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

At that time, I assumed any culture and place unlike mine was second-rate. I suppose we all wrestle with that. It’s called ethnocentrism—the assumption that our flowers are prettier than their flowers and our meat tastes better than their meat. It’s the belief that we do things the right way and they do them the wrong way, that we are superior while they are inferior—traditions, values, music, race, appearance, language, smells, religious practices, humor, marriage, child-rearing, medicine, and food, to name a few. And often our assumptions are incorrect. That’s ethnocentrism, and it was part of my culture shock. If I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

My heart, my mind, my compass—all were oriented to the life I’d lived in Seattle. But if I wanted to transition out of culture shock and settle in well, I’d have to change my perspective.

 

God had already caught my attention and started me toward those changes. Continuing that new direction seemed daunting, especially since I had little trust in myself to pull it off. Yet God . . . .

 

Yet God . . . .

 

If you could have overheard my conversation with God that afternoon, it might have sounded something like this:

 

“Have mercy upon me, O God, because of your unfailing love. Because of Your great compassion, blot out the stain of my sins, according to the multitude of Your tender mercies. . . . Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. . . . Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and uphold me by Your generous spirit. Keep me strong by giving me a willing spirit” (Psalm 51:1, 10, 12).

 

And you’d have heard God reply something along these lines: “I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand” (Isaiah 41:10).

 

My answer would have sounded like this: “The Lord upholds all who fall, and raises up all who are bowed down, bent beneath their loads” (Psalm 145:14).

 

And I would have continued: “I think how much you have helped me. Because of that, I sing for joy in the shadow of your protective wings. My soul follows close behind You. Your right hand upholds me. Your strong right hand holds me securely” (Psalm 63:7-8).

 

I can tell you this: God stuck by me, gently sustaining me moment by moment, doing things that would amaze me, things I wouldn’t have believed even if He had told me right then (Habakkuk 1:5).

 

Though I couldn’t see into the future, He was turning my life upside down and inside out and it was going to be so good!

 

“When a door opened . . . that let the future in”

“There isn’t one of us,” writes dear Frederick Buechner, “whose life hasn’t flamed up into moments when a door opened somewhere that let the future in, moments when we moved through that door. . . .” (A Room Called Remember)

 

That day—the one I’ve been telling you about, day three in Lomalinda—has always stood out in my memory. After more than forty years, recalling it still pains me. But let me hasten to say the memory of that day also amazes me, it makes me smile, it warms my heart.

 

Here’s why: Even though I was shattered—broken, stunned, scared—on that afternoon, a door opened—God Himself stood on the other side of the door, and He opened it—even if I hadn’t fully grasped that yet.

 

Since that day, I’ve long taken comfort in what the Bible tells us: God goes before His children—He is the vanguard—in the lead, on the front line. (1 Chronicles 14:15, Isaiah 52:12).

 

God was already in Lomalinda when I arrived. He was there, welcoming me, opening a door to my new life. I was a nervous wreck, but He was unflappable. I was disoriented, but He was steady, focused.

 

God also goes behind his children—he is the rear guard (Isaiah 52:12). He brings up the rear, protecting us from what might attack from behind. Rearward also means to gather up—God gathers us in His arms when we are weak. He comes along behind and helps gather up the messes and broken pieces we left along the way.

 

So our wonderful God goes before us to lead

and He follows behind us to protect and help.

Front and back, we’re wrapped in His loving arms.

 

If I’d have listened to God, I might have heard Him welcoming me, smiling, and saying something like He said to Habakkuk: “Look, watch—and be utterly amazed. For I am going to do something that you wouldn’t believe even if someone told you about it” (Habakkuk 1:5).

 

On that steamy afternoon in Lomalinda,

standing—in my sweat-drenched clothes—

in that little red brick house,

thanking God for strong breezes

blowing through the window slats,

and listening to parrots and crickets

and an occasional dog bark on a nearby hill,

God opened a new door for me

and welcomed me into my new, good future.

 

And I stepped through that open door.

 

It was as if He was saying, “My thoughts are completely different from yours,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts” (Isaiah 55:8-9).

 

And if I had been thinking clearly, if I could have found words, I might have answered Him something like this:

 

“Holy God of love. . . You love me just as I am

and in spite of what I have done.

Most of all, I know that

You are involved with me to enable me to be

the person I was created and destined to be.

I can trust You because

I have found You utterly reliable

each time I have trusted my needs

and problems to You.”

(Lloyd John Ogilvie, Quiet Moments with God)