Consider the following section to be a ‘back story’ a brief interlude for the purposes of better understanding the socio-cultural, religious dynamics, family, and small town that formed my younger self.

Introduction to my Early Years

I grew up in Fillmore California, it is a small town in a citrus valley that is located between two rivers and a creek with surrounding mountains. At 13 years of age I worked during the summer with the Braceros who lived in a labor camp near the local packing houses. ‘Braceros’ was the name of a temporary migrant worker program. Although, the program ran from 1942 to 1964 the remnants of its effort remained in the temporary housing built for the workers as one of the surrounding industries birthed to accommodate their labor force. At 5:00 AM my mother would drop me off at the top of the driveway that descended to the labor camp barracks that were built alongside the railroad tracks.  The train tracks ran alongside docking points with the local packing houses for transporting the lemons and oranges harvested from the fields that adorned the Santa Clara river valley.

I was the only white kid picking oranges. Later in life my mother told me that picking oranges was my idea because I wanted to have money to spend. At twelve years old I went to our local post office and filled out the papers for a work permit and a social security card so I could work washing dishes at a local highway restaurant named Henry’s. I also worked a paper route that served the blocks near our home and delivered the papers via my bicycle.  At Christmas time I would scour the local trees down by the creek to pick mistletoe and go door to door selling it neatly bagged with a red bow; my mom helped me package the mistletoe. I had been knocking on doors since I was eight years old, a small boy selling Christmas and all occasion cards in order to select the earned gifts; a BB gun, a record player, a bow and arrow set, and other items that boys enjoyed. I had found this opportunity in an add on the back of my comic books.

I was not a big kid, at thirteen I was a freshman in high school, and was four foot eleven inches tall. The picking ladders were constructed of wood and the larger trees required a five-foot wooden extension in order to reach the top of the trees. It was a challenge to carry the ladder when we moved from one area to the next. However, I enjoyed working with the Bracero’s they were always kind to me and taught me Spanish phrases and words. The jeffe or mayor (boss) of the crew was a Hispanic man named Fred Ortiz. Fred had ten children and lived in an old house across from the primary school, I remember him being a very kind and happy man.

It was a hot sunny day and we were picking a grove of oranges near the dairy on the other side of the Sespe river on the north west side of our little town. This day marked my first encounter with the powers of the U.S. government to interrupt the life of working people. Immigration agents arrived in force, two helicopters, three vans, and multiple men armed with clubs. It was quite a display of power to chase down poor working men. There were only two illegal workers in our crew. One of them stopped and looked at me with fear in his eyes.

It was the summer when the smaller hand carried wood boxes for handling oranges was replaced with large boxes that were lifted onto the trucks with a forklift. I looked at my box, I had been stacking my oranges to one side. I also had a full bag around my shoulder, so I motioned and simply said ‘here’ in Spanish to the frightened man. He stepped inside the box and rolled up as small as he could, I quickly covered him with oranges. The other man was fleeing, a loudspeaker from the helicopter was directing the agents on the ground in pursuit of the man. The fleeing man was captured that day. At thirteen, my thoughts were overcome by the display of power for capturing only one man seeking to send money home for his family.

The following summer Cesar Chavez would bring his labor rights movement to our little town. Once again I was the only white kid out picking. The organizers had begun a strike and the need to harvest the oranges brought an invitation to our High School for the older boys to come out and pick. We were all sent to a grove located next to the packing house and because it was in town it had a chain link fence surrounding it. The organizers of the strike had arranged for a march up through the area we were working. I stepped aside from where I was working to view the parade of protesting workers with their brightly colored signs.

A man called to me and I walked over to the fence, he offered me twenty dollars to hop the fence and join the workers. I explained to him that I was just a kid trying to make a few dollars and didn’t think my continuing to work would have any impact on his efforts. I told him that I was happy he was helping the workers to be paid well and not taken advantage of by the wealthy landowners. Although I was young, I was quite aware of the economic differences that separated people. The owner of the orchard called me over and asked me if I knew who I was talking with and I replied that I did not. He informed me that I was speaking with ‘the man himself, Cesar Chavez’. I should have hopped the fence. Later in life I would teach others about the non-violent work of Cesar Chavez and his successes. The voice of nonviolence has been reaching out to me all of my life. Unfortunately, my church had left behind their nonviolent views and over time became nationalists, subject to militarism.

Over the course of life, I have worked as a farm hand, on oil field worker, a helicopter mechanic, a plumber, a missionary, a pastor, an expert witness, a bible college professor, and now as a writer.

