“I remember the first time you came to my door. You were probably trying to tell me about Christ, but I didn’t hear anything you were saying. All I could think about was the fact that a white American was in my house. Sometime later you came again, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘Does he really believe that anyone in this village is dumb enough to attend the white man’s church? Is he totally unaware of our history of slavery and what the Americans and Europeans did to our ancestors?’ Then over the next several months you came back again and again. And I kept thinking to myself, ‘he may be dumb but he is persistent!’ Finally, I actually heard what you were saying and realized my need for Christ.”

The testimony that evening was similar to so many others we heard during our decade in the West Indies. Even though we lived in the middle of the village, tried to adopt local culture, interacted with nationals every week, and worked hard to understand the Vincentian dialect, we couldn’t escape the “outsiders” label and the suspicions and mistrust so often associated with that tag. Even worse, we were missionaries. It didn’t take long to learn that the “M” word should be avoided. It often made people feel more like projects than peers, and I discovered that people everywhere prefer parity over charity. The “M” word also conjured visions of colonialism and missionaries working in lockstep with slave owners to keep the slaves brainwashed. Several Vincentians informed me that the white man’s Bible said things like, “servants obey your masters.” In addition to the normal resistance to the gospel, there were endless “outsider” obstacles that had to be overcome every single time I met anyone.