A Church on Every Corner

The main street through Fillmore included the business district and was also lined with churches on most of the corners, on both sides of the street. When the Catholic kids went to catechism we attended a ‘protestant’ version at the Presbyterian church. The Catholic church was across the street. I could not help but notice the disparity of income in the people who populated our AG Pentecostal church and the Presbyterian church. The wealthy and educated populated the Presbyterian church. The Pentecostal church was populated with oil field workers and less educated persons. It was in this AG Pentecostal church where I experienced God and also grew in awareness of the lack of intellectual rigor in my church tradition. It was this same church and people who would send me on my missional journey to get Michael and serve the people of the Philippines with the Spirit and enthusiasm that was part of my experience.

When I had first graduated from High School I attended the AG school in Costa Mesa. At 17 years old I was not prepared for Wellhausen’s JEPD documentary theories. I was a charismatic kid who consistently led people to Jesus. Source criticism was, to me, not an appealing insight that had any real benefit.

The Calvary Chapel movement was being birthed and with my long curly hair I felt more at home in the Jesus movement than in an institutional school. Unfortunately, I was simply young and too immature to adapt to the scholastics of a Bible College. This led to my joining the USMC thinking I would gain some worldly experience, the benefit of the G.I. bill and likely some discipline. Well, I got all that and more; more being an awareness of the vastness of the U.S. empire and a Filipino wife whose innermost self had been harmed by this gargantuan power and by the cruelty of her impoverished life in a nation I have grown to love.

Becoming a Licensed Minister

I had left the USMC March 17, 1978. During that time I had been appointed the ‘protestant lay leader’ of my squadron and enjoyed working with the chaplain. When I was issued a leather flight jacket I wore a leather patch embossed with gold lettering that read ‘preacher’.

It was 1980, I was 24 years old and at the Southern California District Council of the Assemblies of God to interview for a ministerial license. I had been raised in an AG church in Fillmore Ca. The pastor of my youth (Jimmy Guinn) left an enduring impact on my pursuit of Christ.

I entered the room well prepared. I had taken their courses and had been reading from my (at the time) small collection of research resources and theology books. During the interview, I used some theological words like 'ecclesiology' and they all laughed. They explained they were not accustomed to applicants using theological terms. As the interview proceeded I felt accepted and it was apparent they liked me.

Then, they asked me to bring in my wife. She entered the room wearing a dress with heels and a million-dollar smile. I looked at the men in the room, the distinguished leaders of the district, to see their eyes drop to the floor as disappointment replaced their enthusiasm.

I studied the origins of the Assemblies of God and learned of their racist beginnings and failure to work with the 'black' community that first provided for them their ministerial licenses so that they could function as ministers. Bishop Mason of the COGIC (a 'black' denomination) helped the first white Pentecostals but they did not want to work with a 'black' denomination and sought to begin their own movement for white people. I also learned that in California there was a law on the books until 1965 that did not allow 'white' people to marry Filipino people. I was married in 1976. Racism permeates every aspect of American life and history - it must end.

My relationship with the church tradition of my youth was tenuous. I wondered how near illiterate persons could have taken the scripture written in other cultures, in other languages, and decided they were right in all their claims. The sixteen fundamental truths of the AG were not foremost on my mind as I studied and learned beyond my immediate peers. I had a growing library and an unquenchable thirst for reading.

In our AG church, I was introduced to Genesis 22 the Aqedah (the binding of Isaac) at around four years old, the images of this unique event displayed on the flannel board placed upon a wooden tripod are still visible in my memory. Our sweet old Sunday School teacher (Katy) told us Abraham was obedient to God and a great person of faith. My thoughts were in shock, as a small child I had embraced my own doctrinal stance that consisted of two songs. First, Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so, and Jesus loves the little children all the children of the world, red and yellow black and white they are precious in his sight Jesus loves the little children of the world. So I thought adults suffered some form of craziness to think God would even ask a father to kill his son. I tell this story because it attests to my existential leanings even as a small child. It also affirms a deep religious devotion being formed within me at an early age.

When our blessed pentecostal preacher (James Guin) would preach on Sunday nights I chose to sleep on the front row. I thought if some of the saliva from his enthusiastic Spirit anointed preaching would land on me when he left the platform to get closer to the people then I would be more like him. He was more lover than Bible Scholar. Later when our teenage youth group exploded with barefoot long haired kids he was all for us!